Number One; or, the Way of the World
Chapter i.
Introductory. Frank at Home.
"One Man in his Time Plays Many Parts."—Shakespeare.
"That's a promising son of yours," said a noble candidate for senatorial honors to a gentleman whose political opinions happened to accord with those of the speaker.
"If the hopeful promises of youth were ever sure of fulfilment, my lord,—"
"In the present case," continued the lordly flatterer, interrupting the respondent and secretly conveying a guinea to the hand of his son, "let us not cloud the prospect with a conjunction. There's no if in the subject, is there, Frank?"
Frank blushed a reply or acknowledgement, or both, but said nothing.
His lordship again turned to the parent.
"As chairman of our committee, you might possibly receive a few useful hints from my private secretary. What say you? Will you see him previous to the next meeting of your friends?"
"At any time or in any way I can aid the good cause, I shall ever be found at your lordship's service."
"And I at yours. Good morning."
The foregoing fragment has been preserved and still vividly floats on the mind of the writer. It is a small portion, but the only portion, of a conversation I remember to have taken place at my father's house in the early part of the present century. Beyond this the event appears like a confused dream. I go back to a mass of matter, but see nothing distinctly. I have a faint recollection of having answered certain mathematical questions, or having done or said something to the satisfaction of the noble visitor, without, in the exhumation, being able to distinguish more clearly what that something was. Yet, in the foreground of the picture, one prominent object presents itself to prove the reality of things almost lost in the distance. Whatever might have been the performance in question, and however imperfect the execution and remembrance thereof, the good old guinea I received at the close still shines so brightly on the memory that the apparition seems to revive and actually to impart a taste of the heartfelt joy created by its first impression. As a guinea was the founder of that impression, the simple fact is favorable to the belief that our love of gold is strong, not only at maturity but even in the spring of life.
Of the two immediate causes—the parent's political capital, or the son's solution of certain questions—it matters little now which had the greater weight with the would-be M.P. when he called me "a promising boy." Boy, however, I was, wanting but a few weeks to complete thirteen years of health and happiness. Happy in the innocent pleasures and pastimes of youth and youthful companions, I envied not the more refined or artificial amusements of man, while I shared not his cares and responsibilities. In my native town—a small and remote English borough—my father was the proprietor of a house of long standing. That he was himself a man of local reputation may be imagined from the fact of his having been chairman of a committee of gentlemen who were instrumental in placing at the head of the poll the noble lord who was at that time elected M.P. for the borough.
My worthy parent, whose thoughts were anywhere and on anything but commerce, and whose society was courted by so many of his townsmen, was the founder only of his own social and political reputation. The commercial reputation of the house of long standing, of which he was the proprietor, had been founded and bequeathed by his father. Like many a fortunate or unfortunate heir to a commercial estate that has been acquired by the daily toil of a parent's long and anxious life, he felt little sympathy with, or taste either for the character, conditions, or dignity of his inheritance. Beyond any revenue that might arise there-from, without personal application or return of labor, the owner felt no interest in his business property. His mind had been tutored above it. Although his collegiate studies were in keeping with his father's means, they in a great measure unfitted him for the mercantile life for which he was intended, and by which alone the income arising from the house could be permanently maintained. He succeeded to the establishment, but the establishment had to depend on its former reputation rather than on the efforts of the new master for its future position. "Had I been trained for commercial life, commercial life might have suited me. I engage in commerce at your desire, but against my own." As recorded by himself, that, on his return from college, was the reply to his parent, when requested to enter on the duties designed for him.
"Yes, yes, I'll attend to that to-morrow." Such was the repeated reply of the proprietor of the house of long standing, when reminded of some important business that required not to be deferred till to-morrow, but attended to to-day. To a man who had no taste for commerce the business of a parish or the affairs of the nation proved of much greater importance than his own.
It is a great mistake to suppose that the only Houses of Parliament are those near Westminster Abbey. Every town in the kingdom has its little House of Commons. Every house, too, has its local staff of debators. If not real M.P.'s, they are nevertheless big men—at least in their own eyes, if not in the eyes of the world. If they cannot deal with important public measures they deal largely in words which are of the utmost importance to themselves. But let no one detract either from the dignity or power of a country House of Commons. As public opinion—through the press—is ever brought to bear on Statesmen and Legislators, so likewise is the voice of a village knot of politicians ever brought to bear, and often to bear heavily, on each wavering representative. Woe to that M.P. who by a conscientious speech or vote should give offence not to the Speaker in St. Stephen's Hall, but to the speakers in the Town Hall of St. Stump. Severe and lasting were the blows which the cutting sentences of my honored father inflicted on all who failed in their loyalty to the Crown or their duty to the country. But far more severe and lasting was the blow he at the same time inflicted on his own business.
