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TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME I
MORAL TALES
BY
MARIA EDGEWORTH
PREFACE.
It has been somewhere said by Johnson, that merely to invent a story is
no small effort of the human understanding. How much more difficult
is it to construct stories suited to the early years of youth, and,
at the same time, conformable to the complicate relations of modern
society--fictions, that shall display examples of virtue, without
initiating the young reader into the ways of vice--narratives, written in
a style level to his capacity, without tedious detail, or vulgar idiom!
The author, sensible of these difficulties, solicits indulgence for such
errors as have escaped her vigilance.
In a former work the author has endeavoured to add something to the
increasing stock of innocent amusement and early instruction, which the
laudable exertions of some excellent modern writers provide for the
rising generation; and, in the present, an attempt is made to provide for
young people, of a more advanced age, a few Tales, that shall neither
dissipate the attention, nor inflame the imagination.
In a work upon education, which the public has been pleased to notice, we
have endeavoured to show that, under proper management, amusement and
instruction may accompany each other through many paths of literature;
whilst, at the same time, we have disclaimed and reprehended all attempts
to teach in play. Steady, untired attention is what alone produces
excellence. Sir Isaac Newton, with as much truth as modesty, attributed
to this faculty those discoveries in science, which brought the heavens
within the grasp of man, and weighed the earth in a balance. To inure the
mind to athletic vigour is one of the chief objects of good education;
and we have found, as far as our limited experience has extended, that
short and active exertions, interspersed with frequent agreeable
relaxation, form the mind to strength and endurance, better than
long-continued feeble study.
Hippocrates, in describing the robust temperament, tells us that the
_athletae_ prepare themselves for the _gymnasium_ by strong exertion,
which they continued till they felt fatigue; they then reposed till they
felt returning strength and aptitude for labour: and thus, by alternate
exercise and indulgence, their limbs acquire the firmest tone of health
and vigour. We have found, that those who have tasted with the keenest
relish the beauties of Berquin, Day, or Barbauld, pursue a demonstration
of Euclid, or a logical deduction, with as much eagerness, and with more
rational curiosity, than is usually shown by students who are nourished
with the hardest fare, and chained to unceasing labour.
"Forester" is the picture of an eccentric character--a young man who
scorns the common forms and dependencies of civilized society; and who,
full of visionary schemes of benevolence and happiness, might, by
improper management, or unlucky circumstances, have become a fanatic and
a criminal.
The scene of "The Knapsack" is laid in Sweden, to produce variety; and to
show that the rich and poor, the young and old, in all countries, are
mutually serviceable to each other; and to portray some of those virtues
which are peculiarly amiable in the character of a soldier.
"Angelina" is a female Forester. The nonsense of _sentimentality_ is here
aimed at with the shafts of ridicule, instead of being combated by
serious argument. With the romantic eccentricities of Angelina are
contrasted faults of a more common and despicable sort. Miss Burrage is
the picture of a young lady who meanly natters persons of rank; and who,
after she has smuggled herself into good company, is ashamed to
acknowledge her former friends, to whom she was bound by the strongest
ties of gratitude.
"Mademoiselle Panache" is a sketch of the necessary consequences of
imprudently trusting the happiness of a daughter to the care of those who
can teach nothing but accomplishments.
"The Prussian Vase" is a lesson against imprudence, and on exercise of
judgment, and an eulogium upon our inestimable trial by jury. This tale
is designed principally for young gentlemen who are intended for the bar.
"The Good Governess" is a lesson to teach the art of giving lessons.
In "The Good Aunt," the advantages which a judicious early education
confers upon those who are intended for public seminaries are pointed
out. It is a common error to suppose that, let a boy be what he may, when
sent to Eton, Westminster, Harrow, or any great school, he will be
moulded into proper form by the fortuitous pressure of numbers; that
emulation will necessarily excite, example lead, and opposition polish
him. But these are vain hopes: the solid advantages which may be attained
in these large nurseries of youth must be, in a great measure, secured by
previous domestic instruction.
These Tales have been written to illustrate the opinions delivered in
"Practical Education." As their truth has appeared to me to be confirmed
by increasing experience, I sat down with pleasure to write this
preface for my daughter. It is hoped that the following stories will
afford agreeable relaxation from severer studies, and that they will be
thought--what they profess to be--_Moral_ Tales.
R.L. EDGEWORTH
CONTENTS.
FORESTER
THE PRUSSIAN VASE
THE GOOD AUNT
ANGELINA; OR, L'AMIE INCONNUE
THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE
THE KNAPSACK
FORESTER
Forester was the son of an English gentleman, who had paid some attention
to his education, but who had some singularities of opinion, which
probably influenced him in his conduct toward his children.
Young Forester was frank, brave, and generous, but he had been taught to
dislike politeness so much, that the common forms of society appeared to
him either odious or ridiculous; his sincerity was seldom restrained by
any attention to the feelings of others. His love of independence was
carried to such an extreme, that he was inclined to prefer the life of
Robinson Crusoe in his desert island, to that of any individual in
cultivated society. His attention had been early fixed upon the follies
and vices of the higher classes of people; and his contempt for selfish
indolence was so strongly associated with the name of gentleman, that he
was disposed to choose his friends and companions from amongst his
inferiors: the inequality between the rich and the poor shocked him; his
temper was enthusiastic as well as benevolent; and he ardently wished to
be a man, and to be at liberty to act for himself, that he might reform
society, or at least his own neighbourhood. When he was about nineteen
years old, his father died, and young Forester was sent to Edinburgh, to
Dr. Campbell, the gentleman whom his father had appointed his guardian.
In the choice of his mode of travelling his disposition appeared. The
stage-coach and a carrier set out nearly at the same time from Penrith.
Forester, proud of bringing his principles immediately into action, put
himself under the protection of the carrier, and congratulated himself
upon his freedom from prejudice. He arrived at Edinburgh in all the glory
of independence, and he desired the carrier to set him down at Dr.
Campbell's door.
"The doctor is not at home," said the footman, who opened the door.
"He _is_ at home," exclaimed Forester with indignation; "I see him at the
window."
"My master is just going to dinner, and can't see any body now," said the
footman; "but if you will call again at six o'clock, maybe he may see
you, my good lad."
"My name is Forester--let me in," said Forester, pushing-forwards.
"Forester!--Mr. Forester!" said the footman; "the young gentleman that
was expected in the coach to-day?" Without deigning to give the footman
any explanation, Forester took his own portmanteau from the carrier; and
Dr. Campbell came down-stairs just when the footman was officiously
struggling with the young gentleman for his burden. Dr. Campbell
received his pupil very kindly; but Forester would not be prevailed upon
to rub his shoes sufficiently upon the mat at the bottom of the stairs,
or to change his disordered dress before he made his appearance in the
drawing-room. He entered with dirty shoes, a threadbare coat, and hair
that looked as if it never had been combed; and he was much surprised by
the effect which his singular appearance produced upon the risible
muscles of some of the company.
"I have done nothing to be ashamed of," said he to himself; but,
notwithstanding all his efforts to be and to appear at ease, he was
constrained and abashed. A young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, seemed
to enjoy his confusion with malignant, half-suppressed merriment, in
which Dr. Campbell's son was too good-natured, and too well-bred, to
participate. Henry Campbell was three or four years older than Forester,
and _though_ he looked like a gentleman, Forester could not help being
pleased with the manner in which he drew him into conversation. The
secret magic of politeness relieved him insensibly from the torment of
false shame.
"It is a pity this lad was bred up a gentleman," said Forester to
himself, "for he seems to have some sense and goodness."
Dinner was announced, and Forester was provoked at being interrupted in
an argument concerning carts and coaches, which he had begun with Henry
Campbell. Not that Forester was averse to eating, for he was at this
instant ravenously hungry: but eating in company he always found equally
repugnant to his habits and his principles. A table covered with a clean
table-cloth; dishes in nice order; plates, knives, and forks, laid at
regular distances, appeared to our young Diogenes absurd superfluities,
and he was ready to exclaim, "How many things I do not want!" Sitting
down to dinner, eating, drinking, and behaving like other people,
appeared to him difficult and disagreeable ceremonies. He did not
perceive that custom had rendered all these things perfectly easy to
every one else in company; and as soon as he had devoured his food his
own way, he moralized in silence upon the good sense of Sancho Panza, who
preferred eating an egg behind the door to feasting in public; and he
recollected his favourite traveller Le Vaillant's[1] enthusiastic
account of his charming Hottentot dinners, and of the disgust that he
afterwards felt, on the comparison of European etiquette and African
_simplicity_.
[Footnote 1: Le Vaillant's Travels in Africa, vol. i. p. 114.]
"Thank God, the ceremony of dinner is over," said Forester to Henry
Campbell, as soon as they rose from table.
All these things, which seemed mere matter of course in society, appeared
to Forester strange ceremonies. In the evening there were cards for those
who liked cards, and there was conversation for those who liked
conversation. Forester liked neither; he preferred playing with a cat;
and he sat all night apart from the company in a corner of a sofa. He
took it for granted that the conversation could not be worth his
attention, because he heard Lady Catherine Mackenzie's voice amongst
others; he had conceived a dislike, or rather a contempt for this lady,
because she showed much of the pride of birth and rank in her manners.
Henry Campbell did not think it necessary to punish himself for her
ladyship's faults, by withdrawing from entertaining conversation; he knew
that his father had the art of managing the frivolous subjects started in
general company, so as to make them lead to amusement and instruction;
and this Forester would probably have discovered this evening, had he not
followed his own thoughts, instead of listening to the observations of
others. Lady Catherine, it is true, began with a silly history of her
hereditary antipathy for pickled cucumbers; and she was rather tiresome
in tracing the genealogy of this antipathy through several generations of
her ancestry; but Dr. Campbell said "that he had heard, from an ingenious
gentleman of her ladyship's family, that her ladyship's grandfather, and
several of his friends, nearly lost their lives by pickled cucumbers;"
and thence the doctor took occasion to relate several curious
circumstances concerning the effects of different poisons.
Dr. Campbell, who plainly saw both the defects and the excellent
qualities of his young ward, hoped that, by playful raillery, and by
well-timed reasoning, he might mix a sufficient portion of good sense
with Forester's enthusiasm, might induce him gradually to sympathize in
the pleasures of cultivated society, and might convince him that virtue
is not confined to any particular class of men; that education, in the
enlarged sense of the word, creates the difference between individuals
more than riches or poverty. He foresaw that Forester would form a
friendship with his son, and that this attachment would cure him of his
prejudices against _gentlemen_, and would prevent him from indulging his
taste for vulgar company. Henry Campbell had more useful energy, though
less apparent enthusiasm, than his new companion: he was always employed;
he was really independent, because he had learned how to support himself
either by the labours of his head or of his hands; but his independence
did not render him unsociable; he was always ready to sympathize with the
pleasures of his friends, and therefore he was beloved: following his
father's example, he did all the good in his power to those who were in
distress; but he did not imagine that he could reform every abuse in
society, or that he could instantly new-model the universe. Forester
became, in a few days, fond of conversing, or rather of holding long
arguments, with Henry; but his dislike to the young laird, Archibald
Mackenzie, hourly increased. Archibald and his mother, Lady Catherine
Mackenzie, were relations to Mrs. Campbell, and they were now upon a
visit at her house. Lady Catherine, a shrewd woman, fond of precedence,
and fully sensible of the importance that wealth can bestow, had
sedulously inculcated into the mind of her son all the maxims of worldly
wisdom which she had collected in her intercourse with society; she had
inspired him with family pride, but at the same time had taught him to
pay obsequious court to his superiors in rank or fortune: the art of
rising in the world, she knew, did not entirely depend upon virtue or
ability; she was consequently more solicitous about her son's manners
than his morals, and was more anxious that he should form high
connexions, than that he should apply to the severe studies of a
profession. Archibald was nearly what might be expected from his
education, alternately supple to his superiors, and insolent to his
inferiors: to insinuate himself into the favour of young men of rank and
fortune, he affected to admire extravagance; but his secret maxims of
parsimony operated even in the midst of dissipation. Meanness and pride
usually go together. It is not to be supposed that young Forester had
such quick penetration, that he could discover the whole of the artful
Archibald's character in the course of a few days' acquaintance; but he
disliked him for good reasons, because he was a laird, because he had
laughed at his first entree, and because he was learning to dance.
THE SKELETON.
About a week after our hero's arrival at Dr. Campbell's, the doctor was
exhibiting some chemical experiments, with which Henry hoped that his
young friend would be entertained; but Forester had scarcely been five
minutes in the laboratory, before Mackenzie, who was lounging about the
room, sneeringly took notice of a large hole in his shoe. "It is easily
mended," said the independent youth; and he immediately left the
laboratory, and went to a cobbler's, who lived in a narrow lane, at the
back of Dr. Campbell's house. Forester had, from his bed-chamber window,
seen this cobbler at work early every morning; he admired his industry,
and longed to be acquainted with him. The good-humoured familiarity of
Forester's manner pleased the cobbler, who was likewise diverted by the
eagerness of _the young gentleman_ to mend his own shoe. After spending
some hours at the cobbler's stall, the shoe was actually mended, and
Forester thought that his morning's work was worthy of admiration. In a
court (or, as such places are called in Edinburgh, a close) near the
cobbler's, he saw some boys playing at ball: he joined them; and, whilst
they were playing, a dancing-master with his hair powdered, and who
seemed afraid of spattering his clean stockings, passed through the
court, and interrupted the ball players for a few seconds. The boys, as
soon as the man was out of hearing, declared that he passed through
_their_ court regularly twice a day, and that he always kicked their
marbles out of the ring. Without staying to weigh this evidence
scrupulously, Forester received it with avidity, and believed all that
had been asserted was true, because the accused was a dancing-master;
from his education he had conceived an antipathy to dancing-masters,
especially to such as wore silk stockings, and had their heads well
powdered. Easily fired at the idea of any injustice, and eager to redress
the grievances of _the poor,_ Forester immediately concerted with these
boys a scheme to deliver them from what he called the insolence of the
dancing-master, and promised that he would compel him to go round by
another street.
In his zeal for the liberty of his new companions, our hero did not
consider that he was infringing upon the liberties of a man who had never
done him any injury, and over whom he had no right to exercise any
control.
Upon his return to Dr. Campbell's, Forester heard the sound of a violin;
and he found that his enemy, M. Pasgrave, the dancing-master, was
attending Archibald Mackenzie: he learnt, that he was engaged to give
another lesson the next evening; and the plans of the confederates in
the ball-alley were arranged accordingly. In Dr. Campbell's room Forester
remembered to have seen a skeleton in a glass case; he seized upon it,
carried it down to his companions, and placed it in a niche in the
wall, on the landing-place of a flight of stone stairs down which the
dancing-master was obliged to go. A butcher's son (one of Forester's new
companions) he instructed to stand at a certain hour behind the skeleton,
with two rushlights, which he was to hold up to the eye-holes in the
skull.
The dancing-master's steps were heard approaching at the expected hour;
and the boys stood in ambush to enjoy the diversion of the sight. It was
a dark night; the fiery eyes of the skeleton glared suddenly upon the
dancing-master, who was so terrified at the spectacle, and in such haste
to escape, that his foot slipped, and he fell down the stone steps: his
ankle was sprained by the fall, and he was brought to Dr. Campbell's.
Forester was shocked at this tragical end of his intended comedy. The
poor man was laid upon a bed, and he writhed with pain. Forester, with
vehement expressions of concern, explained to Dr. Campbell the cause of
this accident, and he was much touched by the dancing-master's good
nature, who, between every twinge of pain, assured him that he should
soon be well, and endeavoured to avert Dr. Campbell's displeasure.
Forester sat beside the bed, reproaching himself bitterly; and he was yet
more sensible of his folly, when he heard, that the boys, whose part he
had hastily taken, had frequently amused themselves with playing
mischievous tricks upon this inoffensive man, who declared, that he had
never purposely kicked their marbles out of the ring, but had always
implored them to make way for him with all the civility in his power.
Forester resolved, that before he ever again attempted to do justice, he
would, at least, hear both sides of the question.
THE ALARM.
Forester would willingly have sat up all night with M. Pasgrave, to
foment his ankle from time to time, and, if possible, to assuage the
pain: but the man would not suffer him to sit up, and about twelve
o'clock he retired to rest. He had scarcely fallen asleep, when his door
opened, and Archibald Mackenzie roused him, by demanding, in a peremptory
tone, how he could sleep when the whole family were frightened out of
their wits by his pranks?
"Is the dancing-master worse? What's the matter?" exclaimed Forester in
great terror.
Archihald replied, that he was not talking or thinking about the
dancing-master, and desired Forester to make haste and dress himself, and
that he would then soon hear what was the matter.
Forester dressed himself as fast as he could, and followed Archibald
through a long passage, which led to a back staircase. "Do you hear the
noise?" said Archibald.
"Not I," said Forester.
"Well, you'll hear it plain enough presently," said Archibald: "follow me
down-stairs."
He followed, and was surprised, when he got into the hall, to find all
the family assembled. Lady Catherine had been awakened by a noise, which
she at first imagined to be the screaming of an infant. Her bedchamber
was on the ground floor, and adjoining to Dr. Campbell's laboratory, from
which the noise seemed to proceed. She awakened her son Archibald and
Mrs. Campbell; and, when she recovered her senses a little, she listened
to Dr. Campbell, who assured her, that what her ladyship thought was the
screaming of an infant was the noise of a cat: the screams of this cat
were terrible; and, when the light approached the door of the laboratory,
the animal flew at the door with so much fury, that nobody could venture
to open it. Every body looked at Forester, as if they suspected that he
had confined the cat, or that he was in some way or other the cause of
the disturbance. The cat, which, from his having constantly fed and
played with it, had grown extremely fond of him, used to follow him often
from room to room; and he now recollected, that it followed him the
preceding evening into the laboratory, when he went to replace the
skeleton. He had not observed whether it came out of the room again, nor
could he now conceive the cause of its yelling in this horrible manner.
The animal seemed to be mad with pain. Dr. Campbell asked his son whether
all the presses were locked. Henry said he was sure they were all locked.
It was his business to lock them every evening; and he was so exact, that
nobody doubted his accuracy.
Archibald Mackenzie, who all this time knew, or at least suspected the
truth, held himself in cunning silence. The preceding evening he, for
want of something to do, had strolled into the laboratory, and, with the
pure curiosity of idleness, peeped into the presses, and took the
stoppers out of several of the bottles. Dr. Campbell happened to come in,
and carelessly asked him if he had been looking in the presses; to which
question Archibald, though with scarcely any motive for telling a
falsehood, immediately replied in the negative. As the doctor turned his
head, Archibald put aside a bottle, which he had just before taken out of
the press; and, fearing that the noise of replacing the glass stopper
would betray him, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. How much
useless cunning! All this transaction was now fully present to
Archibald's memory: and he was well convinced that Henry had not seen the
bottle when he afterwards went to lock the presses; that the cat had
thrown it down; and that this was the cause of all the yelling that
disturbed the house. Archibald, however, kept his lips fast closed; he
had told one falsehood; he dreaded to have it discovered; and he hoped
the blame of the whole affair would rest upon Forester. At length the
animal flew with diminished fury at the door; its screams became feebler
and feebler, till, at last, they totally ceased. There was silence: Dr.
Campbell opened the door: the cat was seen stretched upon the ground,
apparently lifeless. As Forester looked nearer at the poor animal, he saw
a twitching motion in one of its hind legs; Dr. Campbell said, that it
was the convulsion of death. Forester was just going to lift up his cat,
when his friend Henry stopped his hand, telling him, that he would burn
himself, if he touched it. The hair and flesh of the cat on one side were
burnt away, quite to the bone. Henry pointed to the broken bottle, which,
he said, had contained vitriolic acid.
Henry in vain attempted to discover by whom the bottle of vitriolic acid
had been taken out of its place. Suspicion naturally fell upon Forester,
who, by his own account, was the last person in the room before the
presses had been locked for the night. Forester, in warm terms, asserted,
that he knew nothing of the matter. Dr. Campbell coolly observed, that
Forester ought not to be surprised at being suspected upon this occasion;
because every body had the greatest reason to suspect the person, whom
they had detected in one _practical joke,_ of planning another.
"Joke!" said Forester, looking down upon his lifeless favourite; "do you
think me capable of such cruelty? Do you doubt my truth?" exclaimed
Forester, haughtily. "You are unjust. Turn me out of your house this
instant. I do not desire your protection, if I have forfeited your
esteem."
"Go to bed for to-night in my house," said Dr. Campbell; "moderate your
enthusiasm, and reflect coolly upon what has passed."
Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, with a benevolent
smile, as he looked after him, "He wants nothing but a little common
sense. Henry, you must give him a little of yours."
In the morning, Forester first went to inquire how the dancing-master had
slept, and then knocked impatiently at Dr. Campbell's door.
"My father is not awake," said Henry; but Forester marched directly up to
the side of the bed, and, drawing back the curtain with no gentle hand,
cried, with a loud voice, "Dr. Campbell, I am come to beg your pardon. I
was angry when I said you were unjust."
"And I was asleep when you begged my pardon," said Dr. Campbell, rubbing
his eyes.
"The dancing-master's ankle is a great deal better; and I have buried the
poor cat," pursued Forester: "and I hope now, doctor, you'll at least
tell me, that you do not really suspect me of any hand in her death."
"Pray let me go to sleep," said Dr. Campbell, "and _time_ your
explanations a little better."
THE GERANIUM.
The dancing-master gradually recovered from his sprain; and Forester
spent all his pocket-money in buying a new violin for him, as his had
been broken in his fall; his watch had likewise been broken against the
stone steps. Though Forester looked upon a watch as a useless bauble, yet
he determined to get this mended; and his friend Henry went with him for
this purpose to a watchmaker's.
Whilst Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting with the watchmaker
upon the internal state of the bruised watch, Archibald Mackenzie, who
followed them _for a lounge_, was looking over some new watches, and
ardently wished for the finest that he saw. As he was playing with this
fine watch, the watchmaker begged that he would take care not to break
it.
Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used to speak to a
_tradesman_, replied, that if he did break it, he hoped he was able to
pay for it. The watchmaker civilly answered, "he had no doubt of that,
but that the watch was not his property; it was Sir Philip Gosling's, who
would call for it, he expected, in a quarter of an hour."
At the name of Sir Philip Gosling, Archibald quickly changed his tone: he
had a great ambition to be of Sir Philip's acquaintance, for Sir Philip
was a young man who was to have a large fortune when he should come of
age, and who, in the meantime, spent as much of it as possible, with
great _spirit_ and little judgment. He had been sent to Edinburgh for his
education; and he spent his time in training horses, laying bets,
parading in the public walks, and ridiculing, or, in his own phrase,
_quizzing_ every sensible young man, who applied to literature or
science. Sir Philip, whenever he frequented any of the professor's
classes, took care to make it evident to every body present, that he did
not come there to learn, and that he looked down with contempt upon all
who were _obliged_ to study; he was the first always to make any
disturbance in the classes, or, in his elegant language, _to make a row_.
This was the youth of whose acquaintance Archibald Mackenzie was
ambitious. He stayed in the shop, in hopes that Sir Philip would arrive:
he was not disappointed; Sir Philip came, and, with address which lady
Catherine would perhaps have admired, Archibald entered into conversation
with the young baronet, if conversation that might be called, which
consisted of a species of fashionable dialect, devoid of sense, and
destitute of any pretence to wit. To Forester this dialect was absolutely
unintelligible: after he had listened to it with sober contempt for a few
minutes, he pulled Henry away, saying, "Come, don't let us waste our time
here; let us go to the brewery that you promised to show me."
Henry did not immediately yield to the rough pull of his indignant
friend, for at this instant the door of a little back parlour behind the
watchmaker's shop opened slowly, and a girl of about seven years old
appeared, carrying, with difficulty, a flower-pot, in which there was a
fine large geranium in full flower. Henry, who saw that the child was
scarcely able to carry it, took it out of her hands, and asked her,
"Where she would like to have it put?"
"Here, for to-day!" said the little girl, sorrowfully; "but to-morrow it
goes away for ever."
The little girl was sorry to part with this geranium, because "she had
watched it all the winter," and said, "that she was very fond of it; but
that she was willing to part with it, though it was just come into
flower, because the apothecary had told her, that it was the cause of her
grandmother's having been taken ill. Her grandmother lodged," she said,
"in _that_ little room, and the room was very close, and she was taken
ill in the night--so ill, that she could hardly speak or stir; and when
the apothecary came, he said," continued the little girl, "it was no
wonder any body was ill, who slept in such a little close room, with such
a great geranium in it, _to poison the air_. So my geranium must go!"
concluded she with a sigh: "but, as it is for grandmother, I shall never
think of it again."
Henry Campbell and Forester were both struck with the modest simplicity
of this child's countenance and manner, and they were pleased with the
unaffected generosity with which she gave up her favourite geranium.
Forester noted this down in his mind as a fresh instance in favour of his
_exclusive_ good opinion of the poor. This little girl looked poor,
though she was decently dressed; she was so thin, that her little
cheek-bones could plainly be seen; her face had not the round, rosy
beauty of cheerful health: she was pale and sallow, and she looked in
patient misery. Moved with compassion, Forester regretted that he had no
money to give where it might have been so well bestowed. He was always
_extravagant_ in his generosity; he would often give five guineas where
five shillings would have been enough, and by these means he reduced
himself to the necessity sometimes of refusing assistance to deserving
objects. On his journey from his father's house to Edinburgh, he
lavished, in undistinguishing charity, a considerable sum of money; and
all that he had remaining of this money he spent in purchasing the new
violin for M. Pasgrave. Dr. Campbell absolutely refused to advance his
ward any money till his next quarterly allowance should become due.
Henry, who always perceived quickly what passed in the minds of others,
guessed at Forester's thoughts by his countenance, and forebore to
produce his own money, though he had it just ready in his hand: he knew
that he could call again at the watchmaker's, and give what he pleased,
without ostentation.
Upon questioning the little girl further, concerning her grandmother's
illness, Henry discovered, that the old woman had sat up late at night
knitting, and that, feeling herself extremely cold, she got a pan of
charcoal into her room; that, soon afterwards, she felt uncommonly
drowsy; and when her little grand-daughter spoke to her, and asked her
why she did not come to bed, she made no answer: a few minutes after
this, she dropped from her chair. The child was extremely frightened, and
though she felt it very difficult to rouse herself, she said, she got up
as fast as she could, opened the door, and called to the watchmaker's
wife, who luckily had been at work late, and was now raking the kitchen
fire. With her assistance the old woman was brought into the air, and
presently returned to her senses: the pan of charcoal had been taken away
before the apothecary came in the morning; as he was in a great hurry
when he called, he made but few inquiries, and consequently condemned the
geranium without sufficient evidence. As he left the house, he carelessly
said, "My wife would like that geranium, I think." And the poor old
woman, who had but a very small fee to offer, was eager to give any thing
that seemed to please the _doctor_.
Forester, when he heard this story, burst into a contemptuous exclamation
against the meanness of this and of all other apothecaries. Henry
informed the little girl, that the charcoal had been the cause of her
grandmother's illness, and advised them never, upon any account, to keep
a pan of charcoal again in her bedchamber; he told her, that many people
had been killed by this practice. "Then," cried the little girl,
joyfully, "if it was the charcoal, and not the geranium, that made
grandmother ill, I may keep my beautiful geranium:" and she ran
immediately to gather some of the flowers, which she offered to Henry and
to Forester. Forester, who was still absorbed in the contemplation of the
apothecary's meanness, took the flowers, without perceiving that he took
them, and pulled them to pieces as he went on thinking. Henry, when the
little girl held the geraniums up to him, observed, that the back of her
hand was bruised and black; he asked her how she had hurt herself, and
she replied innocently, "that she had not hurt _herself_, but that her
schoolmistress was a very _strict_ woman." Forester, roused from his
reverie, desired to hear what the little girl meant by a _strict_ woman,
and she explained herself more fully: she said, that, as a favour, her
grandmother had obtained leave from some great lady to send her to a
charity school: that she went there every day to learn to read and work,
but that the mistress of the charity school used her scholars very
severely, and often kept them for hours, after they had done their own
_tasks_, to spin for her; and that she beat them if they did not spin as
much as she expected. The little girl's grandmother then said, that she
knew all this, but that she did not dare to complain, because the
schoolmistress was under the patronage of some of "the grandest ladies in
Edinburgh," and that, as she could not afford to pay for her little
lass's schooling, she was forced to have her taught as well as she could
_for nothing_.
Forester, fired with indignation at this history of injustice, resolved,
at all events, to stand forth immediately in the child's defence; but,
without staying to consider how the wrong could be redressed, he thought
only of the quickest, or, as he said, the most manly means of doing the
business: he declared, that if the little girl would show him the way to
the school, he would go that instant and speak to the woman in the midst
of all her scholars. Henry in vain represented that this would not he a
prudent mode of proceeding.
Forester disdained prudence, and, trusting securely to the power of his
own eloquence, he set out with the child, who seemed rather afraid to
come to open war with her tyrant. Henry was obliged to return home to his
father, who had usually business for him to do about this time. The
little girl had stayed at home on account of her grandmother's illness,
but all the other scholars were hard at work, spinning in a close room,
when Forester arrived.
He marched directly into the schoolroom. The wheels stopped at once on
his appearance, and the schoolmistress, a raw-boned, intrepid-looking
woman eyed him with amazement: he broke silence in the following words:--
"Vile woman, your injustice is come to light! How can you dare to
tyrannize over these poor children? Is it because they are poor? Take my
advice, children, resist this tyrant, put by your wheels, and spin for
her no more."
The children did not move, and the schoolmistress poured out a torrent of
abuse in broad Scotch, which, to the English ear of Forester, was
unintelligible. At length she made him comprehend her principal
questions--Who he was? and by whose authority he interfered between her
and her scholars? "By nobody's authority," was Forester's answer; "I want
no authority to speak in the cause of injured innocence." No sooner had
the woman heard these words, than she called to her husband, who was
writing in an adjoining room: without further ceremony, they both seized
upon our hero, and turned him out of the house.
The woman revenged herself without mercy upon the little girl whom
Forester had attempted to defend, and dismissed her, with advice never
more to complain of being obliged to spin for her mistress.
Mortified by the ill success of his enterprise, Forester returned home,
attributing the failure of his eloquence chiefly to his ignorance of the
Scotch dialect.
THE CANARY BIRD
At his return, Forester heard, that all Dr. Campbell's family were going
that evening to visit a gentleman who had an excellent cabinet of
minerals. He had some desire to see the fossils; but when he came to the
gentleman's house, he soon found himself disturbed at the praises
bestowed by some ladies in company upon a little canary bird, which
belonged to the mistress of the house. He began to kick his feet
together, to hang first one arm and then the other over the back of his
chair, with the obvious expression of impatience and contempt in his
countenance. Henry Campbell, in the meantime, said, without any
embarrassment, just what he thought about the bird. Archibald Mackenzie,
with artificial admiration, said a vast deal more than he thought, in
hopes of effectually recommending himself to the lady of the house. The
lady told him the history of three birds, which had successively
inhabited the cage before the present occupier. "They all died,"
continued she, "in a most _extraordinary_ manner, one after another, in a
short space of time, in convulsions."
"Don't listen," whispered Forester, pulling Henry away from the crowd who
surrounded the bird-cage; "how can you listen, like that polite
hypocrite, to this foolish woman's history of her _extraordinary_
favourites? Come down-stairs with me, I want to tell you my adventure
with the schoolmistress; we can take a turn in the hall, and come back
before the cabinet of minerals is opened, and before these women have
finished the ceremony of tea. Come."
"I'll come presently," said Henry; "I really want to hear this."
Henry Campbell was not listening to the history of the lady's favourite
birds like a polite hypocrite, but like a good-natured sensible person;
the circumstances recalled to his memory the conversation that we
formerly mentioned, which began about pickled cucumbers, and ended with
Dr. Campbell's giving an account of the effects of some poisons. In
consequence of this conversation, Henry's attention had been turned to
the subject, and he had read several essays, which had informed him of
many curious facts. He recollected, in particular, to have met with the
account[2] of a bird that had been poisoned, and whose case bore a
strong resemblance to the present. He begged leave to examine the cage,
in order to discover whether there were any lead about it, with which the
birds could have poisoned themselves. No lead was to be found: he next
examined whether there were any white or green paint about it; he
inquired whence the water came which the birds had drunk; and he examined
the trough which held their seeds. The lady, whilst he was pursuing these
inquiries, said she was sure that the birds could not have died either
for want of air or exercise, for that she often left the cage open on
purpose, that they might fly about the room. Henry immediately looked
round the room, and at length he observed in an inkstand, which stood
upon a writing table, a number of wafers, which were many of them chipped
round the edges; upon sweeping out the bird-cage, he found a few very
small bits of wafer mixed with the seeds and dust; he was now persuaded
that the birds had eaten the wafers, and that they had been poisoned by
the red lead which they contained; he was confirmed in this opinion, by
being told, that the wafers had lately been missed very frequently, and
it had been imagined that they had been used by the servants. Henry
begged the lady would try an experiment, which might probably save the
life of her new favourite; the lady, though she had never before tried an
experiment, was easily prevailed upon. She promised Henry that she would
lock up the wafers; and he prophesied that her bird would not, like his
predecessors, come to an untimely end. Archibald Mackenzie was vexed to
observe, that knowledge had in this instance _succeeded_ better, even
with a lady, than flattery. As for Forester, he would certainly have
admired his friend Henry's ingenuity, if he had been attending to what
had passed; but he had taken a book, and had seated himself in an
arm-chair, which had been placed on purpose for an old gentleman in
company, and was deep in the history of a man who had been cast away,
some hundred years ago, upon a desert island.
[Footnote 2: Falconer, on the Poison of Lead and Copper.]
He condescended, however, to put down his book when the fossils were
produced: and, as if he had just awakened from a dream, rubbed his eyes,
stretched himself, and joined the rest of the company. The malicious
Archibald, who observed that Forester had seated himself, through absence
of mind, in a place which prevented some of the ladies from seeing the
fossils, instantly made a parade of his own politeness, to contrast
himself advantageously with the rude negligence of his companion; but
Archibald's politeness was always particularly directed to the persons in
company whom he thought of the most importance. "You can't see there,"
said Forester, suddenly rousing himself, and observing that Dr.
Campbell's daughter, Miss Flora Campbell, was standing behind him; "had
you not better sit down in this chair? I don't want it, because I can see
over your head; sit down." Archibald smiled at Forester's simplicity, in
paying his awkward compliment to the young lady, who had, according to
his mode of estimating, the least pretensions to notice of any one
present. Flora Campbell was neither rich nor beautiful, but she had a
happy mixture in her manners of Scottish sprightliness and English
reserve. She had an eager desire to improve herself, whilst a nice sense
of propriety taught her never to intrude upon general notice, or to
recede from conversation with airs of counterfeit humility. Forester
admired her abilities, because he imagined that he was the only person
who had ever discovered them; as to her manners, he never observed these,
but even whilst he ridiculed politeness he was anxious to find out what
she thought polite. After he had told her all that he knew concerning the
fossils, as they were produced from the cabinet--and he was far from
ignorant--he at length perceived that she knew full as much of natural
history as he did, and he was surprised that a young lady should know so
much, and should not be conceited. Flora, however, soon sunk many degrees
in his opinion; for, after the cabinet of mineralogy was shut, some of
the company talked of a ball, which was to be given in a few days, and
Flora, with innocent gaiety, said to Forester, "Have you learnt to dance
a Scotch reel since you came to Scotland?" "_I!_" cried Forester with
contempt; "do you think it the height of human perfection to dance a
Scotch reel?--then that fine young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie,
will suit you much better than I shall." And Forester returned to his
arm-chair and his desert island.
THE KEY.
It was unfortunate that Forester retired from company in such abrupt
displeasure at Flora Campbell's question, for had he borne the idea of a
Scotch reel more like a philosopher, he would have heard of something
interesting relative to the intended ball, if any thing relative to a
ball could be interesting to him. It was a charity-ball, for the benefit
of the mistress of the very charity-school[3] to which the little girl
with the bruised hand belonged. "Do you know," said Henry to Forester,
when they returned home, "that I have great hopes we shall be able to get
justice done to the poor children? I hope the tyrannical schoolmistress
may yet be punished. The lady, with whom we drank tea yesterday is one of
the patronesses of the charity-school."
[Footnote 3: There is no charity-school of this description in Edinburgh;
this cannot, therefore, be mistaken for private satire.]
"Lady patronesses!" cried Forester; "we need not expect justice from a
lady patroness, depend upon it, especially at a ball; her head will be
full of feathers, or some such things. I prophesy you will not succeed
better than I have."
The desponding prophecies of Forester did not deter Henry from pursuing a
scheme which he had formed. The lady, who was the mistress of the canary
bird, came in a few days to visit his mother, and she told him that his
experiment had succeeded, that she had regularly locked up the wafers,
and that her favourite bird was in perfect health. "And what fee,
doctor," said she, smiling, "shall I give you for saving his life?"
"I will tell you in a few minutes," replied Henry; and in a few minutes
the little girl and her geranium were sent for, and appeared. Henry told
the lady all the circumstances of her story with so much feeling, and at
the same time with so much propriety, that she became interested in the
cause: she declared that she would do every thing in her power to prevail
upon the other ladies to examine into, the conduct of the schoolmistress,
and to have her dismissed immediately, if it should appear that she had
behaved improperly.
Forester, who was present at this declaration, was much astonished,
that a lady, whom he had seen caressing a canary-bird, could speak
with so much decision and good sense. Henry obtained his fee: he asked
and received permission to place the geranium in the middle of the
supper-table at the ball; and he begged that the lady would take an
opportunity, at supper, to mention the circumstances which he had related
to her; but this she declined, and politely said, that she was sure Henry
would tell the story much better than she could.
"Come out and walk with me," said Forester to Henry, as soon as the lady
was gone. Henry frequently left his occupations with great good-nature,
to accompany our hero in his rambles, and he usually followed the
subjects of conversation which Forester started. He saw, by the gravity
of his countenance, that he had something of importance revolving in his
mind. After he had proceeded in silence for some time along the walk,
under the high rock called Arthur's Seat, he suddenly stopped, and,
turning to Henry, exclaimed, "I esteem you; do not make me despise you!"
"I hope I never shall," said Henry, a little surprised by his friend's
manner; "what is the matter?"
"Leave balls, and lady patronesses, and petty artifices, and supple
address, to such people as Archibald Mackenzie," pursued Forester, with
enthusiasm:
"Who noble ends by noble means pursues--"
"Will scorn canary birds, and _cobble shoes_,"
Replied Henry, laughing; "I see no meanness in my conduct: I do not know
what it is you disapprove."
"I do not approve," said Forester, "of your having recourse to _mean
address_ to obtain justice."
Henry requested to know what his severe friend meant by _address_; but
this was not easily explained. Forester, in his definition of _mean
address_, included all that attention to the feelings of others, all
those honest arts of pleasing, which make society agreeable. Henry
endeavoured to convince him, that it was possible for a person to wish to
please, nay, even to succeed in that wish, without being insincere. Their
argument and their walk continued, till Henry, who, though very active,
was not quite so robust as his friend, was completely tired, especially
as he perceived that Forester's opinions remained unshaken.
"How effeminate you _gentlemen_ are!" cried Forester: "see what it is to
be brought up in the lap of luxury. Why, I am not at all tired; I could
walk a dozen miles further, without being in the least fatigued!"
Henry thought it a very good thing to be able to walk a number of miles
without being fatigued, but he did not consider it as the highest
perfection of human nature. In his friend's present mood, nothing less
could content him, and Forester went on to demonstrate to the weary
Henry, that all fortitude, all courage, and all the manly virtues, were
inseparably connected with _pedestrian indefatigability_. Henry, with
good-natured presence of mind, which perhaps his friend would have called
_mean address_, diverted our hero's rising indignation by proposing that
they should both go and look at the large brewery which was in their way
home, and with which Forester would, he thought, be entertained.
The brewery fortunately turned the course of Forester's thoughts, and,
instead of quarrelling with his friend for being tired, he condescended
to postpone all further debate. Forester had, from his childhood, a habit
of twirling a key, whenever he was thinking intently: the key had been
produced, and had been twirling upon its accustomed thumb during the
argument upon address; and it was still in Forester's hand when they went
into the brewery. As he looked and listened, the key was essential to his
power of attending; at length, as he stopped to view a large brewing vat,
the key unluckily slipped from his thumb, and fell to the bottom of the
vat: it was so deep, that the tinkling sound of the key, as it touched
the bottom, was scarcely heard. A young man who belonged to the brewery
immediately descended by a ladder into the vat, to get the key, but
scarcely had he reached the bottom, when he fell down senseless. Henry
Campbell was speaking to one of the clerks of the brewery when this
accident happened: a man came running to them with the news, "The vat has
not been cleaned; it's full of bad air." "Draw him up, let down a hook
and cords for him instantly, or he's a dead man," cried Henry, and he
instantly ran to the place. What was his terror, when he beheld Forester
descending the ladder! He called to him to stop; he assured him that the
man could be saved without his hazarding his life: but Forester
persisted; he had one end of a cord in his hand, which he said he could
fasten in an instant round the man's body. There was a skylight nearly
over the vat, so that the light fell directly upon the bottom.
Henry saw his friend reach the last step of the ladder. As Forester
stooped to put the rope round the shoulders of the man, who lay
insensible at the bottom of the vat, a sudden air of idiocy came over his
animated countenance; his limbs seemed no longer to obey his will; his
arms dropped, and he fell insensible.
The spectators, who were looking down from above, were so much terrified,
that they could not decide to do any thing; some cried, "It's all over
with him! Why would he go down?" Others ran to procure a hook--others
called to him to take up the rope again, if he possibly could: but
Forester could not hear or understand them, Henry Campbell was the only
person who, in this scene of danger and confusion, had sufficient
presence of mind to be of service.
Near the large vat, into which Forester had descended, there was a
cistern of cold water. Henry seized a bucket, which was floating in the
cistern, filled it with water, and emptied the water into the vat,
dashing it against the sides, to disperse the water, and to displace the
mephitic air[4], He called to the people, who surrounded him, for
assistance; the water expelled the air; and, when it was safe to descend,
Henry instantly went down the ladder himself, and fastened the cord round
Forester, who was quite helpless.
[Footnote 4: Carbonic acid gas.]
"Draw him up!" said Henry, They drew him up. Henry fastened another cord
round the body of the other man, who lay at the bottom of the vessel, and
he was taken up in the same manner. Forester soon returned to his senses,
when he was carried into the air; it was with more difficulty that the
other man, whose animation had been longer suspended, was recovered; at
length, however, by proper application, his lungs played freely, he
stretched himself, looked round upon the people who were about him with
an air of astonishment, and was some time before he could recollect what
had happened to him. Forester, as soon as he had recovered the use of his
understanding, was in extreme anxiety to know whether the poor man, who
went down for his key, had been saved. His gratitude to Henry, when he
heard all that had passed, was expressed in the most enthusiastic manner.
"I acted like a madman, and you like a man of sense," said Forester. "You
always know how to do good: I do mischief, whenever I attempt to do good.
But now, don't expect, Henry, that I should give up any of my opinions to
you, because you have saved my life. I shall always argue with you just
as I did before. Remember, I despise _address_, I don't yield a single
point to you. Gratitude shall never make me a sycophant."
THE FLOWERPOT.
Eager to prove that he was not a sycophant, Forester, when he returned
home with his friend Henry, took every possible occasion to contradict
him, with even more than his customary rigidity; nay, he went further
still, to vindicate his sincerity.
Flora Campbell had never entirely recovered our hero's esteem, since she
had unwittingly expressed her love for Scotch reels; but she was happily
unconscious of the crime she had committed, and was wholly intent upon
pleasing her father and mother, her brother Henry, and herself. She had a
constant flow of good spirits, and the charming domestic talent of making
every trifle a source of amusement to herself and others: she was
sprightly, without being frivolous; and the uniform sweetness of her
temper showed, that she was not in the least in want of flattery, or
dissipation, to support her gaiety. But Forester, as the friend of her
brother, thought it incumbent upon him to discover faults in her which no
one else could discover, and to assist in her education, though she was
only one year younger than himself. She had amused herself, the morning
that Forester and her brother were at the brewery, with painting a
pasteboard covering for the flower-pot which held the poor little girl's
geranium. Flora had heard from her brother of his intention to place it
in the middle of the supper-table, at the ball; and she flattered
herself, that he would like to see it ornamented by her hands at his
return. She produced it after dinner. Henry thanked her, and her father
and mother were pleased to see her eagerness to oblige her brother. The
cynical Forester alone refused his sympathy. He looked at the flower-pot
with marked disdain. Archibald, who delighted to contrast himself with
the unpolished Forester, and who remarked that Flora and her brother were
both somewhat surprised at his unsociable silence, slyly said, "There's
something in this flower-pot Miss Campbell, which does not suit Mr.
Forester's correct taste; I wish he would allow us to profit by his
criticisms."
Forester vouchsafed not a reply.
"Don't you like it, Forester?" said Henry.
"No, he does not like it," said Flora, smiling; "don't force him to say
that he does."
"Force me to say I like what I don't like!" repeated Forester; "no, I
defy any body to do that."
"But why," said Dr. Campbell, laughing, "why such a waste of energy and
magnanimity about a trifle? If you were upon your trial for life or
death, Mr. Forester, you could not look more resolutely guarded--more as
if you had 'worked up each corporal agent' to the terrible feat!"
"Sir," said Forester, who bore the laugh that was raised against him with
the air of a martyr, "I can bear even your ridicule in the cause of
truth." The laugh continued at the solemnity with which he pronounced
these words. "I think," pursued Forester, "that those who do not respect
truth in trifles, will never respect it in matters of consequence."
Archibald Mackenzie laughed more loudly, and with affectation, at this
speech: Henry and Dr. Campbell's laughter instantly ceased.
"Do not mistake us," said Dr. Campbell; "we did not laugh at your
principles, we only laughed at your manner."
"And are not principles of rather more consequence than manners?"