The natural consequence of war between a gentleman's taste and his profession is soon perceptible. Profession becomes the servant of taste, even at the cost of the conqueror. It was so here. Other than commercial matters filled the mind and engaged the attention of one who was dependent on, but had no taste for commerce. The reader, without the prediction of a prophet or the reason of a Greek philosopher, may anticipate the result. A few years after the decease of its founder, the house of long standing is discovered on the decline. The reputation of an establishment may do much for a new proprietor, but reputation, however high, is not altogether self-supporting. If the outward superscription of a firm require a periodical coat of paint or varnish, the internal machine that creates the fame of the house must likewise need repeated attention. This discovery was made in the establishment in question rather late in the day. An attempt to remedy the evil supplied painful evidence of the fact that it is much easier to make a new trade than to retrieve a neglected one. As active generals turn to their own advantage the inactivity of their adversaries, a few young and meritorious houses in the town of my nativity were rapidly taking the strong positions of an establishment that had previously, and for a long period, been regarded as the commercial commander-in-chief of the surrounding district.
Chapter ii.
Frank an Orphan.
In social or commercial life, how many and momentous are the changes which sometimes take place in the brief space of a few years. Two years are numbered with the past. So are all the scenes and some of the actors just named. The house of long standing and the respected proprietor, who devoted more time to parish and political affairs than to his own, have both ceased to exist. The mortal decease of the one was soon followed by the commercial extinction of the other. The subsequent and closing scene of the drama, in which all worldly accounts were balanced, made it painfully manifest that, in this instance, commerce and politics had not thrived well together. The merchant had been sacrificed to the politician. The fruitful gain arising from commerce had been neglected for the fruitless reputation of the platform, or the worse than fruitless smiles of political courtiers. But all was over. The honest enthusiast who, at his own cost, had given so much valuable time to others could give them no more. His son, Frank, was now an orphan. His loved and loving parents had gone to their final resting place.
Fifteen is rather a critical age for a critical position. At this moment I was at the point of both. A parentless and penniless youth at the age of fifteen. That was my position. It has been, and will again be, the situation of other youths. But the world covers a large space, and I had the world before me. If I had no friend to insure me a good place therein, I had none to prevent me obtaining the best place I could for myself. With this knowledge I was about to start on the journey of life.
As in manhood, so in boyhood—the heart looks for a dwelling place anywhere but in the vicinity where it has lost one. Deep and lasting is the pang that gives birth to this desire for change of scene, or change of occupation. Such a feeling, apart from any other, might have justified me in the refusal of a situation which was kindly tendered for my acceptance by a friend of my late father. But at this moment the heart contained something more than grief that was at war with the interests of its owner. It was pride. For the benefit of my young readers I admit the first of many foolish acts. A false notion of pride caused me to reject the boon my condition stood so much in need of. What? Clerk in an office in my native town, in which my father had been a man of repute—horrible! Then to be recognized in that situation by those who were yet independent of self-support—more horrible still. Or, finally, to be laughed at and discarded by former companions for having nobly accommodated myself to an unavoidable change of fortune—more horrible than all. These and kindred sensations alternately crossed the mind. Like the base seconds or cowardly backers of brave but misguided spirits in some ignoble encounter, they seemed to encourage a proud heart to defend a false position, whatever personal suffering might ensue. Alas! How frequent and severe is the penalty paid by sensitive but mistaken young minds to that subtle monster—pride. In my subsequent travels round the world I beheld some of its effects. In the streets of Melbourne I have seen the well educated son of a bankrupt merchant carrying, in a baker's basket, the daily bread of others in order to obtain his own. In tracing the sad spectacle to its origin, I discovered that the bearer of the basket, rather than carry a small parcel in his native land, had abandoned a lucrative position, as the representative of an old and eminent mercantile house, in order to improve his position at the Antipodes. On the Gold Fields of Victoria, I have seen the son of a poor Baronet working, like an English "navvy," mid-deep in water—because in the mother country the pride of the aristocratic laborer prevented him accepting a subordinate government appointment which had, with difficulty, been obtained through the influence of his father. Farther in the interior of Australia, a picture of a still more distressing tendency arrested my attention. Riding one day over a part of the country in which kangaroos and apossums were more plentiful than the human race, I overtook a team of bullocks on their way to the remote station of a well known squatter. On asking the coarsely clad, unshaved, but youthful bullock driver the nearest way to the point whither I was bound, the young man, after having signalled his cattle to stop, looked intently at his inquisitor, raised both arms in a manner that indicated great surprise, and in a tone of voice that betrayed something between joy and madness, exclaimed:—
"I—can't be mistaken; no, I—"
Here he drew nearer the horse on which I was mounted, and after an earnest survey of the rider, sealed by a slight but expressive motion of the head right and left, he repeated with increased emphasis,
"No; I can't be mistaken—I'm sure I can't. But you don't know me—no?"