"Of infinitely more consequence," said Dr. Campbell: "but why, to
excellent principles, may we not add agreeable manners? Why should not
truth be amiable, as well as respectable? You, who have such enlarged
views for the good of the whole human race, are, I make no doubt,
desirous that your fellow-creatures should love truth, as well as you
love it yourself."
"Certainly, I wish they did," said Forester.
"And have your observations upon the feelings of others, and upon your
own, led you to conclude, that we are most apt to like those things which
always give us pain? And do you, upon this principle, wish to make truth
as painful as possible, in order to increase our love for it?"
"I don't wish to make truth painful," said Forester; "but, at the same
time, it is not my fault if people can't bear pain. I think people who
can't bear pain, both of body and mind, cannot be good for any thing;
for, in the first place, they will always," said Forester, glancing his
eye at Flora and her flower-pot,--"they will always prefer flattery to
truth, as all weak people do."
At this sarcastic reflection, which seemed to be aimed at the sex, Lady
Catherine, Mrs. Campbell, and all the ladies present, except Flora, began
to speak at once in their own vindication.
As soon as there was any prospect of peace, Dr. Campbell resumed his
argument in the calmest voice imaginable.
"But, Mr. Forester, without troubling ourselves for the present with the
affairs of the ladies, or of weak people, may I ask what degree of
unnecessary pain you think it the duty of a strong person, a moral
Samson, to bear?"
"Unnecessary pain! I do not think it is any body's duty to bear
_unnecessary_ pain."
"Nor to make others bear it?"
"Nor to make others bear it."
"Then we need argue no further. I congratulate you, Mr. Forester, upon
your becoming so soon a proselyte to politeness."
"To politeness!" said Forester, starting back.
"Yes, my good sir; real politeness only teaches us to save others
from _unnecessary pain_; and _this_ you have just allowed to be your
wish.--And now for the grand affair of Flora's flower-pot. You are not
bound by politeness to tell any falsehoods; weak as she is, and a woman,
I hope she can bear to hear the painful truth upon such an important
occasion."
"Why," said Forester, who at last suffered his features to relax into a
smile, "the truth then is, that I don't know whether the flower-pot be
pretty or ugly, but I was determined not to say it was pretty."
"But why," said Henry, "did you look so heroically severe about the
matter?"
"The reason I looked grave," said Forester, "was, because I was afraid
your sister Flora would be spoiled by all the foolish compliments that
were paid to her and her flower-pot."
"You are very considerate; and Flora, I am sure, is much obliged to you,"
said Dr. Campbell, smiling, "for being so clear-sighted to the dangers of
female vanity. You would not then, with a safe conscience, trust the
completion of her education to her mother, or to myself?"
"I am sure, sir," said Forester, who now, for the first time, seemed
sensible that he had not spoken with perfect propriety, "I would not
interfere impertinently for the world. You are the best judges; only I
thought parents were apt to be partial. Henry has saved my life, and I am
interested for every thing that belongs to him. So I hope, if I said any
thing rude, you will attribute it to a good motive. I wish the flower-pot
had never made its appearance, for it has made me appear very
impertinent."
Flora laughed with so much good humour at this odd method of expressing
his contrition, that even Forester acknowledged the influence of engaging
manners and sweetness of temper. He lifted up the flower-pot, so as
completely to screen his face, and, whilst he appeared to be examining
it, he said, in a low voice, to Henry, "She is above the foibles of her
sex."
"Oh, Mr. Forester, take care!" cried Flora.
"Of what?" said Forester, starting.
"It is too late now," said Flora.
And it was too late. Forester, in his awkward manner of lifting the
flower-pot and its painted case, had put his thumbs into the mould, with
which the flower-pot had been newly filled. It was quite soft and wet.
Flora, when she called to him, saw the two black thumbs just ready to
stamp themselves upon her work, and her warning only accelerated its
fate; for, the instant she spoke, the thumbs closed upon the painted
covering, and Forester was the last to perceive the mischief that he had
done.
There was no possibility of effacing the stains, nor was there time to
repair the damage, for the ball was to commence in a few hours, and Flora
was obliged to send her disfigured work, without having had the
satisfaction of hearing the ejaculation which Forester pronounced in her
praise behind the flower-pot.
THE BALL.
Henry seized the moment when Forester was softened by the mixed effect of
Dr. Campbell's raillery and Flora's good humour, to persuade him, that it
would be perfectly consistent with sound philosophy to dress himself for
a ball, nay, even to dance a country-dance. The word _reel_, to which
Forester had taken a dislike, Henry prudently forbore to mention; and
Flora, observing, and artfully imitating her brother's prudence,
substituted the word _hays_ instead of _reels_ in her conversation. When
all the party were ready to go to the ball, and the carriages at the
door, Forester was in Dr. Campbell's study, reading the natural history
of the elephant.
"Come," said Henry, who had been searching for him all over the house,
"we are waiting for you; I'm glad to see you dressed--come!"
"I wish you would leave me behind," said Forester, who seemed to have
relapsed into his former unsociable humour, from having been left half an
hour in his beloved solitude; nor would Henry probably have prevailed, if
he had not pointed to the print of the elephant[5]. "That mighty animal,
you see, is so docile, that he lets himself be guided by a young boy,"
said Henry; "and so must you."
[Footnote 5: Cabinet of Quadrupeds.]
As he spoke he pulled Forester gently, who thought he could not show less
docility than his favourite animal. When they entered the ball-room,
Archibald Mackenzie asked Flora to dance, whilst Forester was considering
where he should put his hat. "Are you going to dance without me? I
thought I had asked you to dance with me. I intended it all the time we
were coming in the coach."
Flora thanked him for his kind intentions; whilst Archibald, with a look
of triumph, hurried his partner away, and the dance began. Forester saw
this transaction in the most serious light, and it afforded him subject
for meditation till at least half a dozen country-dances had been
finished. In vain the Berwick Jockey, the Highland Laddie, and the
Flowers of Edinburgh, were played; "they suited not the gloomy habit" of
his soul. He fixed himself behind a pillar, proof against music, mirth,
and sympathy: he looked upon the dancers with a cynical eye. At length he
found an amusement that gratified his present splenetic humour; he
applied both his hands to his ears, effectually to stop out the sound of
the music, that he might enjoy the ridiculous spectacle of a number of
people capering about, without any apparent motive. Forester's attitude
caught the attention of some of the company; indeed, it was strikingly
awkward. His elbows stuck out from his ears, and his head was sunk
beneath his shoulders. Archibald Mackenzie was delighted beyond measure
at his figure, and pointed him out to his acquaintance with all possible
expedition. The laugh and the whisper circulated with rapidity. Henry,
who was dancing, did not perceive what was going on till his partner said
to him, "Pray, who is that strange mortal?"
"My friend," cried Henry: "will you excuse me for one instant?" And he
ran up to Forester, and roused him from his singular attitude. "He is,"
continued Henry, as he returned to his partner, "an excellent young man,
and he has superior abilities; we must not quarrel with him for trifles."
With what different eyes different people behold the same objects! Whilst
Forester had been stopping his ears, Dr. Campbell, who had more of the
nature of the laughing than of the weeping philosopher, had found much
benevolent pleasure in contemplating the festive scene. Not that any
folly or ridicule escaped his keen penetration; but he saw every thing
with an indulgent eye, and, if he laughed, laughed in such a manner, that
even those who were the objects of his pleasantry could scarcely have
forborne to sympathize in his mirth. Folly, he thought, could be as
effectually corrected by the tickling of a feather, as by the lash of the
satirist. When Lady Margaret M'Gregor, and Lady Mary Macintosh, for
instance, had almost forced their unhappy partners into a quarrel to
support their respective claims to precedency, Dr. Campbell, who was
appealed to as the relation of both the furious fair ones, decided the
difference expeditiously, and much to the amusement of the company, by
observing, that, as the pretensions of each of the ladies were
incontrovertible, and precisely balanced, there was but one possible
method of adjusting their precedency--by their age. He was convinced, he
said, that the youngest lady would with pleasure yield precedency to the
elder. The contest was now, which should stand the lowest, instead of
which should stand the highest, in the dance: and when the proofs of
seniority could not be settled, the fair ones drew lots for their places,
and submitted that to chance which could not be determined by prudence.
Forester stood beside Dr. Campbell whilst all this passed, and wasted a
considerable portion of virtuous indignation upon the occasion. "And look
at that absurd creature!" exclaimed Forester, pointing out to Dr.
Campbell a girl who was footing and pounding for fame at a prodigious
rate. Dr. Campbell turned from the pounding lady to observe his own
daughter Flora, and a smile of delight came over his countenance: for
"_parents are apt to be partial_"--especially those who have such
daughters as Flora. Her light figure and graceful agility attracted the
attention even of many impartial spectators; but she was not intent upon
admiration: she seemed to be dancing in the gaiety of her heart; and that
was a species of gaiety in which every one sympathized, because it was
natural, and of which every one approved, because it was innocent. There
was a certain delicacy mixed with her sportive humour, which seemed to
govern, without restraining, the tide of her spirits. Her father's eye
was following her as she danced to a lively Scotch tune, when Forester
pulled Dr. Campbell's cane, on which he was leaning, and exclaimed,
"Doctor, I've just thought of an excellent plan for a tragedy!"
"A tragedy!" repeated Dr. Campbell, with unfeigned surprise; "are you
sure you don't mean a comedy?"
Forester persisted that he meant a tragedy, and was proceeding to open
the plot. "Don't force me to your tragedy now," said Dr. Campbell, "or it
will infallibly be condemned. I cannot say that I have my _buskin_ on!
and I advise you to take yours off. Look, is that the tragic muse?"
Forester was astonished to find, that so great a man as Dr. Campbell had
so little the power of abstraction; and he retired to muse upon the
opening of his tragedy in a recess under the music gallery. But here he
was not suffered long to remain undisturbed; for, near this spot, Sir
Philip Gosling presently stationed himself; Archibald Mackenzie, who
left off dancing as soon as Sir Philip entered the room, came to the
half-intoxicated baronet; and they, with some other young men, worthy of
their acquaintance, began so loud a contest concerning the number of
bottles of claret which a man might, could, or should drink at a sitting,
that even Forester's powers of abstraction failed, and his tragic muse
took her flight.
"Supper! Supper! thank God!" exclaimed Sir Philip, as supper was now
announced. "I'd never set my foot in a ballroom," added he, with several
suitable oaths, "if it were not for the supper."
"Is that a rational being?" cried Forester to Dr. Campbell, after Sir
Philip had passed them.
"Speak a little lower," said Dr. Campbell, "or he will infallibly prove
his title to rationality by shooting you, or by making you shoot him,
through the head."
"But, sir," said Forester, holding Dr. Campbell fast, whilst all the rest
of the company were going down to supper, "how can you bear such a number
of foolish, disagreeable people with patience?"
"What would you have me do?" said Dr. Campbell. "Would you have me
get up and preach in the middle of a ball-room? Is it not as well, since
we are here, to amuse ourselves with whatever can afford us any
amusement, and to keep in good humour with all the world, especially with
ourselves?--and had we not better follow the crowd to supper?"
Forester went down-stairs; but, as he crossed an antechamber, which led
to the supper-room, he exclaimed, "If I were a legislator, I would
prohibit balls."
"And if you were a legislator," said Dr. Campbell, pointing to a
tea-kettle, which was on the fire in the antechamber, and from the spout
of which a grey cloud of vapour issued--"if you were a legislator, would
not you have stoppers wedged tight into the spouts of all tea-kettles in
your dominions?"
"No, sir," said Forester; "they would burst."
"And do you think that folly would not burst, and do more mischief than a
tea-kettle in the explosion, if you confined it so tight?"
Forester would willingly have stayed in the antechamber, to begin a
critical dissection of this allusion; but Dr. Campbell carried him
forwards into the supper-room. Flora had kept a seat for her father; and
Henry met them at the door.
"I was just coming to see for you, sir," said he to his father. "Flora
began to think you were lost."
"No," said Dr. Campbell, "I was only detained by a would-be Cato, who
wanted me to quarrel with the whole world, instead of eating my supper.
What would you advise me to eat, Flora?" said he, seating himself beside
her.
"Some of this trifle, papa;" and as she lightly removed the flowers with
which it was ornamented, her father said, "Yes, give me some trifle,
Flora. Some characters are like that trifle--flowers and light froth at
the top, and solid, good sweetmeat, beneath."
Forester immediately stretched out his plate for some trifle. "But I
don't see any use in the flowers, sir," said he.
"Nor any beauty," said Dr. Campbell.
Forester picked the _troublesome_ flowers out of his trifle, and ate a
quantity of it sufficient for a Stoic. Towards the end of the supper, he
took some notice of Henry, who had made several ineffectual efforts to
amuse him by such slight strokes of wit as seemed to suit the time and
place. Time and place were never taken into Forester's consideration: he
was secretly displeased with his friend Henry for having danced all the
evening instead of sitting still; and he looked at Henry's partner with a
scrutinizing eye. "So," said he, at last, "I observe I have not been
thought worthy of your conversation to-night: this is what _gentlemen,
polite gentlemen_, who dance _reels_, call friendship!"
"If I had thought that you would have taken it ill I should dance reels,"
said Henry, laughing, "I would have made the sacrifice of a reel at the
altar of friendship; but we don't come to a ball to make sacrifices to
friendship, but to divert ourselves."
"If we can," said Forester, sarcastically: here he was prevented from
reproaching his friend any longer, for a party of gentlemen began to sing
catches, at the desire of the rest of the company.
Forester was now intent upon criticising the nonsensical words that were
sung; and he was composing an essay upon the power of the ancient bards,
and the effect of national music, when Flora's voice interrupted him:
"Brother," said she, "I have won my wager." The wager was, that Forester
would not during supper observe the geranium that was placed in the
middle of the table.
As soon as the company were satisfied, both with their supper and their
songs, Henry, whose mind was always _present_, seized the moment when
there was silence to turn the attention of the company towards the object
upon which his own thoughts were intent. The lady-patroness, the mistress
of the canary-bird, had performed her promise: she had spoken to several
of her acquaintance concerning the tyrannical schoolmistress; and now,
fixing the attention of the company upon the geranium, she appealed to
Henry Campbell, and begged him to explain its history. A number of eager
eyes turned upon him instantly; and Forester felt, that if he had been
called upon in such a manner he could not have uttered a syllable. He now
felt the great advantage of being able to speak, without hesitation or
embarrassment, before numbers. When Henry related the poor little girl's
story, his language and manner were so unaffected and agreeable, that he
interested every one who heard him in his cause. A subscription was
immediately raised; every body was eager to contribute something to
the child, who had been so ready, for her old grandmother's sake, to
part with her favourite geranium. The lady who superintended the
charity-school agreed to breakfast the next morning at Dr. Campbell's,
and to go from his house to the school precisely at the hour when the
schoolmistress usually set her unfortunate scholars to their extra task
of spinning.
Forester was astonished at all this; he did not consider that
negligence and inhumanity are widely different. The lady-patronesses had,
perhaps, been rather negligent in contenting themselves with seeing the
charity-children _show well_ in procession to Church, and they had not
sufficiently inquired into the conduct of the schoolmistress; but, as
soon as the facts were properly stated, the ladies were eager to exert
themselves, and candidly acknowledged that they had been to blame in
trusting so much to the reports of the superficial visitors, who had
always declared that the school was going on perfectly well.
"More people who are in the wrong," said Dr. Campbell to Forester, "would
be corrected, if some people who are in the right had a little candour
and patience joined to their other virtues."
As the company rose from the supper-table, several young ladies gathered
round the geranium to admire Flora's pretty flower-pot. The black stains,
however, struck every eye. Forester was standing by rather embarrassed.
Flora, with her usual good-nature, refrained from all explanation, though
the exclamations of "How was that done?"--"Who could have done that?"
were frequently repeated.
"It was an accident," said Flora; and, to change the conversation, she
praised the beauty of the geranium; she gathered one of the fragrant
leaves, but, as she was going to put it amongst the flowers in her bosom,
she observed she had dropped her moss-rose. It was a rarity at this time
of year: it was a rose which Henry Camphell had raised in a conservatory
of his own construction.
"Oh, my brother's beautiful rose!" exclaimed Flora.
Forester, who had been much pleased by her good-nature about the stains
on the flower-pot, now, contrary to his habits, sympathized with her
concern for the loss of her brother's moss-rose. He even exerted himself
so far as to search under the benches and under the supper-table. He was
fortunate enough to find it; and eager to restore the prize, he with more
than his usual gallantry, but not with less than his customary
awkwardness, crept from under the table, and, stretching half his body
over a bench, pushed his arm between two young ladies into the midst of
the group which surrounded Flora. As his arm extended his wrist appeared,
and at the sight of that wrist all the young ladies shrank back, with
unequivocal tokens of disgust. They whispered--they tittered; and many
expressive looks were lost upon our hero, who still resolutely held out
the hand upon which every eye was fixed. "Here's your rose! Is not this
the rose?" said he, still advancing the dreaded hand to Flora, whose
hesitation and blushes surprised him. Mackenzie burst into a loud laugh;
and in a whisper, which all the ladies could hear, told Forester, that
"Miss Campbell was afraid to take the rose out of his hands, lest she
should catch from him what he had caught from the carter who had brought
him to Edinburgh, or from some of his companions at the cobbler's."
Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprung over the bench, rushed
between Flora and another lady, made towards the door in a straight line,
pushing every thing before him, till a passage was made for him by the
astonished crowd, who stood out of his way as if he had been a mad dog.
"Forester!" cried Henry and Dr. Campbell, who were standing upon the
steps before the door, speaking about the carriages, "what's the matter?
where are you going? The carriage is coming to the door."
"I had rather walk--don't speak to me," said Forester; "I've been
insulted: I am in a passion, but I can command myself. I did not knock
him down. Pray let me pass!"
Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with the strength of an
enraged animal from his keepers; and he must have found his way home by
instinct, for he ran on without considering how he went. He snatched the
light from the servant who opened the door at Dr. Campbell's--hurried to
his own apartment--locked, double-locked, and bolted the door--flung
himself into a chair, and, taking breath, exclaimed, "Thank God! I've
done no mischief. Thank God! I didn't knock him down. Thank God! he is
out of my sight, and I am cool now--quite cool: let me recollect it all."
Upon the coolest recollection, Forester could not reconcile his pride to
his present circumstances. "Archibald spoke the truth--why am I angry?
why _was_ I angry, I mean!" He reasoned much with himself upon the nature
of true and false shame: he represented to himself that the disorder
which disfigured his hands was thought shameful only because it was
_vulgar_; that what was vulgar was not therefore immoral; that the young
tittering ladies who shrunk back from him were not supreme judges of
right and wrong; that he ought to despise their opinions, and he despised
them with all his might for two or three hours, as he walked up and down
his room with unremitting energy. At length our peripatetic philosopher
threw himself upon his bed, determined that his repose should not be
disturbed by such trifles: he had by this time worked himself up to such
a pitch of magnanimity, that he thought he could with composure meet the
disapproving eyes of millions of his fellow-creatures; but he was alone
when he formed this erroneous estimate of the strength of the human mind.
Wearied with passion and reason, he fell asleep, dreamed that he was
continually presenting flowers, which nobody would accept; awakened at
the imaginary repetition of Archibald's laugh, composed himself again to
sleep, and dreamed that he was in a glover's shop, trying on gloves, and
that, amongst a hundred pair which he pulled on, he could not find one
that would fit him. Just as he tore the last pair in his hurry, he
awakened, shook off his foolish dream, saw the sun rising between two
chimneys many feet below his windows, recollected that in a short time he
should be summoned to breakfast, that all the lady-patronesses were to be
at this breakfast, that he could not breakfast in gloves, that Archibald
would perhaps again laugh, and Flora perhaps again shrink back. He
reproached himself for his weakness in foreseeing and dreading this
scene: his aversion to lady-patronesses and to balls was never at a more
formidable height; he sighed for liberty and independence, which he
persuaded himself were not to be had in his present situation. In one of
his long walks he remembered to have seen, at some miles' distance from
the town of Edinburgh, a gardener and his boy, who were singing at their
work. These men appeared to Forester to be yet happier than the cobbler,
who formerly was the object of his admiration; and he was persuaded that
he should be much happier at the gardener's cottage than he could ever be
at Dr. Campbell's house.
"I am not fit," said he to himself, "to live amongst _idle gentlemen_ and
_ladies_; I should be happy if I were a useful member of society; a
gardener is a useful member of society, and I will be a gardener, and
live with gardeners."
Forester threw off the clothes which he had worn the preceding night at
the fatal ball, dressed himself in his old coat, tied up a small bundle
of linen, and took the road to the gardener's.
BREAKFAST.
When Henry found that Forester was not in his room in the morning, he
concluded that he had rambled out towards Salisbury Craigs, whither he
talked the preceding day of going to botanize.
"I am surprised," said Dr. Campbell, "that the young gentleman is out so
early, for I have a notion that he has not had much sleep since we
parted, unless he walks in his sleep, for he has been walking over my
poor head half the night."
Breakfast went on--no Forester appeared. Lady Catherine began to fear
that he had broken his neck upon Salisbury Craigs, and related all the
falls she had ever had, or had ever been near having, in carriages, on
horseback, or otherwise. She then entered into the geography of Salisbury
Craigs, and began to dispute upon the probability of his having fallen to
the east or to the west.
"My dear Lady Catherine," said Dr. Campbell, "we are not sure that he has
been upon Salisbury Craigs; whether he has fallen to the east or to the
west, we cannot, therefore, conveniently settle."
But Lady Catherine, whose prudential imagination travelled fast, went on
to inquire of Dr. Campbell, to whom the great Forester estate would go in
case of any accident having happened or happening to the young gentleman
before he should come of age.
Dr. Campbell was preparing to give her ladyship satisfaction upon this
point, when a servant put a letter into his hands. Henry looked in great
anxiety. Dr. Campbell glanced his eye over the letter, put it into his
pocket, and desired the servant to show the person who brought the letter
into his study.
"It's only a little boy," said Archibald; "I saw him as I passed through
the hall."
"Cannot a little boy go into my study?" said Dr. Campbell, coolly.
Archibald's curiosity was strongly excited, and he slipped out of the
room a few minutes afterward, resolved to speak to the boy, and to
discover the purpose of his embassy. But Dr. Campbell was behind him
before he was aware of his approach, and just as Archibald began to
cross-examine the boy in these words, "So you came from a young man who
is about my size?" Dr. Campbell put both his hands upon his shoulders,
saying, "He came from a young man who does not in the least resemble you,
believe me, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie."
Archibald started, turned round, and was so abashed by the civilly
contemptuous look with which Dr. Campbell pronounced these words, that he
retired from the study without even attempting any of his usual
equivocating apologies for his intrusion. Dr. Campbell now read
Forester's letter. It was as follows:--
"Dear Sir,
"Though I have quitted your house thus abruptly, I am not insensible of
your kindness. For the step I have taken, I can offer no apology merely
to my guardian; but you have treated me, Dr, Campbell, as your friend,
and I shall lay my whole soul open to you.
"Notwithstanding your kindness,--notwithstanding the friendship of your
son Henry, whose excellent qualities I know how to value,--I most
ingenuously own to you that I have been far from happy in your house. I
feel that I cannot be at ease in the vortex of dissipation; and the more
I see of the higher ranks of society, the more I regret that I was _born
a gentleman_. Neither my birth nor my fortune shall, however, restrain me
from pursuing that line of life which, I am persuaded, leads to virtue
and tranquillity. Let those who have no virtuous indignation obey the
voice of fashion, and at her commands let her slaves eat the bread of
idleness till it palls upon the sense! I reproach myself with having
yielded, as I have done of late, my opinions to the persuasions of
friendship; my mind has become enervated, and I must fly from the fatal
contagion. Thank Heaven, I have yet the power to fly: I have yet
sufficient force to break my chains. I am not yet reduced to the mental
degeneracy of the base monarch, who hugged his fetters because they were
of gold.
"I am conscious of powers that fit me for something better than to
waste my existence in a ball-room; and I will not sacrifice my liberty to
the absurd ceremonies of daily dissipation. I, that have been the
laughing-stock of the mean and frivolous, have yet sufficient manly
pride, unextinguished in my breast, to assert my claim to your esteem: to
assert, that I never have committed, or shall designedly commit, any
action unworthy of the friend of your son.
"I do not write to Henry, lest I should any way involve him in my
misfortunes: he is formed to shine in the _polite_ world, and his
connexion with me might tarnish the lustre of his character in the eyes
of the '_nice-judging fair_.' I hope, however, that he will not utterly
discard me from his heart, though I cannot dance a reel. I beg that he
will break open the lock of the trunk that is in my room, and take out of
it my Goldsmith's Animated Nature, which he seemed to like.
"In my table-drawer there are my Martyn's Letters on Botany, in which you
will find a number of plants that I have dried for Flora--_Miss_ Flora
Campbell, I should say. After what passed last night, I can scarcely
_hope_ they will be accepted. I would rather have them burned than
refused; therefore please to burn them, and say nothing more upon the
subject. Dear sir, do not judge harshly of me; I have had a severe
conflict with myself before I could resolve to leave you. But I would
rather that you should judge of me with severity than that you should
extend to me the same species of indulgence with which you last night
viewed the half-intoxicated baronet.
"I can bear any thing but contempt.
"Yours, &c.
"P.S. I trust that you will not question the bearer; he knows where I am;
I therefore put you on your guard. I mean to earn my own bread as a
gardener; I have always preferred the agricultural to the commercial
system."
To this letter, in which the mixture of sense and extravagance did not
much surprise Dr. Campbell, he returned the following answer:--
"My dear cobbler, gardener, orator, or by whatever other name you choose
to be addressed, I am too old to be surprised at any thing, otherwise I
might have been rather surprised at some things in your eloquent letter.
You tell me that you have the power to fly, and that you do not hug your
chains, though they are of gold! Are you an alderman, or Daedalus? or are
these only figures of speech? You inform me, that you cannot live in the
vortex of dissipation, or eat the bread of idleness, and that you are
determined to be a gardener. These things seem to have no necessary
connexion with each other. Why you should reproach yourself so bitterly
for having spent one evening of your life in a ball-room, which I suppose
is what you allude to when you speak of a vortex of dissipation, I am at
a loss to discover. And why you cannot, with so much honest pride yet
unextinguished in your breast, find any occupation more worthy of your
talents, and as useful to society, as that of a gardener, I own, puzzles
me a little. Consider these things coolly; return to dinner, and we will
compare at our leisure the advantages of the mercantile and the
agricultural system. I forbear to question your messenger, as you desire;
and I shall not show your letter to Henry till after we have dined. I
hope by that time you will insist upon my burning it; which, at your
request, I shall do with pleasure, although it contains several good
sentences. As I am not yet sure you have _departed this life_, I shall
not enter upon my office of executor; I shall not break open the lock of
your trunk (of which I hope you will some time, when your mind is less
exalted, find the key), nor shall I stir in the difficult case of Flora's
legacy. When next you write your will, let me, for the sake of your
executor, advise you to be more precise in your directions; for what can
be done if you order him to give and burn the same thing in the same
sentence? As you have, amongst your other misfortunes, the misfortune to
be born heir to five or six thousand a year, you should learn a little
how to manage your own affairs, lest you should, amongst your _poor_ or
_rich_ companions, meet with some who are not quite so honest as
yourself.
"If, instead of returning to dine with us, you should persist in your
gardening scheme, I shall have less esteem for your good sense, but I
shall forbear to reproach you. I shall leave you to learn by your own
experience, if it be not in my power to give you the advantages of mine
gratis. But, at the same time, I shall discover where you are, and shall
inform myself exactly of all your proceedings. This, as your guardian, is
my duty. I should further warn you, that I shall not, whilst you choose
to live in a rank below your own, supply you with your customary yearly
allowance. Two hundred guineas a year would be an extravagant allowance
in your present circumstances. I do not mention money with any idea of
influencing your generous mind by mercenary motives; but it is necessary
that you should not deceive yourself by inadequate experiments: you
cannot be rich and poor at the same time. I gave you the day before
yesterday five ten-pound notes for your last quarterly allowance; I
suppose you have taken these with you, therefore you cannot be in any
immediate distress for money. I am sorry, I own, that you are so well
provided, because a man who has fifty guineas in his pocket-book cannot
distinctly feel what it is to be compelled to earn his own bread.
"Do not, my dear ward, think me harsh; my friendship for you gives me
courage to inflict present pain, with a view to your future advantage.
You must not expect to see any thing of your friend Henry until you
return to us. I shall, as his father and your guardian, request that he
will trust implicitly to my prudence upon this occasion; that he will
make no inquiries concerning you; and that he will abstain from all
connexion with you whilst you absent yourself from your friends. You
cannot live amongst the vulgar (by the vulgar I mean the ill-educated,
the ignorant, those who have neither noble sentiments nor agreeable
manners), and at the same time enjoy the pleasures of cultivated society.
I shall wait, not without anxiety, till your choice be decided.
"Believe me to be
"Your sincere friend and guardian,
"H. CAMPBELL."
As soon as Dr. Campbell had despatched this letter, he returned to the
company. The ladies, after breakfast, proceeded to the charity-school;
but Henry was so anxious to learn what was become of his friend Forester,
that he could scarcely enjoy the effects of his own benevolent exertions.
It was with difficulty, such as he had never before experienced, that Dr.
Campbell obtained from him the promise to suspend all intercourse with
Forester. Henry's first impulse, when he read the letter, which his
father now found it prudent to show him, was to search for his friend
instantly. "I am sure," said he, "I shall be able to find him out; and if
I can but see him, and speak to him, I know I could prevail upon him to
return to us."
"Yes," said Dr. Campbell, "perhaps you might persuade him to return; but
that is not the object: unless his understanding be convinced, what
should we gain?"
"It should be convinced. I _could_ convince him," cried Henry.
"I have, my dear son," said Dr. Campbell, smiling, "the highest opinion
of your logic and eloquence; but are your reasoning powers stronger
to-day than they were yesterday? Have you any new arguments to produce? I
thought you had exhausted your whole store without effect."
Henry paused.
"Believe me," continued his father, lowering his voice, "I am not
insensible to your friend's good, and, I will say, _great_ qualities; I
do not leave him to suffer evils, without feeling as much perhaps as you
can do; but I am convinced, that the solidity of his character, and the
happiness of his whole life, will depend upon the impression that is now
made upon his mind by _realities_. He will see society as it is. He has
abilities and generosity of mind which will make him a first-rate
character, if his friends do not spoil him out of false kindness."
Henry, at these words, held out his hand to his father, and gave him the
promise which he desired.
"But," added he, "I still have hopes from your letter--I should not be
surprised to see Forester at dinner to-day,"
"I should," said Dr. Campbell.
Dr. Campbell, alas! was right. Henry looked eagerly towards the door
every time it opened, when they were at dinner: but he was continually
disappointed. Flora, whose gaiety usually enlivened the evenings, and
agreeably relieved her father and brother after their morning studies,
was now silent.
Whilst Lady Catherine's volubility overpowered even the philosophy of Dr.
Campbell, she wondered--she never ceased wondering--that Mr. Forester did
not appear, and that the doctor and Mrs. Campbell, and Henry and Flora,
were not more alarmed. She proposed sending twenty different messengers
after him. She was now convinced, that he had not fallen from Salisbury
Craigs, because Dr. Campbell assured her ladyship, that he had a letter
from him in his pocket, and that he was safe; but she thought that there
was imminent danger of his enlisting in a frolic, or, perhaps, marrying
some cobbler's daughter in a pet. She turned to Archibald Mackenzie, and
exclaimed, "He was at a cobbler's; it could not be merely to mend his
shoes. What sort of a lassy is the cobbler's daughter? or has the cobbler
a daughter?"
"She is hump-backed, luckily," said Dr. Campbell, coolly.
"That does not signify," said Lady Catherine; "I'm convinced she is at
the bottom of the whole mystery; for I once heard Mr. Forester say--and
I'm sure you must recollect it, Flora, my dear, for he looked at you at
the time--I once heard him say, that personal beauty was no merit, and
that ugly people ought to be liked--or some such thing--out of humanity.
Now, out of humanity, with his odd notions, it's ten to one, Dr.
Campbell, he marries this cobbler's hump-backed daughter. I'm sure, if I
were his guardian, I could not rest an instant with such a thought in my
head."
"Nor I," said Dr. Campbell, quietly; and in spite of her ladyship's
astonishment, remonstrances, and conjectures, he maintained his resolute
composure.
THE GARDENER.
The gardener who had struck Forester's fancy, was a square, thick,
obstinate-eyed, hard-working, ignorant, elderly man, whose soul was
intent upon his petty daily gains, and whose honesty was of that
"coarse-spun, vulgar sort[6]," which alone can be expected from men of
uncultivated minds. Mr. M'Evoy, for that was the gardener's name, was
both good-natured and selfish; his views and ideas all centered in his
own family; and his affection was accumulated and reserved for two
individuals, his son and his daughter. The son was not so industrious as
the father; he was ambitious of seeing something of the world, and he
consorted with all the young 'prentices in Edinburgh, who would
condescend to forget that he was a country boy, and to remember that he
expected, when his father should die, _to be rich_. Mr. M'Evoy's daughter
was an ugly, cross-looking girl, who spent all the money that she could
either earn or save upon ribands and fine gowns, with which she fancied
she could supply all the defects of her person.
[Footnote 6: Mrs. Barbauld'a Essay on the Inconsistency of Human
Expectations.]
This powerful motive for her economy operated incessantly upon her mind,
and she squeezed all that could possibly be squeezed for her private use
from the frugal household. The boy, whose place Forester thought himself
so fortunate to supply, had left the gardener, because he could not bear
to work and be scolded without eating or drinking.
The gardener willingly complied with our hero's first request; he gave
him a spade, and he set him to work. Forester dug with all the energy of
an enthusiast, and dined like a philosopher upon long kail; but long kail
did not charm him so much the second day as it had done the first; and
the third day it was yet less to his taste; besides, he began to notice
the difference between oaten and wheaten bread. He, however, recollected
that Cyrus lived, when he was a lad, upon water-cresses--the black broth
of the Spartans he likewise remembered, and he would not complain. He
thought, that he should soon accustom himself to his scanty, homely fare.
A number of the disagreeable circumstances of poverty he had not
estimated when he entered upon his new way of life; and though at Dr.
Campbell's table he had often said to himself, "I could do very well
without all these things," yet, till he had actually tried the
experiment, he had not _clear_ ideas upon the subject. He missed a
number of little pleasures and conveniences, which he had scarcely
noticed, whilst they had every day presented themselves as matters of
course. The occupation of digging was laborious, but it afforded no
exercise to his mind, and he felt most severely the want of Henry's
agreeable conversation; he had no one to whom he could now talk of the
water-cresses of Cyrus, or the black broth of the Spartans; he had no one
with whom he could dispute concerning the Stoic or the Epicurean
doctrines, the mercantile or the agricultural system. Many objections to
the agricultural system, which had escaped him, occurred now to his mind;
and his compassion for the worms, whom he was obliged to cut in pieces
continually with his spade, acted every hour more forcibly upon his
benevolent heart. He once attempted to explain his feelings for the worms
to the gardener, who stared at him with all the insolence of ignorance,
and bade him mind his work, with a tone of authority which ill suited
Forester's feelings and love of independence.
"Is ignorance thus to command knowledge? Is reason thus to be silenced by
boorish stupidity?" said Forester to himself, as he recollected the
patience and candour with which Dr. Campbell and Henry used to converse
with him. He began to think, that in cultivated society he had enjoyed
more liberty of mind, more freedom of opinion, than he could taste in the
company of an illiterate gardener. The gardener's son, though his name
was Colin, had no Arcadian simplicity, nothing which could please the
classic taste of Forester, or which could recall to his mind the Eclogues
of Virgil, or the golden age; the Gentle Shepherd, or the Ayrshire
Ploughman. Colin's favourite holiday's diversion was playing at _goff_;
this game, which is played with a bat loaded with lead, and with a ball,
which is harder than a cricket-ball, requires much strength and
dexterity. Forester used, sometimes, to accompany the gardener's son to
the _Links_,[7] where numbers of people, of different descriptions are
frequently seen practising this diversion. Our hero was ambitious of
excelling at the game of _goff_; and, as he was not particularly adroit,
he exposed himself, in his first attempts, to the derision of the
spectators, and he likewise received several severe blows. Colin laughed
at him without mercy; and Forester could not help comparing the rude
expressions of his new companion's untutored vanity with the unassuming
manners and unaffected modesty of Henry Campbell. Forester soon took an
aversion to the game of _goff_, and recollected Scotch reels with less
contempt.
[Footnote 7: A lea or common near Edinburgh.]
One evening, after having finished his task of digging (for digging was
now become a task), he was going to take a walk to Duddingstone lake,
when Colin, who was at the same instant setting out for the Links,
roughly insisted upon Forester's accompanying him. Our hero, who was
never much disposed to yield to the taste of others, positively refused
the gardener's son, with some imprudent expressions of contempt. From
this moment Colin became his enemy, and, by a thousand malicious devices,
contrived to show his vulgar hatred.
Forester now, to his great surprise, discovered that hatred could exist
in a cottage. Female vanity, he likewise presently perceived, was not
confined to the precincts of a ball-room; he found that Miss M'Evoy spent
every leisure moment in the contemplation of her own coarse image in a
fractured looking-glass. He once ventured to express his dislike of a
many-coloured plaid in which Miss M'Evoy had arrayed herself _for a
dance_; and the fury of her looks, and the loud-toned vulgarity of her
conceit, were strongly contrasted with the recollection of Flora
Campbell's gentle manners and sweetness of temper. The painted flower-pot
was present to his imagination, and he turned from the lady who stood
before him with an air of disgust, which he had neither the wish nor the
power to conceal. The consequences of offending this high-spirited damsel
our hero had not sufficiently considered: the brother and sister, who
seldom agreed in any thing else, now agreed, though from different
motives, in an eager desire to torment Forester. Whenever he entered the
cottage, either to rest himself, or to partake of those "savoury messes,
which the _neat-handed_ Phillis dresses," he was received with sullen
silence, or with taunting reproach. The old gardener, stupid as he was,
Forester thought an agreeable companion, compared with his insolent son
and his vixen daughter. The happiest hours of the day, to our hero, were
those which he spent at his work; his affections, repressed and
disappointed, became a source of misery to him.
"Is there nothing in this world to which I can attach myself?" said
Forester, as he one day leaned upon his spade in a melancholy mood. "Must
I spend my life in the midst of absurd altercations? Is it for this that
I have a heart and an understanding? No one here comprehends one word I
say--I am an object of contempt and hatred, whilst my soul is formed for
the most benevolent feelings, and capable of the most extensive views.
And of what service am I to my fellow-creatures? Even this stupid
gardener, even a common labourer, is as useful to society as I am.
Compared with Henry Campbell, what am I? Oh, Henry!--Flora!--could you
see me at this instant, you would pity me."
But the fear of being an object of pity wakened Forester's pride; and
though he felt that he was unhappy, he could not bear to acknowledge that
he had mistaken the road to happiness. His imaginary picture of rural
felicity was not, to be sure, realized; but he resolved to bear his
disappointment with fortitude, to fulfil his engagements with his master,
the gardener, and then to seek some other more eligible situation. In the
meantime, his benevolence tried to expand itself upon the only individual
in this family who treated him tolerably well: he grew fond of the old
gardener, because there was nothing else near him to which he could
attach himself, not even a dog or a cat. The old man, whose temper was
not quite so enthusiastical as Forester's, looked upon him as an
industrious simple young man, above the usual class of servants, and
rather wished to keep him in his service, because he gave him less than
the current wages. Forester, after his late reflections upon digging,
began to think, that, by applying his understanding to the business of
gardening, he might perhaps make some discoveries, which should excite
his master's everlasting gratitude, and immortalize his own name. He
pledged a shirt and a pair of stockings at a poor bookseller's stall, for
some volumes upon gardening; and these, in spite of the ridicule of Colin
and Miss M'Evoy, he studied usually at his meals. He at length met with
an account of some experiments upon fruit-trees, which he thought would
infallibly make the gardener's fortune.
"Did you not tell me," said Forester to the gardener, "that cherries were
sometimes sold very high in Edinburgh?"
"Five a penny," said the gardener; and he wished, from the bottom of his
heart, that he had a thousand cherry-trees, but he possessed only one.
He was considerably alarmed, when Forester proposed to him, as the
certain means of making his fortune, to strip the bark off this
cherry-tree, assuring him, that a similar experiment had been tried and
had succeeded; that his cherry-tree would bear twice as many cherries, if
he would only strip the bark from it. "Let me try one branch for an
experiment--I _will try_ one branch!"
But the gardener peremptorily forbade all experiments, and, shutting
Forester's book, bade him leave such nonsense, and mind his business.
Provoked by this instance of tyrannical ignorance, Forester forgot his
character of a _servant boy_, and at length called his master an
obstinate fool.
No sooner were these words uttered, than the gardener emptied the remains
of his watering-pot coolly in Forester's face, and, first paying him his
wages, dismissed him from his service.
Miss M'Evoy, who was at work, seated at the door, made room most joyfully
for Forester to pass, and observed, that she had long since prophesied he
would not _do_ for them.
Forester was now convinced, that it was impossible to reform a positive
old gardener, to make him try new experiments upon cherry-trees, or to
interest him for the progress of science. He deplored the perversity of
human nature, and he began, when he reflected upon the characters of Miss
M'Evoy and her brother, to believe, that they were beings distinct from
the rest of their species; he was, at all events, glad to have parted
with such odious companions. On his road to Edinburgh he had time for
various reflections.
"Thirty shillings, then, with hard bodily labour, I have earned for one
month's service!" said Forester to himself. "Well, I will keep to my
resolution. I will live upon the money I earn, and upon that alone; I
will not have recourse to my bank notes till the last extremity." He took
out his pocket-book, however, and looked at them, to see that they were
safe. "How wretched," thought he, "must be that being, who is obliged to
purchase, in his utmost need, the assistance of his fellow-creatures with
such vile trash as this! I have been unfortunate in my first experiment;
but all men are not like this selfish gardener and his brutal son,
incapable of disinterested friendship."
Here Forester was interrupted in his meditations by a young man, who
accosted him with--"Sir, if I don't mistake, I believe I have a key of
yours."
Forester looked up at the young man's face, and recollected him to be the
person who had nearly lost his life in descending for his key into the
brewing-vat.
"I knew you again, sir," continued the brewer's clerk, "by your twirling
those scissors upon your finger, just as you were doing that day at the
brewery."
Forester was not conscious, till this moment, that he had a pair of
scissors in his hand: whilst the gardener was paying him his wages, to
relieve his _mauvaise honte_, our hero took up Miss M'Evoy's scissors,
which lay upon the table, and twirled them upon his fingers, as he used
to do with a key. He was rather ashamed to perceive, that he had not yet
cured himself of such a silly habit. "I thought the lesson I got at the
brewery," said he, "would have cured me for ever of this foolish trick;
but the diminutive chains of habit[8], as somebody says, are scarcely
ever heavy enough to be felt, till they are too strong to be broken."
[Footnote 8: Dr. Johnson's Vision of Theodore.]
"_Sir!_" said the astonished clerk.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said our hero, who now perceived by his
countenance that his observation on the peculiar nature of the chains of
habit was utterly unintelligible to him; "pray, sir, can you tell me what
o'clock it is?"
"Half after four--I am--sir," said the clerk, producing his watch, with
the air of a man who thought a watch a matter of some importance. "Hum!
He can't be a gentleman; he has no watch!" argued he with himself; and he
looked at Forester's rough apparel with astonishment. Forester had turned
back, that he might return Miss M'Evoy her scissors. The brewer's clerk
was going in the same direction to collect some money for his master. As
they walked on, the young man talked to our hero with good-nature, but
with a species of familiarity, which was strikingly different from the
respectful manner in which he formerly addressed Forester, when he had
seen him in a better coat, and in the company of a young gentleman.
"You have left Dr. Campbell's, then?" said he, looking with curiosity.
Forester replied, that he had left Dr. Campbell's, because he preferred
earning his own bread to living an idle life among gentlemen and ladies.
The clerk, at this speech, looked earnestly in Forester's face, and began
to suspect that he was deranged in his mind.
As the gravity of our hero's looks, and the sobriety of his demeanour,
did not give any strong indications of insanity, the clerk, after a few
minutes' consideration, inclined to believe, that Forester concealed the
truth from him; that probably he was some dependant of Dr. Campbell's
family; that he had displeased his friends, and had been discarded in
disgrace. He was confirmed in these suppositions by Forester's telling
him, that he had just left the service of a gardener; that he did not
know where to find a lodging for the night; and that he was in want of
some employment, by which he might support himself independently.
The clerk, who remembered with gratitude the intrepidity with which
Forester had hazarded his life to save him the morning that he was at the
brewery, and who had also some compassion for a young gentleman reduced
to poverty, told him that if he could write a good hand, knew any thing
of accounts, and could get a character for _punctuality_ (meaning to
include honesty in this word) from any creditable people, he did not
doubt that his master, who had large concerns, might find employment for
him as an under-clerk. Forester's pride was not agreeably soothed by the
manner of this proposal, but he was glad to hear of a _situation_, to use
the clerk's genteel expression; and he moreover thought, that he should
now have an opportunity of comparing the commercial and agricultural
systems.
The clerk hinted, that he supposed Forester would choose to "make himself
smart," before he called to offer himself at the brewery, and advised him
to call about six, as by that time in the evening his master was
generally at leisure.
A dinner at a public-house (for our hero did not know where else to
dine), and the further expense of a new pair of shoes, and some other
articles of dress, almost exhausted his month's wages: he was very
unwilling to make any of these purchases, but the clerk assured him, that
they were indispensable; and, indeed, at last, his appearance was
scarcely upon a par with that of his friendly adviser.
THE BET.
Before we follow Forester to the brewery, we must request the attention
of our readers to the history of a bet of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie's.
We have already noticed the rise and progress of this young gentleman's
acquaintance with Sir Philip Gosling. Archibald,
"Whose ev'ry frolic had some end in view,
Ne'er played the fool, but played the rascal too,"--Anonymous
cultivated assiduously the friendship of this weak, dissipated, vain
young baronet, in hopes that he might, in process of time, make some
advantage of his folly. Sir Philip had an unfortunately high opinion of
his own judgment; an opinion which he sometimes found it difficult to
inculcate upon the minds of others, till he hit upon the compendious
method of laying high wagers in support of all his assertions. Few people
chose to venture a hundred guineas upon the turn of a straw. Sir Philip,
in all such contests, came off victorious; and he plumed himself much
upon the success of his purse. Archibald affected the greatest deference
for Sir Philip's judgment; and, as he observed that the baronet piqued
himself upon his skill as a jockey, he flattered him indefatigably upon
this subject. He accompanied Sir Philip continually in his long visits to
the livery-stables; and he made himself familiarly acquainted with the
keeper of the livery-stables, and even with the hostlers. So low can
interested pride descend! All this pains Archibald took, and more, for a
very small object. He had set his fancy upon Sawney, one of his friend's
horses; and he had no doubt, but that he should either induce Sir Philip
to make him a present of this horse, or that he should jockey him out of
it, by some well-timed bet.
In counting upon the baronet's generosity, Archibald was mistaken. Sir
Philip had that species of _good-nature_ which can lend, but not that
which can give. He offered to lend the horse to Archibald most willingly;
but the idea of giving it was far distant from his imagination.
Archibald, who at length despaired of his friend's generosity, had
recourse to his other scheme of the wager. After having judiciously lost
a few guineas to Sir Philip in wagers, to confirm him in his extravagant
opinion of his own judgment, Archibald, one evening, when the fumes of
wine and vanity, operating together, had somewhat exalted the man of
judgment's imagination, urged him, by artful, hesitating contradiction,
to assert the most incredible things of one of his horses, to whom
he had given the name of Favourite. Archibald knew, from the _best
authority_--from the master of the livery-stables, who was an experienced
jockey--that Favourite was by no means a match for Sawney; he therefore
waited quietly till Sir Philip Gosling laid a very considerable wager
upon the head of his "Favourite." Archibald immediately declared, he
could not, in conscience--that he could not, for the honour of Scotland,
give up his friend Sawney.
"Sawney!" cried Sir Philip; "I'll bet fifty guineas, that Favourite beats
him hollow at a walk, trot, or gallop, whichever you please."
Archibald artfully affected to be startled at this defiance, and,
seemingly desirous to draw back, pleaded his inability to measure purses
with such a rich man as Sir Philip.
"Nay, my boy," replied Sir Philip, "that excuse shan't stand you in
stead. You have a pretty little pony there, that Lady Catherine has just
given you; if you won't lay me fifty guineas, will you risk your pony
against my judgment?"
Archibald had now brought his friend exactly to the point at which he had
been long aiming. Sir Philip staked his handsome horse Sawney against
Archibald's sorry pony, upon this wager, that Favourite should, at the
first trials, beat Sawney at a walk, a trot, and a gallop.
Warmed with wine, and confident in his own judgment, the weak baronet
insisted upon having the bet immediately decided. The gentlemen ordered
out their horses, and the wager was to be determined upon the sands of
Leith.
Sir Philip Gosling, to his utter astonishment, found himself for once
mistaken in his judgment. The treacherous Archibald coolly suffered him
to exhale his passion in unavailing oaths, and at length rejoiced to
hear him consoling himself with the boast, that this was the first wager
upon horse-flesh that he had ever lost in his life. The master of the
livery-stables stared with well-affected incredulity, when Sir Philip,
upon his return from the sands of Leith, informed him, that Favourite had
been beat hollow by Sawney; and Archibald, by his additional testimony,
could scarcely convince him of the fact, till he put two guineas into his
hand, when he recommended _his_ new horse Sawney to his particular care.
Sir Philip, who was not gifted with quick observation, did not take
notice of this last convincing argument. Whilst this passed, he was
talking eagerly to the hostler, who confirmed him in his opinion, which
he still repeated as loud as ever, "that Favourite ought to have won."
This point Archibald prudently avoided to contest; and he thus succeeded
in duping and flattering his friend at once.
"Sawney for ever!" cried Archibald, as soon as Sir Philip had left the
stables. "Sawney for ever!" repeated the hostler, and reminded Mackenzie,
that he had promised him half a guinea. Archibald had no money in his
pocket; but he assured the hostler, that he would remember him the next
day. The next day, however, Archibald, who was expert in parsimonious
expedients, considered that he had better delay giving the hostler his
half-guinea, till it had been earned by his care of Sawney.
It is the usual error of cunning people to take it for granted, that
others are fools. This hostler happened to be a match for our young laird
in cunning, and, as soon as he perceived that it was Archibald's
intention to cheat him of the interest of his half-guinea, he determined
to revenge himself in his _care_ of Sawney. We shall hereafter see the
success of his devices.
THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE.
Scarcely had Archibald Mackenzie been two days in possession of the
long-wished-for object of his mean soul, when he became dissatisfied with
his own saddle and bridle, which certainly did not, as Sir Philip
observed, suit his new horse. The struggles in Archibald's mind, betwixt
his taste for expense and his habits of saving, were often rather painful
to him. He had received from Lady Catherine a ten-guinea note, when he
first came to Dr. Campbell's; and he had withstood many temptations to
change it. One morning (the day that he had accompanied Henry and
Forester to the watchmaker's) he was so strongly charmed by the sight of
a watch-chain and seals, that he actually took his bank-note out of his
scrutoire at his return home, put it into his pocket, when he dressed for
dinner, and resolved to call that evening at the watchmaker's to indulge
his fancy, by purchasing the watch-chain, and to gratify his family
pride, by getting his coat of arms splendidly engraven upon the seal. He
called at the watchmaker's, in company with Sir Philip Gosling, but he
could not agree with him respecting the price of the chain and seals; and
Archibald consoled himself with the reflection, that his bank-note would
still remain. He held the note in his hand, whilst he higgled about the
price of the watch-chain.
"Oh, d--n the expense!" cried Sir Philip.
"Oh, I mind ten guineas as little as any man," said Archibald, thrusting
the bank-note, in imitation of the baronet, with affected carelessness,
into his waistcoat-pocket. He was engaged that night to go to the play
with Sir Philip, and he was much hurried in dressing. His servant
observed that his waistcoat was stained, and looked out another for him.
Now this man sometimes took the liberty of wearing his master's clothes;
and, when Archibald went to the play, the servant dressed himself in the
stained waistcoat, to appear at a ball, which was given that night in the
neighbourhood, by some "gentleman's gentleman." The waistcoat was rather
too tight for the servant: he tore it, and instead of sending it to the
washerwoman's, to have the stain washed out, as his master had desired,
he was now obliged to send it to the tailor's to have it mended.
Archibald's sudden wish for a new saddle and bridle for Sawney could not
be gratified without changing the bank-note; and, forgetting that he had
left it in the pocket of his waistcoat the night that he went to the
play, he searched for it in the scrutoire, in which he was accustomed to
keep his treasures. He was greatly disturbed, when the note was not
to be found in the scrutoire; he searched over and over again; not a
pigeon-hole, not a drawer, remained to be examined. He tried to recollect
when he had last seen it, and at length remembered, that he put it into
his waistcoat-pocket, when he went to the watchmaker's; that he had taken
it out to look at, whilst he was in the shop; but whether he had brought
it home safely or not he could not precisely ascertain. His doubts upon
this subject, however, he cautiously concealed, resolved, if possible, to
make somebody or other answerable for his loss. He summoned his servant,
told him that he had left a ten-guinea bank-note in his waistcoat-pocket
the night that he went to the play, and that, as the waistcoat was given
into his charge, he must be answerable for the note. The servant boldly
protested, that he neither could nor would be at the loss of a note which
he had never seen.
Archibald now softened his tone; for he saw, that he had no chance of
bullying the servant. "I desired you to send it to the washerwoman's,"
said he.
"And so I did, sir," said the man.
This was true, but not the whole truth. He had previously sent the
waistcoat to the tailor's to have the rent repaired, which it received
the night he wore it at the ball. These circumstances the servant thought
proper to suppress; and he was very ready to agree with his master in
accusing the poor washerwoman of having stolen the note. The washerwoman
was extremely industrious, and perfectly honest; she had a large family,
that depended upon her labour, and upon her character, for support. She
was astonished and shocked at the charge that was brought against her,
and declared, that if she were able, she would rather pay the whole money
at once, than suffer any suspicion to go abroad against her. Archibald
rejoiced to find her in this disposition; and he assured her, that the
only method to avoid disgrace, a lawsuit, and ruin, was instantly to pay,
or to promise to pay, the money. It was out of her power to pay it; and
she would not promise what she knew she could not perform.
Archibald redoubled his threats; the servant stood by his master. The
poor woman burst into tears; but she steadily declared that she was
innocent; and no promise could be extorted from her, even in the midst of
her terror. Though she had horrible, perhaps not absolutely visionary,
ideas of the dangers of a lawsuit, yet she had some confidence in the
certainty that justice was on her side. Archibald said, that she might
_talk_ about justice as much as she pleased, but that she must prepare to
submit to _the law_. The woman trembled at the sound of these words; but,
though ignorant, she was no fool, and she had a friend in Dr. Campbell's
family, to whom she resolved to apply in her distress. Henry Campbell
had visited her little boy when he was ill, and had made him some
small present; and, though she did not mean to encroach upon Henry's
good-nature, she thought, that he had so much _learning_, that he
certainly could, without its costing her any thing, put her in the right
way to avoid the _law_, with which she had been threatened by Archibald
Mackenzie and his servant.
Henry heard the story with indignation, such as Forester would have felt
in similar circumstances; but prudence tempered his enthusiastic
feelings; and prudence renders us able to assist others, whilst
enthusiasm frequently defeats its own purposes, and injures those whom it
wildly attempts to serve. Henry, knowing the character of Archibald,
governed himself accordingly; he made no appeal to his feelings; for he
saw that the person must be deficient in humanity, who could have
threatened a defenceless woman with such severity; he did not speak of
justice to the tyrannical laird, but spoke of _law_. He told Archibald,
that being thoroughly convinced of the woman's innocence, he had drawn up
a statement of her case, which she, in compliance with his advice, was
ready to lay before an advocate, naming the first counsel in Edinburgh.
The young laird repeated, with a mixture of apprehension and suspicion,
"Drawn up a case! No; you can't know how to draw up cases; you are not a
lawyer--you only say this to bully me."
Henry replied, that he was no lawyer; that he could, notwithstanding,
state plain facts in such a manner, he hoped, as to make a case
intelligible to any sensible lawyer; that he meant to show what he had
written to his father.
"You'll show it to me, first, won't you?" said Archibald, who wished to
gain time for consideration.
Henry put the paper, which he had drawn up, into his hands, and waited
with a determined countenance beside him, whilst he perused the case.
Archibald saw that Henry had abilities and steadiness to go through
with the business; the facts were so plainly and forcibly stated, that
his hopes even from law began to falter. He therefore talked about
humanity--said, he pitied the poor woman; could not bear to think of
distressing her; but that, at the same time, he had urgent occasion for
money; that, if he could even recover five guineas of it, it would be
something. He added, that he had debts, which he could not, in honour,
delay to discharge.
Now Henry had five guineas, which he had reserved for the purchase of
some additions to his cabinet of mineralogy, and he offered to lend this
money to Archibald, to pay _the debts that he could not, in honour, delay
to discharge_, upon express condition, that he should say nothing more to
the poor woman concerning the bank-note.
To this condition Archibald most willingly acceded; and as Henry, with
generous alacrity, counted the five guineas into his hand, this mean,
incorrigible being said to himself, "What fools these bookish young men
are, after all! Though he can draw up cases so finely, I've taken him in
at last; and I wish it were ten guineas instead of five!"
Fatigued with the recital of the various petty artifices of this
avaricious and dissipated young laird, we shall now relieve ourselves, by
turning from the history of meanness to that of enthusiasm. The faults of
Forester we hope and wish to see corrected; but who can be interested for
the selfish Archibald Mackenzie?
FORESTER, A CLERK.
We left Forester when he was just going to offer himself as clerk to a
brewer. The brewer was a prudent man; and he sent one of his porters with
a letter to Dr. Campbell, to inform him that a young lad, whom he had
formerly seen in company with Mr. Henry Campbell, and who, he understood,
was the doctor's ward, had applied to him, and that he should be very
happy to take him into his service, if his friends approved of it, and
could properly recommend him. In consequence of Dr. Campbell's answer to
the brewer's letter, Forester, who knew nothing of the application to his
friends, obtained the vacant clerkship. He did not, however, long
continue in his new _situation_. At first he felt happy, when he found
himself relieved from, the vulgar petulance of Miss M'Evoy and her
brother Colin: in comparison with their rude ill-humours, the clerks who
were his companions appeared patterns of civility. By hard experience,
Forester was taught to know, that obliging manners in our companions add
something to the happiness of our lives. "My mind to me a kingdom is,"
was once his common answer to all that his friend Henry could urge in
favour of the pleasures of society; but he began now to suspect, that
separated from social intercourse, his mind, however enlarged, would
afford him but a dreary kingdom.
He flattered himself, that he could make a friend of the clerk who had
found his key: this young man's name was Richardson; he was good-natured,
but ignorant; and neither his education nor his abilities distinguished
him from any other clerk in similar circumstances. Forester invited him
to walk to Arthur's Seat, after the _monotonous_ business of the day was
over, but the clerk preferred walking on holidays in Prince's-street;
and, after several ineffectual attempts to engage him in moral and
metaphysical arguments, our hero discovered the depth of his companion's
ignorance with astonishment. Once, when he found that two of the clerks,
to whom he had been talking of Cicero and Pliny, did not know any thing
of these celebrated personages, he said, with a sigh,
"But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of their soul."
The word _penury_, in this stanza, the clerks at least understood, and it
excited their "noble rage;" they hinted, that it ill became a person, who
did not dress nearly as well as themselves, to give himself such airs,
and to taunt his betters with poverty; they said that they supposed,
because he was an Englishman, as they perceived by his accent, he thought
he might insult Scotchmen as he pleased. It was vain for him to attempt
any explanation; their pride and their prejudices combined against him:
and, though their dislike to him was not so outrageous as that of the
gardener, gentle Colin, yet it was quite sufficient to make him uneasy in
his situation. Richardson was as steady as could reasonably be expected;
but he showed so little desire to have "_the ample page, rich with the
spoils of time_," unrolled to him, that he excited our young scholar's
contempt. No friendships can be more unequal than those between ignorance
and knowledge. We pass over the journal of our hero's hours, which were
spent in casting up and verifying accounts; this occupation, at length he
decided, must be extremely injurious to the human understanding: "All the
higher faculties of my soul," said he to himself, "are absolutely useless
at this work, and I am reduced to a mere machine." But there were many
other circumstances in the _mercantile system_, which Forester had not
foreseen, and which shocked him extremely. The continual attention to
petty gain, the little artifices which a tradesman thinks himself
justifiable in practising upon his customers, could not be endured by his
ingenuous mind. One morning the brewery was in an uncommon bustle; the
clerks were all in motion. Richardson told Forester that they expected a
visit in a few hours from the gauger and the supervisor, and that they
were preparing for their reception. When the nature of these preparations
was explained to Forester; when he was made to understand that the
business and duty of a brewer's clerk was to assist his master in evading
certain clauses in certain acts of parliament; when he found, that to
trick a gauger was thought an excellent joke, he stood in silent moral
astonishment. He knew about as much of the revenue laws as the clerks did
of Cicero and Pliny; but his sturdy principles of integrity could not
bend to any of the arguments, founded on expediency, which were brought
by his companions in their own and their master's justification. He
declared that he must speak to his master upon the subject immediately.
His master was as busy as he could possibly be; and, when Forester
insisted upon seeing him, he desired that he would speak as quickly as he
could, for that he expected the supervisor every instant. Our hero
declared, that he could not, consistently with his principles, assist in
evading the laws of his country. The brewer stared, and then laughed;
assured him that he had as great a respect for the laws as other people;
that he did nothing but what every person in his situation was obliged to
do in their own defence. Forester resolutely persisted in his
determination against all clandestine practices. The brewer cut the
matter short, by saying, he had not time to argue; but that he did not
choose to keep a clerk who was not in his interests; that he supposed the
next thing would be, to betray him to his supervisor.
"I am no traitor!" exclaimed Forester; "I will not stay another instant
with a master who suspects me."
The brewer suffered him to depart without reluctance; but what
exasperated Forester the most was the composure of his friend Richardson
during this scene, who did not even offer to shake hands with him, when
he saw him going out of the house: for Richardson had a good place, and
did not choose to quarrel with his master, for a person whom he now
verily believed to be, as he had originally suspected, insane.
"This is the world!--this is friendship!" said Forester to himself.
His generous and enthusiastic imagination supplied him with eloquent
invectives against human nature, even while he ardently desired to serve
his fellow-creatures. He wandered through the streets of Edinburgh,
indulging himself alternately in misanthropic reflections and benevolent
projects. One instant, he resolved to study the laws, that he might
reform the revenue laws; the next moment, he recollected his own passion
for a desert island, and he regretted that he could not be shipwrecked in
Edinburgh.
The sound of a squeaking fiddle roused Forester from his reverie; he
looked up, and saw a thin, pale man fiddling to a set of dancing dogs,
that he was exhibiting upon the flags, for the amusement of a crowd of
men, women, and children. It was a deplorable spectacle; the dogs
appeared so wretched, in the midst of the merriment of the spectators,
that Forester's compassion was moved, and he exclaimed--
"Enough, enough!--They are quite tired; here are some halfpence!"
The showman took the halfpence; but several fresh spectators were yet to
see the sight; and though the exhausted animals were but little inclined
to perform their antic feats, their master twitched the rope, that was
fastened round their necks, so violently, that they were compelled to
renew their melancholy dance.
Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler's hand, and began an
expostulation, not one word of which was understood by the person to whom
it was addressed. A stout lad, who was very impatient at this
interruption of his diversion, began to abuse Forester, and presently
from words he proceeded to blows.
Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so able a boxer as his
opponent. The battle was obstinately fought on both sides; but, at
length, our young Quixote received what has no name in heroic language,
but in the vulgar tongue is called a black eye; and, covered with blood
and bruises, he was carried by some humane passenger into a neighbouring
house. It was a printer and bookseller's shop. The bookseller treated him
with humanity; and, after advising him not to be so hastily engaged to be
the champion of dancing dogs, inquired who he was, and whether he had any
friends in Edinburgh, to whom he could send.
This printer, from having been accustomed to converse with a variety of
people, was a good judge of the language of gentlemen; and, though there
was nothing else in Forester's manners which could have betrayed him, he
spoke in such good language, that the bookseller was certain that he had
received a liberal education.
Our hero declined telling his history; but the printer was so well
pleased with his conversation, that he readily agreed to give him
employment; and, as soon as he recovered from his bruises, Forester was
eager to learn the art of printing.
"The art of printing," said he, "has emancipated mankind, and printers
ought to be considered as the most respectable benefactors of the human
race."
Always warm in his admiration of every new phantom that struck his
imagination, he was now persuaded that printers' devils were angels, and
that he should be supremely blessed in a printer's office.
"What employment so noble!" said he, as he first took the composing-stick
in his hand; "what employment so noble, as that of disseminating
knowledge over the universe!"
FORESTER, A PRINTER.
It was some time before our hero acquired dexterity in his new trade: his
companions formed, with amazing celerity, whole sentences, while he was
searching for letters, which perpetually dropped from his awkward hands:
but he was ashamed of his former versatility, and he resolved to be
steady to his present way of life. His situation, at this printer's, was
far better suited to him than that which he had quitted, with so much
disgust, at the brewer's. He rose early, and, by great industry, overcame
all the difficulties which at first so much alarmed him. He soon became
the most useful journeyman in the office. His diligence and good
behaviour recommended him to his master's employers. Whenever any work
was brought, Forester was sent for. This occasioned him to be much in the
shop, where he heard the conversation of many ingenious men who
frequented it; and he spent his evenings in reading. His understanding
had been of late uncultivated; but the fresh seeds that were now
profusely scattered upon the vigorous soil took root, and flourished.
Forester was just at that time of life when opinions are valued for being
_new_: he heard varieties of the most contradictory assertions in morals,
in science, in politics. It is a great advantage to a young man to hear
opposite arguments, to hear all that can be said upon every subject.
Forester no longer obstinately adhered to the set of notions which he had
acquired from his education; he heard many, whom he could not think his
inferiors in abilities, debating questions which he formerly imagined
scarcely admitted of philosophic doubt. His mind became more humble; but
his confidence in his own powers, after having compared himself with
numbers, if less arrogant, was more secure and rational: he no longer
considered a man as a fool the moment he differed with him in opinion;
but he was still a little inclined to estimate the abilities of authors
by the party to which they belonged. This failing was increased, rather
than diminished, by the company which he now kept.
Amongst the young students who frequented Mr.----'s, the bookseller,
was Mr. Thomas ----, who, from his habit of _blurting_ out strange
opinions in conversation, acquired the name of Tom Random. His head was
confused between politics and poetry; his arguments were paradoxical, his
diction florid, and his gesture something between the spouting action of
a player, and the threatening action of a pugilist.
Forester was caught by the oratory of this genius from the first day he
heard him speak.
Tom Random asserted, that "this great globe, and all that it inhabits,"
must inevitably be doomed to destruction, unless certain ideas of his
own, in the government of the world, were immediately adopted by
universal acclamation.
It was not approbation, it was not esteem, which Forester felt for
his new friend it was for the first week blind, enthusiastic
admiration--every thing that he had seen or heard before appeared to him
trite and obsolete; every person who spoke temperate common sense he
heard with indifference or contempt; and all who were not zealots in
literature, or in politics, he considered as persons whose understandings
were so narrow, or whose hearts were so depraved, as to render them
"unfit to hear themselves convinced."
Those who read and converse have a double chance of correcting their
errors.
Forester most fortunately, about this time, happened to meet with a book
which in some degree counteracted the inflammatory effects of Random's
conversation, and which had a happy tendency to sober his enthusiasm,
without lessening his propensity to useful exertions: this book was the
Life of Dr. Franklin.
The idea that this great man began by being a _printer_ interested
our hero in his history; and whilst he followed him, step by step,
through his instructive narrative, Forester sympathized in his feelings,
and observed how necessary the smaller virtues of order, economy,
industry, and patience were to Franklin's great character and splendid
success. He began to hope that it would be possible to do good to his
fellow-creatures, without overturning all existing institutions.
About this time another fortunate coincidence happened in Forester's
education. One evening his friend, Tom Random, who was printing a
pamphlet, came, with a party of his companions, into Mr.----, the
bookseller's shop, enraged at the decision of a prize in a literary
society to which they belonged.
All the young partisans who surrounded Mr. Random loudly declared that he
had been treated with the most flagrant injustice; and the author himself
was too angry to affect any modesty upon the occasion.
"Would you believe it?" said he to Forester--"my essay has not been
thought worthy of the prize! The medal has been given to the most
wretched, tame, commonplace performance you ever saw. Every thing in this
world is done by corruption, by party, by secret influence!"
At every pause the irritated author wiped his forehead, and Forester
sympathized in his feelings.
In the midst of the author's exclamations, a messenger came with the
manuscript of the prize essay, and with the orders of the society to have
a certain number of copies printed off with all possible expedition.
Random snatched up the manuscript, and, with all the fury of criticism,
began to read aloud some of the passages which he disliked.
Though it was marred in the reading, Forester could not agree with his
angry friend in condemning the performance. It appeared to him excellent
writing and excellent sense.
"Print it--print it then, as fast as you can--that is your
business--that's what you are paid for. Every one for himself," cried
Random, insolently throwing the manuscript at Forester; and, as he flung
out of the shop with his companions, he added, with a contemptuous laugh,
"A printer's devil setting up for a critic! He may be a capital judge of
pica and brevier, perhaps--but let not the compositor go beyond his
stick."
"Is this the man," said Forester, "whom I have heard so eloquent in the
praise of candour and liberality? Is this the man who talks of universal
toleration and freedom of opinion, and who yet cannot bear that any one
should differ from him in criticising a sentence? Is this the man who
would have equality amongst all his fellow-creatures, and who calls a
compositor a printer's devil? Is this the man who cants about the
_pre-eminence of mind_ and the _perfections of intellect_, and yet now
takes advantage of his rank, of his _supporters_, of the cry of his
partisans, to bear down the voice of reason?--'Let not the compositor go
beyond his composing-stick!'--And why not? Why should not he be a judge
of writing?" At this reflection, Forester eagerly took up the manuscript,
which had been flung at his feet. All his indignant feelings instantly
changed into delightful exultation--he saw the hand--he read the name of
Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was, "_An Essay on the best
Method of reforming Abuses_." This was the subject proposed by the
society; and Henry had written upon the question with so much moderation,
and yet with such unequivocal decision had shown himself the friend of
rational liberty, that all the members of the society who were not borne
away by their prejudices were unanimous in their preference of this
performance.
Random's declamation only inflamed the minds of his own partisans. Good
judges of writing exclaimed, as they read it, "This is all very fine; but
what would this man be at? His violence hurts the cause he wishes to
support."
Forester read Henry Campbell's essay with all the avidity of friendship;
he read it again and again--his generous soul was incapable of envy; and
whilst he admired, he was convinced by the force of reason.
His master desired that he would set about the essay early in the
morning; but his eagerness for his friend Henry's fame was such, that he
sat up above half the night hard at work at it. He was indefatigable the
next day at the business; and as all hands were employed on the essay, it
was finished that evening.
Forester rubbed his hands with delight, when he had set the name of Henry
Campbell in the title-page--but an instant afterwards he sighed bitterly.
"I am only a printer," said he to himself. "These just arguments, these
noble ideas, will instruct and charm hundreds of my fellow-creatures: no
one will ever ask, 'Who set the types?'"
His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Tom Random and two of
his partisans: he was extremely displeased to find that the printers had
not been going on with his pamphlet; his personal disappointments seemed
to increase the acrimony of his zeal for the public good: he declaimed
upon politics--upon the necessity for the immediate publication of his
sentiments, for the salvation of the state. His action was suited to his
words: violent and blind to consequences, with one sudden kick, designed
to express his contempt for the opposite party, this political Alnaschar
unfortunately overturned the form which contained the types for the
newspaper of the next day, which was just going to the press--a newspaper
in which he had written splendid paragraphs.
Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the account which
Franklin, in his history of his own life, gives of the patience with
which he once bore a similar accident. The printers, with secret
imprecations against oratory, or at least against those orators who think
that action is every thing, set to work again to repair the mischief.
Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated himself upon having
finished his hard day's work, when a man from the shop came to inquire
whether three hundred cards, which had been ordered the week before to be
printed off, were finished. The man to whom the order was given had
forgotten it, and he was going home: he decidedly answered, "No; the
cards can't be done till to-morrow: we have left work for this night,
thank God."
"The gentleman says he must have them," expostulated the messenger.
"He _must_ not, he cannot have them. I would not print a card for his
majesty at this time of night," replied the sullen workman, throwing his
hat upon his head, in token of departure.
"What are these cards?" said Forester.
"Only a dancing-master's cards for his ball," said the printer's
journeyman. "I'll not work beyond my time for any dancing-master that
wears a head."
The messenger then said, that he was desired to ask for the manuscript
card.
This card was hunted for all over the room; and, at last, Forester found
it under a heap of refuse papers: his eye was caught with the name of his
old friend, Monsieur Pasgrave, the dancing-master, whom he had formerly
frightened by the skeleton with the fiery eyes.
"I will print the cards for him myself; I am not at all tired," cried
Forester, who was determined to make some little amends for the injury
which he had formerly done to the poor dancing-master. He resolved to
print the cards for nothing, and he stayed up very late to finish them.
His companions all left him, for they were in a great hurry to see, what
in Edinburgh is a rare sight, the town illuminated.
These illuminations were upon account of some great naval victory.
Forester, steady to Monsieur Pasgrave's cards, did what no other workman
would have done; he finished for him, on this night of public joy, his
three hundred cards. Every now and then, as he was quietly at work, he
heard the loud huzzas in the street: his waning candle sunk in the
socket, as he had just packed up his work.
By the direction at the bottom of the cards, he learned where M. Pasgrave
lodged, and, as he was going out to look at the illuminations, he
resolved to leave them himself at the dancing-master's house.
THE ILLUMINATIONS.
The illuminations were really beautiful. He went up to the Castle,
whence he saw a great part of the Old Town, and all Prince's-street,
lighted up in the most splendid manner. He crossed the Earth-mound into
Prince's-street. Walking down Prince's-street, he saw a crowd of people
gathered before the large illuminated window of a confectioner's shop. As
he approached nearer, he distinctly heard the voice of Tom Random, who
was haranguing the mob. The device and motto which the confectioner
displayed in his window displeased this gentleman, who, beside his
public-spirited abhorrence of all men of a party opposite to his own, had
likewise private cause of dislike to this confectioner, who had refused
him his daughter in marriage.
It was part of Random's new system of political justice to revenge his
own quarrels.
The mob, who are continually, without knowing it, made the instruments of
private malice, when they think they are acting in a public cause,
readily joined in Tom Random's cry of "Down with the motto! Down with the
motto!"
Forester, who, by his lesson from the dancing dogs, had learned a little
prudence, and who had just printed Henry Campbell's Essay on the best
Means of reforming Abuses, did not mix with the rabble, but joined in the
entreaties of some peaceable passengers, who prayed that the poor man's
windows might be spared. The windows were, notwithstanding, demolished
with a terrible crash, and the crowd, then alarmed at the mischief they
had done, began to disperse. The constables, who had been sent for,
appeared. Tom Random was taken into custody. Forester was pursuing his
way to the dancing-master's, when one of the officers of justice
exclaimed, "Stop!--stop him!--he's one of 'em: he's a great friend of Mr.
Random: I've seen him often parading arm in arm in High-street with him."
This, alas! was too true: the constables seized Forester, and put him,
with Tom Random, and the ringleader of the riot, into a place of
confinement for the night.
Poor Forester, who was punished for the faults of his former friend and
present enemy, had, during this long night, leisure for much wholesome
reflection upon the danger of forming imprudent intimacies. He resolved
never to walk again in High-street arm in arm with such a man as Tom
Random.
The constables were rather hasty in the conclusion they drew from this
presumptive evidence.
Our hero, who felt the disgrace of his situation, was not a little
astonished at Tom Random's consoling himself with drinking instead of
philosophy. The sight of this enthusiast, when he had completely
intoxicated himself, was a disgusting but useful spectacle to our
indignant hero. Forester was shocked at the union of gross vice and rigid
pretensions to virtue: he could scarcely believe that the reeling,
stammering idiot whom he now beheld was the same being from whose lips he
had heard declamations upon the _omnipotence of intellect_--from whose
pen he had seen projects for the government of empires.
The dancing-master, who, in the midst of the illuminations, had regretted
that his cards could not be printed, went early in the morning to inquire
about them at the printer's.
The printer had learnt that one of his boys was taken up amongst the
rioters: he was sorry to find that Forester had gotten himself into such
a scrape: but he was a very cautious snug man, and he did not choose to
interfere: he left him quietly to be dealt with according to law.
The dancing-master, however, was interested in finding him out, because
he was informed that Forester had sat up almost all night to print his
cards, and that he had them now in his pocket.
M. Pasgrave at length gained admittance to him in his confinement: the
officers of justice were taking him and Random before Mr. W----, a
magistrate, with whom informations had been lodged by the confectioner,
who had suffered in his windows.
Pasgrave, when he beheld Forester, was surprised to such a degree, that
he could scarcely finish his bow, or express his astonishment, either in
French or English. "Eh, monsieur! mon Dieu! bon Dieu! I beg ten million
pardons--I am come to search for a printer who has my cards in his
pocket."
"Here are your cards," said Forester: "let me speak a few words to you."
He took M. Pasgrave aside. "I perceive," said he, "that you have
discovered who I am. Though in the service of a printer, I have still as
much the feelings and principles of a gentleman as I had when you saw me
in Dr. Campbell's house. I have particular reasons for being anxious to
remain undiscovered by Dr. Campbell, or any of his family: you may depend
upon it that my reasons are not dishonourable. I request that you will
not, upon any account, betray me to that family. I am going before a
magistrate, and am accused of being concerned in a riot, which I did
every thing in my power to prevent."
"Ah! monsieur," interrupted the dancing-master, "but you see de grand
inconvenience of concealing your _rank_ and name. You, who are comme il
faut, are confounded with the mob: permit me at least to follow you to
Mr. W----, the magistrate: I have de honneur to teach les demoiselles his
daughters to dance; dey are to be at my ball--dey take one half dozen
tickets. I must call dere wid my cards; and I shall, if you will give me
leave, accompany you now, and mention dat I know you to be un homme comme
il faut, above being guilty of an unbecoming action. I flatter myself I
have some interest wid de ladies of de family, and dat dey will do me de
favour to speak to monsieur leur cher pere sur votre compte."
Forester thanked the good-natured dancing-master, but he proudly said,
that he should trust to his own innocence for his defence.
M. Pasgrave, who had seen something more of the world than our hero, and
who was interested for him, because he had once made him a present of an
excellent violin, and because he had sat up half the night to print the
ball cards, resolved not to leave him entirely to his innocence for a
defence: he followed Forester to Mr. W----'s. The magistrate was a slow,
pompous man, by no means a good physiognomist, much less a good judge of
character. He was proud of his authority, and glad to display the small
portion of legal knowledge which he possessed. As soon as he was informed
that some young men were brought before him, who had been engaged the
preceding night in a _riot_, he put on all his magisterial terrors, and
assured the confectioner, who had a private audience of him, that he
should have justice, and that the person or persons concerned in breaking
his window or windows should be punished with the utmost severity that
the law would allow. Contrary to the humane spirit of the British law,
which supposes every man to be innocent till it is proved that he is
guilty, this harsh magistrate presumed that every man who was brought
before him was guilty till he was proved to be innocent. Forester's
appearance was not in his favour: he had been up all night; his hair was
dishevelled; his linen was neither fine nor white; his shoes were
thick-soled and dirty; his coat was that in which he had been at work at
the printer's the preceding day; it was in several places daubed with
printers' ink; and his unwashed hands bespoke his trade. Of all these
circumstances the slow circumspect eye of the magistrate took cognizance
one by one. Forester observed the effect which this survey produced upon
his judge; and he felt that appearances were against him, and that
appearances are sometimes of consequence. After having estimated his
poverty by these external symptoms, the magistrate looked, for the first
time, in his face, and pronounced that he had one of the worst
countenances he ever beheld. This judgment once pronounced, he proceeded
to justify, by wresting to the prisoner's disadvantage every circumstance
that appeared. Forester's having been frequently seen in Tom Random's
company was certainly against him: the confectioner perpetually repeated
that they were constant companions; that they were intimate friends; that
they were continually walking together every Sunday; and that they often
had come arm in arm into his shop, talking politics; that he believed
Forester to be of the same way of thinking with Mr. Random; and that he
saw him close behind him, at the moment the stones were thrown that broke
the windows. It appeared that Mr. Random was at that time active in
encouraging the mob. To oppose the angry confectioner's conjectural
evidence, the lad who threw the stone, and who was now produced, declared
that Forester held back his arm, and said, "My good lad, don't break this
man's windows: go home quietly; here's a shilling for you." The person
who gave this honest testimony, in whom there was a strange mixture of
the love of mischief and the spirit of generosity, was the very lad who
fought with Forester, and beat him, about the dancing dogs. He whispered
to Forester, "Do you remember me? I hope you don't bear malice." The
magistrate, who heard this whisper, immediately construed it to the
prisoner's disadvantage. "Then, sir," said he, addressing himself to our
hero, "this gentleman, I understand, claims acquaintance with you; his
acquaintance really does you honour, and speaks, strongly in favour of
your character. If I mistake not, this is the lad whom I sent to the
Tolbooth, some little time ago, for a misdemeanour; and he is not, I
apprehend, a stranger to the stocks."
Forester commanded his temper as well as he was able, and observed, that
whatever might be the character of the young man who had spoken in his
favour, his evidence would, perhaps, be thought to deserve some credit,
when the circumstances of his acquaintance with the witness were known.
He then related the adventure of the dancing dogs, and remarked, that the
testimony of an enemy came with double force in his favour. The language
and manner in which Forester spoke surprised all who were present; but
the history of the dancing dogs appeared so ludicrous and so improbable,
that the magistrate decidedly pronounced it to be "a fabrication, a story
invented to conceal the palpable collusion of the witnesses." Yet, though
he one moment declared that he did not believe the story, he the next
inferred from it, that Forester was disposed to riot and sedition, since
he was ready to fight with a vagabond in the streets for the sake of a
parcel of dancing dogs.
M. Pasgrave, in the meantime, had, with great good-nature, been
representing Forester in the best light he possibly could to the young
ladies, the magistrate's daughters. One of them sent to beg to speak to
their father. M. Pasgrave judiciously dwelt upon his assurances of
Forester's being a gentleman: he told Mr. W---- that he had met him in
one of the best families in Edinburgh; that he knew he had some private
reasons for concealing that he was a gentleman: "perhaps the young
gentleman was reduced to temporary distress," he said; but whatever might
be these reasons, M. Pasgrave vouched for his having very respectable
friends and connexions. The magistrate wished to know the family in which
M. Pasgrave had met Forester; but he was, according to his promise,
impenetrable on this subject. His representations had, however, the
desired effect upon Mr. W----: when he returned to the examination of our
hero, his opinion of his countenance somewhat varied; he despatched his
other business; bailed Tom Random on high sureties; and, when Forester
was the only person that remained, he turned to him with great solemnity;
bade him sit down; informed him that he knew him to be a gentleman; that
he was greatly concerned that a person like him, who had respectable
friends and connexions, should involve himself in such a disagreeable
affair; that it was a matter of grief and surprise to him, to see a young
gentleman in such apparel; that he earnestly recommended to him to
accommodate matters with his friends; and, above all things, to avoid the
company of seditious persons. Much good advice, but in a dictatorial
tone, and in cold, pompous language, he bestowed upon the prisoner, and
at length dismissed him. "How different," said Forester to himself, "is
this man's method of giving advice from Dr. Campbell's!"
This lesson strongly impressed, however, upon our hero's mind the belief,
that external appearance, dress, manners, and the company we keep, are
the usual circumstances by which the world judge of character and
conduct. When he was dismissed from Mr. W----'s august presence, the
first thing he did was to inquire for Pasgrave: he was giving the
magistrate's daughters a lesson, and could not be interrupted; but
Forester left a note for him, requesting to see him at ten o'clock the
next day, at Mr. ----, the bookseller's. New mortifications awaited
our hero: on his return to his master's, he was very coldly received;
Mr. ---- let him know, in unqualified terms, that he did not like to
employ any one in his work who got into quarrels at night in the public
streets. Forester's former favour with his master, his industry and
talents, were not considered without envy by the rest of the journeymen
printers; and they took advantage of his absence to misrepresent him to
the bookseller: however, when Forester came to relate his own story, his
master was convinced that he was not to blame; that he had worked
extremely hard the preceding day; and that, far from having been
concerned in a riot, he had done every thing in his power to prevent
mischief. He desired to see the essay, which was printed with so much
expedition: it was in the hands of the corrector of the press. The sheets
were sent for, and the bookseller was in admiration at the extraordinary
correctness with which it was printed; the corrector of the press
scarcely had occasion to alter a word, a letter, or a stop. There was a
quotation in the manuscript from Juvenal. Henry Campbell had, by mistake,
omitted to name the satire and line, and the author from which it was
taken, though he had left a blank in which they were to be inserted. The
corrector of the press, though a literary gentleman, was at a stand.
Forester immediately knew where to look for the passage in the original
author: he found it, and inserted the book and line in their proper
place. His master did not suffer this to pass unobserved; he hinted to
him, that it was a pity a young man of his abilities and knowledge should
waste his time in the mere technical drudgery of printing. "I should be
glad now," continued the bookseller, "to employ you as a corrector of the
press, and to advance you, according to your merits, in the world;
_but_," glancing his eye at Forester's dress, "you must give me leave to
say, that some attention to outward appearance is necessary in our
business. Gentlemen call here, as you well know, continually, and I like
to have the people about me make a creditable appearance. You have earned
money since you have been with me--surely you can afford yourself a
decent suit of clothes and a cleaner shirt. I beg your pardon for
speaking so freely; but I really have a regard for you, and wish to see
you get forward in life."
FORESTER, A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS.
Forester had not, since he left Dr. Campbell's, been often spoken to in a
tone of friendship. The bookseller's well-meant frank remonstrance made
its just impression; and he resolved to make the necessary additions to
his wardrobe; nay, he even went to a hair-dresser, to have his hair cut
and brought into decent order. His companions, the printers, had not
been sparing in their remarks upon the meanness of his former apparel,
and Forester pleased himself with anticipating the respect they would
feel for him, when he should appear in better clothes. "Can such
trifles," said he to himself, "make such a change in the opinion of my
fellow-creatures? And why should I fight with the world for trifles? My
real merit is neither increased nor diminished by the dress I may happen
to wear; but I see, that unless I waste all my life in combating the
prejudices of superficial observers, I should avoid all those
pecuiliarities in my external appearance which prevent whatever good
qualities I have from obtaining their just respect." He was surprised at
the blindness of his companions, who could not discover his merit through
the roughness of his manners and the disadvantages of his dress; but he
determined to shine out upon them in the superior dress and character of
a corrector of the press. He went to a tailor's, and bespoke a suit of
clothes. He bought new linen; and our readers will perhaps hear with
surprise, that he actually began to consider very seriously whether he
should not take a few lessons in dancing. He had learned to dance
formerly, and was not naturally either inactive or awkward: but his
contempt for the art prevented him, for some years, from practising it;
and he had nearly forgotten his wonted agility. Henry Campbell once, when
Forester was declaiming against dancing, told him, that if he had learned
to dance, and excelled in the art, his contempt for the trifling
accomplishment would have more effect upon the minds of others, because
it could not be mistaken for envy. This remark made a deep impression
upon our hero, especially as he observed that his friend Henry was not in
the least vain of his personal graces, and had cultivated his
understanding, though he could dance a Scotch reel. Scotch reels were
associated in Forester's imagination with Flora Campbell; and in
balancing the arguments for and against learning to dance, the
recollection of Archibald Mackenzie's triumphant look, when he led her
away as his partner at the famous ball, had more influence perhaps upon
Forester's mind than his pride and philosophy apprehended. He began to
have some confused design of returning, at some distant period, to his
friends; and he had hopes that he should appear in a more amiable light
to Flora, after he had perfected himself in an accomplishment which he
fancied she admired prodigiously. His esteem for that lady was rather
diminished by this belief; but still a sufficient quantity remained to
excite in him a strong ambition to please. The agony he felt the night he
left the ball-room was such, that he could not even now recollect the
circumstances without confusion and anguish of mind. His hands were now
such as could appear without gloves; and he resolved to commence the
education of his feet.
M. Pasgrave called upon him, in consequence of the message which he
left at the magistrate's: his original design in sending for the
dancing-master was to offer him some acknowledgment for his obliging
conduct. "M. Pasgrave," said he, "you have behaved towards me like a man
of honour; you have kept my secret; I am convinced that you will continue
to keep it inviolate." As he spoke, he produced a ten-guinea bank-note,
for at length he had prevailed upon himself to have recourse to his
pocket-book, which, till this day, had remained unopened. Pasgrave stared
at the sight of the note, and withdrew his hand at first, when it was
offered; but he yielded at length, when Forester assured him that he was
not in any distress, and that he could perfectly well afford to indulge
his feelings of gratitude. "Nay," continued Forester, who, if he had not
always practised the maxims of politeness, notwithstanding possessed
that generosity of mind and good sense on which real politeness must
depend--"you shall not be under any obligation to me, M. Pasgrave: I am
just going to ask a favour from you. You must teach me to dance." "Wid de
utmost pleasure," exclaimed the delighted dancing-master; and the hours
of his attendance were soon settled. Whatever Forester attempted, he
pursued with energy. M. Pasgrave, after giving him a few lessons,
prophesied that he would do him infinite credit; and Forester felt a
secret pride in the idea that he should surprise his friends, some time
or other, with his new accomplishment.
He continued in the bookseller's service, correcting the press for him,
much to his satisfaction; and the change in his personal appearance
pleased his master, as it showed attention to his advice. Our hero, from
time to time, exercised his talents in writing; and, as he inserted his
compositions under a fictitious signature, in his master's newspaper, he
had an opportunity of hearing the most unprejudiced opinions of a variety
of critics, who often came to read the papers at their house. He stated,
in short essays, some of those arguments concerning the advantages and
disadvantages of politeness, luxury, the love of society, misanthropy,
&c., which had formerly passed between him and Henry Campbell; and he
listened to the remarks that were made upon each side of the question.
How it happened, we know not; but after he had taken lessons for about
six weeks from M. Pasgrave, he became extremely solicitous to have a
solution of all his Stoical doubts, and to furnish himself with the best
possible arguments in favour of civilized society. He could not bear the
idea that he yielded his opinions to any thing less than strict
demonstration: he drew up a list of queries, which concluded with the
following question:--"What should be the distinguishing characteristics
of the higher classes of people in society?" This query was answered in
one of the public papers, a few days after it appeared in Mr. ----'s
paper, and the answer was signed _H.C., a Friend to Society_. Even
without these initials, Forester would easily have discovered it to be
Henry Campbell's writing; and several strokes seemed to be so
particularly addressed to him, that he could not avoid thinking Henry had
discovered the querist. The impression which arguments make upon the mind
varies with time and change of situation. Those arguments in favour of
subordination in society, in favour of agreeable manners, and attention
to the feelings of others in the small as well as in the great concerns
of life, which our hero had heard with indifference from Dr. Campbell and
Henry in conversation, struck him, when he saw them in a printed essay,
with all the force of conviction; and he wondered how it had happened
that he never before perceived them to be conclusive.
He put the newspaper, which contained this essay, in his pocket; and,
after he had finished his day's work, and had taken his evening lesson
from M. Pasgrave, he went out with an intention of going to a favourite
spot upon Arthur's Seat, to read the essay again at his leisure.