"Indeed, I do not," I replied.
At this moment there confronted my vision a look I have never forgotten and can never forget. A fiery glance from the eye of the most eminent actor that ever lived never made a deeper impression on a spectator than was suddenly produced on the writer by the mute yet eloquent expression on the countenance of the bullock driver. It seemed to open out a volume—not in a word, but in a look That look conveyed to my mind twenty questions at a blush. Who, or what is he? To whom does he belong? From what part of the world did he come? As these and other queries were crossing the imagination they were interrupted by:—
"Yes; I know you well; but you don't wish to know me. You and I are not now—that is I am not what I was. I am the—the same person, but—"
His speech, faltered, and as he turned his head to conceal the tears that damped his cheek, I couldn't, for the life of me, avoid following suit, although satisfied the thing was altogether a mistake. Recovering his self-possession, the young man evidently wished to pass off, unnoticed, the symptoms of a sensitive heart, and in a volume of sound somewhat more bold than clear, he continued,
"When you have passed the next creek turn your horse to the right, and the rider will soon reach the spot he enquired for. Good morning, Sir. In time past I might have said, Frank."
The familiar sound of my own name, coupled with a style of speech superior to that of most bullock drivers, completely electrified me; and as the young man with-drewwithdrew to proceed with his team of cattle, I muttered a sort of half stifled "aye," or "ho-i," as a signal for him to return. This was answered by a clear and emphatic:—
"No, Sir. I have no wish to intrude my conversation or my company on anyone. Time was when Charles—, the present bullock driver, would have received a different sort of greeting from his old school-fellow."
The name of Charles—, the disfigured student, threw instant light on the subject. A moment, and I was dismounted; another, and the hands and arms of two old school-fellows were like so many pump-handles in rapid motion, while the liquid drops that bore testimony to the sincerity of the operation were as warm, if not so continuous, as any stream that ever flowed from a natural course.
What took place after the somewhat difficult task of personal recognition, or subsequently at the house of the squatter in whose service my friend filled an unenviable situation, may be passed without comment. Although the early history of one who had fallen from a good position to that of bullock driver was soon revealed, the details of that revelation will not be required here. It is enough for the reader to know that the primary cause of the young man's fall was—pride.
To perpetuate, or to redeem such a fall two things, in either case, are required—idleness and intemperance, or perseverance and sobriety. To continue in idleness and intemperance the fallen one may expect nothing but the ultimate and utter destruction both of mind and body. With perseverance and sobriety a young man, although disgraced and humbled by some false step or steps of his own, has every hope of future restoration. It was even so with my young friend the bullock driver. But the mind of that generous hearted young fellow had been so hum-bledhumbled by a bitter consciousness of early errors that, of all who knew him, he himself was perhaps the least sanguine of his ever being able to raise himself from the level of what he called his "just deserts." He was too sincere in the conviction of past folly to estimate the real value of that heaven-born secret that creates a desire for an upward course. He was not one of those miserable objects who, under a faithless promise of reformation, obtain assistance from friends and relatives only to sink still lower in the depths of their own degradation. He had fallen, through the silly pride of early conceit, but he still retained the noble pride of self-respect. He had sacrificed his position, not his independence. After an interview in which a few of the bright traits of his character were seen, like specks of precious metal peeping through the mire, and when an old acquaintance, commiserating his position, tendered a little gold for his acceptance, he firmly but feelingly replied, "What have I done to merit this? No. Thank God, I am not yet a beggar or a pauper, and while I have strength to labor, I dare not become the recipient of charity. I thank you, my dear friend, for your kind offer. The Lord will bless you for it, and for your generous sympathy, but I should not myself be blessed in the possession of an unmerited gift."