But he was stopped at the turn from the North Bridge, into High-street,
by a scavenger's cart. The scavenger, with his broom which had just swept
the High-street, was clearing away a heap of mud. Two gentlemen on
horseback, who were riding like postilions, came up during this
operation--Sir Philip Gosling and Archibald Mackenzie. Forester had his
back towards them, and he never looked round, because he was too intent
upon his own thoughts. Archibald was mounted upon Sawney, the horse which
he had so _fairly_ won from his friend Sir Philip. The half-guinea which
had been promised to the hostler had not yet been paid; and the hostler,
determined to revenge himself upon Archibald, invented an ingenious
method of gratifying his resentment. He taught Sawney to rear and plunge
whenever his legs were touched by the broom with which the stables were
swept. When Sawney was perfectly well trained to this trick, the cunning
hostler communicated his design, and related his cause of complaint
against Archibald, to a scavenger, who was well known at the livery
stables. The scavenger entered into his friend the hostler's feeling, and
promised to use his broom in his cause, whenever a convenient and public
opportunity should offer. The hour of retribution was now arrived: the
scavenger saw his young gentleman in full glory, mounted upon Sawney; he
kept his eye upon him, whilst, in company with the baronet, he came over
the North Bridge: there was a stop, from the meeting of carts and
carriages. The instant Archibald came within reach of the broom, the
scavenger slightly touched Sawney's legs; Sawney plunged and reared, and
reared and plunged. The scavenger stood grinning at the sight. Forester
attempted to seize the horse's bridle; but Sawney, who seemed determined
upon the point, succeeded. When Forester snatched at his bridle, he
reared, then plunged; and Archibald Mackenzie was fairly lodged in the
scavenger's cart. Whilst the well-dressed laird floundered in the mud,
Forester gave the horse to the servant, who had now ridden up; and,
satisfied that Mackenzie had received no material injury, inquired no
further. He turned to assist a poor washerwoman, who was lifting a large
basket of clean linen into her house, to get it out of the way of the
cart. As soon as he had helped her to lift the basket into her passage,
he was retiring, when he heard a voice at the back-door, which was at the
other end of the passage. It was the voice of a child; and he listened,
for he thought he had heard it before. "The door is locked," said the
washerwoman. "I know who it is that is knocking; it is only a little girl
who is coming for a cap which I have there in the basket." The door was
unlocked, and Forester saw the little girl to whom the fine geranium
belonged. What a number of ideas she recalled to his mind! She looked at
him, and hesitated, courtesied, then turned away, as if she was afraid
she was mistaken, and asked the washerwoman if she had plaited her
grandmother's cap. The woman searched in her basket, and produced the cap
nicely plaited. The little girl, in the meantime, considered Forester
with anxious attention. "I believe," said she, timidly, "you are, or you
are very like, the gentleman who was so good as to--" "Yes,"
interrupted Forester, "I know what you mean. I am the man who went with
you to try to obtain justice from your tyrannical schoolmistress: I did
not do you any good. Have you seen--have you heard any thing of--?"
Such a variety of recollections pressed upon Forester's heart, that he
could not pronounce the name of Henry Campbell; and he changed his
question. "Is your old grandmother recovered?"
"She is quite well, thank you, sir; and she is grown young again, since
you saw her: perhaps you don't know how good Mr. Henry and the young lady
have been to us. We don't live now in that little, close, dark room at
the watchmaker's. We are as happy, sir, as the day is long." "But what of
Henry? what of--?" "Oh, sir! but if you are not very busy, or in a great
hurry--it is but a little way off--if you _could_ come and look at our
new house--I don't mean _our_ house, for it is not ours; but we take care
of it, and we have two little rooms to ourselves; and Mr. Henry and Miss
Flora very often come to see us. I wish you could come to see how nice
our rooms are! The house is not far off, only at the back of the
Meadows." "Go, show me the way--I'll follow you," said Forester, after he
had satisfied himself that there was no danger of his meeting any of Dr.
Campbell's family.
THE MEADOWS.
Our hero accompanied the little girl with eager, benevolent curiosity.
"There," said she, when they came to the Meadows, "do you see that white
house, with the paling before it?" "But that cannot be your house!" "No,
no, sir: Dr. Campbell and several gentlemen have the large room, and they
come there twice a-week to teach something to a great many children.
Grandmother can explain all that better to you, sir, than I can; but all
I know is, that it is our business to keep the room aired and swept, and
to take care of the glass things which you'll see; and you shall see how
clean it is: it was _I_ swept it this morning."
They had now reached the gate which was in the paling before the house.
The old woman came to the door, clean, neat, and cheerful; she
recollected to have seen Forester in company with Henry Campbell at the
watchmaker's; and this was sufficient to make him a welcome guest. "God
bless the family, and all that belongs to them, for ever and ever!" said
the woman. "This way, sir." "Oh, don't look into our little rooms yet:
look at the great room first, if you please, sir," said the child.
There was a large table in the middle of this long room, and several
glass retorts, and other chemical vessels, were ranged upon shelves;
wooden benches were placed on each side of the table. The grandmother, to
whom the little girl had referred for a clear explanation, could not,
however, tell Forester very exactly the use of the retorts; but she
informed him that many of the manufacturers in Edinburgh sent their sons
hither twice a-week; and Dr. Campbell, and Mr. Henry Campbell, and some
other gentlemen, came by turns to instruct them. Forester recollected now
that he once heard Henry talking to his father about a scheme for
teaching the children of the manufacturers of Edinburgh some knowledge of
chemistry, such as they might afterwards apply advantageously to the arts
and every-day business of life.
"I have formed projects, but what good have I ever actually done to my
fellow-creatures?" said Forester to himself. With melancholy steps he
walked to examine every thing in the room. "Dr. Campbell sits in this
arm-chair, does not he? And where does Henry sit?" The old woman placed
the chairs for him as they usually were placed. Upon one of the shelves
there was a slate, which, as it had been written upon, the little girl
had put by very carefully; there were some calculations upon the weight
of different gases, and the figures Forester knew to be Henry's: he
looked at every thing that was Henry's with pleasure. "Because I used to
be so rough in my manner to him," said Forester to himself, "I dare say
that he thinks I have no feeling, and I suppose he has forgotten me by
this time: I deserve, indeed, to be forgotten by every body! How could I
leave such friends!" On the other side of the slate poor Forester saw his
own name written several times over, in his friend's hand-writing, and he
read two lines of his own poetry, which he remembered to have repeated to
Henry the day that they walked to Arthur's Seat. Forester felt much
pleasure from this little proof of his friend's affection. "Now won't you
look at our nice rooms?" said the child, who had waited with some
patience till he had done pondering upon the slate.
The little rooms were well arranged, and their neatness was not now as
much lost upon our hero as it would have been some time before. The old
woman and her grand-daughter, with all the pride of gratitude, exhibited
to him several little presents of furniture which they had received from
Dr. Campbell's family. "Mr. Henry gave me this! Miss Flora gave me that!"
was frequently repeated. The little girl opened the door of her own room.
On a clean white deal bracket, which "_Mr. Henry lad put up with his own
hands_," stood the well-known geranium in its painted flower-pot.
Forester saw nothing else in the room, and it was in vain that both the
old woman and her grand-daughter talked to him at once; he heard not a
word that was said to him. The flowers were all gone, and the brown
calyces of the geranium flowers reminded him of the length of time which
had elapsed since he had first seen them. "I am sorry there are no
flowers to offer you," said the little girl, observing Forester's
melancholy look; "but I thought you did not like geraniums; for I
remember when I gave you a fine flower in the watchmaker's shop you
pulled it to pieces, and threw it on the ground." "I should not do so
now," said Forester. The black marks on the painted flower-pot had been
entirely effaced: be turned away, endeavoured to conceal his emotion, and
took leave of the place as soon as the grateful inhabitants would suffer
him to depart. The reflection that he had wasted his time, that he had
never done any good to any human being, that he had lost opportunities of
making both himself and others happy, pressed upon his mind; but his
Stoical pride still resisted the thought of returning to Dr. Campbell's.
"It will be imagined that I yield my opinions from meanness of spirit,"
said he to himself. "Dr. Campbell certainly has no further regard or
esteem for me; neither he nor Henry have troubled themselves about my
fate: they are doing good to more deserving objects; they are intent upon
literary pursuits, and have not time to bestow a thought upon me. And
Flora, I suppose, is as gay as she is good. I alone am unhappy,--a
wanderer,--an outcast,--a useless being."
Forester, whilst he was looking at the geranium, or soon afterwards,
missed his handkerchief; the old woman and her grand-daughter searched
for it all over the house, but in vain: he then thought he must have left
it at the washerwoman's, where he met the little girl; he called to
inquire for it, upon his return to Edinburgh. When he returned to this
woman's house for his handkerchief, he found her sitting upon a low
stool, in her laundry, weeping bitterly; her children stood round her.
Forester inquired into the cause of her distress, and she told him that a
few minutes after he left her, the young gentleman who had been thrown
from his horse into the scavenger's cart was brought into her house,
whilst his servant went home for another suit of clothes for him. "I did
not at first guess that I had ever seen the young gentleman before,"
continued she; "but when the mud was cleared from his face I knew him to
be Mr. Archibald Mackenzie. I am sure I wish I had never seen his face
then or at any time. He was in a very bad humour after his tumble, and he
began again to threaten me about a ten-guinea bank-note, which he and his
servant declare they sent in his waistcoat pocket to be washed: I'm sure
I never saw it. Mr. Henry Campbell quieted him about it for awhile; but
just now he began again with me, and he says he has spoken to a lawyer,
and that he will make me pay the whole note; and he swore at me as if I
had been the worst creature in the world; and, God knows, I work hard for
my children, and never wronged any one in my days!"
Forester, who forgot all his own melancholy reflections as soon as he
could assist any one who was in distress, bade the poor woman dry her
tears, and assured her that she had nothing to fear; for he would
instantly go to Dr. Campbell, and get him to speak to Mackenzie. "If it
is necessary," said he, "I'll pay the money myself." She clasped her
hands joyfully as he spoke, and all her children joined in an exclamation
of delight. "I'll go to Dr. Campbell's this instant," said our hero,
whose pride now yielded to the desire of doing justice to this injured
woman; he totally forgot himself, and thought only of her: "I'll go to
Dr. Campbell's, and I will speak to Mr. Mackenzie immediately."
A SUMMONS
Whilst Forester was walking through the streets, with that energy which
the hope of serving his fellow-creatures always excited in his generous
mind, he even forgot a scheme which he had, in spite of his Stoical pride
and his dread of being thought to give up his opinions from meanness,
resolved in his imagination. He had formed the design of returning to his
friends an altered being in his external appearance: he had ordered a
fashionable suit of clothes, which were now ready. He had laid aside the
dress and manners of a gentleman from the opinion that they were
degrading to the character of a man: as soon as this prejudice had been
conquered, he began to think he might resume them. Many were the pleasing
anticipations in which he indulged himself: the looks of each of his
friends, the generous approving eye of Henry, the benevolent countenance
of Dr. Campbell, the arch smile of Flora, were all painted by his fancy;
and lie invented every circumstance that was likely to happen--every word
that would probably be said by each individual. We are sure that our
readers will give our enthusiastic hero credit for his forgetting
these pleasing reveries--for his forgetting himself, nay, even Flora
Campbell--when humanity and justice called upon him for exertion.
When he found himself in George's-square, within sight of Dr. Campbell's
house, his heart beat violently, and he suddenly stopped to recollect
himself. He had scarcely stood a few instants, when a hard, stout-looking
man came up to him, and asked him if his name were Forester: he started,
and answered, "Yes, sir, what is your business with me?" The stranger
replied by producing a paper, and desiring him to read it. The paper,
which was half printed, half written, began with these words:--"You are
hereby required to appear before me--"
"What is all this?" exclaimed our hero. "It is a summons," replied the
stranger: "I am a constable, and you will please to come with me before
Mr. W----. This is not the first time you have been before him, I am
told." To this last insolent taunt Forester made no reply, but in a firm
tone said that he was conscious of no crime, but that he was ready to
follow the constable, and to appear before Mr. W----, or any other
magistrate, who wished to inquire into his conduct. Though he summoned
all his fortitude, and spoke with composure, he was much astonished by
this proceeding; he could not help reflecting, that an individual in
society who has friends, an established character, and a _home_, is in a
more desirable situation than an unconnected being, who has no one to
answer for his conduct,--no one to rejoice in his success, or to
sympathize in his misfortunes. "Ah, Dr. Campbell! happy father! in the
midst of your own family, you have forgotten your imprudent ward!" said
Forester to himself, while his mind revolted from seeking his friend's
assistance in this discreditable situation. "You do not know how near he
is to you! you do not know that he was just returning to you! you do not
see that he is, at this moment, perhaps, on the brink of disgrace!"
THE BANK-NOTES.
Forester was mistaken in his idea that Dr. Campbell had forgotten him;
but we shall not yet explain further upon this subject; we only throw out
this hint, that our readers may not totally change their good opinion of
the doctor. We must now beg their attention to the continuation of the
history of Archibald Mackenzie's bank-note.
Lady Catherine Mackenzie one day observed that the colours were changed
in one spot on the right-hand pocket of her son's waistcoat. "My dear
Archibald," said she, "what has happened to your smart waistcoat? What is
that terrible spot?" "Really, ma'am, I don't know," said Archibald, with
his usual soft voice and deceitful smile. Henry Campbell observed that it
seemed as if the colours had been discharged by some acid. "Did you wear
that waistcoat, Mr. Mackenzie," said he, "the night the large bottle of
vitriolic acid was broken--the night that poor Forester's cat was killed:
don't you remember?" "Oh, I did not at first recollect; I cannot possibly
remember, indeed,--it is so long ago,--what waistcoat I wore on that
particular night." The extreme embarrassment in Archibald's manner
surprised Henry. "I really don't perceive your _drift_," continued
Mackenzie: "what made you ask the question so earnestly?" He was relieved
when Henry answered, that he only wished to know whether it was probable
that it was stained with vitriolic acid; "because," said he, "I think
_that_ is the pocket in which you said you left your ten-guinea note;
then, perhaps, the note may have been stained." "Perhaps so," replied
Mackenzie dryly. "And if it were, you could identify the note: you have
forgotten the number; but if the note has been stained with vitriolic
acid, we should certainly be able to know it again: the acid would have
changed the colour of the ink." Mackenzie eagerly seized this idea; and
immediately, in pursuance of Henry's advice, went to several of the
principal bankers in Edinburgh, and requested that if a note, stained in
such a manner, should be presented to them, they would stop payment of it
till Mackenzie should examine it. Some time elapsed, and nothing was
heard of the note. Mackenzie gave up all hopes of recovering it; and in
proportion as these hopes diminished, his old desire of making the poor
washerwoman answerable for his loss increased. We have just heard this
woman's account of his behaviour to her, when he came into her house to
be refitted, after his tumble from Sawney into the scavenger's cart. All
his promises to Henry he thought proper to disregard: promises appeared
to him mere matters of convenience; and the idea of "_taking in_" such a
young man as Henry Campbell was to him an excellent joke. He resolved to
keep the five guineas quietly which Henry lent him; and, at the same
time, to frighten this innocent industrious woman into paying him the
value of his bank-note.
Upon Mackenzie's return to Dr. Campbell's, after his fall from Sawney,
the first thing he heard was that his note was found; that it had been
stopped at the bank of Scotland; and that one of the clerks of the bank,
who brought it for his examination, had been some time waiting for his
return from riding. When the note was produced, Henry saw that two or
three of the words which had been written in ink, the name of the person
to whom it was payable, and the date of the month and year, were so pale
as to be scarcely visible; and that there was a round hole through one
corner of the paper. This round hole puzzled Henry, but he had no doubt
that the ink had been thus nearly obliterated by vitriolic acid. He
poured a few drops, diluted with water, upon some printing, and the ink
was quickly turned to nearly the same pale colour as that in Mackenzie's
note. The note was easily traced, as it had not passed through many
hands--our readers will be sorry to hear it--to M. Pasgrave, the
dancing-master. Mackenzie and the clerk went directly to his house, found
him at home, and without much preface, informed him of their business.
The dancing-master trembled from head to foot, and, though innocent,
exhibited all the signs of guilt; he had not the slightest knowledge of
business, and the manner and language of the banker's clerk who
accompanied Mackenzie terrified him beyond measure, because he did not
comprehend one word in ten that he said about checks, entries, and
day-books; and he was nearly a quarter of an hour before he could recover
sufficient presence of mind to consider from whom he received the note.
At length, after going over, in an unintelligible manner, all the puzzled
accounts of monies received and paid which he kept in his head, he
declared that he clearly recollected to have received the ten-guinea note
at Mr. Macpherson's, the tailor; that he went a few weeks ago to settle
his year's account with him; and that in change for a twenty-pound note,
he received that which the banker's clerk now produced. To Mackenzie it
was perfectly indifferent who was found guilty, so that he could recover
his money. "Settle it as you will amongst you," said he, "the money must
be refunded, or I must have you all before a magistrate directly."
Pasgrave, in great perturbation, set out for Mr. Macpherson's, showed him
the note, and reminded him of the day when he paid his account. "If you
received the note from us, sir," said the master-tailor, very calmly, "it
must be entered in our books, for we keep regular accounts." The tailor's
foreman, who knew much more of the affair than his master, appealed, with
assumed security, to the entry in the books. By this entry it appeared
that M. Pasgrave settled his account the 17th of October; that he paid
the balance by a twenty-pound note, and that he received in change a
ten-guinea note on Sir William Forbes's bank. "You see, sir," said the
tailor, "this cannot possibly be Mr. Mackenzie's; for his note is on the
bank of Scotland. Our entry is as full as possible; and I am ready to
produce my books, and to abide by them, in any court of justice in the
world." M. Pasgrave was totally at a loss; he could only repeat, that he
remembered to have received Mackenzie's note from one of the tailor's
men, who brought it to him from an inner room. The foreman boldly
asserted, that he brought the change exactly as his master gave it to
him, and that he knew nothing more of the matter. But, in fact, he knew a
great deal more: he had found the note in the pocket of Mackenzie's
waistcoat, which his servant had left to be mended, after he had
torn it furtively, as has been already related. When his master called
him into the inner room, to give him the change for Pasgrave, he
observed that there was a ten-guinea note wrapped up with some halfpence;
and he thought that it would be a prudent thing to substitute
Mackenzie's note, which he had by him, in the place of this. He
accordingly gave Pasgrave Mackenzie's note, and thrust the note which
he had received from his master into a corner of his trunk, where he
usually kept little windfalls, that came to him by the negligence of
customers--toothpick-cases, loose silver, odd gloves, &c., all which he
knew how to dispose of. But this bank-note was a higher prize than usual,
and he was afraid to pass it till all inquiry had blown over. He knew his
master's regularity; and he thought that if the note was stopped
afterwards at any of the banks, it could never be traced further than to
M. Pasgrave. He was rejoiced to see that this poor man was in such
trepidation of mind that he could not, in the least, use his
understanding; and he saw, with much satisfaction, that his master, who
was a positive man, and proud of the accuracy of his books, was growing
red in the face in their defence. Mackenzie, in the meantime, who had
switched his boots with great impatience during their debate, interfered
at last with, "Come, gentlemen, we can't stand here all day to hear you
give one another the lie. One of you, it's plain, must shell out your
corianders; but, as you can't settle which, we must put you to your oath,
I see." "Mr. W----'s is not far off, and I am ready to go before him
with my books this instant," said the fiery master-tailor. "My books were
never called in question since I was in trade till this instant; and
nobody but a French dancing-master, who understands no more of debtor and
creditor than my goose, would stand out against such an entry as this."
To Mr. W----'s the tailor, his foreman, the dancing-master, the banker's
clerk, and Mackenzie, repaired. Pasgrave turned paler than ever dancer
turned before; and gave himself, his character, and his wife and
children, all up for lost, when he heard that he was to be put upon his
oath. He drew back when Mr. W---- held the book to him, and demanded
whether he would swear to the person from whom he received the note. He
said he could not swear; but to the best of his belief--en conscience--en
honneur--foi d'honnete homme--he was convinced he received it from Mr.
Macpherson's foreman. The foreman, who, from one step in villany, found
himself hurried on to another and another, now scrupled not to declare
that he was ready to take his oath that he delivered the note and change,
just as his master gave it to him, to M. Pasgrave. The magistrate turned
to the paler, conscientious, incapacitated dancing-master, and in a
severe tone said--"Appearances are strangely against you, M. Pasgrave.
Here's a young gentleman has lost a bank-note--it is stopped at the bank
of Scotland--it is traced home to you--you say you got it from Mr.
Macpherson or his foreman--his books are produced--the entry in them is
clearly against you; for it states that the note given to you in change
was one of Sir William Forbes's bank; and this which I hold now in my
hand is of the Bank of Scotland. Please now to tell how this note of
the Bank of Scotland, which has been proved to be the property of Mr.
Mackenzie, came into your possession? From whom did you receive it? or
how did you come by it? I am not surprised that you decline taking an
oath upon this occasion." "Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi!" cried
the innocent, but terrified man, throwing himself upon one knee,
in an attitude, which, on the stage, would have produced a sublime
effect--"Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi! I have no more dan de child no
sense in affairs." Mackenzie interrupted him with a brutal laugh. The
more humane banker's clerk was moved by the simplicity of this avowed
ignorance of business. He went up to the distracted dancer, and said, "It
is not to be expected that every body should understand business as _we_
do, sir: if you are innocent, only give yourself time to recollect; and
though it's unfortunate that you never keep any regular accounts, maybe
we shall be able to make out this affair of the entry. If Mr. W---- will
give me leave to take this pen and ink, and if you will try to recollect
all the persons from whom you have received money lately--" "Ah,
mon Dieu! dat is impossible." Then he began to name the quarterly and
half-yearly payments that he had received from his various pupils.
"Did any of them lately give you a ten-guinea note?" "Ah, oui, je me
rappelle--un jeune monsieur--un certain monsieur, qui ne veut pas
que--qui est la incognito--who I would not betray for the world; for he
has behave wid de most parfaite generosite to me." "But did he give you a
ten-guinea bank-note? that is all we want to know," said the magistrate.
"Mais--oui--yes." "About what time?" said the clerk. It was about the
beginning of October: and this was so near the time when he settled
accounts with Mr. Macpherson, the tailor, that he even himself began to
believe it possible that he had mistaken one note for the other. "When
the young gentleman gave you the note," said the banker's clerk, "surely
you must have looked at it--you must have observed these remarkable
stains?" Pasgrave replied, that he did look at it, he supposed; that he
saw it was a ten-guinea note; it might be stained, it might not be
stained; he could not pretend to be certain about it. He repeated his
assurances that he was ignorant of business, and of every thing in this
world but dancing. "Pour la danse, je m'y connois--pour les affaires, je
n'en sais rien, moi." He, with his usual simplicity, added, that if Mr.
W---- would give him leave, he would go to the young gentleman, his
friend, and learn from him exactly the number of the note which he had
given him; that he was sure he could recollect his own note immediately.
Mackenzie, who thought that this was merely pretence, in order to escape,
told him that he could not be suffered to go out upon his parole. "But,"
said Mr. W----, "tell us the name of this young gentleman who has so much
generosity, and who lives incognito. I don't like gentlemen who live
incognito. I think I had a young man here before me, about two months
ago, charged with breaking a confectioner's windows in a riot, the night
of the great illuminations--Hey? don't I remember some such thing? And
you, M. Pasgrave, if I mistake not, interested yourself mightily about
this young man, and told me and my daughters, sir, that he was a young
gentleman incognito. I begin to see through this affair. Perhaps I this
is the same young gentleman from whom you received the I note. And pray
what value did you give for it?" Pasgrave, whose fear of betraying
Forester now increased his confusion, stammered, and first said the note
was a present, but afterwards added, "I have been giving de young person
lessons in dancing for des six week."
"Well, then, we must summon this young person," said Mr. W----. "Tell us
his name, if you please," said Mackenzie; "I have some suspicion that I
know your gentleman incognito." "You need not trouble him," said the
magistrate; "I know the name already, and I know where the bird is to be
found: his name, if he has not changed it since he was last in this room,
is Forester." "Forester!" exclaimed Mackenzie; "I thought so! I always
thought how he would turn out. I wonder what his friends, the Campbells,
will have to say for him now!"
Mr. W----'s pen stopped. "His friends, the Campbells--humph! So the
Campbells are his friends, are they?" repeated he. "They _were_ his
friends," answered Mackenzie; "but Mr. Forester thought proper, nobody
knows why, to run away from them, some months ago; the only reason I
could ever learn was that he did not like to live amongst gentlemen: and
he has been living ever since incognito, amongst blackguards, and we see
the fruits of it." Mackenzie eagerly handed the summons, as soon as it
was signed, to a constable; and Mr. W---- directed the constable to
Mr. ----'s, the bookseller, adding, "Book-sellers and printers are
dangerous persons." The constable, who had seen Forester the night that
he was confined with Tom Random, knew his face and person; and we have
told our readers that he met Forester in George's-square, going to Dr.
Campbell's, to vindicate the innocence of the poor washerwoman.
The tailor's foreman was not a little alarmed when the summons was sent
for our hero; he dreaded that the voice of truth should be heard, and he
skulked behind the rest of the company. What astonishment did Forester
feel when he entered the room, and saw the group that surrounded the
justice's table!--Archibald Mackenzie, with an insulting sneer on his
lips--Pasgrave, with eyes fixed upon him in despair--Mr. Macpherson, the
tailor, pointing to an entry in his book--his foreman shrinking from
notice--the banker's clerk, with benevolent scepticism in his
countenance--and the justice, with a portentous scowl upon his brow.
"Come forward, Mr. Forester," said the magistrate, as our hero made a
sudden pause of astonishment; "come forward, sir!" Forester advanced with
calm intrepidity. "You are better dressed than when I had the honour of
seeing you here some time ago, sir. Are you a printer still, or a
gentleman? Your dress certainly bespeaks a change in your condition." "I
am sure I should hardly know Mr. Forester again, he has grown such a
beau--comparatively speaking, I mean," said Mackenzie. "But certainly, M.
Pasgrave, you must have made some mistake; I don't know how to believe
my senses! Is this the young gentleman to whom you alluded? do you know
him--?" "Give me leave, Mr. Mackenzie," interrupted the justice: "I shall
examine this young incognito myself. I think I know how to come at the
truth. Will you do me the favour, sir, to inform me whether you recollect
any thing of a ten-guinea bank-note which you gave or paid, some time in
last October, to this gentleman?" pointing to M. Pasgrave. "I do,"
replied Forester, in a distinct, unembarrassed voice, "perfectly well
remember giving M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea bank-note." "Ah, monsieur, je ne
suis pas un ingrat. Ne pensez pas que--" "Oh, M. Pasgrave," interrupted
Mackenzie, "this is no time for compliments and fine speeches: for God's
sake, let us get to the bottom of this affair without further ceremony!"
"Sir," said the banker's clerk, "all we want to know is the number of
your note, and the firm of the house. Was your note one of Sir William
Forbes's, or of the Bank of Scotland?" Forester was silent. "I do not
recollect," said he, after some pause. "You don't recollect, sir," said
the justice, "is something like an evasive answer. You must have a vast
number of bank-notes then, we must presume, if you cannot recollect to
what bank your ten-guinea note belonged." Forester did not understand
this logic; but he simply repeated his assertion. "Pray, sir," said the
tailor, who could no longer restrain his impatience--"Pray, sir," said
the magistrate, in a solemn manner, "be silent. I shall find out the
truth. So, Mr. Forester, you cannot possibly recollect the house of your
note? You will tell us next, I dare say, that you cannot possibly
recollect how you came by it." "Sir," said Forester, "if it is necessary,
I can readily tell you how I came by it." "It is very necessary, sir, for
your own credit." "I received it from Dr. Campbell." "Dr. Campbell!"
repeated the magistrate, changing his tone. "And I have some idea that
the doctor gave me a list of the numbers of that and four other notes,
with which I fortunately have not parted." "Some idea means nothing in a
court of justice, sir; if you have any such paper, you can do us the
favour to produce it." Now this list was locked up in the trunk, of which
the key was dropped into the brewing-vat. Richardson, the clerk, had
returned the key to him; but, such is the force of habit, he had not
cured himself of the foolish trick of twirling it upon his thumb; and
about two months ago he dropped it in one of his walks to Arthur's Seat.
He long searched for it amongst the rocky fragments, but at last gave it
up--he little imagined of how much consequence it might be to him. Dr.
Campbell had once refused to break open the lock, and he felt very
unwilling to apply to him in his present circumstances. However, he wrote
a few lines to Henry Campbell; but, as soon as he had written them, his
pride again revolted from the thoughts of supplicating the assistance of
his friend in such a disgraceful situation. "If you don't choose to
write," said the officious malevolence of Archibald, "I can, however,
speak; I'll desire Dr. Campbell to open your trunk, and search for the
paper." He left the room before Forester could make any further
opposition.
"I have answered, I hope, both distinctly and respectfully, all
the questions that you have asked me," said Forester, turning to Mr.
W----. "I hope you will no longer keep me in the dark. Of what am I
suspected?" "I will tell you, sir," replied the deliberate, unfeeling
magistrate; "you are suspected of having, I will not say _stolen_,
but you are more than suspected of having come unfairly by a certain
ten-guinea bank-note, which the young gentleman who has just left the
room lost a few months ago." Forester, as this speech was slowly
pronounced, sat down, folded his arms, and appeared totally
insensible--quite unconscious that he was in the presence of a
magistrate, or that any human being was observing him. "Ah, mon cher
monsieur, pardonnez!" cried Pasgrave, bursting into tears. "N'en parlons
plus," added he, turning to the magistrate. "Je payerai tout ce qu'il
faut. I will pay de ten guineas. I will satisfy every body. I cannot
never forgive myself if I bring him into any disgrace." "Disgrace!"
exclaimed Forester, starting up, and repeating the word in a tone which
made every person in the room, not excepting the phlegmatic magistrate,
start and look up to him, with a sudden feeling of inferiority. His
ardent eye spoke the language of his soul. No words could express his
emotion. The master-tailor dropped his day-book. "Constable--call a
constable!" cried the justice. "Sir, you forget in whose presence you
are--you think, I suppose, that your friends, the Campbells, will bear
you out. Sir, I would have you to know that all the Campbells in Scotland
can't bail you for a felony. Sir, philosophers should know these things.
If you cannot clear yourself to my entire satisfaction, Mr. Forester, I
shall commit you--in one word--to gaol: yes--look as you please, sir--to
gaol. And if the doctor and his son, and all his family, come up to bail
you, I shall, _meo periculo_, refuse their bail. The law, sir, is no
respecter of persons. So none of your rhodomontades, young gentleman, in
my presence; but step into this closet, if you please; and, I advise you,
bring your mind into a becoming temperament, whilst I go to dinner.
Gentlemen," continued he to Macpherson and Pasgrave, "you'll be so good
to wait here in this apartment. Constable, look to your prisoner,"
pointing to the door of the closet. "John, let me know when Dr. Campbell
arrives; and tell them to send up dinner directly," said the justice to
his butler.
Whilst he dines, we must leave the tailor complaining that he was wasting
precious time; the foreman in the panic of guilt; and the good-natured
dancing-master half distracted betwixt his fears and his ignorance. He
looked from time to time through the key-hole of the closet in which
Forester was confined, and exclaimed, "Grand Dieu! comme il a l'air noble
a cet instant! Ah! lui coupable! he go to gaol! it is impossible!"
"We shall see how that will be presently," said the foreman, who had
hitherto preserved absolute silence. "I abide by my books," said the
master-tailor; "and I wish Dr. Campbell would make haste. _I have lost a
day!_"
In spite of the tailor's imperial exclamation, he was obliged to wait
some time longer. When Mackenzie arrived at Dr. Campbell's, Henry was not
at home: he was gone to the house at the back of the meadows, to prepare
some chemical experiments for the next day's lecture. Mackenzie, however,
found Dr. Campbell at home in his study; and, in a soft hypocritical
voice, lamented that he was obliged to communicate some disagreeable
circumstances relating to young Mr. Forester. "You do not, I presume,
know where that unfortunate, misguided youth is at present--at this
moment, I mean." "I do not know where he is at this moment," said Dr.
Campbell, calmly; "but I know where he has been for some time--at
Mr. ----'s, the bookseller. I have had my eye upon him ever since he
left this house. I have traced him from place to place. Though I have
said little about him, Mr. Mackenzie, I have a great regard for my
unfortunate ward." "I am sorry for it, sir," said Mackenzie: "I fear I
must wound your feelings the more deeply." "What is the matter? pray
speak at once," cried Dr. Campbell, who now forgot all his usual
calmness. "Where is Forester?" "He is at this moment before Mr. W----,
the magistrate, sir, charged with--but, I own, I cannot believe him
guilty--" "Charged with what? For God's sake, speak plainly, Mr.
Mackenzie!" "Then, in one word, sir, my lost bank-note is traced home to
Mr. Forester. M. Pasgrave says he received it from him." "Surely, sir,"
said Dr. Campbell, with indignation, "you would not insinuate that
Forester has stolen your bank-note?" "I insinuate nothing, doctor," said
Archibald; "but, I fear, the thing is too plainly proved. My bank-note
has certain stains, by which it has been identified. All that I know is,
that Mr. W---- says he can take no bail; and that he must commit Mr.
Forester to gaol, unless he can clear himself. He says, that a few days
before he left your house, you paid him his quarterly allowance of fifty
guineas, in five ten-guinea bank-notes." "He says true--I did so," said
Dr. Campbell eagerly. "And he says that you gave them to him wrapped in a
piece of paper, on which the numbers of the notes were written." "I
remember it distinctly: I desired him to take care of that paper." "He is
not famous for taking care, you know, sir, of any thing. He says, he
believes he threw it into his trunk; but he has lost the key of the
trunk, I understand." "No matter; we can break it open this instant, and
search for the paper," cried Dr. Campbell, who was now extremely alarmed
for his ward. Mackenzie stood by without offering any assistance, whilst
Dr. Campbell broke open the trunk, and searched it with the greatest
anxiety. It was in terrible disorder. The coat and waistcoat which
Forester wore at the ball were crammed in at the top; and underneath
appeared unfolded linen, books, boots, maps, shoes, cravats, fossils, and
heaps of little rumpled bits of paper, in which the fossils had once been
contained. Dr. Campbell opened every one of these. The paper he wanted
was not amongst them. He took every thing out of the box, shook and
searched all the pockets of the coat, in which Forester used, before his
reformation, to keep hoards of strange papers. No list of bank-notes
appeared. At length, Dr. Campbell espied the white corner of a paper-mark
in a volume of Goldsmith's Animated Nature, He pulled out this mark, and
to his great joy, he found it to be the very paper he wanted. "So it's
found, is it?" said Mackenzie, disappointed; whilst Dr. Campbell seized
his hat, left every thing upon the floor, and was very near locking the
door of the room upon Mackenzie. "Don't lock me in here, doctor--I am
going back with you to Mr. W----'s" said Arcibald. "Won't you stay?
dinner's going up--Mr. W---- was going this dinner when I came away."
Without listening to him, Dr. Campbell just let him out, locked the door,
and hurried away to his poor ward.
"I have let things go to far," said he to himself. "As long as
Forester's credit was not in danger, as long as he was unknown, it was
very well; but now his character is at stake; he may pay too dear for his
experience."
"Dr. Campbell," said the pompous magistrate, who hated philosophers,
rising from table as Dr. Campbell entered, "do not speak to me of bailing
this ward of yours--it is impossible, sir; I know my duty." "I am not
come to offer bail for my ward," said Dr. Campbell, "but to prove his
innocence." "We must hope the best," said Mr. W----; and, having forced
the doctor to pledge him in a bumper of port, "Now I am ready to proceed
again to the examination of all parties concerned."
Dr. Campbell was now shown into the room where Mr. Macpherson, his
foreman and Pasgrave, were waiting. "Ah, monsieur, Dieu merci, vous
voila!" exclaimed Pasgrave. "You may go," said Mr. W---- to the
constable: "but wait below stairs." He unlocked the closet-door.
Forester, at the sight of Dr. Campbell, covered his face with his hands;
but, an instant afterwards, advanced with intrepidity. "You cannot, I am
sure, believe me to be guilty of any meanness, Dr. Campbell," said he.
"Imprudent I have been, and I suffer for my folly." "Guilty!" cried Dr.
Campbell; "no: I could almost as soon suspect my own son of such an
action. But my belief is nothing to the purpose. We must _prove_ your
innocence." "Ah, oui, monsieur--and mine too; for I am innocent, I can
assure you," cried M. Pasgrave.
"The whole business, sir," said the banker's clerk, who had, by this
time, returned to hear the termination of the affair--"the whole thing
can be settled in two minutes, by a gentleman like you, who understands
business. Mr. Forester cannot recollect the number or the firm of a
ten-guinea bank-note which he gave to M. Pasgrave. M. Pasgrave cannot
recollect either; and he is in doubt whether he received this stained
note, which Mr. Mackenzie lost, from Mr. Forester or from Mr. Macpherson,
the tailor." "There can be no doubt about me," said Macpherson. "Dr.
Campbell, will you be so good to look at the entry? I acknowledge, I gave
M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea note; but here's the number of it, 177, of
Forbes's bank. Mr. Mackenzie's note, you see, is of the bank of Scotland;
and the stains upon it are so remarkable, that, if I had ever seen it
before, I should certainly remember it. I'll take my oath I never saw it
before." "Sir," said Forester eagerly to Dr. Campbell, "you gave me five
ten-guinea notes: here are four of them in this pocket-book; the fifth I
gave to M. Pasgrave. Can you tell me the number of that note?" "I can,"
said Dr. Campbell, producing the paper which he found in Goldsmith's
Animated Nature. "I had the precaution to write down the numbers of all
your notes myself: here they are." Forester opened his pocket-book: his
four remaining notes were compared, and perfectly agreed with the numbers
in the list. The fifth, the number of the note which he gave to Pasgrave,
was 1260, of the New Bank. "One of your ten-guinea notes," said Dr.
Campbell to Pasgrave, "you paid into the bank of Scotland; and this
gentleman," pointing to the banker's clerk, "stopped it this morning. Now
you have had another ten-guinea note; what became of that?" Pasgrave, who
understood Dr. Campbell's plain method of questioning him, answered
immediately, "I did give the other to my hair-dresser, not long ago,
who lives in ---- street." Dr. Campbell instantly went himself to the
hair-dresser, found that he had the note still in his possession, brought
him to Mr. W----'s, and, when the note was examined, it was found to be
1260 of the New Bank, which exactly corresponded with the entry in the
list of notes which Dr. Campbell had produced.
"Then all is right," said Dr. Campbell. "Ah, oui!--Ah, non!" exclaimed
Pasgrave. "What will become of me?" "Compose yourself, my good sir," said
Dr. Campbell. "You had but two ten-guinea notes, you are sure of that?"
"But two--but two: I will swear but two." "You are now certain which of
these two notes you had from my ward. The other, you say, you received
from ----" "From dis gentleman, I will swear," cried Pasgrave, pulling
the tailor's foreman forwards. "I can swear now I am in no embarras: I am
sure I did get de oder note from dis gentleman." The master-tailor was
astonished to see all the pallid marks of guilt in his foreman's
countenance. "Did you change the note that I gave you in the inner room?"
said Mr. Macpherson. The foreman, as soon as he could command his voice,
denied the charge; and persisted in it that he gave the note and change,
which his master wrapped up, exactly as it was, to the dancing-master.
Dr. Campbell proposed that the tailor's shop, and the foreman's room,
should be searched. Mr. W---- sent proper people to Mr. Macpherson's; and
whilst they are searching his house, we may inquire what has become of
Henry Campbell.
THE CATASTROPHE.
Henry Campbell, the last time we heard of him, was at the house at the
back of the meadows. When he went into the large room to his chemical
experiments, the little girl, who was proud of having arranged it neatly,
ran on before him, and showed him the places where all his things were
put. "The writing and the figures are not rubbed off your slate--there it
is, sir," said she, pointing to a high shelf. "But whose handkerchief is
this?" said Henry, taking up a handkerchief which was under the slate.
"Gracious! that must be the good gentleman's handkerchief; he missed it
just as he was going out of the house. He thought he had left it at the
washerwoman's, where I met him; and he's gone back to look for it there.
I'll run with it to the washerwoman's,--maybe she knows where to find
him." "But you have not told me who he is. Whom do you mean by the good
gentleman?" "The good gentleman, sir, that I saw with you at the
watchmaker's, the day that you helped me to carry the great geranium out
of my grandmother's room." "Do you mean that Forester has been here?"
exclaimed Henry. "I never heard his name, sir; but I mean that the
gentleman has been here, whom I call the good gentleman, because it was
he who went with me to my cross schoolmistress, to try to persuade her to
use me well. She beat me, to be sure, after he was gone, for what he had
said; but I'm not the less obliged to him, because he did every thing as
he thought for the best. And so I'll run with his handkerchief to the
woman's, who will give it safe to him."
Henry recollected his promise to his father. It required all his power
over himself to forbear questioning the child, and endeavouring to find
out something more of his friend. He determined to mention the
circumstance to his father, and to Flora, as soon as he returned home. He
was always impatient to tell any thing to his sister that interested
himself or his friends; for Flora's gaiety was not of that unfeeling sort
which seeks merely for amusement, and which, unmixed with sympathy for
others, may divert in a companion, but disgusts in a friend.
Whilst Henry was reflecting upon the manner in which he might most
expeditiously arrange his chemical experiments and return home, the
little girl came running back, with a face of great distress. As soon as
she had breath to speak, she told Henry that when she went to the
washerwoman's with the handkerchief, she was told a sad piece of news;
that Mr. Forester had been taken up, and carried before Mr. W----, the
magistrate. "We don't know what he has done: I'm sure I don't think he
can have done any thing wrong." Henry no sooner heard these words than he
left all his retorts, rushed out of the house, hurried home to his
father, and learned from Flora, with great surprise, that his father had
already been sent for, and was gone to Mr. W----'s. She did not know the
circumstances that Mackenzie related to Dr. Campbell, but she told him
that her father seemed much alarmed; that she met him crossing the hall,
and that he could not stop to speak to her. Henry proceeded directly to
Mr. W----'s, and he arrived there just as the people returned from the
search of the tailor's house. His opinion of Forester's innocence was so
strong, that when he entered the room, he instantly walked up to him, and
embraced him, with a species of frank confidence in his manner which, to
Forester, was more expressive than any thing that he could have said. The
whole affair was quickly explained to him; and the people who had been
sent to Mr. Macpherson's now came up-stairs to Mr. W----, and produced a
ten-guinea bank-note, which was found in the foreman's box. Upon
examination, this note was discovered to be the very note which Mr.
Macpherson sent with the change to Pasgrave. It was No. 177, of Sir
William Forbes's bank, as mentioned in the circumstantial entry in the
day-book. The joy of the poor dancing-master at this complete proof of
his innocence was rapturous and voluble. Secure of the sympathy of
Forester, Henry, and Dr. Campbell, he looked at them by turns, whilst he
congratulated himself upon this "_eclaircissement_," and assured the
banker's clerk that he would in future keep accounts. We are impatient to
get rid of the guilty foreman: he stood a horrible image of despair. He
was committed to gaol; and was carried away by the constables, without
being pitied by any person present. Every body, however, was shocked.
Mackenzie broke silence first, by exclaiming, "Well, now, I presume, Mr.
W----, I may take possession of my bank-note again." He took up all the
notes which lay upon the table to search amongst them for his own. "Mine,
you know, is stained," said Archibald. "But it is very singular," said
Henry Campbell, who was looking over his shoulder, "that here are two
stained notes. That which was found in the foreman's box is stained in
one corner, exactly as yours was stained, Mr. Mackenzie." Macpherson, the
tailor, now stooped to examine it. "Is this No. 177, the note that I sent
in change, by my foreman, to M. Pasgrave? I'll take my oath it was not
stained in that manner when I took it out of my desk. It was a new and
quite clean note: it must have been stained since." "And it must have
been stained with vitriolic acid," continued Henry. "Ay, there's cunning
for you," cried Archibald. "The foreman, I suppose, stained it, that it
might not be known again." "Have you any vitriolic acid in your house?"
pursued Henry, addressing himself to the master-tailor. "Not I, indeed,
sir; we have nothing to do with such things. They'd be very dangerous to
us." "Pray," said Henry, "will you give me leave, Mr. W----, to ask the
person who searched the foreman's box a few questions?" "Certainly sir,"
said Mr. W----; "though, I protest, I cannot see what you are driving
at." Henry inquired what was found in the box with the bank-note. The man
who searched it enumerated a variety of things. "None of these," said
Henry, "could have stained the note: are you sure that there was nothing
else?" "Nothing in the world; nothing but an old glass stopper, I
believe." "I wish I could see that stopper," said Henry. "This note was
rolled round it," said the man: "but I threw it into the box again. I'll
go and fetch it, sir, if you have any curiosity to see it." "Curiosity to
see an old stopper? No!" cried Archibald Mackenzie, with a forced laugh;
"what good would that do us? We have been kept here long enough. I move
that we go home to our dinners." But Dr. Campbell, who saw that Henry had
some particular reason for wishing to see this glass stopper, seconded
his son. The man went for it; and when he brought it into the room, Henry
Campbell looked at it very carefully, and then decidedly said, fixing his
eyes upon Archibald Mackenzie, who in vain struggled to keep his
countenance from changing. "This glass stopper, Mr. Mackenzie, is the
stopper of my father's vitriolic acid bottle, that was broken the night
the cat was killed. This stopper has stained both the bank-notes. And it
must have been in the pocket of your waistcoat." "My pocket!" interrupted
Archibald: "how should it come into my pocket? It never was in _my_
pocket, sir." Henry pointed to the stain on his waistcoat. He wore the
very waistcoat in question. "Sir," said Archibald, "I don't know what you
mean by pointing at my waistcoat. It is stained, it is true, and very
likely by vitriolic acid; but, as I have been so often in the doctor's
laboratory, when your chemical experiments have been going on, is it not
very natural to suppose that a drop of one of the acids might have fallen
on my clothes? I have seen your waistcoats stained, I am sure. Really,
Mr. Campbell, you are unfriendly, uncharitable; your partiality for Mr.