Enough A summary of what followed may be given in a few words. There ever have been, and ever will be, in all countries and in all ages, people who, sooner or later, discover and appreciate good qualities—whether in a work of art or in a work of nature. Honesty, sobriety, industry, and morality were leading features in the character of the bullock driver. Although his master was not one of the most temperate of men, either in his living or his language, he beheld and admired in his servant virtues of which he was himself deficient. He was, moreover, a rich man, but he was also an uneducated man. He found his servant to be the possessor of riches superior to his own—mental riches. The discovery induced him to regard the owner with respect. He improved his position, admitted him to his confidence, and subsequently gave him a share in his extensive domain. They were now no longer master and servant, squatter and bullock driver, but partners, The death of the former, which took place about two years after the business union, and the subsequent marriage of the latter with the only surviving daughter of his late master, will bring the narrative to a close. It only remains to add that the late bullock driver is, at this present writing, one of the most wealthy landowners in Australia. Yes; there is something else to add. He is now, as master, what he was, as servant,—though humble and kind hearted, yet great in his aspirations and deeds as a man, made greater in the purity of his motives as a Christian. Not a Christian known to the world through outward signs and professions, but one known by the poor and friendless, through the way in which he silently performs the Christian character in a variety of noble actions. He is now a rich man and a good man. I respect him now, but I loved him when he was a bullock driver. He is as worthy of love now as then; but then the nobleness of his character, and that alone, came forth and filled my heart with love; now his riches and his position seem, as it were, to deprive the heart of its early sympathy, and what was once the very essence of love is now changed into profound esteem.
The simple record of these and other realities, as this work proceeds, will need no literary adornment. If the facts are not strong enough to speak for themselves—if, like the oral demonstration of little children, something be required to clear or brighten each subject—simplicity of action, like the natural movements of little children, will, perhaps, supply the deficiency. In describing my own acts, and those of others, I will not, for a moment, presume to say that similar acts will invariably produce the same results. I will give the substance of numerous truthful, some striking, incidents, without drawing on the imagination for external forms and flourishes. Of certain movements, whether giddy or grave, trifling or momentous, foolish or otherwise, the simple issue of each, so far as it has been developed, shall be given. In leaving my readers, especially my young readers, to consider whether the same or similar movements in life may not be attended with corresponding results, I will only express a sincere hope that they may arrive at conclusions not altogether adverse to their own welfare, and to the chief object of the author of the present pages.
Chapter iii.
The English Metropolis.
London is the parent of a large family and the guardian of a still larger one. Of her own children that remain at home she has a great many to provide for; yet, she has ever to make provision for a greater number of strangers, either in the shape of country cousins, foreign visitors, or grandchildren. She may, in truth, be termed the grand parent of the kingdom; for in addition to favored foreigners, some of whom prolong their stay to an indefinite period, and a succession of periodical visitors, she receives from the respective counties—her grandsons and granddaughters—a daily supply of young heads and hearts—some to be polished, instructed, and raised to power, wealth, or fame; others to be neglected, dishonored, and left to perish, either through their own or others' vices. Both of the good and evil store, this monster, London, has enough, and more than enough, for all comers.
From every part of the kingdom, by young persons of every profession, and by many of no profession at all, London is sought as the most desirable mart on which to test the mental, physical, or scientific powers or pretensions of those who have little or nothing else to depend on. With what pleasure does the country apprentice look forward to the close of his apprenticeship, in the hope of "going to London." With, what emphasis does the provincial actor declare he can never become great till he has established himself as a successful character on the London boards. Thus with actors of all grades, and of either sex,—from the young statesman in embryo- to the blooming country cook, each and all are anxious to perfect their parts on the London stage. It was even so with me, with this rather important difference—my part was yet to be revealed. The part of the schoolboy was the only one I had attempted, and that was unfortunately, although unavoidably, abandoned in an imperfect state. Still, boy as I was, there was something within—-something between the youthful spirit of adventure and a romantic desire for early independence—that satisfied me I should not remain long in the great capital without employment. Not that the loss of parents compelled me, on the instant, to leave the scenes of my childhood; but rather that the family jewel case, deprived of its chief treasures, had ceased to be attractive; for in the vacant sound of home the orphan was only reminded of the homeless.
The situation I had declined in my native town was applied for and obtained by a cousin of mine who was about my own age. He was already made happy in the early and bright prospect of commercial life, of which he had received the first instalment. I, too, was happy in the buoyant hope that London would shortly present for my acceptance something equally, if not more brilliant. The word "penniless" was no longer applicable to my own position, the sale of my father's effects having, contrary to expectation, after payment of all debts, left a balance in my favor of about seven pounds.
All is ready for the start. A substantial trunk, containing best and second suits of the most approved countri-fiedcountrified cut, with a variety of articles cast in similar moulds. Of such were formed some of the outward features by which the bearer might have been recognized in the great city as a "native" of anywhere else. The more minute or portfolio portion of the baggage included five letters of introduction to mercantile houses in London; a purse of seven guineas, and sundry trifles of no value to anyone but the owner. These, with the animate part of the stock, in the shape of a vigorous yet slender frame, an active spirit, an indifferent and unfinished education, together with the good wishes of numerous country cousins, comprised the personal and entire capital of a youth who was about to launch himself on the great ocean of life—the unrestrained dictates of his own mind having to govern or guide him on his future course, either for good or evil.
Although I was about to start in life with a small capital, I had often heard, not only heard but read, that some of the most eminent men in the kingdom had started with less. So and so, the rich merchant, or the eminent engineer, or the profound philosopher, or some other self-made and renowned character "was once a poor boy." This was often said in reference to the accomplished fact, without a momentary glance at the varied means by which the accomplishment had been effected. Like others, I beheld the pleasing pictures, and turned not to the process by which they had been perfected. The simple knowledge that each was a type of what might again become a living reality inspired me with hope and strength for the coming struggle—a struggle, if not for eminence, at least for honorable independence. With a spirit so hopeful, it was no wonder that I had faith in the well known declaration of an eminent and self-raised character, who said, "where there is merit in a young man's career, there is no such word as fail?"
Brunel and the "broad gauge" might have been subjects of public conversation in the early part of the present century, but, if the latter had any existence, it existed only in the imagination at the time I took my seat on the coach that was to convey me from a certain town in the west of England to London in the brief space of twenty-four hours. Yet, never, that I remember, did I enjoy a ride more than on that occasion. Many of my readers will be ready, from their own experience, to affirm that coach travelling had its pleasures as well as its annoyances; that on the box-seat of a well-mounted four-in-hand an occasional summer ride over hill and dale offered, in return for the additional time involved in the excursion, that varied panorama of the beauties of nature of which modern travellers are, in a great measure, deprived by the rapid advance of science, locomotion, and railway tunnels. Above and beyond the charming and varied aspects of the scene that enlivened my first coach journey to the great metropolis, a glorious sunshine of hope warmed the heart with the most pleasing pictures of uncurtained scenes in the distance. To my own youthful and inexperienced vision, the beauties of natural life typified the sweets of the life on which I was about to enter. I had yet no cause to anticipate, or even to dream of coming clouds and disappointments. At present, all was fair, and in the present prospect my mind beheld the future.
Everything seemed to justify the pleasing prediction. Four letters of introduction to mercantile houses in the great city to which I was bound, together with an assurance from some of the leading men in my native town that "the noble and right honorable M.P., who was mainly indebted for his seat in parliament to the political influence of my late father, would only be too happy to serve me"—all appeared to unite in suggesting various sunny spots on which to build a structure of future greatness.
The imagination of man, at every period of life, is ever ready to shape to its own mould any and everything that may incline, or even seem to incline, towards self. The moulds for shaping my individual budget of anticipated sweets were many, although none of them were yet filled. Into which, then, shall I cast my own lot? Shall I accept a subordinate government appointment and pass, or waste, the best part of my life on foolscap and red tape, in the hope of ultimately becoming a pensioner on the public purse; or shall I turn my youthful thoughts and aspirations to a more independent course of action, trusting to personal exertion for advancement, rather than to length of official service for a small pension in old age? These were questions, the only ones, that created a little anxiety as I rapidly approached the place and time by which such, and other queries, would for ever be set at rest.
London, or rather the smoke arising therefrom, appears in the distance. Other and more important considerations are suddenly suspended for a concentration of ideas relating to the richest and most wonderful city in the world.
Chapter iv.
Honest John.—Frank in London.