Forester should not blind you, surely. I know you want to exculpate him
from having any hand in the death of that cat: but that should not, my
dear sir, make you forget what is due to justice. You should not, permit
me to say, endeavour to criminate an innocent person." "This is all very
fine," said Henry; "and you may prove your innocence to me at once, Mr.
Mackenzie, if you think proper, by showing that the waistcoat was really,
as you assert, stained by a drop of vitriolic acid falling upon the
outside of it. Will you show us the inside of the pocket?" Mackenzie, who
was now in too much confusion to know distinctly what Henry meant to
prove, turned the pocket inside out, and repeated, "That stopper was
never in my pocket, I'll swear." "Don't swear to that, for God's sake,"
said Henry. "Consider what you are saying. You see that there is a hole
burnt in this pocket. Now if a drop of acid had fallen, as you said, upon
the outside of the waistcoat, it must have been more burnt on the outside
than on the inside." "I don't know--I can't pretend to be positive,"
said Archibald; "but what signifies all this rout about the stopper?"
"It signifies a great deal to me," said Dr. Campbell, turning away from
Mackenzie with contempt, and addressing himself to his ward, who met his
approving eye with proud delight--"it signifies a great deal to me.
Forgive me, Mr. Forester, for having doubted your word for a moment."
Forester held his guardian's hand, without being able for some instants
to reply. "You are coming home with us, Forester?" said Henry. "No,"
said Dr. Campbell, smiling; "you must not ask him to come home with us
to-night. We have a little dance at our house to-night. Lady Catherine
Mackenzie wished to take leave of her Edinburgh friends. She goes from us
to-morrow. We must not expect to see Forester at a ball; but to-morrow
morning--" "I see," said Forester, smiling, "you have no faith in my
reformation. Well, I have affairs to settle with my master, the printer.
I must go home, and take leave of him. He has been a good master to me;
and I must go and finish my task of correcting. Adieu." He abruptly left
Dr. Campbell and Henry, and went to the bookseller's, to inform him of
all that had passed, and to thank him for his kindness. "You will be at a
loss to-morrow for a corrector of the press," said he. "I am determined
you shall not suffer for my vagaries. Send home the proof-sheets of the
work in hand to me, at Dr. Campbell's, and I will return them to you
punctually corrected. Employ me till you have provided yourself with
another, I will not say a better hand. I do not imagine," continued
Forester, "that I can pay you for your kindness to me by presents;
indeed, I know you are in such circumstances that you disdain money. But
I hope you will accept of a small mark of my regard--a complete font of
new types."
Whilst Forester's generous heart expanded with joy at the thoughts of
returning once more to his friends, we are sorry to leave him, to finish
the history of Archibald Mackenzie. He sneaked home after Dr. Campbell
and Henry, whose silent contempt he well understood. Dr. Campbell related
all that had passed to Lady Catherine. Her ladyship showed herself more
apprehensive that her son's meanness should be made known to the world,
than indignation or sorrow for his conduct. Archibald, whilst he was
dressing for the ball, began to revolve in his mind certain words which
his mother had said to him _about his having received the lie direct from
Henry Campbell--his not having the spirit of a gentleman._ "She certainly
meant," said he to himself, "that I ought to fight him. It's the only way
I can come off, as he spoke so plainly before Mr. W----, and all those
people: the banker's clerk too was by; and, as my mother says, it will be
talked of. I'll get Sir Philip Gosling to go with my message. I think
I've heard Dr. Campbell say, he disapproved of duels. Perhaps Henry won't
fight. Has Sir Philip Gosling sent to say, whether he would be with us at
the ball to-night?" said Archibald to the servant who was dressing his
hair. "No, sir," replied the servant: "Sir Philip's man has not been
here: but Major O'Shannon has been here twice since you were away, to see
you. He said he had some message to deliver from Sir Philip to you." "To
me! message to me!" repeated Archibald, turning pale. Archibald knew
Major O'Shannon, who had of late insinuated himself into Sir Philip
Gosling's favour, had a particular dislike to him, and had successfully
bullied him upon one or two occasions. Archibald had that civil
cowardice, which made him excessively afraid of the opinion of the world;
and Major O'Shannon, a gamester, who was jealous of his influence over
the rich dupe, Sir Philip, determined to entangle him in a quarrel. The
major knocked at the door a third time before Archibald was dressed; and
when he was told that he was dressing, and could not see any one, he sent
up the following note:--
"SIR,
"The last time I met you at the livery-stables, in company with my
friend, Sir Philip Gosling, I had the honour of telling you my mind, in
terms sufficiently explicit, concerning a transaction, which cannot have
escaped your memory. My friend, Sir Philip, declares you never hinted
that the pony was spavined. I don't pretend to be so good a jockey as
you, but you'll excuse my again saying, I can't consider your conduct as
that of a gentleman. Sir Philip is of my mind; and if you resent my
interference, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman. If
not, you will do well to leave Edinburgh along with your mother to-morrow
morning; for Edinburgh is no place for cowards, as long as one has the
honour of living in it, who calls himself (by courtesy)
"Your humble servant,
"CORNELIUS O'SHANNON.
"P.S. Sir Philip is at your service, after your settling with me."
Archibald, oppressed with the sense of his own meanness, and somewhat
alarmed at the idea of fighting three duels, to retrieve his credit,
thought it best to submit, without struggle, in the first instance, to
that public disgrace which he had merited. He wrote a shabby apology to
Major O'Shannon and Sir Philip, concluding with saying, that rather than
lose a friend he so much valued as Sir Philip Gosling, he was willing to
forget all that had passed, and even to take back the pony, and to return
Sawney, if the matter could, by this means, be adjusted to his
satisfaction. He then went to his mother, and talked to her, in a high
style, of his desperate intentions with respect to Henry Campbell.
"Either he or I must fall, before we quit the ground," said the artful
Archibald--well knowing that Lady Catherine's maternal tenderness would
be awakened by these ideas. Other ideas were also awakened in the prudent
mother's mind. Dr. Campbell was nearly related to a general officer, from
whom she looked for promotion for her son. She repented, upon reflection,
of what she had hastily said concerning _the lie direct, and the spirit
of a gentleman_; and she softened down her pride, and talked of her
dislike to breaking up old family friendships. Thence she digressed into
hints of the advantages that might accrue from cultivating Dr. Campbell's
good opinion; admitted that Henry was strangely prejudiced in favour of
his rough friend Forester; but observed that Mr. Forester, after all,
though singular, was a young man of merit, and at the head of a very
considerable estate. "Archibald," said she, "we must make allowances, and
conciliate matters--unless you make this young gentleman your friend, you
can never hope to be on an eligible footing with his guardian. His
guardian, you see, is glad to get him back again, and, I dare say, has
his reasons. I never saw him, and I know him well, in such spirits in my
life as he was when he came back to us to announce the probability of his
ward's return to-morrow morning. The doctor, I dare say, has good reasons
for what he does; and I understand his ward is reconciled to the idea of
living in the world, and enjoying his fine fortune like other people. So
I hope you and he, and of course you and the doctor, and Henry Campbell,
will be very good friends. I shall leave you at Edinburgh for a few
months, till we get our commission; and I shall beg the doctor to
introduce you to his friend and relation, General D----. If he can do
nothing for you, you may look towards the Church. I trust to your
prudence, not to think of Flora Campbell, though I leave you in the house
with her; for you can't afford, Archibald, to marry a girl with so small
a fortune; and, you may be sure, her friends have other views for her.
Pray let me hear no more of duels and quarrels. And let us go down into
the ball-room; for Miss Campbell has been dressed and down-stairs this
half hour; and I would not have you inattentive--that might displease as
much as the other extreme. In short, I may safely leave you to your own
discretion." Lady Catherine, after this prudent exhortation, entered the
ball-room, where all the company soon after assembled. Seated in gay
ranges, the well-dressed belles were eager for the dancing to commence.
Lady Catherine stood by Dr. Campbell; and as soon as the ball began, when
the music played, and she saw every one absorbed in themselves, or in
their partners, she addressed herself to the doctor on the subject which
was next her heart, or rather next her imagination. "The general is to be
with you shortly, I understand," said she. Dr. Campbell coldly answered
in the affirmative. "To be candid with you, doctor, if you'll sit down, I
want to have a little chat with you about my Archibald. He is not every
thing I could wish, and I see you are displeased with him about this
foolish business that has just happened. For my own part, I think him to
blame; but we must pardon, we must make allowances for the errors of
youth; and I need not, to a man of your humanity, observe what a cruel
thing it is to prejudice the world against a young man, by telling little
anecdotes to his disadvantage. Relations must surely uphold one another;
and I am convinced you will speak of Archibald with candour and
friendship." "With candour and with truth," replied Dr. Campbell. "I
cannot pretend to feel friendship merely on the score of relationship."
The proud blood mounted into Lady Catherine's face, and she replied,
"Some consideration of one's own relations, I think, is not unbecoming.
Archibald, I should have thought, had as strong a claim upon Dr.
Campbell's friendship as the son of an utter stranger to the family. Old
Mr. Forester had a monstrous fortune, 'tis true; but his wife, who was no
grand affair, I believe--a merchant's daughter, I'm told--brought him
the greatest part of it; and yet, without any natural connexion between
the families, or any thing very desirable, setting fortune out of the
question, you accept the guardianship of this young man, and prefer him,
I plainly see, to my Archibald. I candidly ask you the question, and
answer me candidly."
"As you have explicitly asked the question, I will answer your ladyship
candidly. I do prefer my ward to your son. I have avoided drawing
comparisons between your son and Forester; and I now wish to avoid
speaking of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, because I have little hope of being
of service to him."
"Nay," said Lady Catherine, softening her tone, "you know you have it in
your power to be of the greatest service to him."
"I have done all I could," said Dr. Campbell, with a sigh; "but habits
of--"
"Oh, but I'm not talking of habits," interrupted Lady Catherine. "I'll
make him alter his habits. We shall soon turn him into what you like:
he's very quick; and you must not expect every young man to be just cut
out upon the pattern of our dear Henry. I don't want to trouble you to
alter his habits, or to teach him chemistry, or any of those things. But
you can, you know, without all that, do him an essential service."
"How?" said Dr. Campbell.
"Why how? I don't know you this evening, you are so dry. Ken you not what
I mean? Speak three words for him to your friend, the general."
"Your ladyship must excuse me," said Dr. Campbell.
Lady Catherine was stunned by this distinct refusal. She urged Dr.
Campbell to explain the cause of his dislike to her son.
"There is a poor washerwoman now below stairs," replied Dr. Campbell,
"who can explain to you more than I wish to explain; and a story about a
horse of Sir Philip Gosling was told to me the other day, by one of the
baronet's friends, which I should be glad Mr. Archibald Mackenzie could
contradict effectually."
"Archibald, come here," said Lady Catherine: "before the next dance
begins, I must speak to you. What is this about a horse of Sir Philip
Gosling?"
"Ma'am!" said Archibald, with great astonishment. At this instant one of
Dr. Campbell's servants came into the room, and gave two notes to
Archibald, which, he said, two gentlemen had just left, and desired him
to deliver to Mr. Mackenzie whilst he was in the ball-room, if possible.
"What is it?--What are they, child?" cried Lady Catherine. "I will see
them." Her ladyship snatched the notes, read, and when she saw that her
son, in the grossest terms, was called a coward, for refusing the
challenges of two such fashionable men as Sir Philip Gosling and Major
O'Shannon, all her hopes of him were at an end. "Our family is disgraced
for ever!" she exclaimed; and then, perceiving that she had uttered this
unguarded sentence loud enough for several of the company to hear, she
endeavoured to laugh, and fell into violent hysterics. She was carried
out of the ball-room. A whisper now ran round the room of--"What's the
matter with Lady Catherine Mackenzie?" It was at an unfortunate moment
that she was carried out, for all the dancers had just seated themselves,
after a brisk country dance; and the eyes of all the young and old were
upon her ladyship as she made her exit. A young man, a friend of Major
O'Shannon, who was present, whispered the secret to his partner; she, of
course, to her next neighbour. Archibald saw that the contents of the
notes were made public; and he quitted the apartment, "to inquire how his
mother did."
The buzz of scandal was general for some moments; but a new object soon
engrossed the attention of the company. "Pray," said a young lady, who
was looping up Flora Campbell's gown, "who is this gentleman, who is just
coming into the room?" Flora looked up, and saw a well-dressed stranger
entering the room, who had much the appearance of a gentleman. He
certainly resembled a person she had seen before; but she could scarcely
believe that her eyes did not deceive her. Therefore she hesitatingly
replied to the young lady's question, "I don't know--I am not sure." But
she, an instant afterwards, saw her brother Henry and her father advance
so eagerly to meet the stranger, that her doubts vanished; and, as he now
directed his steps towards the spot where she was standing, she corrected
her first answer to her companion's question, and said, "Yes, I fancy--it
certainly is--Mr. Forester." Forester, with an open countenance, slightly
tinged with the blush of ingenuous shame, approached her, as if he was
afraid she had not forgotten some things which he wished to be forgotten;
and yet as if he was conscious that he was not wholly unworthy of her
esteem. "Amongst other prejudices of which I have cured myself," said he
to Dr. Campbell, "since we parted, I have cured myself of my foolish
antipathy to Scotch reels."
"That I can scarcely believe," said Dr. Campbell, with an incredulous
smile.
"I will convince you of it," said Forester, "if you will promise to
forget all my other follies."
"_All!_" said Dr. Campbell. "Convince me first; and then it will be time
enough to make such a desperate promise."
Flora was rather surprised when our once cynical hero begged the favour
of her hand, and led her to dance a reel. M. Pasgrave would have been in
ecstasy if he had seen his pupil's performance.
"And now, my dear Forester," said Dr. Campbell, as his ward returned to
claim his promise of a general amnesty, "if you do not turn out a
coxcomb, if you do not 'mistake reverse of wrong for right,' you will
infallibly be a very great man. Give me a pupil who can cure himself of
any one foible, and I have hope of him. What hope must I not have of him
who has cured himself of so many!"
THE PRUSSIAN VASE
Frederick the Second, king of Prussia, after his conquest of Saxony,
transported, it is said[1], by force, several manufacturers from Dresden
to Berlin, where he was very desirous of establishing the manufacture of
china. These unfortunate people, separated from their friends, their
home, and their native country, were compelled to continue their labours
for the profit and for the glory of their conqueror. Amongst the number
of those sufferers was Sophia Mansfeld. She was young, handsome, and
possessed considerable talents. Several pieces of porcelain of her design
and modelling were shown to Frederick, when he visited the manufactory at
Meissen, in Saxony; and their taste and workmanship appeared to him so
exquisite, that he determined to transport the artist to his capital. But
from the time of her arrival at Berlin, Sophia Mansfeld's genius seemed
to forsake her. It was her business to sketch designs, and to paint them
on the porcelain; but either she could not or would not execute these
with her former elegance: the figures were awkward and spiritless, and it
was in vain that the overseer of the works attempted to rouse her to
exertion; she would sit for hours, with her pencil in her hand, in a sort
of reverie. It was melancholy to see her. The overseer had compassion
upon her; but his compassion was not so great as his dread of the king's
displeasure; and he at length declared, that the next time Frederick
visited the works, he must complain of her obstinate idleness.
[Footnote 1: Vide Wraxall'g Memoirs of the Court of Berlin.]
The monarch was expected in a few days; for, in the midst, of his various
occupations, Frederick, who was at this time extremely intent upon the
establishment of the porcelain manufactory at Berlin, found leisure
frequently to inspect it in person. The king, however, was prevented from
coming at the appointed hour by a review at Potzdam. His majesty had
formed the singular project of embodying, and training to the science of
arms, the Jews in his dominions[2]. They were rather awkward in learning
the manual exercise; and the Jewish review, though it afforded infinite
amusement to the spectators, put Frederick so much out of humour, that,
as soon as it was over, he rode to his palace of Sans Souci, and shut
himself up for the remainder of the morning. The preceding evening an
English traveller, who had passed some time at Paris with the Count de
Lauragais, in trying experiments upon porcelain clays, and who had
received much instruction on this subject from Mr. Wedgewood, of Etruria,
had been presented to the king, and his majesty had invited him to be
present at a trial of some new process of importance, which was to be
made this morning at his manufactory. The English traveller, who was more
intent upon his countryman Mr. Wedgewood's fame than upon the martial
manoeuvres of the Jews, proceeded, as soon as the review was finished, to
exhibit his English specimens to a party of gentlemen, who had appointed
to meet him at the china-works at Berlin.
[Footnote 2: Wraxall's Memoirs of the Court of Berlin, &c.]
Of this party, was a youth of the name of Augustus Laniska, who was at
this time scarcely seventeen years old. He was a Pole by birth--a
Prussian by education. He had been bred up at the military school at
Potzdam, and being distinguished by Frederick as a boy of high spirit and
capacity, he was early inspired with enthusiastic admiration of this
monarch. His admiration, however, was neither blind nor servile. He saw
Frederick's faults as well as his great qualities; and he often expressed
himself with more openness and warmth upon this subject than prudence
could justify. He had conversed with unusual freedom about Frederick's
character with our English traveller; and whilst he was zealous to
display every proof of the king's greatness of mind, he was sometimes
forced to acknowledge that "there are disadvantages in living under the
power of a despotic sovereign."
"A despotic sovereign! You will not then call your Frederick a despot?"
whispered the English traveller to the young Pole, as they entered the
china-works at Berlin. "This is a promising manufactory, no doubt,"
continued he; "and Dresden china will probably soon be called Berlin
china, by which the world in general will certainly be much benefited.
But in the meantime look around you, and read your monarch's history in
the eyes of those prisoners of war--for such I must call these
expatriated manufacturers."
There were, indeed, many countenances in which great dejection was
visible. "Look at that picture of melancholy," resumed the Englishman,
pointing to the figure of Sophia Mansfeld--"observe even now, whilst the
overseer is standing near her, how reluctantly she works! 'Tis the way
with all slaves. Our English manufacturers (I wish you could see them)
work in quite another manner--for they are free--"
"And are free men, or free women, never ill?" said Laniska; "or do you
Englishmen blame your king, whenever any of his subjects turn pale?--The
woman at whom you are now looking is evidently ill. I will inquire from
the overseer what is the matter with her."
Laniska then turned to the overseer, and asked him in German several
questions, to which he received answers that he did not translate to the
English traveller; he was unwilling that any thing unfavourable to the
cause of his sovereign should appear; and, returning to his companion, he
changed the conversation. When all the company were occupied round the
furnaces, attending to the Englishman's experiments, Laniska went back to
the apartment where Sophia Mansfeld was at work. "My good girl," said he
to her, "what is the matter with you? The overseer tells me, that since
you came here you have done nothing that is worth looking at; yet this
charming piece (pointing to a bowl of her painting, which had been
brought from Saxony) is of your design, is it not?"
"Yes, sir," replied Sophia, "I painted it--to my sorrow. If the king had
never seen or liked it, I should now be--" The recollection of her home,
which at this instant rushed full upon her mind, overpowered her, and she
paused.
"You would now be in Saxony," resumed Laniska; "but forget Saxony, and
you will be happy at Berlin."
"I cannot forget Saxony, sir," answered the young woman, with modest
firmness; "I cannot forget a father and mother whom I love, who are old
and infirm, and who depended on me for their support. I cannot forget
every thing--every body that I have ever loved: I wish I could."
"Sir," whispered a Prussian workman, who stood by--"sir, she has a lover
in Saxony, to whom she was just going to be married, when she was carried
off from her cottage, and brought hither."
"Cannot her lover follow her?" said Laniska.
"He is in Berlin, in concealment," replied the workman, in a whisper;
"you won't betray him, I am sure."
"Not I," said Laniska; "I never betrayed any one, and I never shall--much
less the unfortunate. But why is her lover in concealment?"
"Because it is the king's pleasure," replied the Prussian, "that she
should no longer consider him as her lover. You know, sir, several of
these Saxon women have been compelled, since their arrival at Berlin, to
marry Prussians. Sophia Mansfeld has fallen to the lot of a Prussian
soldier, who swears that if she delays another month to marry him, he
will complain to the king of her obstinacy. Our overseer, too, threatens
to complain of her idleness. She is ruined if she go on in this way: we
tell her so, but she seems to have lost all sense; for she sits as she
does now, like one stupified, half the day, let us say what we will to
her. We pity her; but the king knows best: the king must be obeyed."
"Slave!" exclaimed Laniska, bursting into a sudden transport of
indignation, "slave! you are fit to live only under a tyrant. The king
knows best! the king must be obeyed! What! when his commands are contrary
to reason, to justice, to humanity?" Laniska stopped short, but not
before the high tone of his voice, and the boldness of the words he
uttered, had astonished and dismayed all present,--all except Sophia
Mansfeld: her whole countenance became suddenly illuminated; she started
up, rushed forwards, threw herself at the feet of Laniska, and exclaimed,
"Save me! you can save me! you have courage; and you are a powerful lord,
and you can speak to the king. Save me from this detested marriage!"
The party of gentlemen who had been in the next chamber now entered the
room, curious to know what had drawn thither such a crowd of workmen. On
seeing them enter, Sophia, recollecting herself, rose, and returned to
her work quietly; whilst Laniska, much agitated, seized hold of the
Englishman's arm, and hurried out of the manufactory.
"You are right, you are right," cried he, "Frederick is a tyrant! But how
can I save his victim?"
"Not by violence, my Augustus; not by violence!" replied a young man of
the name of Albert, who followed Laniska, anxious to restrain the
impetuosity of his friend's temper, with which he was well acquainted.
"By imprudence," said he, "you will but expose yourself to danger; you
will save, you will serve no one."
"Tame prudence will neither save nor serve any one, however it may
prevent its possessor from exposing _himself_ to danger," retorted
Laniska, casting upon Albert a look of contemptuous reproach. "Prudence
be your virtue,--courage mine."
"Are they incompatible?" said Albert, calmly.
"I know not," replied Laniska; "but this I know, that I am in no humour
to reason that point, or any other, according to all those cursed forms
of logic, which, I believe, you love better than any thing else."
"Not better than I love you, as I prove by allowing you to curse them as
much and as often as you think proper," replied Albert, with a smile,
which could not, however, force one from his angry friend.
"You are right to practise logic and rhetoric," resumed Laniska, "as much
and as often as you can, since in your profession you are to make your
bread by your tongue and your pen. I am a soldier, or soon to be a
soldier, and have other arms and other feelings."
"I will not dispute the superiority of your arms," replied Albert; "I
will only beg of you to remember, that mine will be at your service
whenever you want or wish for them."
This temperate and friendly reply entirely calmed Laniska. "What would
become of Augustus Laniska," said he, giving Albert his hand, "if he had
not such a friend as you are? My mother may well say this, as she does
ten times a-day; but now take it in your sober manner, what can we do for
this poor woman? for something must be done."
After some consideration, Albert and Laniska determined to draw up a
petition for Sophia, and to present it to the king, who was known to pay
ready and minute attention to every application made to him in writing,
even by the meanest of his subjects. The petition was presented, and an
answer anxiously expected. Frederick, when at Potzdam, often honoured the
Countess Laniska with a visit. She was a woman of considerable
information and literature, acquirements not common amongst the Polish or
Prussian ladies; and the king distinguished the countess by his
approbation, in order to excite some emulation amongst his female
subjects. She held a sort of _conversazione_ at her house, which was
frequented by all foreigners of distinction, and especially by some of
the French literati, who were at this time at Frederick's court.
One evening--it was a few days after Sophia Mansfeld's petition had been
presented--the king was at the Countess Laniska's, and the company were
conversing upon some literary subject, when Frederick, who had been
unusually silent, suddenly turned to the English traveller, who was one
of the company, and asked him whether his countryman, Mr. Wedgewood, had
not made a beautiful imitation of the Barberini, or Portland Vase?
The Englishman replied, that the imitation was so exquisite, as scarcely
to be known by the best judges from the original: and he went on, with
much eagerness, to give a description of the vase, that he might
afterward, for the honour of his country, repeat some lines written upon
the subject by an English poet[3]. Frederick was himself a poet, and a
judge of poetry; he listened to the lines with attention; and, as soon as
the Englishman had finished speaking, he exclaimed, "I will write a
description of the Prussian vase myself."
[Footnote 3: Darwin.--See his description of the Barberini vase in the
Botanic Garden. We hope our readers will pardon this anachronism.]
"The Prussian Vase!" said the English traveller: "I hope I may have the
honour of seeing it before I leave Berlin."
"If you prolong your stay another month, your curiosity will probably be
gratified," replied Frederick. "The Prussian Vase is not yet in being;
but I have this day determined to offer a reward, that I know will
produce a vase worthy of Prussia. Those who have the command of motives,
and know their power, have also the command of all that the arts, or what
is called a _genius_ for the arts, can produce. The human mind, and human
fingers, are much the same in Italy, in England, and in Prussia. Then,
why should not we have a Prussian as as well as a Wedgewood's or a
Barberini Vase? We shall see. I do not understand _mon metier de roi_, if
I cannot call forth talents where I know them to exist. There is,"
continued the king, fixing his eyes full upon Laniska, "there is, in my
porcelain manufactory at Berlin, a woman of considerable talents, who is
extremely anxious to return, along with some lovers of hers, to Saxony.
Like all other _prisoners of war_, she must purchase her liberty from the
conqueror; and if she cannot pay her ransom in gold, let her pay it by
her talents. I do not give premiums to idleness or obstinacy. _The king
must be obeyed, whether he knows how to command or not: let all the
world, who are able to judge, decide._" Frederick, as soon as he had
finished this speech, which he pronounced in a peremptory tone, left the
room; and Laniska's friend, who perceived that the imprudent words he had
uttered in Berlin had reached the king's ear, gave the young man up for
lost. To their surprise, however, the king took no further notice of what
had happened, but received Laniska the next day at Sans Souci with all
his usual kindness. Laniska, who was of an open, generous temper, was
touched by this conduct; and, throwing himself at Frederick's feet, he
exclaimed:--
"My king! forgive me, if in a moment of indignation I called you a
_tyrant_."
"My friend, you are yet a child, and I let children and fools speak of me
as they please," replied Frederick. "When you are an older man, you will
judge more wisely, or, at least, you will speak with more discretion
within twenty miles of a _tyrant's_ palace. Here is my answer to your
Sophia Mansfeld's petition," added he, giving Laniska the paper, which
Albert had drawn up; at the bottom of which was written, in the king's
own hand, these words:--
"I will permit the artist who shall produce, before this day month, the
most beautiful vase of Berlin china, to marry or not to marry, whomsoever
he or she shall think proper, and to return to Saxony with all imaginable
expedition. If the successful artist choose to remain at Berlin, I will
add a reward of 500 crowns. The artist's name shall be inscribed on the
vase, which shall be called the Prussian Vase." No sooner had Sophia
Mansfeld read these words, than she seemed animated with new life and
energy. She was likely to have many competitors; for, the moment the
king's intentions were made known in the manufactory, all hands and heads
were at work. Some were excited by the hope of regaining their liberty;
others stimulated by the mention of 500 crowns; and some were fired with
ambition to have their name inscribed on the Prussian Vase. But none had
so strong a motive for exertion as Sophia. She was indefatigable. The
competitors consulted the persons whom they believed to have the best
taste in Berlin and Potzdam. Sophia's designs were shown, as soon as they
were sketched, to the Countess Laniska, whose advice was of material use
to her.
At length, the day which was to decide her fate arrived. The vases were
all ranged, by the king's order, in his gallery of paintings at Sans
Souci; and in the evening, when Frederick had finished the business of
the day, he went thither to examine them. Laniska and some others were
permitted to accompany him: no one spoke, whilst Frederick was comparing
the works of the different competitors.
"Let this be the Prussian Vase," said the king. It was Sophia Mansfeld's.
Laniska just stayed to show her name, which was written underneath the
foot of the vase, and then he hurried away to communicate the happy news
to Sophia, who was waiting, with her lover, at the house of the Countess
Laniska, in Potzdam, impatient to hear her fate. She heard it with
inexpressible joy; and Laniska's generous heart sympathized in her
happiness. It was settled that she should the next morning be married to
her lover, and return with him to her father and mother in Saxony. The
happy couple were just taking leave of the young count and his mother,
when they were alarmed by the sound of many voices on the great
staircase. Some persons seemed to be disputing with the countess's
servants for admittance. Laniska went out to inquire into the cause of
the disturbance. The hall was filled with soldiers.
"Are you the young Count Laniska?" said an officer to him, the moment he
appeared.
"I _am_ the young Count Laniska," replied he, in a firm tone. "What do
you want with me? and why this disturbance in my mother's house at this
unseasonable hour?"
"We come here by the king's orders," replied the soldier. "Is not there
in this house a woman of the name of Sophia Mansfeld?"
"Yes," replied Laniska: "what do you want with her?"
"She must come with us; and you are our prisoner, count," replied the
soldier.
It was in vain to ask for further explanation. The soldiers could give
none; they knew nothing, but that their orders were to convey Sophia
Mansfeld immediately to Meissen in Saxony, and to lodge Count Laniska in
the castle of Spandau, a state prison.
"I must know my crime before I submit to punishment," cried Laniska, in a
passionate voice; but he restrained the natural violence of his temper,
on seeing his mother appear, and, at her request, yielded himself up a
prisoner without resistance, and without a murmur. "I depend on your
innocence, my son, and on the justice of the king," said the countess;
and she took leave of him without shedding a tear. The next day, even
before the king arrived at Potzdam, she went to the palace, determined to
wait there till she could see him, that she might hear from his own lips
the cause of her son's imprisonment. She waited a considerable time--for,
without alighting from horseback, Frederick proceeded to the parade,
where he was occupied for some hours; at length he alighted, and the
first person he saw, on entering his palace, was the Countess Laniska.
"I am willing to believe, madam," said he, "that you have no share in
your son's folly and ingratitude."
"My son is, I hope, incapable of ingratitude, sir," answered the
countess, with an air of placid dignity. "I am well aware that he may
have been guilty of great imprudence."
"At six o'clock this evening let me see you, madam," replied the king,
"at Sans Souci, in the gallery of paintings, and you shall know of what
your son is accused."
At the appointed hour she was in the gallery of paintings at Sans Souci.
No one was there. She waited quietly for some time, then walked up and
down the gallery with extreme impatience and agitation; at last, she
heard the king's voice and his step; the door opened, and Frederick
appeared. It was an awful moment to the mother of Laniska. She stood in
silent expectation.
"I see, madam," said the king, after fixing his penetrating eye for some
moments on her countenance, "I see that you are, as I believe you to be,
wholly ignorant of your son's folly." As he spoke, Frederick put his hand
upon the vase made by Sophia Mansfeld, which was placed on a small stand
in the middle of the gallery. The countess, absorbed by her own
reflections, had not noticed it.
"You have seen this vase before," said the king; "and you have probably
seen the lines which are inscribed on the foot of it."
"Yes," said the countess, "they are my son's writing."
"And they are written by his own hand," said the king.
"They are. The poor Saxon woman who draws so admirably cannot write; and
my son wrote the inscription for her."
"The lines are in a high strain of _panegyric_," said the king; and he
laid a severe emphasis on the word _panegyric_.
"Whatever may be my son's faults," said the countess, "your majesty
cannot suspect him of being a base flatterer. Scarcely a month has
elapsed since his unguarded openness exposed him to your displeasure.
Your majesty's magnanimity, in pardoning his imprudent expressions,
convinced him at once of his error in having used them; and, in the fit
of enthusiasm with which your kindness upon that occasion inspired him,
he, who is by no means a poet by profession, composed the two lines of
_panegyric_ which seem to have given your majesty offence, but which I
should never have conceived could be the cause of his imprisonment."
"You plead like a mother, madam," said the king; "but you reason like a
woman. Have I ever said that your son was imprisoned for having written
two lines of flattery? No, madam: I know how to smile both at flattery
and satire, when they are undisguised; but there is a degree of baseness
which I cannot so easily pardon. Be patient, madam; I will listen to all
you can say in your son's defence, when you have read this inscription.
But, before you read it, understand that I was upon the point of sending
this vase to Paris. I had actually given orders to the man who was
packing up that case (pointing to a half-packed case of porcelain) to put
up the Prussian Vase as a present for a Prussian _bel esprit_ of your
acquaintance. The man showed me the inscription at the bottom of the
vase. I read the flattering lines with pleasure, and thought them--as
people usually think flattering lines made on themselves---excellent. I
was even fool enough immediately to consider how I could reward the
author, when my friend, the packer, interrupted the course of my
thoughts, by observing, with some exclamation of astonishment, that the
blue colour of the vase came off in one spot, where he had been rubbing
it. I looked, and saw that part of the inscription at the bottom of the
vase had been covered over with blue paint. At first sight, I read the
words, 'On the character of Frederick the Great;' the blue paint had
concealed the next word, which is now, madam, sufficiently legible." The
word to which the king pointed was--_tyrant_. "Those flattering lines,
madam, you comprehend, were written--'On the character of Frederick, the
great _tyrant_.'
"I shall spare you, madam, all the reflections I have made on this
occasion. _Tyrant_ as I am, I shall not punish the innocent mother for
the follies of her son. I shall be at your house, along with the rest of
your friends, on Tuesday evening."
The unhappy mother of Laniska withdrew from the presence of the king,
without attempting any reply. Her son's conduct admitted, she thought, of
no apology, if it were really true that he had written the words to which
his name was signed. Of this she doubted; but her consternation was at
first so great, that she had not the power to think. A general belief
remained in her mind of her son's innocence; but then a number of his
imprudent words and actions came across her memory; the inscription was,
apparently, in his own hand-writing. The conversation which had passed in
the porcelain manufactory at Berlin corroborated the idea expressed in
this inscription. The countess, on her return home, related the
circumstances, with as much composure as she could, to Albert, who was
waiting to hear the result of her interview with the king. Albert heard
her relation with astonishment; he could not believe in his friend's
guilt, though he saw no means of proving his innocence. He did not,
however, waste his time in idle conjectures, or more idle lamentations:
he went immediately to the man who was employed to pack up the vase; and,
after questioning him with great care, he went to Berlin to the porcelain
manufactory, and inquired whether any persons were present when Laniska
wrote the inscription for Sophia Mansfeld. After Albert had collected all
the information that could be obtained, his persuasion of Laniska's
innocence was confirmed.
On Tuesday Frederick had promised to come to the countess's
_conversazione_. The company, previous to his majesty's arrival, were all
assembled round the sofa, on which she was seated, and they were eagerly
talking over Laniska's affair. "What a blessing it is," cried the English
traveller, "to live in a country where no man can be imprisoned without
knowing of what he is accused! What a blessing it is to live under a
government where no man can be condemned without trial, and where his
trial must be carried on in open day, in the face of his country, his
peers, his equals!"--The Englishman was in the midst of a warm eulogium
upon the British mode of trial by jury, when Frederick entered the room,
as it was his custom, without being announced: and the company were so
intently listening to our traveller, they did not perceive that the king
was one of his auditors. "Would to Heaven," cried the Countess Laniska,
when the Englishman paused--"would to Heaven my son could have the
advantage of such a trial!"
"And would to Heaven," exclaimed Albert, "that I might plead his cause!"
"On one condition," said Frederick; and, at the sound of his voice, every
one started--"on one condition, young man, your prayer shall be granted.
You shall plead your friend's cause, upon condition that, if you do not
convince his judges of his innocence, you shall share his punishment. His
punishment will be a twelvemonth's imprisonment in the castle of Spandau;
and yours the same, if you fail to establish your cause and his. Next to
the folly of being imprudent ourselves, that of choosing imprudent
friends is the most dangerous. Laniska shall be tried by his equals; and,
since _twelve_ is the golden, harmonic, divine number, for which justice
has a blind predilection, let him have twelve judges, and call them, if
you please, a jury. But I will name my counsel, and you counsel for
Laniska. You know the conditions--do you accept of them?"
"Willingly, sire!" cried Albert, joyfully. "You will permit me to have
access to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau?"
"That is a new condition; but I grant it. The governor shall have orders
to admit you to see and converse with his prisoner for two hours; but if,
after that conversation, your opinion of your friend should change, you
will not blame me if I hold you to your word."
Albert declared that he desired no more: and the Countess Laniska, and
all who were present, joined in praising Frederick's clemency and
Albert's generosity. The imprisonment of Laniska had been much talked of,
not only in public companies at Potzdam and at Berlin, but, what affected
Frederick much more nearly, it had become the subject of conversation
amongst the literati in his own palace at Sans Souci. An English
traveller, of some reputation in the literary world, also knew the
circumstances, and was interested in the fate of the young count.
Frederick seems to have had a strong desire to be represented in an
amiable point of view by writers who, he believed, could transmit his
fame to posterity. Careless of what might be _said_ of him, he was
anxious that nothing should be _printed_ derogatory to his reputation.
Whether the desire to give to foreigners a striking proof of his
magnanimity, or whether his regard for the young count, and his
friendship for his mother, were his motives in granting to Laniska this
_trial by jury_, cannot and need not be determined. Unmixed virtue is not
to be expected from kings more than from common men.
After his visit to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau, Albert felt no
inclination to recede from the agreement into which he had entered; but
Laniska was much alarmed when he was told of what had passed. "Oh, my
generous friend!" exclaimed the young count, "why did you accept of the
conditions offered to you by the king? You may--I am sure you do--believe
in my innocence; but you will never be able to prove it. You will soon be
involved in my disgrace."
"I shall think it no disgrace," replied Albert, "to be the
fellow-prisoner of an innocent friend."
"Do not you remember," said Laniska, "that, as we were returning from
Berlin, after my unlucky visit to the porcelain manufactory, you promised
me, that whenever I should be in want of your weapons, they should be at
my service? I little thought that I should so soon be in such need of
them. Farewell--I pray for their success."
On the day appointed for the trial of Laniska, crowds of people of all
ranks flocked to hear the proceedings. A spacious building in Potzdam,
intended for a barrack, was, upon this occasion, converted into a hall of
justice; a temporary gallery was erected for the accommodation of the
audience; and a platform was raised in the centre of the hall, where the
judge's chair was placed: on the right hand of his chair a space was
railed in for the reception of the twelve young gentlemen, who were to
act as jurors; on the left another space was railed in for spectators. In
the front there was a large table, on each side of which were benches for
the counsel and witnesses: those for the crown on the right hand; those
for the prisoner on the left. Every thing had, by the king's orders, been
prepared in this manner, according to the English custom.
The Countess Laniska now entered the court, with a few friends, who had
not yet forsaken her. They took their seats at the lower end of the
gallery; and as every eye turned upon the mother, who waited to hear the
trial of her son, an awful silence prevailed. This lasted but for a few
moments; it was succeeded by a general whispering amongst the crowds,
both in the hall and in the gallery. Each individual gave his opinion
concerning the event of the trial: some declared that the circumstances
which must appear against Laniska were so strong, that it was madness in
Albert to undertake his defence; others expressed great admiration of
Albert's intrepid confidence in himself and his friend. Many studied the
countenance of the king, to discover what his wishes might be; and a
thousand idle conjectures were formed from his most insignificant
movements.
At length, the temporary judge having taken his seat, twelve young
gentlemen were chosen, from the most respectable families in Potzdam, to
act as jurors. The prisoner was summoned to answer to the charges brought
against him, in the name of Frederick the Second, king of Prussia.
Laniska appeared, guarded by two officers: he walked up to the steps of
the platform with an air of dignity, which seemed expressive of conscious
innocence; but his countenance betrayed involuntary marks of emotion, too
strong for him to command, when, on raising his eyes, he beheld his
friend Albert, who stood full in his view. Albert maintained an immovable
composure of countenance. The prisoner was now asked whether he had any
objections to make to any of the twelve persons who had been selected to
judge his cause. He made none. They proceeded to take an oath, "that, in
their decision, they would suffer no motives to influence them but a
sense of truth and justice." The judge then rose, and addressing himself
to the jury, said:--
"Gentlemen,
"You are here, by the king's order, to form your opinions concerning the
guilt or innocence of the prisoner, commonly known by the name of Count
Augustus Laniska. You will learn the nature and circumstances of the
accusation against him from Mr. Warendorff, the gentleman on my right
hand, who in this cause has the honour of being counsel for his majesty.
You will hear from the gentleman on my left, Albert Altenburg, all that
can be said in defence of the prisoner, for whom he voluntarily offers
himself as counsel. After having listened to the arguments that may be
adduced, and to the witnesses that shall be examined on each side, you
are, gentlemen, according to the tenour of the oath which has just been
administered to you, to decide, without regard to any consideration but
truth and justice. Your opinion is to be delivered to me by the eldest
amongst you, and it is to be expressed in one or other of these
phrases--_guilty_ or _not guilty_.
"When I shall have heard your decision, I am, in his majesty's name, to
pronounce sentence accordingly. If the prisoner be judged by you _not
guilty_, I am to announce to him that he is thenceforward at liberty, and
that no stain affixes to his honour from the accusation that has been
preferred against him, or from his late imprisonment, or from this public
trial. If, on the contrary, your judgment shall be, that the prisoner is
_guilty_, I am to remand him to the castle of Spandau, where he is to
remain confined for twelve months from this day. To the same punishment I
am also to condemn Albert Altenburg, if he fail to establish in your
minds the innocence of the Count Laniska. It is upon this condition that
he is permitted to plead the cause of his friend.
"Gentlemen, you are called upon to give impartial attention in this
cause, by your duty to your king and to your country."
As soon as the judge, after making this short address to the jury, had
seated himself, Mr. Warendorff, counsel for the crown, rose, and spoke in
the following manner:--
"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,
"It is with inexpressible concern that I find myself called upon to
plead in this cause. To be the accuser of any man is an invidious task:
to be the accuser of such a man as I once thought--as you perhaps still
think--the young Count Laniska must, to a person of generous feelings, be
in a high degree difficult and distressing. I do not pretend to more
generosity or delicacy of sentiment than others; but I beg any of you,
gentlemen, to imagine yourselves for a moment in my place, and to
conceive what must be my sensations as a man, and as an advocate. I am
not ignorant how popular the name of Augustus Laniska is, both in Berlin
and Potzdam. I am not ignorant that the young count has been in the habit
of living amongst you, gentlemen, on terms of familiarity, friendship,
and confidence; nor can I doubt that the graceful, manly manner, and open
deportment, for which he is so eminently distinguished, must have
strongly prepossessed you in his favour. I am not ignorant that I have to
plead against him before his friends, in the presence of his mother--a
mother respected even in a higher degree than her son is beloved;
respected for her feminine virtues--for her more than feminine
endowments; who, had she no other claim upon your hearts, must, by the
unfortunate situation in which she now appears, command your sympathy.
"You must all of you feel, likewise, strongly prepossessed in favour of
that noble-minded youth, who has undertaken to defend the prisoner's
cause, at the hazard of sharing his punishment. I respect the general
character of Albert Altenburg; I admire his abilities; I applaud him, for
standing forward in defence of his friend; I pity him, because he has a
friend, for whom, I fear, even he will find it impossible to establish
any plausible defence. But the idea that he is acting handsomely, and
that he has the sympathy of numbers in his favour, will doubtless support
the young advocate in his arduous task. He appears in this court in the
striking character of counsel, disinterested counsel, for his friend.
"Gentlemen, I also appear in this court as counsel, disinterested counsel
for a friend. Yes, gentlemen, I am permitted to call Frederick the Great
_my friend_. He is not, as other great monarchs have been, ambitious to
raise himself above the sphere of humanity; he does not desire to be
addressed in the fulsome strains either of courtly or of poetical
adulation: he wishes not to be worshipped as a god, but to be respected
as a man[4]. It is his desire to have friends that shall be faithful, or
subjects that shall be obedient. Happy his obedient subjects--they are
secure of his protection: happy, thrice happy, his faithful friends--they
are honoured with his favour and his confidence. It was in the power of
the prisoner now before you to have been in this enviable class. You all
of you know that the Countess Laniska, his mother, has for years been
honoured by the friendship of her sovereign; even the conduct of her son
has not been able to shake his confidence in her. A Pole by birth,
Augustus Laniska was educated amongst the first of the Prussian nobility,
at the military academy at Potzdam, that nursery of heroes. From such an
education--from the son of such a mother--honourable sentiments and
honourable conduct were to be expected. Most confidently were they
expected by his king, who distinguished the young count, as you all know,
even in his boyish days. The count is said to be of a temper naturally
impetuous: the errors into which such a temper too publicly betrayed him
were pardoned by the indulgence of his king. I am compelled to recall one
recent instance of the truth of these assertions, as it is immediately
connected with the present cause."
[Footnote 4: AEschylus.]
Here Mr. Warendorff related all that had passed at the porcelain
manufactory at Berlin, and the king's subsequent conduct towards Count
Laniska. On the magnanimity of his majesty, the eloquent counsel
expatiated for a considerable time; but the applauses with which this
part of his oration was received by a party in the gallery, who were
seated near the king, were so loud, as almost to drown the voice of the
orator, and effectually to distract the attention of those employed to
take down his words. When he could again be heard distinctly, he resumed
as follows:
"I am not surprised at these testimonies of admiration which burst from
the warm hearts of his majesty's subjects; I am only surprised that a
heart could be found in his dominions on whom such magnanimity could make
no impression. I am shocked, I am grieved, when I find such a heart in
the person of Count Laniska. Can it be believed that, in the course of
one short month after this generous pardon, that young nobleman proved
himself the basest of traitors--a traitor to the king, who was his
friend and benefactor? Daring no longer openly to attack, he attempted
secretly to wound the fame of his sovereign. You all of you know what a
degree of liberty, even licence, Frederick the Great permits to that
species of satirical wit with which the populace delight to ridicule
their rulers. At this instant there are various anonymous pasquinades on
the garden-gates at Sans Souci, which would have provoked the
resentment--the fatal resentment--of any other monarch upon earth. It
cannot be doubted that the authors of these things could easily be
discovered, if the king condescended to make any inquiries concerning
them: it cannot be doubted that the king has power to punish the
offenders: yet they remain untouched, perhaps unknown. Our sovereign is
not capable of feeling the petty emotions of vulgar spleen or resentment;
but he could not be insensible to the treacherous ingratitude of one,
whom he imagined to have been attached to him by every tie of kindness
and of duty. That the Count Laniska should choose the instant when the
king was showing him unusual favour, to make that favour an instrument of
his base malice, is scarcely credible. Yet, Prussians, incredible as it
sounds to us, it is true. Here are my proofs: here are my witnesses."