Honest John. This was the name of a man to whose clean but humble apartments I proceeded on my arrival in London. Honest John was a man in whose upright but somewhat crude and abrupt words and actions originated that part of his title which was not given to him either by his godfathers or his godmothers. That he was as honest when at the baptismal font he received the name of "John" as at any subsequent period of his life those who have seen the way of the world reflected, either in themselves or others, from childhood to maturity, will not be disposed to doubt. If honesty in infancy is unalloyed, John retained enough of the primitive virtue to merit, through the various stages of a long career, a title that followed him with honor to the grave. Even from the imperfect outlines that will be given herein, the reader may hereafter arrive at the reasonable conclusion that—so far as human capacity could compass his character—John lived and died an honest man. He was an old servant that had been in the service of my father, and father's father, time out of mind—at least, out of mind or memory of the writer. He had ever been part, or a variety of parts, of the late "house of long standing." As something between master and man—alternately representing a little, but not enough of each character to be regarded as chief of either—Honest John had been forty years in the establishment. The house and John were each identified with the other. As in former days, passengers by a stage coach knew more of the coachman than of his employers, John was better known than his master to the majority of those who had business transactions with the "house of long standing." Everybody that came to the establishment knew John, and John knew everybody that came; not only knew them, but knew or anticipated their wants before they were expressed. But the death of his master and subsequent dissolution of the house, compelled John, at the age of sixty, either to seek another home for his services, or retire on some six or seven hundred pounds he had saved from the past. Idleness, however, is not the choice of an active mind at any age—much less of one whose bodily vigour made him more than a match for juniors who had passed an intemperate life. In health and strength, John was a young man, although his years numbered threescore. When the head of a London house gave him an opportunity of filling a respectable, though not very lucrative, situation, the offer was readily accepted. With his adopted child, Amy, who was now about fifteen years old, Honest John immediately took up his abode in London. Here he had resided only about three months when I left the coach that had conveyed me from home to pay my first visit in the great metropolis to the only man therein of whom I had any intimate knowledge.
Entering John's apartments in the neighbourhood of Islington had the momentary effect of placing me again in the town from which I had been journeying during the previous twenty-four hours. The presence not only of Honest John and his industrious Amy, but also of those inanimate things which had been transferred from the country cottage to adorn the present little sitting-room, imparted something like reality to the illusion. Around the room, in frames more remarkable for their antiquity than for anything else, were hung the familiar counterfeits—chiefly in red and black paint—of John's nearest and dearest ancestors. These with the minor family relies, in the shape of old china and old books that occupied their allotted places in the apartment, gave to the interior that vivid appearance of "home" that forcibly reminded me of an occasional visit to John's country cottage, as courier from the house of long standing, bearing the message of "John, you're wanted."
One glance from the window, and the illusion was dispelled. Instead of a look out, as from the country cottage, on a beautiful garden, ornamented with choice shrubs and flowers, with a fine landscape in the distance, the prospect from the London apartment was a dirty little yard about eight or ten feet square, enclosed, not by majestic oaks and elms "with verdure clad," but by the backs of smoky houses, resembling certain persons in and around the same, who appeared to me to stand sadly in need of a good wash.
The tea and chop which had been prepared for me by the attentive Amy were much enjoyed, and the enjoyment enhanced by a hasty review of the changes relating to ourselves and others that had taken place in the brief space of a few months.
Amy was an orphan—the offspring of poor parents, but left parentless when only five years old. Honest John, who was never married, adopted the child of those with whom he had been on intimate terms in early life. Although in all but the lineal tie, he had ever been to her a father, she had been taught to call, and always called, him "uncle." Amy was slightly deformed. But the deformity was only that of the body. The sweetness of her disposition and the purity of her mind were among the countless proofs that the Almighty, for any outward or minor defects in His children, ever supplies compensating virtues within. The mild, yet expressive, countenance that imparted life to the engaging notes of the gentle Amy soon made her hearers forget that the back of the speaker was somewhat out of the usual proportions. The love that existed between John and Amy proves that, even from the common accidents of life, the human heart may form social ties as sacred and profound as any fostered on the parent hearth. Often have I heard my father mention the severe reproof that was once administered by Honest John to a conceited individual, who, after casting a contemptuous glance at the adopted child, said:—
"Why, John, how came you to adopt such an ugly deformed little brute as that?"
"Brute!" exclaimed John. "Is she related to you, Sir?"
"Thank heaven—no," was the fop's reply.
"Then she can't be a little brute, although you are a big one."
Defeated with his own weapon, the inquisitor closed the combat with that kind of forced laugh that serves to cover the shame of an ignominious retreat.
In a simile between animal and human nature our great dramatic poet says:—
……" Is the adder better than the eel,
Because its painted skin contents the eye?"
And Honest John, in comparing the relative value of mind and matter, had faith in the old adage that "beauty-is only skin deep." It was enough for him that Amy had many beauties in her mind, whatever others might think of the imperfections of her body. Love between parent and child could not be stronger than that which here existed between the adopter and the adopted.
Seeing I had done justice to the repast that had been prepared by the attentive Amy, Honest John, after throwing aside the newspaper he had been reading, said:—
"Well, Frank; as you've come to London to make your fortune, what's to be your first move?"
"Can't say at present, John. Wish to see a few of the London sights first. Am told that after I begin work there'll be no time to—"
"Spend your money, eh?" interposed John. "Now one gentle word before you start in life may be worth a dozen strong ones after you've started. Listen, Frank. In going through this world, like going towards the next, you've only two ways—the right and the wrong. Now, lad, don't spend your money till you learn how to make it. Who's the silly body would have thee begin the other way?"
"No silly body at all, but a very nice young fellow. Why, John, you knew the only son of the gentleman who was father's solicitor—I mean young Silas Bloomfield. He's considered a very clever young man at home."
"So is the father—very clever," said John." He once charged me six and eightpence for saying 'yes.' If there's any family likeness in the son's ability, take my word for't it will do thee no good, lad."
"Oh, but I rather like Silas. He's coming to town to-morrow. Going to ever so many places. Promised to take me. Nice young fellow, Silas."
"No doubt," said John." And with this nice young fellow you and your money are going?"
"Of course, John, I intend to go with him. Silas has plenty of money. Only wants my company, that's all. As I'm a stranger in London, his company will he very useful to me."
"Will it? "said John.
"I only wish he was going to stay a little longer; for he says we shall have quite enough to do to see everything in a fortnight."
"Quite," replied John.
"And his uncle told us it would be rather hard work."
"Rather," said John.
"But Silas was only ten days in London last time, and he says he saw everything and everybody before he left."
Amy, although quietly seated at needlework, had been paying more attention to the conversation than to her stitches. At this moment, as if by sudden impulse, she turned her eyes towards me, and in a subdued yet impassioned tone exclaimed:—
"Don't believe him, Frank. Although uncle and I have been in London more than three months, we haven't seen——"
"Amy!" said John, in a tone that at once transferred her action from the tongue to the finger, "don't interfere in matters that don't concern thee, girl."
For the mild reproof Amy had received the sensitiveness of her nature was at once perceptible, in certain little liquid drops that trickled down her cheeks. John was impatient of interruption. He noted every word that fell from my lips with that marked attention that seemed to dive into the very mainspring of those oral indications of youth that sometimes betray the course of future action. After he had paced the room two or three times, and resumed the seat he had just vacated, he said,
"Well, Frank, we can't place old heads on young shoulders—I'm aware of that, lad. Though they talk about the wisdom of the world, there's often more talk than body in't, especially if gathered young. Now, lad, there's a sort of wisdom in the world that young folks may learn of others, and there's another sort they can only learn of themselves. There's the sweet and there's the bitter fruit of experience. I've tasted both. If you live long, you'll taste both; but if you only learn of old heads the worth of the one, and the cost of the other, you may avoid a good deal of what nobody ever wished to taste twice. After his London freaks and frolics, that nice young fellow, as you call him, young Silas Bloomfield, will return to his parents. You have no parents—remember that, Frank. You wish to see a few of the shams before you begin with the realities of life. Don't go out of your depth. You have yet to learn your own strength and your own weakness. Boy like, you are going to be amused with the toys of society. Go. But when the play's over, what then, Frank?"
"Work—work in earnest, John," I replied.
"That sounds better," said John, with a smile. "When you are ready for the work will the work be ready for you?"
"Of course it will, when I enter a situation."
"True lad—when you enter. But when you are ready to enter will there be any friend ready to open the door?"
"Why, John, I have no less than five—"
"Excellent!" exclaimed John, ere I had finished the sentence. "You've a larger share of fortune to begin life with than most lads can boast of—remember that, Frank."
"Yes, John—though I didn't say I had five situations. But I have five letters to London houses."
"Is that all?" enquired John.
"Yes; but, let me tell you, the principals are all first-class men of business."
"Smaller the chance of their having any business with you, unless you happen to be wanted."
"If they don't want me, I shall take a government appointment."
"By all means," said John.
"I would rather be a merchant, but if I can't, why I suppose I'd better take a government situation, till I hear of something better; don't you think so, John?"
"Decidedly," said John, with a smile.
"I shall call on Lord——, one of our members. Don't you remember that, when I was a little boy, he gave me, at election time, the first guinea I ever had'?"
"And, take my word for't, it will be the last you will ever have from the same hand," said John.
"I don't want his money—not I. Haven't I nearly seven pounds of my own? When I want money I shall work for it. But as his lordship was so friendly with my father, I'm sure, if I don't take a commercial situation, he will give me a good official one. I have no doubt about that, have you, John?"