Mr. Warendorff, at this instant, uncovered the Prussian Vase, and then
pointed to a Jew, and to the master of the porcelain manufactory, who
stood beside him, ready to give their evidence. We omit that part of Mr.
Warendorff's speech which contained the facts that have been already
related. The Prussian Vase was handed to the jury: the verses in praise
of Frederick the Great were read, and the word _tyrant_ was seen,
afterward, with the utmost surprise. In the midst of the general
indignation, Mr. Warendorff called upon the Jew to come forward and give
his evidence. This Jew was an old man, and there was something remarkable
in his looks. His head was still; his neck was stiff; but his eyes moved
with incessant celerity from side to side, and he seemed uneasy at not
being able to see what was passing behind him: there was a certain
firmness in his attitude, but his voice trembled when he attempted to
speak. All these circumstances prepossessed Laniska's friends against the
Jew the moment he appeared; and it was justly observed, that his having
the misfortune to be a Jew was sufficient to prejudice many of the
populace against him, even before a word he uttered reached their ears.
But impartial spectators judged that the poor man was only terrified at
being called upon to speak in so large an assembly. Solomon (for that was
the name of the Jew), after having taken an oath upon the Talmud that he
would speak nothing but the truth, made the following answers to the
questions put to him by Mr. Warendorff:--
_Mr. Warendorff_.--"Did you ever see this vase before?"
_Solomon_.--"Yes."
_Mr. Warendorff_.--"Where? when? Tell all you know about it to the
gentlemen of the jury."
_Solomon_.--"The first time I saw that vase was in the gallery of
paintings, at the king's palace of Sans Souci; to the best of my
recollection, it was on the night of the first day of the month, about
ten o'clock, or, perhaps, it might be eleven: I wish to be exact; but I
cannot be certain as to the hour precisely."
_Mr. Warendorff_.--"The exact hour is not of any consequence: proceed.
Tell us how you came to see this vase. Take your time to speak. We are in
no hurry: the truth will appear sooner or later."
_Solomon_.--"His majesty himself put the vase into my hands, and
commanded me to pack it up, with some other china, which he was going to
send as a present to a gentleman at Paris. I am something of a judge of
china myself, being used to selling small pieces of it up and down the
town and country. So I was struck with the first sight of this beautiful
vase; I looked at it very carefully, and wiped away, with my
handkerchief, the dust which had settled on the white figures: here is
the very handkerchief. I wiped the vase all over; but, when I came to rub
the bottom, I stopped to read the verses _on the character of Frederick
the Great_; and having read these, I rubbed the white letters quite
clean: the ground on which they were written was blue. I found that some
of the blue colour came off upon my handkerchief, which surprised me a
good deal. Upon examining further, I perceived that the colour came off
only in one spot, of about an inch long, and half an inch broad. The king
was at this time standing with his back to me, looking at a new picture
which had just been hung up in the gallery; but hearing me make an
exclamation ('_Father Abraham!_' I believe it was that I said), his
majesty turned round. 'What is the matter with you, Solomon? You look
wondrous wise,' his majesty was pleased to say. 'Why do you call on
Father Abraham at this time of day? Do you expect that he will help you
to pack up that china--hey, Solomon, my friend?' I had no power to answer
this question, for by this time, to my utter astonishment, I had
discovered that, on the spot where I had rubbed off the blue paint, there
was a word written--the word was _tyrant_. '_On the character of
Frederick, the great tyrant!_' Said I to myself--'what can this mean?'
The king snatched the vase from my hands, read what I had read, saw the
paint which had been rubbed off upon my handkerchief, and without saying
one word left the gallery. This is all I know about the matter."
The Jew bowed to the court, and Mr. Warendorff told him that, having
closed his evidence, he might depart. But Albert rose to desire that the
judge would order him to remain in court, as he purposed to examine, or,
according to the English term, to _cross-examine_ him further, at a
proper time. The judge ordered the Jew to remain in court. The next
witness called, on the part of the crown, was the master of the porcelain
manufactory of Berlin; to whom Mr. Warendorff put the following
questions:--
_Q_.--"Have you seen the verses which are inscribed on the foot of this
vase?"
_Answer_.--"Yes, I have."
_Q_.--"Do you recollect what words are written over the verses?"
_Answer_.--"I do: the words are--'On the character of Frederick, the
great tyrant.'"
_Q_.--"Do you know by whom those words and these verses were written?"
_Answer_.--"I believe that they were written by Count Augustus Laniska."
_Q_.--"How do you know? or why do you believe it?"
_Answer_.--"I was present when Sophia Mansfeld, the woman by whom the
vase was designed, told the count that she did not know how to write, and
that she would be obliged to him if he would write the inscription
himself on it. The vase at this time had not been put into the furnace.
It was in what we call biscuit. The Count Laniska took a proper tool, and
said that he would write the inscription as she desired. I saw him
writing on the bottom of the vase for some minutes. I heard him afterward
call to one of the workmen, and desire that he would put the vase into
the furnace: the workman accordingly carried it into the next room to the
furnace, as I believe."
_Q_.--"Did you see the inscription on the vase after it was taken out of
the furnace? and was the word 'tyrant' then on it?"
_Answer_.--"I did not see the vase immediately upon its being taken out
of the furnace; but I saw it about an hour afterward. At that time I read
the inscription: the word 'tyrant' was not then visible on the vase; the
place where it now appears was blue. I carried it myself, along with some
others, to the king's palace at Sans Souci. The night of the first day of
this month his majesty sent for me, and showed me the word _tyrant_ on
the vase: I had never seen it there till then. It could not have been
written after the china was baked: it must have been written whilst the
biscuit was soft; and it must have been covered over with the blue paint
after the vase was taken out of the furnace. I believe the word was
written by Count Laniska, because I saw nobody else write upon the vase
hut him; because the word exactly resembles the handwriting of the rest
of the inscription; and because I, upon a former occasion, heard the
count make use of that very word in speaking of Frederick the Great."
Here the master of the porcelain manufactory finished speaking, and was
going, with Mr. Warendorff's permission, to retire; but Albert signified
his intention to cross-examine him also, and the judge commanded that he
should remain in court. The two next witnesses who were produced and
examined were the workman who carried the vase to the furnace, and the
man whose business it was to put the biscuit into the furnace. Neither of
these witnesses could write or read. The workman deposed, that he carried
the Prussian Vase, as he was desired, to the furnace; that no one touched
it on the way thither. The man whose business it was to put the biscuit
into the furnace swore that he put it along with several other vases into
the furnace; that he attended the fire, and that no one touched any of
them till they were baked and taken out by him. Here the evidence for the
prosecution closed. Mr. Warendorff observed, that he should forbear to
expatiate further upon the conduct of the prisoner; that he had been
ordered by his sovereign to speak of him with all possible moderation;
that he earnestly hoped the defence that should be made for Count Laniska
might be satisfactory; and that the mode of trial which had been granted
to him by the king was a sufficient proof of the clemency of his majesty,
and of his earnest desire to allow the prisoner every possible means of
re-establishing his character in the eyes of the public. Albert now rose.
The Count Laniska, who had appeared unmoved during Mr. Warendorff's
oration, changed countenance the moment Albert rose in his defence; the
Countess Laniska leaned forward over the rails of the gallery in
breathless anxiety: there was no sound heard in the whole gallery, except
the jingling of the chain of the king's sword, with which he was playing.
"I shall not attempt, gentlemen," said Albert, "to move your sympathy by
a pathetic description of my own feelings _as a man, and as an advocate_.
Whatever mine may be, it is my wish and my duty to repress them. I have
need of that calm possession of my understanding, which will be necessary
to convince yours of the innocence of my friend. To convince is my
object. If it were in my power, I should, upon the present occasion,
disdain to persuade. I should think it equally incompatible with my own
honour and that of the Count Laniska. With these sentiments, I refrain,
Prussians, from all eulogium upon the magnanimity of your king. Praises
from a traitor, or from the advocate of a traitor, must be unworthy of a
great monarch, or of a generous people. If the prisoner before you shall
be proved to be no traitor, he will doubtless have opportunities of
expressing by actions, better than I can by words, his gratitude to his
sovereign, for having allowed him this public trial by his equals--men
who are able to discern and to assert the truth. It cannot have escaped
their observation, that no positive evidence whatever has yet been
produced against the prisoner. No one has yet been heard to swear that he
_saw_ Count Laniska write the word _tyrant_ upon this vase. The first
witness, Solomon the Jew, has informed us of what our senses could not
leave us room to doubt, that the word is actually engraved upon the
porcelain: further, he has told us that it was covered over with blue
paint, which he rubbed off with his handkerchief. All this may be true;
but the wisdom of Solomon, united to that of Baron Warendorff, has failed
to point out to us any certain connexion between this blue paint, this
handkerchief, and the supposed guilt of the Count Laniska. The master of
the porcelain manufactory came next, and I apprehended that, as being a
more respectable witness than the Jew, it was reserved for him to supply
this link in the chain of evidence. But this respectable witness simply
swore, that he heard a woman say she could not write or read; that she
asked Count Laniska to write an inscription upon a vase for her; that, in
consequence of this request, the count wrote something upon the vase, he
does not pretend to know what; but he believes that the word _tyrant_
must have been one of the words then written by the count, because he saw
no one else write on the vase; because the hand-writing of that word
resembles the rest of the inscription; and because the count, in his
hearing, had, upon a former occasion, made use of the same expression in
speaking of the king. I recapitulate this evidence, to show that it is in
no part _positive_: that it all rests upon circumstances. In order to
demonstrate to you that the word in question could not have been written
by any person but Laniska, two witnesses are produced--the workman who
carried the vase to the furnace, and he who put it into the fire. The one
has positively sworn that no person touched the vase on the way to the
furnace. The other as positively swears that no one meddled with the vase
after it was put into the furnace.
"It is granted that the word could not have been engraved after the
biscuit was baked. The witness, however, has not sworn, or asserted, that
there was no interval of time between his receiving the vase and his
putting it into the fire. What became of it during this interval? How
long did it last? Will the witness swear that no one touched it during
this interval?
"These are questions which I shall put to him presently. I hope I have
established my first assertion, that you have no _positive_ evidence of
the prisoner's guilt.
"You well know, gentlemen, that where positive evidence of any supposed
fact cannot be produced, our judgments must be decided by the balance of
_probabilities_; and it is for this reason that the study of
probabilities, and the power of comparing them, has, in a late celebrated
essay, been called _the Science of Judges_.[5] To you, judges of my
friend, all the probabilities of his supposed guilt have been stated.
Weigh and compare them with those which I shall produce in favour of his
innocence. His education, his character, his understanding, are all in
his favour. The Count Laniska must be much below the common standard of
human virtue and capacity, if, without any assignable motive, he could
have committed an action at once so base and so absurd as this of which
he is accused. His temper is naturally or habitually open and impetuous,
even to extreme imprudence. An instance of this imprudence, and of the
manner in which it was pardoned by the king, has been stated to you. Is
it probable that the same man should be both ingenuous and mean? Is it
probable that the generosity with which he was treated made no impression
upon his heart? His heart must, upon this supposition, be selfish and
unfeeling. Look up, gentlemen, towards that gallery--look at that anxious
mother! those eager friends! Could Laniska's fate excite such anxiety, if
he were selfish and unfeeling? Impossible! But, suppose him destitute of
every generous sentiment, you cannot imagine Count Laniska to be a fool.
You have been lately reminded that he was early distinguished for his
abilities by a monarch, whose penetration we cannot doubt. He was high in
the favour of his sovereign: just entering upon life--a military life;
his hopes of distinction resting entirely upon the good opinion of his
general and his king: all these fair expectations he sacrifices--for
what? for the pleasure--but it could be no pleasure--for the folly of
writing a single word. Unless the Count Laniska be supposed to have been
possessed with an insane desire of writing the word _tyrant_, how can we
account for his writing it upon this vase? Did he wish to convey to
France the idea, that Frederick the Great is a tyrant? A man of common
sense could surely have found, at least, safer methods of doing so than
by engraving it as his opinion upon a vase which he knew was to pass
through the hands of the sovereign whom he purposed thus treacherously to
insult. The extreme improbability that any man in the situation, with the
character, habits, and capacity of Count Laniska, should have acted in
this manner amounts, in my judgment, almost to a _moral impossibility_. I
knew nothing more, gentlemen, of this cause, when I first offered to
defend Laniska at the hazard of my liberty: it was not merely from the
enthusiasm of friendship that I made this offer; it was from the sober
conviction of my understanding, founded upon the accurate calculation of
moral probabilities.
[Footnote 5: Voltaire--Essai sur les Probabilites en fait de Justice.]
"It has been my good fortune, gentlemen, in the course of the inquiries
which I have since made, to obtain further confirmation of my opinion.
Without attempting any of that species of oratory which may be necessary
to cover falsehood, but which would encumber instead of adorning truth, I
shall now, in the simplest manner in my power, lay the evidence before
the court."
The first witness Albert called was the workman who carried the vase to
the man at the furnace. Upon his cross-examination, he said that he did
not deliver the vase into the hands of the man at the furnace, but that
he put it, along with several other pieces, upon a tray, on a table,
which stood near the furnace.
_Albert_.--"You are certain that you put it upon a tray?"
_Witness_.--"Quite certain."
_Albert_.--"What reason have you for remembering that circumstance
particularly?"
_Witness_.--"I remember it, because I at first set this vase upon the
ledge of the tray, and it was nearly falling. I was frightened at that
accident, which makes me particularly remember the thing. I made room
upon the tray for the vase, and left it quite safe upon the tray: I am
positive of it."
_Albert_.--"That is all I want with you, my good friend."
The next witness called was the man whose business it was to put the
vases into the furnace.
_Albert_.--"Did you see the witness who was last examined put this vase
upon a tray when he left it under your care?"
_Witness_.--"I did."
_Albert_.--"You are certain that he put it _upon the tray?_ What reason
have you to remember that circumstance particularly?"
_Witness_.--"I remember it, because I heard the witness cry out, 'There,
William, I had like to have thrown down this cursed vase; but, look you
here, I've left it quite safe upon the tray.' Upon this, I turned and
looked, and saw that vase standing upon the tray, safe, with some
others."
_Albert_.--"Do you recollect any thing else that passed?"
_Witness_.--"Only that the witness told me I must put it--the vase, I
mean--into the furnace directly; and I answered to that, 'All in good
time; the furnace is not ready yet; it will go in along with the rest.'"
_Albert_.--"Then you did not put it into the furnace immediately after it
was left with you?"
_Witness_.--"No, I did not--but that was not my fault--I could not; the
furnace was not hot enough."
_Albert_.--"How long do you think it was, from the time it was left upon
the tray, till you put it into the furnace?"
_Witness_.--"I don't know--I can't be positive: it might be a quarter of
an hour, or twenty minutes; or it might be half an hour. I cannot be
positive, sir; I cannot be positive."
_Albert_.--"You need not be positive. Nobody wants you to be positive.
Nobody wants to entrap you, my good friend. During this quarter of an
hour, or twenty minutes, or half an hour, that you speak of, did you ever
lose sight of this vase?"
_Witness_.--"To be sure I did. I did not stand watching it all the while.
Why should I? It was safe enough."
_Albert_.--"Do you recollect where you found the vase when you took it to
put it into the furnace?"
_Witness_.--"Yes: it was standing as it might be here, in the middle of
the table."
_Albert_.--"Do you recollect whether it was standing _upon_ the tray or
not?"
_Witness_.--"It was not _upon_ the tray, as I recollect: no, I'm sure it
was not, for I carried to the furnace first the tray and all that was on
it, and then I remember, I came back for this, which was standing, as I
said before, as it might be here, in the middle of the table."
_Albert_.--"Was any body, except yourself, at the furnace, or in the
room, from the time that this vase was brought to you, till you put it
into the furnace?"
_Witness_.--"Not as I remember. It was our dinner-time. All the men,
except myself, were gone to dinner: I stayed to mind the furnace."
_Albert_.--"It was you, then, that took this vase off the tray, was it?"
_Witness_.--"No, it was not. I never took it off the tray. I told you it
was not upon the tray with the others; I told you it was upon the table,
as it might be here."
_Albert_.--"Yes, when you were going to put it into the furnace, you said
that you saw it standing in the middle of the table; but you recollect
that you saw the workman who brought it put it upon the tray. You told us
you remembered that circumstance perfectly."
_Witness_.--"Yes, so I do."
_Albert_.--"The vase could not have got off the tray of itself. You did
not take it off. How came it off, do you think?"
_Witness_.--"I don't know. I can't tell. Somebody, to be sure, must have
taken it off. I was minding the furnace. My back was to the door. I don't
recollect seeing any body come in; but many might have come in and out,
without my heeding them."
_Albert_.--"Take your own time, my good friend. Recollect yourself;
perhaps you may remember."
_Witness_.--"Oh, yes, now you put me upon recollecting, I do remember
that Solomon the Jew came in, and asked me where Sophia Mansfeld was; and
it certainly must have been he who took the vase off the tray; for now I
recollect, as I looked round once from the furnace, I saw him with it in
his hand; he was looking at the bottom of it, as I remember: he said,
here are some fine verses, or some such thing; but I was minding the
furnace. That's all I know about the matter."
_Albert_.--"That is enough."
The next witness who came forward was the husband of Sophia Mansfeld.--He
deposed, that on the 29th of April, the day on which the Prussian Vase
was finished, as stated by the former evidence, and sent to be put into
the furnace, he met Sophia Mansfeld in the street: she was going home to
dinner. He asked to see the vase: she said that it was, she believed, put
into the furnace, and that he could not then see it; that she was sorry
he had not come sooner, for that he could have written the inscription on
it for her, and that would have spared her the shame of telling Count
Laniska that she could not read or write. She added, that the count had
written all that was wanting for her. The witness, being impatient to see
the vase, went as fast as he could to the manufactory, in hopes of
getting a sight of it before it was put into the furnace. He met Solomon
the Jew at the door of the manufactory, who told him that he was too
late, that all the vases were in the furnace; he had just seen them put
in. The Jew, as the witness now recollects, though it did not strike him
at the time, was eager to prevent him from going into the furnace-room.
Solomon took him by the arm, and walked with him up the street, talking
to him of some money which he was to remit to Meissen, to Sophia
Mansfeld's father and mother.
_Albert_ asked the witness on whose account this money was to be remitted
by the Jew to Meissen.
_Witness_.--"The money was to be remitted on Sophia Mansfeld's account."
_Albert_.--"Did she borrow it from the Jew?"
_Witness_.--"No; the Jew owed it to her for work done by her. She had the
art of painting on glass. She had painted some glasses for a large magic
lantern, and several small pictures on glass. She did these things at the
hours when she was not obliged to be at the manufactory. She rose very
early in the morning and worked hard. She sold her work to the Jew upon
condition that he would remit the price agreed upon to her father and
mother, who were old, and depended on her for support."
_Albert_.--"Was the money punctually remitted to her father and mother by
the Jew?"
_Witness_.--"Not a farthing of it was remitted by him, as Sophia
discovered since her return to Meissen."
_Albert_.--"Did you ever hear this Jew say any thing about Sophia
Mansfeld's returning to Saxony?"
_Witness_.--"Yes; I once heard the Jew say that he hoped she never would
leave Berlin, because she was of great use to him. He advised me to
settle in Berlin. This passed about six weeks ago. About a week before
the prize was decided by the king, I met the Jew, and told him Sophia had
good hopes of getting back to Saxony. He looked very much vexed, and
said, 'She is not sure of that.'"
_Albert_.--"Did you ever hear this Jew speak of Count Laniska?"
_Witness_.--"Yes, about two months ago I saw him in the street when I was
speaking to Solomon, and I asked the Jew who he was. He answered, 'He is
the Count Laniska--a man that I hate, and on whom I will be revenged some
time or other.' I asked why he hated the count. The Jew replied, 'Because
the Christian dog has made the corps of Jews his laughing-stock. This
day, when my son was going through his manual exercise before the king,
Count Laniska was holding his sides with laughter. I'll be revenged upon
him some time or other.'"
_Albert_.--"I have no occasion, sir, to trouble you with any farther
questions."
The next witness who appeared was a druggist of Berlin. He deposed, that,
on the 30th of April, Solomon the Jew came to his shop and asked for blue
paints; that, after trying the colours very carefully upon the back of a
letter, which he took out of his pocket, he bought a small quantity of a
shade of blue, which the witness produced in court.
Albert ordered that the paint should be handed to the gentlemen of the
jury, that they might compare it with the blue ground of the Prussian
Vase. With this it was found, upon comparison, to match exactly.
_Albert to the druggist_.--"Do you know what became of the paper upon
which you say the Jew tried your colours?"
_Witness_.--"Yes; here it is. I found it under the counter, after the Jew
went away, and I kept it to return to him, as I saw there was an account
on the other side of the paper, which I imagined he might want. He never
happened to call at my shop afterwards, and I forgot that I had such a
paper, till you, sir, called upon me about a week ago, to make inquiry on
this subject. You desired me to keep the paper carefully, and not to let
any one know that it was in my possession, till the day on which the
trial of Count Laniska was to come on. I have complied with your request,
and here is the paper."
The paper was handed to the jury; and one of the shades of blue exactly
matched that of the ground of the Prussian Vase. Albert now called upon
the Jew to produce, once more, the handkerchief with which he had rubbed
off the paint. The chain of evidence was now complete, for the blue on
the handkerchief was precisely the same as the colours on the paper and
on the vase. After the jury had satisfied themselves of this resemblance,
Albert begged that they would read what was written upon the paper. The
first thing that struck their eyes was the word _tyrant_ frequently
repeated, as if by some one who had been practising to write different
hands. One of these words was an exact resemblance of the word _tyrant_
on the Prussian Vase; and Albert pointed out a circumstance, which had
till now escaped attention, that the letter _r_, in this word, was made
differently from all the _ars_ in the rest of the inscription. The
writing of the Count Laniska had, in every other respect, been
successfully imitated.
After Albert had shown these things to the jury, he here closed the
evidence in favour of the prisoner, observing, that the length of time
which the trial had lasted seemed to have somewhat fatigued both the
judge and jury; and, knowing that it was now their usual hour of dinner,
he prudently forbore to make a long speech upon the evidence which had
been laid before them in favour of his friend: he left it to their own
understandings to determine the balance of probabilities between the
honour of Count Laniska and the honesty of Solomon the Jew.
The judge, in a manner which would have done honour even to the English
bench, summed up the evidence on both sides, and gave a distinct and
impressive charge to the jury, who, without leaving the court, gave a
verdict in favour of the prisoner. Loud acclamations filled the hall. In
the midst of these acclamations, the word--"Silence!" was pronounced by
that voice which never failed to command instantaneous obedience in
Prussia. All eyes turned upon the monarch.
"This court is now dissolved," said his majesty. "My judgment confirms
the verdict of the jury. Count Laniska, I took your sword from you too
hastily. Accept of mine in its stead." And as he pronounced these words,
Frederick ungirded his sword, and presented it to the young count. "As
for you, sir," continued the king, addressing himself to Albert, "you
want no _sword_ for the defence of your friends. Your arms are superior
to ours. Let me engage them in my service; and, trust me, I shall not
leave them long unemployed, or unrewarded."
There was but one person present to whom this speech seemed to give no
satisfaction. This person was Solomon the Jew, who stood apart, waiting
in black silence to learn his own fate. He was sentenced, not to a year's
imprisonment in the castle of Spandau, but to sweep the streets of
Potzdam (including the court in front of Count Laniska's palace) for a
twelvemonth.
After having heard this sentence, which was universally approved of, the
spectators began to retire.
The king dined--it is always important to know where great men
dine--Frederick the Great dined this day at the Countess Laniska's, in
company with her son, his friend Albert, and the English traveller. After
dinner, the king withdrew to attend parade; and it was observed that he
wore the Count Laniska's sword.
"You will allow," said the countess to the English traveller, "that our
king is a great man; for none but great men can bear to acknowledge that
they have been mistaken."
"You will allow, madam," replied the Englishman, "that it was our English
trial by jury which convinced the king of his mistake."
"And you applaud him for granting that trial," said Albert.
"To a certain degree I do," said the Englishman, from whom it was
difficult to extort praise of a despotic king--"to a certain degree, I
do; but you will observe, that this trial by jury, which is a matter of
favour to you Prussians, is a matter of right to us Englishmen. Much as I
admire your king of Prussia, I admire our English constitution more."
THE GOOD AUNT
Charles Howard was left an orphan when he was very young. His father had
dissipated a large fortune, and lost his life in a duel, about some _debt
of honour_, which had been contracted at the gaming-table. Without
fortune and without friends, this poor boy would probably have lived and
died in wretchedness, but for the humanity of his good aunt, Mrs. Frances
Howard. This lady possessed a considerable fortune, which, in the opinion
of some of her acquaintance, was her highest merit: others respected her
as the branch of an ancient family: some courted her acquaintance because
she was visited by the best company in town: and many were ambitious of
being introduced to her, because they were sure of meeting at her house
several of those distinguished literary characters who throw a radiance
upon all who can contrive to get within the circle of their glories. Some
few, some very few of Mrs. Howard's acquaintance, admired her for her
real worth, and merited the name of friends.
She was a young and cheerful woman when she first undertook the education
of her little nephew. She had the courage to resist the allurements of
dissipation, or all that by her sex are usually thought allurements. She
had the courage to apply herself seriously to the cultivation of her
understanding: she educated herself, that she might be able to fulfil the
important duty of educating a child. Hers was not the foolish fondness of
a foolish aunt; she loved her nephew, and she wished to educate him, so
that her affection might increase, instead of diminishing, as he grew up.
By associating early pleasure with reading, little Charles soon became
fond of it: he was never forced to read books which he did not
understand; his aunt used, when he was very young, to read aloud to him
any thing entertaining that she met with; and whenever she perceived by
his eye that his attention was not fixed, she stopped. When he was able
to read fluently to himself, she selected for him passages from books,
which she thought would excite his curiosity to know _more_; and she was
not in a hurry to cram him with knowledge, but rather anxious to prevent
his growing appetite for literature from being early satiated. She always
encouraged him to talk to her freely about what he read, and to tell her
when he did not like any of the books which she gave him. She conversed
with him with so much kindness and cheerfulness; she was so quick at
perceiving his latent meaning; and she was so gentle and patient when she
reasoned with him, that he loved to talk to her better than to any body
else; nor could little Charles ever thoroughly enjoy any pleasure without
her sympathy.
The conversation of the sensible, well-informed people who visited Mrs.
Howard contributed to form her nephew's taste. A child may learn as much
from conversation as from books--not so many historic facts, but as much
instruction. Greek and Latin were the grand difficulties. Mrs. Howard did
not understand Greek and Latin; nor did she, though a woman, set too high
or too low a value upon the learned languages. She was convinced that a
man might be a great scholar without being a man of sense; she was also
persuaded that a man of sense might be a good scholar. She knew that,
whatever abilities her nephew might possess, he could not be upon a
footing with other men in the world, without possessing that species of
knowledge which is universally expected from gentlemen, as an essential
proof of their having received a liberal education; nor did she attempt
to undervalue the pleasures of classic taste merely because she was not
qualified to enjoy them: she was convinced, by the testimony of men of
candour and judgment, that a classical taste is a source of real
enjoyment, and she wished her nephew's literary pleasures to have as
extensive a range as possible.
To instruct her nephew in the learned languages, she engaged a good
scholar and a man of sense: his name--for a man is nothing without a
name--was Russell[1]. Little Charles did not at first relish Latin; he
used sometimes to come from his Latin lessons with a very dull, stupified
face, which gradually brightened into intelligence, after he had talked
for a few minutes with his aunt. Mrs. Howard, though pleased to perceive
that he was fond of her, had not the weakness to sacrifice his permanent
advantage to her transient gratification. One evening Charles came
running up-stairs to his aunt, who was at tea; several people happened to
be present. "I have done with Mr. Russell, and my Latin, ma'am, thank
goodness--now may I have the elephant and the camel, or the bear and her
cubs, that you marked for me last night?"
[Footnote 1: RUSSELL.--This name is chosen for that of a good tutor,
because it was the name of Mr. Edgeworth's tutor, at Oxford: Mr. Russell
was also tutor to the late Mr. Day. Both by Mr. Day and Mr. Edgeworth he
was respected, esteemed, and beloved, in no common degree.]
The company laughed at this speech of Charles: and a silly lady--for even
Mrs. Howard could not make all her acquaintance wise--a silly lady
whispered to Charles, "I've a notion, if you'd tell the truth, now, that
you like the bear and her cubs a great deal better than you do Latin and
Mr. Russell."
"I like the bear a great deal better than I do Latin, to be sure," said
the boy; "but as for Mr. Russell--why, I think," added he, encouraged by
the lady's smiles, "I think I like the bear better than Mr. Russell."
The lady laughed affectedly at this sally.
"I am sure," continued Charles, fancying that every person present was
delighted with his wit, "I am sure, at any rate, I like the learned pig
fifty times better than Mr. Russell!"
The judicious lady burst into a second fit of laughter. Mrs. Howard
looked very grave. Charles broke from the lady's caresses, and going up
to his aunt, timidly looking up in her face, said, "Am I a fool?"
"You are but a child," said Mrs. Howard; and, turning away from him, she
desired the servant, who waited at tea, to let Mr. Russell know that she
desired the _honour_ of his company. Mrs. Holloway--for that was the
silly lady's name--at the words, "honour of his company," resumed her
gravity, but looked round to see what the rest of the company thought.
"Give me leave, Mr. Russell," said Mrs. Howard, as soon as he came into
the room, "to introduce you to a gentleman, for whose works I know you
have a great esteem." The gentleman was a celebrated traveller, just
returned from abroad, whose conversation was as much admired as his
writings.
The conversation now took a literary turn. The traveller being polite, as
well as entertaining, drew out Mr. Russell's knowledge and abilities.
Charles now looked up to his tutor with respect. Children have sufficient
penetration to discover the opinions of others by their countenance and
manner, and their sympathy is quickly influenced by the example of
those around them. Mrs. Howard led the traveller to speak of what he had
seen in different countries--of natural history--of the beaver, and the
moose-deer, and the humming-bird, that is scarcely larger than a bumble
bee; and the mocking-bird, that can imitate the notes of all other birds.
Charles _niched_ himself into a corner of the sofa upon which the
gentlemen were sitting, and grew very attentive. He was rather surprised
to perceive that his tutor was as much entertained with the conversation
as he was himself.
"Pray, sir," said Mrs. Howard to the traveller, "is it true that the
humming-bird is a passionate little animal? Is the story told by the
author of the Farmer's Letters true?"
"What story?" said Charles, eagerly.
"Of a humming-bird that flew into a fury with a flower, and tore it to
pieces, because it could not get the honey out of it all at once."
"Oh, ma'am," said little Charles, peeping over his tutor's shoulders,
"will you show me that? Have you got the book, _dear_ aunt?"
"It is Mr. Russell's book," said his aunt.
"Your book!" cried Charles: "what, and do you know all about animals, and
those sorts of entertaining things, as well as Latin? And can you tell
me, then, what I want very much to know, how they catch the
humming-bird?"
"They shoot it."
"Shoot it! but what a large hole they must make in its body and beautiful
feathers! I thought you said its whole body was no bigger than a bee--a
humble bee."
"They make no hole in its body--they shoot it without ruffling even its
feathers."
"How, how?" cried Charles, fastening upon his tutor, whom he now regarded
no longer as a mere man of Latin.
"They charge the gun with water," said Mr. Russell, "and the poor little
humming-bird is stunned by the discharge."
The conversation next turned upon the entertaining chapter on instinct,
in Dr. Darwin's Zoonomia. Charles did not understand all that was said,
for the gentlemen did not address themselves to him. He never listened to
what he did not understand: but he was very quick at hearing whatever was
within the limits of his comprehension. He heard of the tailor-bird, that
uses its long bill as a needle, to sew the dead and the living leaf
together, of which it makes its light nest, lined with feathers and
gossamer: of the fish called the 'old soldier,' that looks out for the
empty shell of some dead animal, and fits this armour upon himself: of
the Jamaica spider, that makes himself a house under ground, with a door
and hinges, which door the spider and all the members of his family take
care to shut after them, whenever they go in and out.
Little Charles, as he sat eagerly attentive in his corner of the sofa,
heard of the trumpet of the common gnat[2], and of its proboscis, which
serves at once for an awl, a saw, and a pump.
[Footnote 2: St. Pierre, Etudes de la Nature.]
"Are there any more such things," exclaimed Charles, "in these books?"
"A great many," said Mr. Russell.
"I'll read them all," cried Charles, starting up--"may I? may not I,
aunt?"
"Ask Mr. Russell," replied his aunt: "he who is obliged to give you the
pain of learning what is tiresome, should have the pleasure of rewarding
you with entertaining books. Whenever he asks me for Dr. Darwin and St.
Pierre, you shall have them. We are both of one mind. We know that
learning Latin is not the most amusing occupation in the world, but still
it must be learned."
"Why," said Charles modestly, "you don't understand Latin, aunt, do you?"
"No," said Mrs. Howard, "but I am a woman, and it is not thought
necessary that a woman should understand Latin; nor can I explain to you,
at your age, why it is expected that a gentleman should; but here are
several gentlemen present--ask them whether it be not necessary that a
gentleman should."
Charles gathered all the opinions, and especially that of the
entertaining traveller.
Mrs. Holloway, the silly lady, during that part of the conversation from
which she might have acquired some knowledge, had retired to the further
end of the room to a game at trictrac with an obsequious chaplain. Her
game being finished, she came up to hear what the crowd round the sofa
could be talking about; and hearing Charles ask the opinions of the
gentlemen about the necessity of learning Latin, she nodded sagaciously
at Mrs. Howard, and, by way of making up for former errors, said to
Charles, in the most authoritative tone,--
"Yes, I can assure you, Mr. Charles, I am quite of the gentlemen's
opinion, and so is every body--and this is a point upon which I have some
right to speak; for my Augustus, who is only a year and seven months
older than you are, sir, is one of the best scholars of his age, I am
told, in England. But then, to be sure, it was flogged into him well at
first, at a public school, which, I understand, is the best way of making
good scholars."
"And the best way of making boys love literature?" said Mrs. Howard.
"Certainly, certainly," said Mrs. Holloway, who mistook Mrs. Howard's
tone of inquiry for a tone of assertion, a tone more familiar to
her--"certainly, ma'am, I knew you would come round to my notions at
last. I'm sure my Augustus must be fond of his Latin, for never in the
vacations did I ever catch him with any English book in his hand!"
"Poor boy!" said Charles, with unfeigned compassion, "And when, my dear
Mrs. Howard," continued Mrs. Holloway, laying her hand upon Mrs. Howard's
arm, with a yet untasted pinch of snuff between her fingers, "when will
you send Mr. Charles to school?"
"Oh, aunt, don't send me away from you--Oh, sir! Mr. Russell, try me--I
will do my very, _very_ best, without having it flogged into me, to learn
Latin--only try me."
"Dear sir, I really beg your pardon," said Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Russell;
"I absolutely only meant to support Mrs. Howard's opinion for the sweet
boy's good; and I thought I saw you go out of the room, or somebody else
went out, whilst I was at trictrac. But I'm convinced a private tutor may
do wonders at the same time; and if my Augustus prejudiced me in favour
of public education, you'll excuse a mother's partiality. Besides, I make
it a rule never to interfere in the education of my boys. Mr. Holloway is
answerable for them; and if he prefer public schools to a private tutor,
you must be sensible, sir, it would be very wrong in me to set my poor
judgment in opposition to Mr. Holloway's opinion."
Mr. Russell bowed; for, when a lady claims a gentleman's assent to a
series of inconsistent propositions, what answer can he make but--a bow?
Mrs. Holloway's carriage was now at the door, and, without troubling
herself any further about the comparative merits of public and private
education, she departed.
When Mrs. Howard was left alone with her nephew, she seized the moment,
while his mind was yet warm, to make a lasting impression. Charles,
instead of going to Buffon's account of the elephant, which he was very
impatient to read, sat down resolutely to his Latin lesson. Mrs. Howard
looked over his shoulder, and when he saw her smile of approbation, he
said, "Then you won't send me away from you?"
"Not unless you oblige me to do so," said his aunt: "I love to have you
with me, and I will try for one year whether you have energy enough to
learn what is disagreeable to you, without--"
"Without its being flogged into me," said Charles: "you shall see."
This boy had a great deal of energy and application. The Latin lessons
were learned very perfectly; and as he did not spend above an hour a day
at them, he was not disgusted with application. His general taste for
literature, and his fund of knowledge, increased rapidly from year to
year, and the activity of his mind promised continual improvement. His
attachment to Mrs. Howard increased as he grew up, for she never claimed
any gratitude from her pupil, or exacted from him any of those little
observances, which women sometimes consider as essential proofs of
affection. She knew that these minute attentions are particularly irksome
to boys, and that they are by no means the natural expressions of their
feelings. She had sufficient strength of mind to be secure in the
possession of those qualities which merit esteem and love, and to believe
that the child whom she had educated had a heart and understanding that
must feel and appreciate her value.
When Charles Howard was about thirteen, an event happened which changed
his prospects in life. Mrs. Howard's large fortune was principally
derived from an estate in the West Indies, which had been left to her by
her grandfather. She did not particularly wish to be the proprietor of
slaves; and from the time that she came to the management of her own
affairs, she had been desirous to sell her West India property. Her agent
represented to her that this could not be done without considerable loss.
From year to year the business was delayed, till at length a gentleman,
who had a plantation adjoining to hers, offered to purchase her estate.
She was neither one of those ladies who, jealous of their free will,
would rather _act for themselves_, that is to say, follow their own whims
in matters of business, than consult men who possess the requisite
information; nor was she so ignorant of business, or so indolent, as to
be at the mercy of any designing agent or attorney. After consulting
proper persons, and after exerting a just proportion of her own judgment,
she concluded her bargain with the West Indian. Her plantation was sold
to him, and all her property was shipped for her on board _The Lively
Peggy_. Mr. Alderman Holloway, husband to the silly Mrs. Holloway, was
one of the trustees appointed by her grandfather's will. The alderman,
who was supposed to be very knowing in all worldly concerns, sanctioned
the affair with his approbation. The lady was at this time rich; and
Alderman Holloway applauded her humanity in having stipulated for the
liberty and _provision grounds_ of some old negroes upon her plantation;
he even suggested to his son Augustus, that this would make a very
pretty, proper subject for a copy of verses, to be addressed to Mrs.
Howard. The verses were written in elegant Latin; and the young gentleman
was proceeding with some difficulty in his English translation of them,
when they were suppressed by parental authority. The alderman changed his
opinion as to the propriety of the argument of this poem: the reasons
which worked upon his mind were never distinctly expressed; they may,
however, be deduced from the perusal of the following letter:--
"TO MRS. FRANCES HOWARD.
"DEAR MADAM,
"Sorry am I to be under the disagreeable necessity of communicating to
you thus abruptly, the melancholy news of the loss of 'The Lively Peggy,'
with your valuable consignment on board, viz. sundry puncheons of rum,
and hogsheads of sugar, in which commodities (as usual) your agent
received the purchase-money of your late fine West India estate. I must
not, however reluctantly, omit to mention the casket of your
grandmother's jewels, which I now regret was sent by this opportunity.
'Tis an additional loss--some thousands, I apprehend.
"The captain of the vessel I have just seen, who was set on shore, on the
15th ultimo, on the coast of Wales: his mate mutinied, and, in conspiracy
with the crew, have run away with the vessel.
"I have only to add, that Mrs. Holloway and my daughter Angelina
sincerely unite with me in compliments and condolence; and I shall be
happy if I can be of any service in the settlement of your affairs.
"Mrs Holloway desires me to say, she would do herself the honour of
waiting upon you to-morrow, but is setting out for Margate.
"I am, dear madam,
"Your most obedient and humble servant,
"A. T. Holloway.
"P.S. Your agent is much to blame for neglecting to insure."
Mrs. Howard, as soon as she had perused this epistle, gave it to her
nephew, who was reading in the room with her when she received it. He
showed more emotion on reading it than she had done. The coldness of the
alderman's letter seemed to strike the boy more than the loss of a
fortune--"And this is a friend!" he exclaimed with indignation.
"No, my love," said Mrs. Howard, with a calm smile, "I never thought Mr.
Holloway any thing more than a common acquaintance: I hope--I am sure I
have chosen _my friends_ better."
Charles fixed an eager, inquiring eye upon his aunt, which seemed to say,
"Did you mean to call me one of your friends?" and then he grew very
thoughtful.
"My dear Charles," said the aunt, after nearly a quarter of an hour's
silence, "may I know what you have been thinking of all this time?"
"Thinking of, ma'am!" said Charles, starting from his reverie--"of a
great many things--of all you have done for me--of--of what I could do--I
don't mean now; for I know I am a child, and can do nothing--I don't mean
_nothing_.--I shall soon be a man, and then I can be a physician, or a
lawyer, or something.--Mr. Russell told me the other day, that if I
applied myself, I might be whatever I pleased. What would _you_ wish me
to be, ma'am?--because that's what I will be--if I can."
"Then I wish you to be what you are."
"O madam," said Charles, with a look of great mortification, "but that's
nothing. Won't you make me of some use to you?--But I beg your pardon, I
know you can't think about me just now. Good night," said he, and hurried
out of the room.
The news of the loss of the Lively Peggy, with all the particulars
mentioned in Alderman Holloway's letter, appeared in the next day's
newspapers, and in the succeeding paper appeared an advertisement of Mrs.
Howard's house in Portman-square, of her plate, china, furniture, books,
&c.--She had never in affluence disdained economy. She had no debts; not
a single tradesman was a sufferer by her loss. She had always lived
within her annual income; and though her generous disposition had
prevented her from hoarding money, she had a small sum in the funds,
which she had prudently reserved for any unforeseen exigence. She had
also a few diamonds, which had been her mother's, which Mr. Carat, the
jeweller, who had new set them, was very willing to purchase. He waited
upon Mrs. Howard, in Portman-square, to complete the bargain.
The want of sensibility which Charles showed when his aunt was parting
with her jewels to Mr. Carat, would have infallibly ruined him in the
opinion of most ladies. He took the trinkets up, one by one, without
ceremony, and examined them, asking his aunt and the jeweller questions
about the use and value of diamonds--about the working of the mines of
Golconda--about the shining of diamonds in the dark, observed by the
children of Cogi Hassan, the rope-maker, in the Arabian Tales--about the
experiment of Francis the First upon _melting_ of diamonds and rubies.
Mr. Carat was a Jew, and, though extremely cunning, profoundly ignorant.
"Dat king wash very grand fool, beg his majesty's pardon," said the Jew,
with a shrewd smile; "but kings know better nowadays. Heaven bless dere
majesties."
Charles had a great mind to vindicate the philosophic fame of Francis the
First, but a new idea suddenly started into his head.
"My dearest aunt," cried he, stopping her hand as she was giving her
diamond ear-rings to Mr. Carat--"stay, my dearest aunt, one instant, till
I have seen whether this is a good day for selling diamonds."
"O my dear young gentleman, no day in de Jewish calendar more proper for
de purchase," said the Jew.
"For the purchase! yes," said Charles; "but for the sale?"
"My love," said his aunt, "surely you are not so foolish as to think
there are lucky and unlucky days."
"No, I don't mean any thing about lucky and unlucky days," said Charles,
running up to consult the barometer; "but what I mean is not foolish
indeed: in some book I've read that the dealers in diamonds buy them when
the air is light, and sell them when it is heavy, if they can; because
their scales are so nice that they vary with the change in the
atmosphere. Perhaps I may not remember exactly the words, but that's the
sense, I know. I'll look for the words; I know whereabout to find them."
He jumped upon a chair, to get down the book.
"But, Master Charles," said the Jew, with a show of deference, "I will
not pretend to make a bargain with you--I see you know a great deal more
than I of these traffics."
To this flattery Charles made no answer, but continued looking for the
passage he wanted in his book. Whilst he was turning over the leaves, a
gentleman, a friend of Mrs. Howard, who had promised her to meet Mr.
Carat, came in. He was the gentleman formerly mentioned by the name of
_the traveller_: he was a good judge of diamonds, and, what is better, he
was a good judge of the human heart and understanding. He was much
pleased with Charles's ready recollection of the little knowledge he
possessed, with his eagerness to make that knowledge of use to his aunt,
and more with his perfect simplicity and integrity; for Charles, after a
moment's thought, turned to the Jew and said,--
"But the day that is good for my aunt must be bad for you. The buyers and
sellers should each have fair play. Mr. Carat, your weights should be
diamonds, and then the changes in the weight of the air would not signify
one way or the other.[3]"
[Footnote 3: This observation was literally made by a boy of ten years of
age.]
Mr. Carat smiled at this speech, but, suppressing his contempt for the
young gentleman, only observed, that he should most certainly follow Mr.
Charles's advice, whenever he _wash_ rich enough to have diamonds for
weights.
The traveller drew from his pocket a small book, took a pen, and wrote in
the title-page of it, _For one who will make a good use of it_; and, with
Mrs. Howard's permission, he gave the book to her nephew.
"I do not believe," said the gentleman, "that there is at present another
copy in England: I have just got this from France by a private hand."
The sale of his aunt's books appeared to Charles a much more serious
affair than the parting with her diamonds. He understood something of the
value of books, and he took a sorrowful leave of many which he had read,
and of many more which he had intended to read. Mrs. Howard selected a
few for her own use, and she allowed her nephew to select as many for
himself as she had done. He observed that there was a beautiful edition
of Shakspeare, which he knew his aunt liked particularly, but which she
did not keep, reserving instead of it Smith's Wealth of Nations, which
would in a few years, she said, be very useful to him. He immediately
offered his favourite Etudes de la Nature to redeem the Shakspeare; but
Mrs. Howard would not accept of it, because she justly observed, that she
could read Shakspeare _almost_ as well without its being in such a
beautiful binding. Her readiness to part with all the luxuries to which
she had been for many years accustomed, and the freedom and openness with
which she spoke of all her affairs to her nephew, made a great impression
upon his mind.
Those are mistaken who think that young people cannot be interested in
such things: if no mystery be made of the technical parts of business,
young people easily learn them, and they early take an interest in the
affairs of their parents, instead of learning to separate their own views
from those of their friends. Charles, young as he was, at this time, was
employed by his aunt frequently to copy, and sometimes to write, letters
of business for her. He drew out a careful inventory of all the furniture
before it was disposed of; he took lists of all the books and papers: and
at this work, however tiresome, he was indefatigable, because he was
encouraged by the hope of being useful. This ambition had been early
excited in his mind.
When Mrs. Howard had settled her affairs, she took a small neat house
near Westminster school[4], for the purpose of a boarding-house for some
of the Westminster boys. This plan she preferred, because it secured an
independent means of support, and at the same time enabled her, in some
measure, to assist in her nephew's education, and to enjoy his company.
She was no longer able to afford a sufficient salary to a well-informed
private tutor; therefore she determined to send Charles to Westminster
school; and, as he would board with her, she hoped to unite by this
scheme, as much as possible, the advantages of a private and of a public
education. Mr. Russell desired still to have the care of Mrs. Howard's
nephew; he determined to offer himself as a tutor at Westminster school;
and, as his acquirements were well known to the literary world, he was
received with eagerness.
[Footnote 4: See the account of Mrs. C. Ponten, in Gibbon's Life.]
"My dear boy," said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, when he first went to
Westminster, "I shall not trouble you with a long chapter of advice: do
you remember that answer of the oracle, which seemed to strike you so
much the other day, when you were reading the life of Cicero?"
"Yes," said Charles, "I recollect it--I shall never forget it. When
Cicero asked how he should arrive at the height of glory, the oracle
answered, 'By making his own genius, and not the opinion of the people,
the guide of his life.'"
"Well," said Mrs. Howard, smiling, "if I were your oracle, and you were
to put the same question to me, I think I should make you nearly the same
answer; except that I should change the word genius into good sense; and,
instead of _the people_, I should say _the world_, which, in general, I
think, means all the _silly people_ of one's acquaintance. Farewell: now
go to the Westminster world."
Westminster was quite a new world to young Howard. The bustle and noise
at first astonished his senses, and almost confounded his understanding;
but he soon grew accustomed to the din, and familiarized to the sight of
numbers. At first, he thought himself much inferior to all his
companions, because practice had given them the power of doing many
things with ease, which to him appeared difficult, merely because he had
not been used to them. In all their games and plays, either of address or
force, he found himself foiled. In a readiness of repartee, and a certain
ease and volubility of conversation, he perceived his deficiency; and
though he frequently was conscious that his ideas were more just, and his
arguments better, than those of his companions, yet he could not at first
bring out his ideas to advantage, or manage his arguments so as to stand
his ground against the mixed raillery and sophistry of his school
fellows. He had not yet the tone of his new society, and he was as much
at a loss as a traveller in a foreign country, before he understands the
language of a people who are vociferating round about him. As fast,
however, as he learned to translate the language of his companions into
his own, he discovered that there was not so much meaning in their
expressions as he had been inclined to imagine whilst they had remained
unintelligible: but he was good-humoured and good-natured, so that, upon
the whole, he was much liked; and even his inferiority, in many little
trials of skill, was, perhaps, in his favour. He laughed with those that
laughed at him, let them triumph in his awkwardness, but still persisted
in new trials, till at last, to the great surprise of the spectators, he
succeeded.
The art of boxing cost him more than all the rest; but as he was neither
deficient in courage of mind nor activity of body, he did not despair of
acquiring the _necessary_ skill in this noble science--necessary, we say,
for Charles had not been a week at Westminster before he was made
sensible of the necessity of practising this art in his own defence. He
had yet a stronger motive; he found it necessary for the defence of one
who looked up to him for protection.
There was at this time at Westminster, a little boy of the name of
Oliver, a Creole, lively, intelligent, open-hearted, and affectionate in
the extreme, but rather passionate in his temper, and adverse to
application. His _literary_ education had been strangely neglected before
he came to school, so that his ignorance of the common rudiments of
spelling, reading, grammar, and arithmetic, made him the laughing-stock
of the school. The poor boy felt inexpressible shame and anguish; his
cheek burned with blushes, when every day, in the public class, he was
ridiculed and disgraced; but his dark complexion, perhaps, prevented
those blushes from being noticed by his companions, otherwise they
certainly would have suppressed, or would have endeavoured to repress,
some of their insulting peals of laughter. He suffered no complaint or
tear to escape him in public; but his book was sometimes blistered with
the tears that fell when nobody saw them: what was worse than all the
rest he found insurmountable difficulties, at every step, in his grammar.
He was unwilling to apply to any of his more learned companions for
explanations or assistance. He began to sink into despair of his own
abilities, and to imagine that he must for ever remain, what indeed he
was every day called, a dunce. He was usually flogged three times a week.
Day after day brought no relief, either to his bodily or mental
sufferings: at length his honest pride yielded, and he applied to one of
the elder scholars for help. The boy to whom he applied was Augustus
Holloway, Alderman Holloway's son, who was acknowledged to be one of the
best Latin scholars at Westminster. He readily helped Oliver in his
exercises, but he made him pay most severely for this assistance, by the
most tyrannical usage; and, in all his tyranny, he thought himself fully
justifiable, because little Oliver, beside his other misfortunes, had the
misfortune to be a fag.
There may be--though many schoolboys will, perhaps, think it scarcely
possible--there may be, in the compass of the civilised world, some
persons so barbarously ignorant as not to know what is meant by the
term fag. To these it may be necessary to explain, that at some English
schools it is the custom, that all little boys, when they first go to
school, should be under the dominion of the elder boys. These little
boys are called fags, and are forced to wait upon and obey their
master-companions. Their duties vary in different schools. I have heard
of its being customary in some places, to make use of a fag regularly in
the depth of winter instead of a warming-pan, and to send the shivering
urchin through ten or twenty beds successively to take off the chill of
cold for their luxurious masters. They are expected, in most schools, to
run of all the elder boys' errands, to be ready at their call, and to do
all their high behests. They must never complain of being tired, or their
complaints will, at least, never be regarded, because, as the etymology
of the word implies, it is their business to be tired. The substantive
_fag_ is not to be found in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary; but the verb to fag
is there a verb neuter, from fatigo, Latin, and is there explained to
mean, "to grow weary, to faint with weariness." This is all the
satisfaction we can, after the most diligent research, afford the curious
and learned reader upon the subject of _fags_ in general.
In particular, Mr. Augustus Holloway took great delight in teasing his
fag, little Oliver. One day it happened that young Howard and Holloway
were playing at nine-pins together, and little Oliver was within a few
yards of them, sitting under a tree, with a book upon his knees,
anxiously trying to make out his lesson. Holloway, whenever the nine-pins
were thrown down, called to Oliver, and made him come from his book and
set them up again: this he repeatedly did, in spite of Howard's
remonstrances, who always offered to set up the nine-pins, and who said
it teased the poor little fellow to call him every minute from what he
was about.
"Yes," said Holloway, "I know it teases him--that I see plain enough, by
his running so fast back to his _form_, like a hare--there he is,
_squatting_ again: halloo! halloo! come, start again here," cried
Holloway; "you have not done yet: bring me the bowl, halloo!"
Howard did not at all enjoy the diversion of hunting the poor boy about
in this manner, and he said, with some indignation,
"How is it possible, Holloway, that the boy can get his lesson, if you
interrupt him every instant?"
"Pooh! what signifies his foolish lesson?"
"It signifies a great deal to him," replied Howard: "you know what he
suffered this morning because he had not learned it."
"Suffered! why, what did he suffer?" said Holloway, upon whose memory the
sufferings of others made no very deep impression. "Oh, ay, true--you
mean he was flogged: more shame for him!--why did not he mind and get his
lesson better?"
"I had not time to understand it rightly," said Oliver, with a deep sigh;
"and I don't think I shall have time to-day either."
"More shame for you," repeated Holloway: "I'll lay any bet on earth, I
get all you have to get in three minutes."
"Ah, you, to be sure," said Oliver, in a tone of great humiliation; "but
then you know what a difference there is between you and me."
Holloway misunderstood him; and, thinking he meant to allude to the
difference in their age, instead of the difference of their abilities,
answered sharply,
"When I was your age, do you think I was such a dunce as you are, pray?"
"No, that I am sure you never were," said Oliver; "but perhaps you had
some good father or mother, or somebody, who taught you a little before
you came to school."
"I don't remember any thing about that," replied Holloway; "I don't know
who was so good as to teach me, but I know I was so good as to learn fast
enough, which is a goodness, I've a notion, some folks will never have to
boast of--so trot, and fetch the bowl for me, do you hear, and set up the
nine-pins. You've sense enough to do that, have not you? and as for your
lesson, I'll drive that into your head by and by, if I can," added he,
rapping with his knuckles upon the little boy's head.
"As to my lesson," said the boy, putting aside his head from the
insulting knuckles, "I had rather try and make it out by myself, if I
can."
"If you can!" repeated Holloway, sneering; "but we all know you can't."
"Why can't he, Holloway?" exclaimed Howard, with a raised voice, for he
was no longer master of his indignation.
"Why can't he?" repeated Holloway, looking round upon Howard, with a
mixture of surprise and insolence. "You must answer that question
yourself, Howard: I say he can't."
"And I say he can, and he shall," replied Howard; "and he _shall_ have
time to learn: he's willing, and, I'll answer for it, able to learn; and
he shall not be called a dunce; and he shall have time; and he shall have
justice."
"Shall! shall! shall!" retorted Holloway, vociferating with a passion of
a different sort from Howard's. "Pray, sir, who allowed you to say shall
to me? and how dare you to talk in this _here_ style to me about
justice?--and what business have you, I should be glad to know, to
interfere between me and my fag? What right have you to him, or his time
either? And if I choose to call him a dunce forty times a day, what then?
he is a dunce, and he will be a dunce to the end of his days, I say, and
who is there thinks proper to contradict me?"
"I," said Howard, firmly; "and I'll do more than contradict you--I'll
prove that you are mistaken. Oliver, bring your book to me."
"Oliver, stir at your peril!" cried Holloway, clinching his fist with a
menacing gesture: "nobody shall give any help to my fag but myself, sir,"
added he to Howard.
"I am not going to help him, I am only going to prove to him that he may
do it without your help," said Howard.
The little boy sprang forward, at these words, for his book; but his
tormentor caught hold of him, and pulling him back, said, "He's my fag!
do you recollect, sir, he's my fag?"
"Fag or no fag," cried Howard, "you shall not make a slave of him."
"I will! I shall! I will!" cried Holloway, worked up to the height
of tyrannical fury: "I will make a slave of him, if I choose it-a
negro-slave, if I please!"
At the sound of negro-slave, the little Creole burst into tears. Howard
sprang forward to free him from his tyrant's grasp: Holloway struck
Howard a furious blow, which made him stagger backwards.
"Ay," said Holloway, "learn to stand your ground, and fight, before you
meddle with me, I advise you."
Holloway was an experienced pugilist, and he knew that Howard was not;
but before his defiance had escaped his lips, he felt his blow returned,
and a battle ensued. Howard fought with all his _soul_; but the _body_
has something to do, as well as the soul, in the art of boxing, and his
body was not yet a match for his adversary's. After receiving more blows
than Holloway, perhaps, could have borne, Howard was brought to the
ground.
"Beg my pardon, and promise never to interfere between me and my fag any
more," said Holloway, standing over him triumphant: "ask my pardon."
"Never," said the fallen hero: "I'll fight you again, in the same cause,
whenever you please; I can't have a better;" and he struggled to rise.
Several boys had, by this time, gathered round the combatants, and many
admired the fortitude and spirit of the vanquished, though it is
extremely difficult to boys, if not to men, to sympathize with the
beaten. Every body called out that Howard had had enough for that night;
and though he was willing to have renewed the battle, his adversary was
withheld by the omnipotence of public opinion. As to the cause of the
combat, some few inquired into its merits, but many more were content
with seeing the fray, and with hearing, vaguely, that it began about
Howard's having interfered with Holloway's fag in an impertinent manner.
Howard's face was so much disfigured, and his clothes were so much
stained with blood, that he did not wish to present himself such a
deplorable spectacle before his aunt; besides, no man likes to be seen,
especially by a woman, immediately after he has been beaten; therefore,
he went directly to bed as soon as he got home, but desired that one of
his companions, who boarded at Mrs. Howard's, would, if his aunt inquired
for him at supper, tell her "that he had been beaten in a boxing match,
but hoped to be more expert after another lesson or two." This lady did
not show her tenderness to her nephew by wailing over his disaster: on
the contrary, she was pleased to hear that he had fought in so good a
cause.
The next morning, as soon as Howard went to school, he saw little Oliver
watching eagerly for him.
"Mr. Howard--Charles," said he, catching hold of him, "I've one word to
say: let him call me dunce, or slave, or negro, or what he will, don't
you mind any more about me--I can't bear to see it," said the
affectionate child: "I'd rather have the blows myself, only I know I
could not bear them as you did."
Oliver turned aside his head, and Howard, in a playful voice, said, "Why,
my little Oliver, I did not think you were such a coward: you must not
make a coward of me."
No sooner did the boys go out to play in the evening, than Howard called
to Oliver, in Holloway's hearing, and said, "If you want any assistance
from me, remember, I'm ready."
"You may be ready, but you are not able," cried Holloway, "to give him
any assistance--therefore, you'd better be quiet: remember last night."
"I do remember it perfectly," said Howard, calmly.
"And do you want any more?--Come, then, I'll tell you what, I'll box with
you every day, if you please, and when you have conquered me, you shall
have my fag all to yourself, if you please; but, till then, you shall
have nothing to do with him."
"I take you at your word," said Howard, and a second battle began. As we
do not delight in fields of battle, or hope to excel, like Homer, in
describing variety of wounds, we shall content ourselves with relating,
that after five pitched battles, in which Oliver's champion received
bruises of all shapes and sizes, and of every shade of black, blue,
green, and yellow, his unconquered spirit still maintained the justice of
his cause, and with as firm a voice as at first he challenged his
constantly victorious antagonist to a sixth combat.
"I thought you had learned by this time," said the successful pugilist,
"that Augustus Holloway is not to be conquered by one of _woman breed_."
To this taunt Howard made no reply; but whether it urged him to superior
exertion, or whether the dear-bought experience of the five preceding
days had taught him all the caution that experience only can teach, we
cannot determine; but, to the surprise of all the spectators, and to the
lively joy of Oliver, the redoubted Holloway was brought, after an
obstinate struggle, fairly to the ground. Every body sympathized with the
generous victor, who immediately assisted his fallen adversary to rise,
and offered his hand in token of reconciliation. Augustus Holloway,
stunned by his fall, and more by his defeat, returned from the field of
battle as fast as the crowd would let him, who stopped him continually
with their impertinent astonishment and curiosity; for though the boasted
unconquerable hero had pretty evidently received a black eye, not one
person would believe it without looking close in his face; and many would
not trust the information of their own senses, but pressed to hear the
news confirmed by the reluctant lips of the unfortunate Augustus. In the
meantime, little Oliver, a fag no longer, exulting in his liberty,
clapped his joyful hands, sang, and capered round his deliverer.--"And
now," said he, fixing his grateful, affectionate eyes upon Howard, "you
will suffer no more for me; and if you'll let me, I'll be your fag. Do,
will you? pray let me! I'll run of your errands before you can say one,
two, three, and away: only whistle for me," said he, whistling, "and I'll
hear you, wherever I am. If you only hold up your finger when you want
me, I'm sure I shall see it; and I'll always set up your nine-pins, and
fly for your ball, let me be doing what I will. May I be your fag?"
"Be my _friend_!" said Howard, taking Oliver in his arms, with emotion
which prevented him from articulating any other words. The word friend
went to the little Creole's heart, and he clung to Howard in silence. To
complete his happiness, little Oliver this day obtained permission to
board at Mrs. Howard's, so that he was now constantly to be with his
protector. Howard's friendship was not merely the sudden enthusiasm of a
moment; it was the steady persevering choice of a manly mind, not the
caprice of a school-boy. Regularly, every evening, Oliver brought his
books to his friend, who never was too busy to attend to him. Oliver was
delighted to find that he understood Howard's manner of explaining: his
own opinion of himself rose with the opinion which he saw his instructor
had of his abilities. He was convinced that he was not doomed to be a
dunce for life; his ambition was rekindled; his industry was encouraged
by hope, and rewarded by success. He no longer expected daily punishment,
and that worst of all punishments, disgrace. His heart was light, his
spirits rose, his countenance brightened with intelligence, and resumed
its natural vivacity: to his masters and his companions he appeared a new
creature. "What has inspired you?" said one of his masters to him one
day, surprised at the rapid development of his understanding--"what has
inspired you?"
"My good genius," said the little boy, pointing to Howard. Howard had
some merit in giving up a good deal of his time to Oliver, because he
knew the value of time, and he had not quite so much as he wished for
himself. The day was always too short for him; every moment was employed;
his active mind went from one thing to another as if it did not know the
possibility of idleness, and as if he had no idea of any recreation but
in a change of employment. Not that he was always poring over books, but
his mind was active, let him be about what he would; and, as his
exertions were always voluntary, there was not that opposition in his
opinion between the ideas of play and work, which exists so strongly in
the imaginations of those school-boys who are driven to their tasks by
fear, and who escape from them to that delicious exercise of their
free-will which they call play.
"Constraint, that sweetens liberty,"
often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false idea to its
nature. Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, and a nameless train of
mistaken notions of pleasure, are often classed, in a young man's mind,
under the general head of _liberty_.
Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled to our notice, when we
want to personify an ill-educated young man, was, in the strictest sense
of the word, a school-boy--a clever school-boy--a good scholar--a good
historian: he wrote a good hand--read with fluency--declaimed at a public
exhibition of Westminster orators with no bad grace and emphasis, and had
always extempore words, if not extempore sense, at command. But still he
was but a school-boy. His father thought him a man, and more than a man.
Alderman Holloway prophesied to his friends that his son Augustus would
be one of the first orators in England. He was in a hurry to have him
ready to enter college, and had a borough secure for him at the proper
age. The proper age, he regretted, that parliament had fixed to
twenty-one; for the alderman was impatient to introduce his young
statesman to the house, especially as he saw honours, perhaps a title, in
the distant perspective of his son's advancement.
Whilst this vision occupied the father's imagination, a vision of another
sort played upon the juvenile fancy of his son--a vision of a gig; for,
though Augustus was but a school-boy, he had very manly ideas--if those
ideas be manly which most young men have. Lord Rawson, the son of the
Earl of Marryborough, had lately appeared to Augustus in a gig. The young
Lord Rawson had lately been a school-boy at Westminster like Augustus: he
was now master of himself and three horses at College. Alderman Holloway
had lent the Earl of Marryborough certain monies, the interest of which
the earl scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman valued himself upon
being a shrewd man; he looked to one of the earl's boroughs as a security
for his principal, and, from long-sighted political motives, encouraged
an intimacy between the young nobleman and his son. It was one of those
useful friendships, one of those fortunate connexions, which some parents
consider as the peculiar advantage of a public school. Lord Rawson's
example already powerfully operated upon his young friend's mind, and
this intimacy was most likely to have a decisive influence upon the
future destiny of Augustus. Augustus was the son of an alderman. Lord
Rawson was two years older than Holloway--had left school--had been at
college--had driven both a curricle and a barouche, and had gone through
all the gradations of coachmanship--was a man, and had _seen the world_.
How many things to excite the ambition of a schoolboy! Augustus was
impatient for the moment when he might "be what he admired." The drudgery
of Westminster, the confinement, the ignominious appellation of _a boy_,
were all insupportable to this _young man_. He had obtained from his
father a promise, that he should leave school in a few months; but these
months appeared to him an age. It was rather a misfortune to Holloway
that he was so far advanced in his Latin and Greek studies, for he had
the less to do at school; his school business quickly despatched, his
time hung upon his hands. He never thought of literature as an amusement
for his leisure hours; he had no idea of improving himself further in
general science and knowledge. He was told that his education was
_nearly_ at an end; he believed it was _quite_ finished, and he was glad
of it, and glad it was so well over. In the idle time that hung upon his
hands, during this intermediate state at Westminster, he heartily
regretted that he could not commence his manly career by learning to
_drive_--to drive a curricle. Lord Rawson had carried him down to
the country, the last summer vacation, in his _dog-cart_, driven
_randem-tandem_. The reins had touched his fingers. The whip had been
committed to his hand, and he longed for a repetition of these pleasures.
From the windows of the house in Westminster, where he boarded, Holloway
at every idle moment lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage, and of
every coachman that passed.
Mr. Supine, Mr. Holloway's tutor, used, at these leisure moments, to
employ himself with practising upon the German flute, and was not sorry
to be relieved from his pupil's conversation. Sometimes it was provoking
to the amateur in music to be interrupted by the exclamations of his
pupil; but he kept his eyes steadily upon his music-book, and contented
himself with recommending a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway's
raptures about horses, and coachmanship, and driving well in hand,
offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both from nature and fashion,
indolent; the trouble of reproving or of guiding his pupil was too much
for him; besides, he was sensible that the task of watching,
contradicting, and thwarting a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway's time of
life, would have been productive of the most disagreeable scenes of
altercation, and could possibly have no effect upon the gentleman's
character, which he presumed was perfectly well formed at this time. Mr.
and Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his improvements. Mr. Supine
was on the best terms imaginable with the whole family, and thought it
his business to keep himself _well_ with his pupil; especially as he had
some secret hope that, through Mr. Holloway's interest with Lord Rawson,
and through Lord Rawson's influence with a young nobleman, who was just
going abroad, he might be invited as a travelling companion in a tour
upon the continent. His taste for music and painting had almost raised
him to the rank of a connoisseur: an amateur he modestly professed
himself, and he was frequently stretched, in elegant ease, upon a sofa,
already in reverie in Italy, whilst his pupil was conversing out of the
window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver of a stagecoach in
the neighbourhood. Young Holloway was almost as familiar with this
coachman as with his father's groom, who, during his visits at home,
supplied the place of Mr. Supine, in advancing his education. The
stage-coachman so effectually wrought upon the ambition of Augustus, that
his desire to learn _to drive_ became uncontrollable. The coachman,
partly by entreaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, was
prevailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could manage it without his
tutor's knowledge, he should ascend to the honours of the box, and at
least have the satisfaction of _seeing some good driving_.
Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at which Mrs. Holloway
was expected, and at which her daughter, Miss Angelina Holloway, was
engaged to perform. Mr. Supine's judicious applause of this young lady's
execution was one of his greatest recommendations to the whole family, at
least to the female part of it; he could not, therefore, decline an
invitation to this concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, and
desired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, adding, with his usual
politeness, that "music was the greatest bore in nature, and especially
Angelina's music." For the night of the concert Holloway had arranged his
plan with the stage-coachman. Mr. Supine dressed, and then practised upon
the German flute, till towards nine o'clock in the evening. Holloway
heard the stage-coach rattling through the street, whilst his tutor was
yet in the middle of a long concerto: the coachman was to stop at the
public-house, about ten doors off, to take up parcels and passengers, and
there he was to wait for Holloway; but he had given him notice that he
could not wait many minutes.
"You may practise the rest without book, in the chair, as you are going
to ---- street, _quite at your ease_, Mr. Supine," said Holloway to his
tutor.
"Faith, so I can, and I'll adopt your idea, for it's quite a novel thing,
and may take, if the fellows will only carry one steady. Good night: I'll
mention your sore throat _properly_ to Mrs. Holloway."
No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely raised upon
the chairmen's shoulders, than his pupil recovered from his sore
throat, ran down to the place where the stage was waiting, seized the
stage-coachman's down-stretched hand, sprang up, and seated himself
triumphantly upon the coach-box.
"Never saw a cleverer fellow," said the coachman: "now we are off."
"Give me the reins, then," said Holloway.
"Not till we are out o'town," said the coachman: "when we get off the
stones, we'll see a little of your driving."
When they got on the turnpike road, Holloway impatiently seized the
reins, and was as much gratified by this coachman's praises of his
driving as ever he had been by the applauses he had received for his
Latin verses. A taste for vulgar praise is the most dangerous taste a
young man can have; it not only leads him into vulgar company, but it
puts him entirely in the power of his companions, whoever they may happen
to be. Augustus Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to all
intents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and gloried in
catching, all his companion's slang, and with his language caught all his
ideas. The coachman talked with rapture of some young gentleman's horses
which he had lately seen; and said that, if he was a gentleman, there was
nothing he should pride himself so much upon as his horses. Holloway, as
he was a gentleman, determined to have the finest horses that could be
had for money, as soon as he should become his own master.
"And then," continued the coachman, "if I was a gentleman born, I'd never
be shabby in the matters of wages and perquisites to them that be to look
after my horses, seeing that horses can't be properly looked after for
nothing."
"Certainly not," agreed the young gentleman:--"my friend, lord Rawson, I
know, has a prodigious smart groom, and so will I, all in good time."
"To be sure," said the coachman; "but it was not in regard to grooms I
was meaning, so much as in regard to a coachman, which, I take it, is one
of the first persons to be considered in a really grand family, seeing
how great a trust is placed in him--(mind, sir, if you please, the turn
at the corner, it's rather sharp)--seeing how great a trust is placed in
him, as I was observing, a good coachman is worth his weight in gold."
Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this observation, for
the conversation was now interrupted by the sound of a postchaise, which
drove rapidly by.
"The job and four!" exclaimed the coachman, with as many oaths "as the
occasion required."
"Why did you let it pass us?" And with enthusiasm which forgot all
ceremony, he snatched the whip from his young companion, and, seizing the
reins, drove at a furious rate. One of the chaise postilions luckily
dropped his whip. They passed the job and four; and the coachman, having
redeemed his honour, resigned once more the reins to Holloway, upon his
promising not to let the job and four get a head of them. The postilions
were not without ambition: the men called to each other, and to their
horses; the horses caught some portion of their masters' spirit, and
began to gain upon the coach. The passengers in the coach put out their
heads, and female voices screamed in vain. All these terrors increased
the sport; till at length, at a narrow part of the road, the rival
coachman and postilions hazarded every thing for precedency. Holloway was
desperate in proportion to his ignorance. The coachman attempted to
snatch the reins, but, missing his grasp, he shortened those of the
off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong way: the coach ran upon a bank,
and was overturned. Holloway was dismayed and silent; the coachman poured
forth a torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend nor foe; the complaints
of the female passengers were so incoherent, and their fears operated so
much upon their imagination, that in the first moments of confusion, each
asserted that she had broken either an arm or a leg, or fractured her
skull.
The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning of the evening, was now
under a cloud, and the darkness increased the impatience of the various
complainers; at length a lantern was brought from the turnpike-house,
which was near the spot where the accident happened. As soon as the light
came, the ladies looked at each other, and after they had satisfied
themselves that no material injury had been done to their clothes, and
that their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to recover from
their terrors, and were brought to allow that all their limbs were in
good preservation, and that they had been too hasty in declaring that
their skulls were fractured. Holloway laughed loudly at all this, and
joined in all the wit of the coachman upon the occasion. The coach was
lifted up; the passengers got in; the coachman and Holloway mounted the
box, when, just as they were setting off, the coachman heard a voice
crying to him to stop. He listened, and the voice, which seemed to be
that of a person in great pain, again called for assistance.
"It's the mulatto woman," said the coachman: "we forgot her in the
bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, and stand at the horses' heads,
whilst I see after her," added the coachman, addressing himself to the
man who had come from the turnpike-house.
"I shan't stir for a _mulatto_, I promise you," said Holloway, brutally:
"she was on the top of the coach, wasn't she? She must have had a fine
hoist!"
The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she had been thrown from the
top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones at the bottom of it. She
had not been able to make herself heard by any body, whilst the ladies'
loud complaints continued; nor had she been able long to call for any
assistance, for she had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered
her senses for many minutes. She was not able to stand; but when the
coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in broken
English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night.
"You shall have an inside place, if you'll pluck up your heart; and
you'll find yourself better with the motion of the coach."
"What, is she hurt--the mulatto woman?--I say, coachy, make haste," cried
Holloway; "I want to be off."
"So do I," said the coachman; "but we are not likely to be off yet:
here's this here poor woman can't stand, and is all over bruises, and
won't get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place."
Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so
rich as himself could be _bought off_ for money, pulled out a handful of
silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting
woman:--"Here's a shilling for every bruise at least, my good
woman:"--but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The
coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left
her, telling the people of the house that a return chaise would call for
her in an hour's time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or
back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway's diversion for the rest of
the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the poor
woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the
accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of ----.
He had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the
job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his
friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won
the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the
coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. "So," said Holloway, "I
must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first
sleep."
Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto; or,
rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the
coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.
The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the chaise-door,
and told Holloway "that he could hardly understand what she said, she
talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out where she
wanted to be carried to."
"Ask the name of some of her friends in town," cried Holloway, "and don't
let her keep us here all night."
"She has no friends, as I can find," replied the postilion, "nor
acquaintance neither."
"Well, whom does she belong to, then?"
"She belongs to nobody--she's quite a stranger in these parts, and
doesn't know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only
knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she says."
"What would she have us to do with her, then?" said Holloway. "Drive on,
for I shall be late."
The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed, "No, master,
no!--it's a sin to leave her upon the road this ways, though she's no
Christian, as we are, poor copper-coloured soul! I was once a stranger
myself in _Lon'on_, without a six-pence to bless myself; so I know what
it is, master."
The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. "Mistress,"
said he, "I'd fain see ye safe home, if you could but think of the
t'other name of that gardener that you mentioned lodging with; because
there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should never find your
Paul, as you don't know neither the name of his street--But I'll tell ye
now all the streets I'm acquainted with, and that's a many: do you stop
me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you're sadly bruised, and I
won't see ye left this ways on the road."
He then named several streets: the mulatto woman stopped him at one name,
which she recollected to be the name of the street in which the gardener
lived. The woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard the street
in which he lived named, said she knew this gardener; that he had a large
garden about a mile off, and that he came from London early almost every
morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she advised the
mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, and to send to ask the
gardener to come on to the turnpike-house for her in the morning. The
postilion promised to go to the gardener's "by the first break of day."
The woman raised her head to bless him; and the impatient Holloway loudly
called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he would not give
him one farthing for himself if he did not.
The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept him in pain; but
Holloway never measured or estimated his pleasures and his pains;
therefore he never discovered that, even upon the most selfish
calculation, he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a
coach-box for one hour.
It was two o'clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in town, when
he was set down at the house at which the stage-coach put up, walked
home, got in at his bedchamber window--his bedchamber was upon the
ground-floor. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed in his
successful _frolic_. Whilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving again,
and again overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his less manly
dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school, advancing
towards him, at a public examination, with a prize medal in his hand,
which turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into the face
of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a striking likeness of his
tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled upon him; and then changed into the
head of little Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just at the
instant, Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver's face close to
him, laughing heartily.
"Why," exclaimed Oliver, "you seized my head with both your hands when I
came to waken you: what could you be dreaming of, Charles?"
"I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to have hold of
you," said Howard, laughing; "but I shall not get my medal by dreaming
about it. What o'clock is it? I shall be ready in half a second."
"Ay," said Oliver, "I wont tell you what o'clock it is till you're
dressed: make haste; I have been up this half hour, and I've got every
thing ready, and I've carried the little table, and all your books, and
the pen and ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun shines
upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you'll have a full hour to
work, for it's only half after five."
At the back of Mrs. Howard's house there was a little garden; at the end
of the garden was a sort of root-house, which Oliver had cleaned out, and
which he dignified by the title of _the seat_. There were some pots of
geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard's permission, by a
gardener, who lived next door to her, and who frequently came to work in
her garden. Oliver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead leaves,
whilst Howard was writing at the little table which had been prepared for
him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, on which he was
enthusiastically intent: he was translating the little French book which
the traveller had given to him; and he was writing _an essay for a
prize_. The young gentlemen at Westminster were engaged in writing essays
for a periodical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give a prize medal as
the reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of critics, to be chosen
from among the boys themselves, should pronounce to be the best
composition.
"I won't talk to you, I won't interrupt you," said Oliver to Howard; "but
only answer me one question: what is your essay about?"
Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head.
"I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning
before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think _I_ shall ever be able to
write essays?"
"To be sure," said Howard; "why not?"
"Ah," said Oliver, with a sigh, "because I've no genius, you know."
"But," said Howard, "have not you found out that you could do a great
many things that you thought you could not do?"
"Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things
which can be done without genius."
"And what _are_ the things," replied Howard, "which cannot be done
without genius?"
"Oh, a great, _great_ many, I believe," said Oliver: "you know Holloway
said so."
"But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we?
Besides, a _great many things_ may mean any thing, buckling your shoes,
or putting on your hat, for instance."
Oliver laughed at this, and said, "These, to be sure, are not the sort of
things that can't be done without genius."
"What are the sort of things?" repeated Howard. "Let us, now I've the pen
in my hand, make a list of them."
"Take a longer bit of paper."
"No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What
shall I put first?--make haste, for I'm in a hurry."
"Well--writing, then--writing, I am sure, requires genius."
"Why?"
"Because I never could write, and I've often tried and tried to write
something, but I never could; because I've no genius for it."
"What did you try to write?" said Howard.
"Why, letters," said Oliver: "my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins,
desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never can
make out a letter, and I'm always sorry when letter-writing day comes;
and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find nothing to
say. I used always to beg _a beginning_ from somebody; but then, when
I've got over the beginning, that's only three or four lines; and if I
stretch it out ever so much, it won't make a whole letter; and what can I
put in the middle? There's nothing but that _I am well, and hope they are
all well_; or else, _that I am learning Latin, as you desired, dear
uncle, and am forward in my English_. The end I can manage well enough,
because there's duty and love to send to every body; and about _the post
is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your dutiful and
affectionate nephew_. But then," continued little Oliver, "this is all
nonsense, I know, and I'm ashamed to write such bad letters. Now your pen
goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment you sit down to it; and
you can write three pages of a nice, long, good letter, whilst I am
writing '_My dear uncle John_,' and that's what I call having a genius
for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you write good letters
when you were of my age?"
"I never wrote any letters at your age," said Howard.
"Oh, how happy you must have been! But then, if you never learned, how
comes it that you can write them now? How can you always find something
to say?"
"I never write but when I have something to say; and you know, when you
had something to say last post about Easter holidays, your pen, Oliver,
went scratch, scratch, scratch, as fast as any body's."
"So it did," cried Oliver; "but then the thing is, I'm forced to write
when I've nothing about the holidays to say."
"Forced?"
"Yes, because I'm afraid my uncle and cousins should be angry if I didn't
write."
"I'm sure I'm much obliged," said Howard, "to my dear aunt, who never
forced me to write: she always said, 'Never write, Charles, but when you
like it;' and I never did. When I had any thing to say, that is, any
thing to describe, or any reasons to give upon any subject, or any
questions to ask, which I very much wished to have answered, then, you
know, I could easily write, because I had nothing to do but to write down
just the words which I should have said, if I had been speaking."
"But I thought writing was quite a different thing from speaking,
because, in writing, there must be sentences, and long sentences, and
fine sentences, such as there are in books."
"In _some_ books," said Howard; "but not in all."
"Besides," continued Oliver, "one person's speaking is quite different
from another person's speaking. Now I believe I make use of a great
number of odd words, and vulgar expressions, and bad English, which I
learned from being with the servants, I believe, at home. You have never
talked to servants, Charles, I dare say, for you have not one of their
words."
"No," said Charles, "never; and my aunt took a great deal of pains to
prevent me from hearing any of their conversation; therefore it was
impossible that I should catch--"
Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of old Paul, the
gardener.
"So, Paul," cried little Oliver, "I've been doing your work for you this
morning; I've watered all the geraniums, and put the Indian corn in the
sun; what kept you so late in your bed this fine morning, Paul?--fie,
Paul!"
"You would not say fie, master," replied Paul, "if you knew how early I
had been out of my bed, this morning: I was abroad afore sunrise, so I
was, master."
"And why didn't you come to work then, Paul? You shall not have the
watering-pot till you tell me: don't look so grave about it; you know you
must smile when I please, Paul."
"I can't smile, just now, master," said old Paul; but he smiled, and then
told Oliver, that "the reason he could not smile was, that he was a
little sick at heart, with just coming from the sight of a poor soul who
had been sadly bruised by a fall from the top of the stage, which was
overturned last night. She was left all night at the _pike_, and as she
had no other friends, she sent for me by a return chay-boy, and I went
for her, and brought her home in my covered cart, to my good woman, which
she liked, with good reason, better ten to one than the stage. And she's
terribly black and blue, and does not seem quite right in her head, to my
fancy."
"I wish we could do something for her," said Howard. "As soon as Mr.
Russell is up, I'll ask him to go with us to see her. We will call as we
go by to school this morning."
"But, master," said the gardener, "I should warn ye beforehand, that
mayhap you mayn't pity her so much, for she's rather past her best days;
and bad must have been her best, for she's swarthy, and not like one of
this country: she comes from over the seas, and they call her a--a--not
quite a negro."
"A mulatto!--I like her the better," cried Oliver; "for my nurse was a
mulatto. I'll go and waken Mr. Russell this instant, for I'm sure he'll
not be angry." He ran away to Mr. Russell, who was not angry at being
awakened, but dressed himself _almost_ as expeditiously as Oliver wished,
and set out immediately with his pupils, delighted to be the companion of
their benevolent schemes, instead of being the object of their fear and
hatred. Tutors may inspire affection, even though they have the
misfortune to be obliged to teach Greek and Latin.[5]
[Footnote 5: Vide Dr. Johnson's assertions to the contrary, in Mrs.
Piozzi's Anecdotes.]
When the boys arrived at the gardener's, they found the poor mulatto
woman lying upon a bed, in a small close room, which was so full of
smoke, when they came in, that they could hardly breathe: the little
window, that let in but a glimmering light, could not, without
difficulty, be opened. The poor woman made but few complaints; she
appeared to be most concerned at the thoughts of being a burden to the
good old gardener and his wife. She said that she had not been long in
England; that she came to London in hopes of finding a family who had
been very kind to her in her youth; but that, after inquiry at the house
where they formerly lived, she could hear nothing of them. After a great
deal of trouble, she discovered that a West India gentleman, who had
known her abroad, was now at Bath; but she had spent the last farthing of
her money, and she was, therefore, unable to undertake the journey. She
had brought over with her, she said, some foreign seeds of flowers, which
her young mistress used to be fond of when she was a child, which she had
kept till hunger obliged her to offer them to a gardener for a loaf of
bread. The gardener to whom she offered them was old Paul, who took
compassion upon her distress, lodged her for a week, and at last paid for
an outside place for her upon the Bath coach. There was such an air of
truth and simplicity in this woman, that Mr. Russell, more experienced
than his pupils, believed her story, at once, as implicitly as they did.
"Oh," exclaimed little Oliver, "I have but this half-crown for her: I
wish Holloway had but paid me my half-guinea; I'll ask him for it again
to-day; and will you come with us here again, this evening, Mr. Russell,
that I may bring it then?"
Mr. Russell and Howard hired the room for a fortnight in which the
mulatto woman was now lying, and paid old Paul, the gardener, for it,
promising, at the same time, to supply her with food. The gardener's
wife, at the poor woman's earnest request, promised that, as soon as she
was able to sit up, she would get her some coarse plain work to do.
"But," said Oliver, "how can she see to work in this smoke? I'm sure it
makes my eyes water so that I can hardly bear it, though I have been in
it scarcely ten minutes."
"I wish," exclaimed Howard, turning to Mr. Russell, "that this chimney
could be cured of smoking."
"Oh, well-a-day," said the gardener, "we must put up with it as it is,
for I've had doctors to it, at one time or another, that have cost me a
power of money; but, after all, it's as bad as ever, and my good dame
never lights a fire in it this fine spring weather; howsomever, she
(pointing to the mulatto woman) is so chilly, coming from a country that,
by all accounts, is a hot-house, compared with ours, that she can't sleep
o' nights, or live o' days without a small matter of fire, which she's
welcome to, though, you see, it almost fills the house with smoke."
Howard, during the gardener's speech, had been trying to recollect where
it was that he had lately seen some essay upon smoky chimneys; and he
suddenly exclaimed, "It was in Dr. Franklin's works--was it not, Mr,
Russell?"
"What?" said Mr. Russell, smiling.
"That essay upon smoky chimneys which I said I would skip over, the other
day, because I had nothing to do with it, and I thought I should not
understand. Don't you remember telling me, sir, that I had better not
skip it, because it might, some time or other, be useful to me? I wish I
could get the book now; I would take pains to understand it, because,
perhaps, I might find out how this poor man's chimney might be cured of
smoking. As for his window, I know how that can be easily mended, because
I once watched a man who was hanging some windows for my aunt--I'll get
some sash line."
"Do you recollect what o'clock it is, my good friend?" said Mr. Russell,
holding out his watch to Howard. "We cannot wait till you are perfect
master of the theory of smoky chimneys, and the practice of hanging
windows; it is time that we should be gone." Mr. Russell spoke this with
an air of raillery, as he usually did, when he was particularly pleased.
As they were going away, Oliver earnestly repeated his request, that Mr.
Russell would come again in the evening, that he might have an
opportunity of giving the poor woman his half-guinea. Mr. Russell
promised him that he would; but he at the same time added, "All charity,
my dear Oliver, does not consist in giving money: it is easy for a man to
put his hand in his pocket, and take out a few shillings, to give any
person in distress."
"I wish," said Oliver, "I was able to do more! what can I do? I'll think
of something. Howard, will you think of something that I can do? But I
must see about my Latin lesson first, for I had not time to look it over
this morning, before I came out."
When they got back, the business of the day, for some hours, suspended
all thoughts of the mulatto woman; but, in the first interval of leisure,
Oliver went in search of Mr. Holloway, to ask for his half-guinea.
Holloway had a crowd of his companions round him, whom he seemed to be
entertaining with some very diverting story, for they were laughing
violently when little Oliver first came up to them; but they no sooner
perceived him than all their merriment suddenly ceased. Holloway first
lowered his voice into a whisper, and then observing that Oliver still
stood his ground, he asked him, in his usual peremptory tone, what might
be his business? Oliver drew him aside, and asked him to pay him _the_
half-guinea. "_The_ half-guinea?" repeated Holloway: "man, you talk of
_the_ half-guinea as if there was but one half-guinea in the world: you
shall have _the_ half-guinea, for I hate to be dunned--Stay, I believe I
have no _half_-a-guinea about me: you can't give me two half-guineas for
a guinea, can ye?"
"Me!"
"Well, then, you must wait till I can get change."
"Must I wait? but I really want it for a particular reason, this evening:
I wish you could give it me now--you know you promised; but I don't like
putting people in mind of their promises, and I would not ask you about
the money, only that I really want it."
"Want it!--nonsense: what can you want money for, such a little chap as
you? I'll lay you any wager, your _particular_ reason, if the truth was
told, is, that you can't resist the tart-woman."
"I _can_ resist the tart-woman," cried Oliver proudly; "I have a much
better use for my money: but I don't want to boast, neither; only,
Holloway, do give me the half-guinea: shall I run and ask somebody to
give you two half-guineas for a guinea?"
"No, no, I'll not be dunned into paying you. If you had not asked me for
it, I should have given it you to-night: but since you could not trust to
my honour, you'll please to wait till to-morrow morning."
"But I did trust to your honour for a whole month."
"A month!--a great while, indeed; then trust to it a day longer; and if
you ask me for the money to-morrow, you shan't have it till the next day.
I'll teach you not to be such a little dun: nobody, that has any spirit,
can bear to be dunned, particularly for such small sums. I thought you
had been above such meanness, or, I promise you, I should never have
borrowed your half-guinea," added Holloway; and he left his unfortunate
creditor to reflect upon the new ideas of _meanness_ and _spirit_, which
had been thus artfully thrown out.
Oliver was roused from his reflections by his friend Howard. "Mr. Russell
is ready to go with us to the gardener's again," said Howard: "have you a
mind to come?"
"A great mind; but I am ashamed, for I've not got my half-guinea which I
lent." Here his newly acquired fear of meanness checked Oliver, and
without complaining of his creditor's want of punctuality, he added, "but
I should like to see the poor woman though, for all that."
They set out, but stopped in their way at a bookseller's, where Howard
inquired for that essay of Dr. Franklin on smoky chimneys, which he was
impatient to see. This bookseller was well acquainted with Mr. Russell.
Howard had promised to give the bookseller the translation of the little
French book which we formerly mentioned; and the bookseller, on his part,
was very obliging in furnishing Howard with any books he wanted.
Howard was deep in the essay on smoky chimneys, and examining the
references in the print belonging to it, whilst Mr. Russell was looking
over the prints in the Encyclopedia, with little Oliver. They were all so
intent upon what they were about, that they did not perceive the entrance
of Holloway and Mr. Supine. Mr. Supine called in merely to see what Mr.
Russell could be looking at, with so much appearance of interest. The
indolent are always curious, though they will not always exert
themselves, even to gratify their curiosity.
"Only the Encyclopaedia prints," said Supine, looking over Mr. Russell's
shoulder: "I thought you had got something new."
"Only smoky chimneys," exclaimed Holloway, looking over Howard's
shoulder: "what upon earth, Howard, can you find so entertaining in smoky
chimneys? Are you turned chimney-doctor, or chimney-sweeper? This will be
an excellent thing for Lord Rawson, won't it, Mr. Supine? We'll tell it
to him on Thursday; it will be a good joke for us, for half the day.
Pray, doctor Charles Howard," continued the wit, with mock solemnity, "do
you go up the chimneys yourself?"
Howard took this raillery with so much good-humour, that Holloway
looked quite disappointed; and Mr. Supine, in a careless tone, cried, "I
take it, reading such things as these will scarcely improve your style,
sir--will they, think ye, Mr. Russell?"
"I am not sure," replied Mr. Russell, "that Mr. Howard's _first_ object
in reading is to improve his style; but," added he, turning to the
title-page, and pointing to Franklin's name, "you, perhaps, did not
know--"
"Oh, Dr. Franklin's works," interrupted Supine: "I did not see the name
before--to be sure I must bow down to _that_."
Having thus easily satisfied Mr. Supine's critical scruples by the
authority of a name, Mr. Russell rose to depart, as he perceived that
there was no chance of getting rid of the idlers.
"What are you going to do with yourself, Russell?" said Mr. Supine;
"we'll walk with you, if you are for walking, this fine evening; only
don't let's walk like penny postmen."
"But he's in a hurry," said Oliver; "he's going to see a poor woman."
"A _poor_ woman!" said Supine; "down this close lane too!"
"Oh, let's see all that's to be seen," whispered Holloway; "ten to one we
shall get some diversion out of it: Russell's a quiz worth studying, and
Howard's his ditto."
They came to the gardener's house. Holloway's high spirits suddenly
subsided when he beheld the figure of the mulatto woman.
"What's the matter?" said Oliver, observing that he started; "why did you
start so?"
"Tell Howard I want to speak one word with him, this instant, in the
street; bid him come out to me," whispered Holloway; and he hastily
retreated before the poor woman saw his face.
"Howard," cried Holloway, "I sent for you to tell you a great secret."
"I'm sorry for it," said Charles; "for I hate secrets."
"But you can keep a secret, man, can't you?"
"If it were necessary, I hope I could; but I'd rather not hear--"
"Pooh, nonsense," interrupted Holloway, "you must hear it; I'll trust to
your honour; and, besides, I have not a moment to stand shilly shally:
I've got a promise from my father to let me go down, this Easter, with
Lord Rawson, to Marryborough, in his dog-cart, _randem-tandem_, you
know."
"I did not know it, indeed," said Charles; "but what then?"
"Why, then, you see, I must be upon my good behaviour; and you would not
do such an ill-natured trick as to betray me?"
"Betray you! I don't know what you mean," said Howard, astonished.
Holloway now briefly told him his stage-coach adventure, and concluded by
saying, he was afraid that the mulatto woman should recollect either his
face or voice, and should _blow him_.
"And what," said Howard, shocked at the selfishness which Holloway
showed--"and what do you want me to do? why do you tell me all this?"
"Because," said Holloway, "I thought if you heard what the woman said,
when she saw me, you would have got it all out of her to be sure;
therefore I thought it best to trust you with my secret, and so put you
upon honour with me. All I ask of you is, to hold your tongue about
my--my--my--frolic, and just make some excuse for my not going into the
room again where the mulatto woman is: you may tell Supine, if he asks
what's become of me, that I'm gone to the music-shop, to get some new
music for him: that will keep him quiet. Good by."
When Howard returned to the room where the mulatto woman lay, he expected
to be questioned by Mr. Supine about Holloway's sudden departure; but
this gentleman was not in the habit of paying great attention to his
pupil's motions. He took it for granted that Holloway had escaped,
because he did not wish to be called upon for a charitable subscription.
From the same fear, Mr. Supine affected unusual absence of mind whilst
Mr. Russell talked to the mulatto woman, and at length, professing
himself unable to endure any longer the smell of smoke, he pushed his way
into the street. "Mr. Holloway, I suppose," said he, "has taken himself
home, very wisely, and I shall follow him: we make it a rule, I think, to
miss one another; but to keep a young man in leading-strings would be a
great bore. We're upon the best footing in the world together: as to the
rest--"
New difficulties awaited Holloway. He got home some time before Mr.
Supine, and found his friend, the stage-coachman, waiting for him with a
rueful face.
"Master," said he, "here's a sad job: there was a parcel lost last night,
in the confusion of the overturn of the coach; and I must make it good;
for it's booked, and it's booked to the value of five guineas, for it was
a gold muslin gown that a lady was very particular about; and, master, I
won't peach if you'll pay: but as for losing my place, or making up five
guineas afore Saturday, it's what I can't take upon me to do."
Holloway was much dismayed at this news; he now began to think he should
pay too dear for his frolic. The coachman persisted in his demand. Mr.
Supine appeared at the corner of the street; and his pupil was forced to
get rid immediately of the coachman, by a promise, that the money should
be ready on Saturday. When Holloway made this promise, he was not master
of two guineas in the world; how to procure the whole sum was now the
question. Alderman Holloway, with the hope of exciting in his son's mind
a love for literature, made it a practice to reward him with solid gold,
whenever he brought home any certificate of his scholarship. Holloway had
lately received five guineas from his father, for an approved copy of
Latin verses; and the alderman had promised to give him five guineas more
if he brought home the medal which was to be the reward for the best
essay in the periodical paper, which the Westminster boys were now
writing. Holloway, though he could write elegant Latin verses, had not
any great facility in English composition; he, consequently, according to
the usual practice of little minds, undervalued a talent which he did not
possess. He had ridiculed the scheme of writing an English essay, and had
loudly declared, that he did not think it worth his while to write
English. His opinion was, however, somewhat changed by his father's
promised reward; and the stage-coachman's impatience for his money now
impelled Holloway to exertion. He began to write his essay late on Friday
evening--the medal was to be given on Saturday morning--so that there
could not be much time for revisal and corrections. Corrections he
affected to disdain, and piqued himself upon the rapidity with which he
wrote. "Howard," said he, when they met to deliver in their compositions,
"you have been three weeks writing your essay; I ran mine off in three
hours and a quarter."
Mr. Holloway had not considered, that what is written with ease is not
always read with ease. His essay was written with such a careless
superfluity of words, and such a lack of ideas appeared in the
performance, that the judges unanimously threw it aside, as unworthy of
their notice. "Gentlemen," cried Dr. B., coming forward among the anxious
crowd of expectants, "which of you owns this motto?--
"'Hear it, ye Senates, hear this truth sublime,
He who allows oppression shares the crime[6].'"
[Footnote 6: Botanic Garden, vol. ii.]
"It's his!--it's his!--it's his!" exclaimed little Oliver, clapping his
hands--"it's Howard's, sir."
Dr. B., pleased with this grateful little boy's honest joy, put the medal
into his hands, without speaking, and Oliver ran with it to his friend.
"Only," said he, "only let me be by, when you show it to your aunt."
How much the pleasure of success is increased by the sympathy of our
friends! The triumph of a school-boy over his competitors is sometimes
despicable; but Howard's joy was not of this selfish and puerile sort.
All the good passions had stimulated him to exertion, and he was rewarded
by his own generous feelings. He would not have exchanged the delight
which he saw in his little friend Oliver's face, the approving smile of
his aunt, and the proud satisfaction Mr. Russell expressed at the sight
of his medal, for all the solid gold which Alderman Holloway deemed the
highest reward of literature.
Alderman Holloway was filled with indignation when he heard from Mr.
Supine that his son's essay had been rejected with contempt. The young
gentleman was also much surprised at the decision of the judges; and his
tutor, by way of pleasing his pupil's friends, hesitated not to hint,
that there "certainly was great injustice done to Mr. Augustus Holloway's
talents." The subject was canvassed at a turtle dinner at the alderman's.
"There shall not be injustice done to my Augustus," said the irritated
father, wisely encouraging his Augustus in all his mean feelings. "Never
mind 'em all, my boy; you have a father, you may thank Heaven, who _can_
judge for himself, and _will_: you shall not be the loser by Dr. B.'s or
doctor any body's injustice; I'll make it up to you, my boy; in the
meantime, join us in a bumper of port. Here's to Dr. B.'s better
judgment; wishing him health and happiness these Easter holidays, and _a
new pair of spectacles_,--hey, Mr. Supine?"
This well-chosen toast was drunk with much applause and laughter by the
company. The alderman insisted upon having his Augustus's essay produced
in the evening. Holloway had now ample satisfaction, for the whole
company were unanimous in their plaudits, after Mr. Supine had read two
or three sentences: the alderman, to confirm his own critical judgment,
drew out his purse, and counting out ten bright guineas, presented them,
with a look of high self-satisfaction, to his son. "Here, Augustus, my
boy," said he; "I promised you five guineas if you brought me home the
prize medal; but I now present you with ten, to make you the amends you
so richly deserve, for not having got their medal. Thank God, I am able
to afford it; and I hope," added the alderman, looking round, and
laughing, "I hope I'm as good a patron of the _belles lettres_ as the
head doctor of Westminster himself."
Holloway's eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of the glittering bribe.
He began some speech in reply, in which he compared his father to
Maecenas; but being entangled in a sentence, in which the nominative case
had been too long separated from the verb, he was compelled to pause
abruptly. Nevertheless, the alderman rubbed his hands with exultation;
and "Hear him! hear him!--hear your member!" was vociferated by all the
friends of the young orator. "Well, really," concluded his mother to the
ladies, who were complimenting her upon her son's performance, "it was
not a bad speech, considering he had nothing to say!"
Lord Rawson, who was one of the company, now congratulated his friend in
a whisper--"You've made a good job of it to-day, Augustus," said he:
"solid pudding's better than empty praise. We're going," continued his
lordship to the alderman, "to try my new horses this evening;" and he
pulled Augustus with him out of the room.
"There they go," said the prudent father, delighted with his own son's
being the chosen friend of a nobleman--"there they go, arm in arm, a
couple of rare ones: we shall have fine work with them, I foresee, when
Augustus gets to college--but young men of spirit must not be curbed like
common boys--we must make allowances--I have been young myself,--hey, Mr.
Supine?"
"Certainly, sir," said the obsequious tutor; "and you still have all the
sprightliness of youth; and my ideas of education square completely with
yours."
According to Alderman Holloway's ideas of education, the holy days were
always to be made a season of complete idleness and dissipation, to
relieve his son from his school studies. It was his great delight to
contrast the pleasures of home with the hardships of school, and to make
his son compare the indulgence of a father with the severity of a
schoolmaster. How he could expect an education to succeed which he
sedulously endeavoured to counteract, it may be difficult for any
rational person to conceive.
After Lord Rawson and Holloway had enjoyed the pleasures of driving the
new horses, _tandem_, in a dog-cart, and had conversed about dogs and
horses till they had nothing left to say to each other, his lordship
proposed stepping in to Mr. Carat, the jeweller's shop, to look at some
new watches: his lordship said he was tired of his own, for he had had it
six months. Mr. Carat was not in the way when they first went in. One of
the young men who attended in the shop said, "that his master was
extremely busy, in settling some accounts with a captain of a ship, who
was to leave England in a few days."
"Don't tell me of settling accounts," cried Lord Ramon--"I hate the sound
of settling accounts: run and tell Mr. Carat that Lord Rawson is here,
and must speak to him this instant, for I'm in a desperate hurry."
A quarter of an hour elapsed before the impatient lord could he obeyed;
during this time, his lordship and Holloway rummaged over every thing in
the shop. A pretty bauble to hang to his watch caught his lordship's
fancy. His lordship happened to have no money in his pocket. "Holloway,"
said he, "my good fellow, you've ten guineas in your pocket, I know; do
lend me them here." Holloway, rather proud of his riches, lent his ten
guineas to his noble friend with alacrity; but a few minutes afterward
recollected that he should want five of them that very night, to pay the
poor stage-coachman. His recollection came too late, for after Lord
Rawson had paid three or four guineas for his trinket, he let the
remainder of the money down with an absent nonchalance, into his pocket.
"We'll settle--I'll pay you, Holloway, to-morrow morning, you know."
Holloway, from false shame, replied, "Oh, very well." And at this instant
Mr. Carat entered the shop, bowing and apologizing to his lordship for
having been busy.
"I'm always, to be sure, in a very great hurry," cried Lord Rawson;
"I never have a minute that I can call my own. All I wanted though,
just now, was to tell you, that I could not settle any thing--you
understand--till we come back from Marryborough. I go down there
to-morrow."
The Jew bowed with unlimited acquiescence, assuring his lordship that he
should ever wait his perfect convenience. As he spoke, he glanced an
inquiring eye upon Holloway.
"Mr. Holloway, the eldest, the only son of Alderman Holloway--rich as a
Jew! and he'll soon leave Westminster," whispered Lord Rawson to the Jew.
"Holloway," continued he, turning to his friend, "give me leave to
introduce Mr. Carat to you. You may," added his lordship, lowering his
voice, "find this Jew a useful friend some time or other, my lad. He's my
man in all money jobs."
The Jew and the school-boy seemed equally flattered and pleased by this
introduction; they were quickly upon familiar terms with one another; and
Mr. Carat, who was willing that such an acquaintance should begin in the
most advantageous and agreeable manner on his part, took the young
gentleman, with an air of mystery and confidence, into a little room
behind the shop; there he produced a box full of old-fashioned secondhand
trinkets, and, without giving Holloway time to examine them, said that he
was going to make a lottery of these things. "If I had any young
favourite friends," continued the wily Jew, "I should give them a little
whisper in the ear, and bid them try their fortune; they never will have
a finer opportunity." He then presented a hand-bill, drawn up in a style
which even Messrs. Goodluck and Co. need not have disdained to admire.
The youth was charmed with the composition. The Jew made him a present of
a couple of tickets for himself, and gave him a dozen more, to distribute
amongst his companions at Westminster. Holloway readily undertook to
distribute the tickets upon condition that he might have a list of the
prizes in the lottery. "If they don't see a list of the prizes," said he,
"not a soul will put in."
The Jew took a pen immediately, and drew up a captivating list of prizes.
Holloway promised to copy it, because Mr. Carat said his hand must not
appear in the business, and it must be conducted with the strictest
secrecy; because "the law," added the Jew, "has a little jealousy of
these sort of things--government likes none but licensed lotteries, young
gentleman."
"The law! I don't care what the law likes," replied the school-boy; "if I
break the law, I hope I'm rich enough to pay the forfeit, or my father
will pay for me, which is better still."
To this doctrine the Jew readily assented, and they parted, mutually
satisfied with each other.
It was agreed that Lord Rawson should drive his friend to Marryborough
the next Tuesday, and that he should return on Wednesday, with Holloway,
to Westminster, on purpose that he might meet Mr. Carat there, who was
then to deliver the prizes.
"I'll lay you a bet," cried Lord Rawson, as he left the Jew's, "that
you'll have a prize yourself. Now are you not obliged to me for
introducing you to Carat?"
"Yes, that I am," replied Holloway; "it's easier to put into the lottery
than to write Latin verses and English essays. I'll puzzle and bore
myself no more with those things, I promise my father."
"Who does, after they've once left school, I want to know?" said his
noble friend. "I'm sure I've forgot all I ever learned from Latin and
Greek fellows; you know they tell just for nothing when one gets into the
world. I make it a principle never to talk of books, for nobody does, you
know, that has any thing else to talk of. None but quizzes and quozzes
ever came out with any thing of that sort. Now, how they'd stare at
Marryborough, Holloway, if you were to begin sporting some of your Horace
and Virgil!"
The dashing, yet bashful school-boy, with much emotion, swore that he
cared as little for Horace and Virgil as his lordship did. Holloway was
really an excellent scholar, but he began to be heartily ashamed of it in
his lordship's company, and prudently resolved to adopt the principles he
had just heard; to forget as fast as possible all he had learned: never
to talk of books; and to conceal both his knowledge and his abilities,
lest _they should stare at him at Maryborough_.
The lottery tickets were easily disposed of amongst the young gentlemen
at Westminster. As young men can seldom calculate, they are always ready
to trust to their individual good fortune, and they are, consequently,
ever ready to put into any species of lottery.
"Look here!" cried little Oliver, showing a lottery ticket to
Howard; "look what Holloway has just offered to give me, instead of
half-a-guinea, which he owes me. I told him I would just run and ask your
advice. Shall I accept of it?"
"I would advise you not," answered Howard; "you are sure of your
half-guinea, and you have only a chance of getting any thing in the
lottery."
"Oh, but then I've a chance of such a number of fine things! You have not
seen the list of prizes. Do you know there's a watch amongst them? Now,
suppose my ticket should come up a prize, and that I should get a watch
for my half-guinea!--a real watch!--a watch that would go!--a watch that
I should wind up myself every night! O Charles! would not that be a good
bargain for my half-guinea? I'm sure you have not read the list of
prizes, have you?"
"No, I have not," said Howard: "have you seen the list of blanks?"
"Of blanks! No," said Oliver, with a changed countenance; "I never
thought of the blanks."
"And yet in most lotteries there are many more blanks than prizes, you
know."
"Are there? Well, but I hope I shall not have a blank," said Oliver.
"So every body hopes, but some people must be disappointed."
"Yes," said the little boy, pausing--"but then some people must win, and
I have as good a chance as another, have not I?"
"And do you know what the chance against your winning is? Once I had a
great mind, as you have now, Oliver, to put into a lottery. It was just
after my aunt lost all her fortune, and I thought that if I were to get
the twenty thousand pound prize, I could give it to her."
"I'll give my watch (if I get it, I mean) to somebody. I'll give it to
the mulatto woman, because she is poor. No; I'll give it to you, because
you are the best, and I love you the best, and I am more obliged to you
than to any body in the world, for you have taught me more; and you have
taught me as I was never taught before, without laughing at, or scolding,
or frightening, or calling me blockhead or dunce; and you have made me
think a great deal better of myself; and I am always happy when I'm with
you; and I'm quite another creature since you came to school. I hope
you'll never leave school whilst I am here," cried Oliver.
"But you have quite forgot the lottery," said Howard, smiling, and much
touched by his little friend's simplicity and enthusiasm.
"Oh, the lottery! ay," said Oliver, "you were telling me something about
yourself; do go on."
"I once thought, as you do now, that it would be a charming thing to put
into a lottery."
"Well, and did you win?"
"No."
"Did you lose?"
"No."
"How then?"
"I did not put into the lottery, for I was convinced that it was a
foolish way of spending money."
"If you think it's foolish or wrong," said Oliver, "I'll have nothing to
do with this lottery."
"I don't want to govern you by my opinion," said Howard; "but if you have
patience to attend to all the reasons that convinced me, you will he able
to judge, and form an opinion for yourself. You know I must leave school
some time or other, and then--"
"Well, don't talk of that, but tell me all the reasons, quick."
"I can't tell them so very quickly," said Howard, laughing: "when we go
home this evening I'll ask my aunt to look for the passage in Smith's
Wealth of Nations, which she showed me."
"Oh!" interrupted Oliver, with a sigh, "_Smith's Wealth_ of what? That's
a book, I'm sure, I shall never be able to understand; is it not that
great large book that Mr. Russell reads?"
"Yes."
"But I shall never understand it."
"Because it's a large book?"
"No," said Oliver, smiling, "but because I suppose it's very difficult to
understand."
"Not what I've read of it: but I have only read passages here and there.
That passage about lotteries, I think, you would understand, because it
is so plainly written."
"I'll read it, then," said Oliver, "and try; and in the meantime I'll go
and tell Holloway that I had rather not put into the lottery, till I know
whether it's right or not."
Holloway flew into a violent passion with little Oliver when he went to
return his lottery ticket. He abused and ridiculed Howard for his
interference, and succeeded so well in raising a popular cry, that the
moment Howard appeared on the playground, a general hiss, succeeded by a
deep groan, was heard.--Howard recollected the oracle's answer to Cicero,
and was not dismayed by the voice of the multitude. Holloway threw down
half-a-guinea, to pay Oliver, and muttered to himself, "I'll make you
remember this, Mr. Oliver."
"I'll give this half-guinea to the mulatto woman, and that's much better
than putting it into a lottery, Charles," said the little boy; and, as
soon as the business of the day was done, Oliver, Howard, and Mr.
Russell, took their usual evening's walk towards the gardener's house.
"Ay, come in," cried old Paul, "come in! God bless you all! I don't know
which is the best of you. I've been looking out of my door this quarter
of an hour for ye," said he, as soon as he saw them; "and I don't know
when I've been idle a quarter of an hour afore. But I've put on my best
coat, though it's not Sunday, and wife has treated her to a dish of tea,
and she's up and dressed--the mulatto woman, I mean--and quite hearty
again. Walk in, walk in; it will do your hearts good to see her; she's so
grateful too, though she can't speak good English, which is her only
fault, poor soul; but we can't be born what we like, or she would have
been as good an Englishman as the best of us. Walk in, walk in.--And the
chimney does not smoke, master, no more than I do; and the window opens
too; and the paper's up, and looks beautiful. God bless ye, God bless
ye--walk in." Old Paul, whilst he spoke, had stopped the way into the
room; but at length he recollected that they could not walk in whilst he
stood in the door-way, and he let them pass.
The little room was no longer the smoky, dismal, miserable place which it
was formerly. It was neatly papered; it was swept clean; there was a
cheerful fire, which burnt quite clearly: the mulatto woman was cleanly
dressed, and, rising from her work, she clasped her hands together with
an emotion of joyful gratitude, which said more than any words could have
expressed.
This room was not papered, nor was the chimney cured of smoking, nor
was the woman clad in new clothes, by magic. It was all done by human
means--by the industry and abilities of a benevolent boy.
The translation of the little French book, which Howard had completed,
procured him the means of doing good. The book-seller to whom he offered
it was both an honest man, and a good judge of literary productions. Mr.
Russell's name also operated in his pupil's favour, and Howard received
ten guineas for his translation.
Oliver was impatient for an opportunity to give his half-guinea, which he
had held in his hand, till it was quite warm. "Let me look at that pretty
thimble of yours," said he, going up to the mulatto woman, who had now
taken up her work again; and, as he playfully pulled off the thimble, he
slipped his half-guinea into her hand; then he stopped her thanks, by
running on to a hundred questions about her thimble. "What a strange
thimble! How came you by such a thimble? Was it given to you? Did you buy
it? What's the use of this screw round the inside of the rim of it? Do
look at it, Charles!"
The thimble was, indeed, remarkable; and it seemed extraordinary that
such a one should belong to a poor woman, who had lately been in great
distress.
"It is gold," said Mr. Russell, examining it, "and very old gold."
The mulatto woman sighed; and as she put the thimble upon her finger
again, said, that she did not know whether it was gold or not; but she
had a great value for it; that she had had it a great many years; that it
had been given to her by the best friend she had ever had.
"Tell me about that best friend," said Oliver; "I like to hear about best
friends."
"She was a very good friend indeed; though she was but young, scarcely
bigger than yourself, at the time she gave me this thimble: she was my
young mistress; I came all the way from Jamaica on purpose to find her
out, and in hopes to live with her in my elder days."
"Jamaica!" cried Howard; "Jamaica!" cried Oliver, in the same breath;
"what was her name?"
"Frances Howard."
"My aunt," exclaimed Howard.
"I'll run and tell her; I'll run and bring her here, this instant!" said
Oliver. But Mr. Russell caught hold of him, and detained him, whilst they
further questioned the woman. Her answers were perfectly consistent and
satisfactory. She said, that her mistress's estate in Jamaica had been
sold just before she left the island; that some of the old slaves had
been set at liberty, by orders, which came, she understood, in her
mistress's last letter; and that, amongst the rest, she had been freed:
that she had heard say that her good mistress had desired the agent to
give her also some little _provision ground_, upon the plantation, but
that this had never been done; and that she had sold all the clothes and
little things she possessed, to raise money to pay for her passage to
England, hoping to find her mistress in London. She added, that the agent
had given her a direction to her mistress; but that she had, in vain,
applied at at the house, and at every house in the same street. "Show us
the direction, if you have it," said Mr. Russell. The woman said she had
kept it very carefully; but now it was almost worn out. The direction
was, however, still legible upon the ragged bit of paper which she
produced--_To Mrs. Frances Howard, Portman Square, London_. The instant
Mr. Russell was satisfied, he was as expeditious as Oliver himself; they
all three went home immediately to Mrs. Howard: she had, some time
before, been confined to her room by a severe toothache.
"You promised me, aunt," said her nephew, "that as soon as you were well
enough, you would go to old Paul's with us, to see our poor woman; can
you go this evening?"
"Oh do! do, pray; I'm sure you won't catch cold," said Oliver; "for we
have a very particular reason for wishing you to go."
"There is a sedan chair at the door," said Mr. Russell, "if you are
afraid, madam, of catching cold."
"I am not rich enough to go out in sedan chairs," interrupted Mrs.
Howard, "nor prudent enough, I am afraid, to stay at home."
"Oh! thank you," said Oliver, who had her clogs ready in his hands; "now
you'll see something that will surprise you."
"Then take care you don't tell me what it is, before I see it," said Mrs.
Howard.
Oliver, with some difficulty, held his tongue during the walk, and
contented himself with working off his superfluous animation, by jumping
over every obstacle in his way.
The meeting between the poor mulatto woman and her mistress was as full
of joy and surprise as little Oliver had expected; and this is saying a
great deal, for where much is expected, there is usually much
disappointment; and very sympathetic people are often angry with others,
for not being as much astonished, or as much delighted, as they think the
occasion requires.
The day which Mr. Augustus Holloway imagined would bring him such
complete felicity--the day on which Lord Rawson had promised to call for
him in his dog-cart, and to drive him down _randem-tandem_, to
Marryborough--was now arrived. His lordship, in his dog-cart, was at the
door; and Holloway, in high spirits, was just going to get into the
carriage, when some one pulled his coat, and begged to speak a few words
with him. It was the stage-coachman, who was absolutely in distress for
the value of the lost parcel, which Holloway had promised him should be
punctually paid: but Holloway, now that his excursion to Marryborough was
perfectly secure, thought but very little of the poor coachman's
difficulties; and though he had the money, which he had raised by the
lottery tickets, in his pocket, he determined to keep that for his
amusements during the Easter holidays. "You must wait till I come back
from Marryborough; I can't possibly speak to you now; I can't possibly,
you see, keep Lord Rawson waiting. Why didn't you call sooner? I am not
at all convinced that any parcel was lost."
"I'll show you the books--it's book'd, sir," said the man, eagerly.
"Well, well, this is not a time to talk of booking. I'll be with you in
an instant, my lord," cried Holloway to Lord Rawson, who was all
impatience to _be off_. But the coachman would not quit his hold. "I'm
sorry to come to that, master," said he: "as long as we were both upon
honour together, it was very well; but, if you break squares with me,
being a gentleman, and rich, you can't take it ill, I being a poor man
and my place and all at stake, if I take the shortest way to get my own:
I must go to Dr. B. for justice, if you won't give it me without my
peaching," said the coachman.
"I'll see you again to-morrow morning," said Holloway, alarmed: "we come
up to town again to-morrow."
"To-morrow won't do," said the coachman; "I shall lose my place and my
bread to-day. I know how to trust to young gentlemen's to-morrows."
A volley of oaths from Lord Rawson again summoned his companion. At this
instant, Mr. Russell, young Howard, and little Oliver, came up the
street, and were passing on to Mrs. Howard's, when Holloway stopped
Howard, who was the last of the party. "For Heaven's sake," said he, in a
whisper, "do settle for me with this confounded coachman! I know you are
rich; your bookseller told me so; pay five guineas for me to him, and you
shall have them again to-morrow, there's a good fellow. Lord Rawson's
waiting; good by."
"Stay, stay," said Howard, who was not so easily to be drawn into
difficulties by a moment's weakness, or by the want of a moment's
presence of mind: "I know nothing of this business; I have other uses for
my money; I cannot pay five guineas for you, Holloway."
"Then let it alone," cried Holloway, with a brutal execration; and he
forcibly broke from the coachman, shook hands with his tutor, Mr. Supine,
who was talking to Lord Rawson about the varnish of his gig, jumped into
the carriage, and was whirled away from all reflection in a moment, by
his noble companion.
The poor coachman entreated Howard to stay one instant, to hear him. He
explained the business to him, and reproached himself bitterly for his
folly. "I'm sure I thought," said he, "I was sure of a gentleman's
honour; and young gentlemen ought to be above not paying handsome for
their frolics, if they must have frolics; and a frolic's one thing, and
cheating a poor man like me is another; and he had liked to have killed a
poor mulatto woman, too, by the overturn of the coach, which was all his
doings."
"The woman is got very well, and is very well off now," interrupted
Howard; "you need say nothing about that."
"Well, but my money, I must say about _that_," said the coachman. Here
Howard observed, that Mr. Supine had remained at the door in a lounging
attitude, and was quite near enough to overhear their conversation.
Howard, therefore, to avoid exciting his attention by any mysterious
whispers, walked away from the coachman; but in vain; he followed: "I'll
peach," said he; "I must in my own defence."
"Stay till to-morrow morning," said Howard: "perhaps you'll be paid
then."
The coachman, who was a good-natured fellow, said, "Well, I don't like
making mischief among young gentlemen; I will wait till to-morrow, but
not a day more, master, if you'd go down on your knees to me."
Mr. Supine, whose curiosity was fully awake, called to the coachman the
moment Howard was out of hearing, and tried, by various questions, to
draw the secret from him. The words, "_overturn of the coach--mulatto
woman_," and the sentence, which the irritated coachman had pronounced in
a raised voice, that "_young gentlemen should be above not paying
handsome for their frolics_," had reached Mr. Supine's attentive ear,
before Howard had been aware that the tutor was a listener. Nothing more
could Mr. Supine draw, however, from the coachman, who now felt himself
_upon honour_, having promised Howard not to _peach_ till the next
morning. Difficulties stimulated Mr. Supine's curiosity; but he remained
for the present satisfied in the persuasion that he had discovered _a
fine frolic_ of the immaculate Mr. Charles Howard; his own pupil he did
not suspect upon this occasion. Holloway's whisperings with the coachman
had ended the moment Mr. Supine appeared at the door, and the tutor had
in the same moment been so struck with the beautiful varnish of Lord
Rawson's dog-cart, that his pupil might have whispered longer, without
rousing his attention. Mr. Supine was further confirmed in his mistake
about Howard, from the recollection of the mulatto woman, whom he had
seen at the gardener's: he knew that she had been hurt by a fall from a
stage-coach. He saw Howard much interested about her. All this he joined
with what he had just overheard about _a frolic_, and he was rejoiced at
the idea of implicating in this business Mr. Russell, whom he disliked.
Mr. Supine, having got rid of his pupil, went immediately to Alderman
Holloway's, where he had a general invitation to dinner. Mrs. Holloway
approved of her son's tutor, full as much for his love of gossiping, as
for his musical talents: Mr. Supine constantly supplied her with news and
anecdotes; upon the present occasion, he thought that his story, however
imperfect, would be eagerly received, because it concerned Howard.
Since the affair of the prize essay, and the medal, Mrs. Holloway had
taken a dislike to young Howard, whom she considered as the enemy of her
dear Augustus. No sooner had she heard Mr. Supine's blundering
information, than, without any farther examination, she took the whole
for granted: eager to repeat the anecdote to Mrs. Howard, she instantly
wrote a note to her, saying that she would drink tea with her that
evening.
When Mrs. Holloway, attended by Mr. Supine, went, in the evening, to Mrs.
Howard's, they found with her Mrs. B., the lady of Dr. B., the master of
Westminster School.
"Is not this an odd rencontre?" whispered Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Supine, as
she drew him to a recessed window, commodious for gossiping: "I shall be
called a tell-tale, I know, at Westminster; but I shall tell our story,
notwithstanding. I would keep any other boy's secret; but Howard is such
a saint: and I hate saints."
A knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Holloway; she looked out of the
window. "Oh, here he comes, up the steps," continued she, "after his
sober evening promenade, and _his_ Mr. Russell with--and, I declare, the
mulatto woman with him. Now for it!"
Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and said, in a low voice,--
"Ma'am, poor Cuba is come; she is rather tired with walking, and she is
gone to rest herself in the front parlour."
"Her lameness, though," pursued little Oliver, who followed Howard into
the room, "is almost well. I just asked her how high she thought the
coach was from which she was--"
A look from Howard made Oliver stop short; for though he did not
understand the full meaning of it, he saw it was designed to silence him.
Howard was afraid of betraying Holloway's secret to Mr. Supine or to Mrs.
Holloway: his aunt sent him out of the room with some message to Cuba,
which gave Mrs. Holloway an opportunity of opening her business.
"Pray," said she, "might I presume to ask--for I perceive the young
gentleman has some secret to keep from me, which he may have good reasons
for--may I, just to satisfy my own mind, presume to ask whether, as her
name leads one to guess, your Cuba, Mrs. Howard, is a mulatto woman?"
Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. Howard coldly replied,
"Yes, madam--a mulatto woman."
"And she is lame, I think, sir, you mentioned?" persisted the curious
lady, turning to little Oliver.
"Yes, she's a little lame still; but she will soon be quite well."
"Oh! then, her lameness came, I presume, from an accident, sir, and not
from her birth?"
"From an accident, ma'am."
"Oh! an accident--a fall--a fall from a coach--from a stage-coach,
perhaps," continued Mrs. Holloway, smiling significantly at Mr. Supine:
"you take me for a conjuror, young gentleman, I see by your
astonishment," continued she to Oliver; "but a little bird told me the
whole story; and I see Mrs. Howard knows how to keep a secret as well as
myself."
Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation.
"Nay," said Mrs. Holloway, "you know best, Mrs. Howard; but as we're all
_out of school_ now, I shall not be afraid to mention such a little
affair, even before the doctor's lady; for, to be sure, she would never
let it reach the doctor's ears."
"Really, ma'am," said Mrs. Howard, "you puzzle me a little; I wish you
would explain yourself: I don't know what it is that you would not have
reach the doctor's ears."
"You don't?--well, then, your nephew must have been very clever, to have
kept you in the dark; mustn't he, Mr. Supine?"
"I always, you know, thought the young gentleman very _clever_, ma'am,"
said Mr. Supine, with a malicious emphasis.
Mrs. Howard's colour now rose, and with a mixture of indignation and
anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine and Mrs. Holloway to be explicit. "I
hate mysteries!" said she. Mrs. Holloway still hung back, saying it was a
tender point; and hinting, that it would lessen her esteem and confidence
in one most dear to her, to hear the whole truth.
"Do you mean Howard, ma'am?" exclaimed little Oliver: "oh, speak! speak!
it's impossible Charles Howard can have done any thing wrong."
"Go for him, my dear," said Mrs. Howard, resuming her composure; "let him
be present. I hate mysteries."
"But, my dear Mrs. Howard," whispered Mrs. Holloway, "you don't consider;
you'll get your nephew into a shocking scrape; the story will infallibly
go from Mrs. B. to Dr. B. You are warm, and don't consider consequences."
"Charles," said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, the moment he appeared, "from
the time you were five years old, till this instant, I have never known
you tell a falsehood; I should, therefore, be very absurd, as well as
very unjust, if I were to doubt your integrity. Tell me--have you got
into any difficulties? I would rather hear of them from yourself, than
from any body else. Is there any mystery about overturning a stage-coach,
that you know of, and that you have concealed from me?"
"There is a mystery, ma'am, about overturning a stage-coach," replied
Howard, in a firm tone of voice; "but when I assure you that it is no
mystery of mine--nothing in which I have myself any concern--I am sure
that you will believe me, my dear aunt, and that you will press me no
further."
"Not a word further, not a frown further," said his aunt, with a smile of
entire confidence; in which Mr. Russell joined, but which appeared
incomprehensible to Mr. Supine.
"Very satisfactory indeed!" said that gentleman, leaning back in the
chair; "I never heard any thing more satisfactory to my mind!"
"Perfectly satisfactory, upon my word!" echoed Mrs. Holloway; but no
looks, no inuendoes, could now disturb Mrs. Howard's security, or
disconcert the resolute simplicity which appeared in her nephew's
countenance. Mrs. Holloway, internally devoured by curiosity, was
compelled to submit in silence. This restraint soon became so irksome to
her, that she shortened her visit as much as she decently could.
In crossing the passage, to go to her carriage, she caught a glimpse of
the mulatto woman, who was going into a parlour. Resolute, at all
hazards, to satisfy herself, Mrs. Holloway called to the retreating
Cuba--began by asking some civil questions about her health; then spoke
of the accident she had lately met with; and, in short, by a skilful
cross-examination, drew her whole story from her. The gratitude with
which the poor woman spoke of Howard's humanity was by no means pleasing
to Mr. Supine.
"Then it was not he who overturned the coach?" said Mrs. Holloway.
The woman eagerly replied, "Oh no, madam!" and proceeded to draw, as well
as she could, a description of the youth who had been mounted upon the
coach-box: she had seen him only by the light of the moon, and afterwards
by the light of a lantern; but she recollected his figure so well, and
described him so accurately, that Mr. Supine knew the picture instantly,
and Mrs. Holloway whispered to him, "Can it be Augustus?"
"Mr. Holloway!--Impossible!--I suppose--"
But the woman interrupted him by saying that she recollected to have
heard the young gentleman called by that name by the coachman.
The mother and the tutor were nearly alike confounded by this discovery.
Mrs. Holloway got into her carriage, and, in their way home, Mr. Supine
represented, that he should be ruined for ever with the alderman, if this
transaction came to his knowledge; that, in fact, it was a mere boyish
frolic; but that the alderman might not consider it in that light, and
would, perhaps, make Mr. Augustus feel his serious displeasure. The
foolish mother, out of mistaken good-nature, at length promised to be
silent upon the subject. But, before he slept, Alderman Holloway heard
the whole story. The footman, who had attended the carriage, was at the
door when Mrs. Holloway was speaking to the mulatto woman, and had
listened to every word that was said. This footman was in the habit of
telling his master, when he attended him at night, all the news which he
had been able to collect in the day. Mr. Supine was no favourite of his;
because, whenever the tutor came to the house, he gave a great deal of
trouble, being too indolent to do any thing for himself, and yet not
sufficiently rich, or sufficiently generous, to pay the usual premiums
for the active civility of servants. This footman was not sorry to have
an opportunity of repeating any story that might injure Mr. Supine with
his master. Alderman Holloway heard it under the promise of concealing
the name of the person who had given him the information, and resolved to
discover the truth of the affair the next day, when he was to visit his
son at Westminster.
But we must now return to Mrs. Howard's. We mentioned that Mrs. B. spent
the evening with her. Dr. B., soon after Mrs. Holloway went away, called
to take his lady home: he had been engaged to spend the evening at a card
assembly; but, as he was a man who liked agreeable conversation better
than cards, he had made his escape from a rout, to spend half an hour
with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Russell. The doctor was a man of various
literature; able to appreciate others, he was not insensible to the
pleasure of seeing himself appreciated. Half an hour passes quickly in
agreeable conversation: the doctor got into an argument, concerning the
propriety of the distinction made by some late metaphysical writers,
between imagination and fancy. Thence he was led to some critical remarks
upon Warton's beautiful Ode to Fancy; then to the never-ending debate
upon original genius; including also the doctrine of hereditary temper
and dispositions, which the doctor warmly supported, and which Mrs.
Howard coolly questioned.
In the midst of their conversation, they were suddenly interrupted by a
groan. They all looked round to see whence it came. It came from little
Oliver: he was sitting at a little table at the farther end of the room,
reading so intently in a large book that he saw nothing else: a long
unsnuffed candle, with a perilous fiery summit to its black wick, stood
before him, and his left arm embraced a thick china jar, against which he
leaned his head. There was, by common consent, a general silence in the
room, whilst every one looked at Oliver, as at a picture. Mrs. Howard
moved gently round behind his chair, to see what he was reading: the
doctor followed her. It was the account of the execution of two rebel
Koromantyn negroes, related in Edwards's History of the West Indies[7].
To try whether it would interrupt Oliver's deep attention, Mrs. Howard
leaned over him, and snuffed his dim candle; but the light was lost upon
him--he did not feel the obligation. Dr. B. then put his hand upon the
jar, which he pulled from Oliver's embrace. "Be quiet! I must finish
this!" cried Oliver, still holding fast the jar, and keeping his eyes
upon the book. The doctor gave a second pull at the jar, and the little
boy made an impatient push with his elbow; then casting his eye upon the
large hand which pulled the jar, he looked up, surprised, in the doctor's
face.
[Footnote 7: Vol. ii. p. 57, second edition.]
The nice china jar, which Oliver had held so sturdily, was very precious
to him. His uncle had just sent him two jars of fine West India
sweetmeats. One of these he had shared with his companions: the other he
had kept, to give to Mrs. Howard, who had once said, in his hearing, that
she was fond of West India sweetmeats. She accepted Oliver's little
present. Children sometimes feel as much pleasure in giving away
sweetmeats as in eating them; and Mrs. Howard too well understood the art
of education, even in trifles, to deny to grateful and generous feelings
their natural and necessary exercise. A child can show gratitude and
generosity only in trifles.
"Are these all the sweetmeats that you have left, Oliver?" said Mrs.
Howard.
"Yes--all."
"Was not Rousseau wrong, Dr. B.," said Mrs. Howard, "when he asserted,
that no child ever gives away _his last mouthful_ of any thing good?"
"Of any thing _good_!" said the doctor, laughing; "when I have tasted
these sweetmeats, I shall he a better judge."
"You shall taste them this minute, then," said Mrs. Howard; and she rang
for a plate, whilst the doctor, to little Oliver's great amusement,
exhibited various pretended signs of impatience, as Mrs. Howard
deliberately untied the cover of the jar. One cover after another she
slowly took off; at length the last transparent cover was lifted up: the
doctor peeped in; but lo! instead of sweetmeats there appeared nothing
but paper. One crumpled roll of paper after another Mrs. Howard pulled
out; still no sweetmeats. The jar was entirely stuffed with paper, to the
very bottom. Oliver was silent with amazement.
"The sides of the jar are quite clean," said Howard.
"But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained with sweetmeats,"
said Dr. B.
"There must have been sweetmeats in it lately," said Mrs. Howard,"
because the jar smells so strongly of them."
Amongst the pieces of crumpled paper which had been pulled out of the
jar, Dr. B. espied one, on which there appeared some writing: he looked
it over.
"Humph! What have we here? What's this? What can this he about a
lottery?--tickets, price half a guinea--prizes-gold watch!--silver
ditto--chased tooth-pick case--buckles--knee-buckles. What is all
this?--April 10th, 1797--the drawing to begin--prizes to be delivered at
Westminster school, by Aaron Carat, jeweller? Hey, young gentlemen,"
cried Dr. B., looking at Oliver and Charles, "do you know any thing of
this lottery?"
"I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you," said Howard.
"Nor I, thank goodness--I mean, thank you, Charles," exclaimed Oliver;
"for you hindered me from putting into the lottery: how very lucky I was
to take your advice!"
"How very wise, you should say, Oliver," said Dr. B. "I must inquire into
this business; I must find out who ordered these things from Mr. Aaron
Carat. There shall be no lotteries, no gaming at Westminster school,
whilst I have power to prevent it. To-morrow morning I'll inquire into
this affair; and to-morrow morning we shall also know, my little fellow,
what became of your sweetmeats."
"Oh, never mind _that_," cried the good-natured Oliver; "don't say any
thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: I don't mind about them; I know
already--I guess now, who took them; therefore you need not ask; I dare
say it was only meant for a joke."
Dr. B. made no reply; but folded up the paper which he had been reading,
put it into his pocket, and soon after took his leave.
Lord Rawson was one of those young men who measure their own merit and
felicity by the number of miles which their horses can go in a day; he
undertook to drive his friend up from Marryborough to Westminster, a
distance of forty miles, in five hours. The arrival of his lordship's gig
was a signal, for which several people were in waiting at Westminster
school. The stage-coachman was impatiently waiting to demand his money
from Holloway. Mr. Carat, the jeweller, was arrived, and eager to settle
with Mr. Holloway about the lottery: he had brought the prizes in a small
case, to be delivered, upon receiving from Holloway the money for all the
tickets of which he had disposed. Dr. B. was waiting for the arrival of
Mr. Holloway, as he had determined to collect all his pupils together,
and to examine into the lottery business. Little Oliver was also watching
for Holloway, to prevent mischief, and to assure him of forgiveness about
the sweetmeats.
Lord Rawson's dog-cart arrived. Holloway saw the stage-coachman as he
alighted, and, abruptly turning from him, shook hands with little Oliver,
saying, "You look as if you had been waiting for me."
"Yes," said Oliver: "but I can't say what I want to say before every
body."
"I'll wait upon you presently," said Holloway, escaping from the
coachman. As he crossed the hall, he descried Mr. Carat, and a crowd of
boys surrounding him, crying, "Mr. Carat's come--he has brought the
prizes!--he has brought the prizes! he'll show them all as soon as you've
settled with him." Holloway called to the Jew; but little Oliver insisted
upon being heard first.
"You must hear me: I have something to say to you about the prizes--about
the lottery."
The words arrested Holloway's attention: he followed Oliver; heard with
surprise and consternation the history of the paper which had been found
in the jar, by Dr. B. "I've done for myself, now, faith!" he exclaimed;
"I suppose the doctor knows all about the hand _I_ have in the lottery."
"No," replied Oliver, "he does not."
"Why, _you_ must have known it; and did not he question you and Howard?"
"Yes; but when we told him that we had nothing to do with it, he did not
press us farther."
"You are really a noble little fellow," exclaimed Holloway, "to bear
me no malice for the many ill turns I have done you: this last has
fallen upon myself, as ill-luck would have it: but before we go any
farther--your sweetmeats are safe in the press, in my room; I didn't mean
to steal them; only to plague you, child:--but you have your revenge
now."
"I don't want any revenge, indeed," said Oliver, "for I'm never happy
when I've quarrelled with any body: and even when people quarrel with me,
I don't feel quite sure that I'm in the right, which makes me
uncomfortable; and, besides, I don't want to find out that they are quite
in the wrong; and that makes me uncomfortable the other way. After all,
quarrelling and bearing malice are very disagreeable things, somehow or
other. Don't you, when you have made it up with people, and shaken hands,
Holloway--don't you feel quite light, and ready to jump again? So shake
hands, if you are not above shaking hands with such a little boy as I am;
and I shall never think again about the sweetmeats, or old _fag_ times."
Holloway could not help feeling touched. "Here's my hand," cried he, "I'm
sorry I've tormented you so often |