"Not the least, though our conclusions may differ. But it's no use at present, Frank, to talk any more about what you will, or what you won't do, or about what others will or won't do for thee. There is one thing you must first learn. That you may not pay a high price in learning it is the best wish of one who is perhaps not thy worst enemy."
"What is it, John?" I enquired, feeling anxious to know, if not to apply, so valuable a secret.
"The Way of the World."
"But there are so many ways in the world, John."
"There's a family likeness between 'em all. It may be stronger in some hearts than others, but there is always a little feature or two to remind one of the original. Dost understand me, lad?"
"Indeed I do not. What is the original feature?" I enquired.
"Number One. That's it—the best or worst of all figures or features. It will serve thee either as a blessing or a curse. If you wish advancement, wealth, or worldly honors, trust to number one—that is, to thyself. If you look for aid to other figures you'll fail. But the same figure denotes two classes. Remember that, lad. There are the number ones which signify selfishness and all that is bad; and there are the number ones that signify independence, charitableness, and all that is good. Study thou the evil class only to become more firmly attached to the other. So far as in thy power lies, assist others, but never trust to others for assistance. Honest John can give thee no further advice. Time will soon come when he will not be here to offer any. Then, Frank, you will know more of the way of the world. In that way, you will find, under various aspects, and at every turn, whether in social, commercial, or political life, that the first and foremost of all figures is number one."
Honest John here ceased to offer advice. It was now nearly ten o'clock, and knowing, as I did, that the small sitting room we then occupied, and two little bedrooms, comprised the domestic apartments of the host, I began to feel somewhat curious as to where I might have to sleep, having in my own mind concluded that on the morrow I should have to seek a lodging elsewhere. With some little hesitation, I broached the subject. John soon settled it.
"Well; we'll not turn thee out o'door, lad. Amy will make thy mind easy on that point. Amy is mistress of all household matters."
Hereupon, Amy was instantly on her legs, on which she was as nimble as a kitten. My attention was immediately directed to the end of the apartment to which she darted.
"Look here, Frank," said Amy, in a most engaging tone, "you see this little sofa? This morning I purchased it for you."
"For me?" I enquired.
"For you, and you only, Frank. It is to be yours as long as you like, or have occasion to use it; is it not, uncle?"
"Quite right, girl," said John.
At this moment it not only puzzled me how I was to sleep on such a contracted bit of furniture, but also how I was to dispose of my long legs in the attempt.
"Perhaps, like me, you never saw a sofa-bed before you came to London?" said Amy.
"What do you mean?" I innocently enquired.
"You shall see," replied Amy.
She there and then, as if by magic, opened out to my astonished vision bedstead, with bed and bedding enough to repose, in comfort, a body of greater proportions than that which was about to become its temporary occupant.
"Everything new," said Amy, as she prepared the portable couch for my reception. "Bedstead, bed, and bedding, all new this morning; and this is a great advantage for a young person just from the country, is it not, uncle?"
"Right, girl," said John. "Amy speaks from experience; and, take my word for't lad, it's the best authority on any subject. But Frank is not to be frightened by a few lady-birds?"
"Not I. Pretty little innocent creatures. But how strange you should have such things in a place like London."
John and Amy saluted my innocence with laughter.
"In London, Frank, thou shalt find creatures by far more strange than these. This thou wilt learn from experience."
"There!" said Amy, as she gave the finishing touch to the little bed, "I only hope you may sleep well, and find, in the morning, that my endeavour to make you comfortable has been successful."
"I am sure I shall; and, as for sleeping, I am just now tired enough to sleep anywhere."
"No doubt, lad," said John. "We will not long delay the trial. A little while and we shall all retire. Amy,—the Book!"
Amy immediately conveyed to the table the family Bible, seated herself, and read, without comment, one chapter each from the Old and New Testament. I will not now, as I did then, attempt to disguise the varied sensations which at that moment came over me. They were not in unison, and had little sympathy with a sacred discourse. I was less impressed with the sublime character of the subject than with the clear and well emphasised notes of the reader. Had Amy been engaged on a couple of chapters of exciting romance, I should, probably, have felt more at ease, and my thoughts would not have wandered so far from the matter. I thought Amy a charming reader; but a sepulchral, solemn sort of regard for, rather than love of, what she was reading, created, during the short time she was engaged on the sacred volume, a considerable degree of restless anxiety for the relief I experienced at the close.
"Frank," said John, as Amy closed the sacred volume, "when you were four years old your mother died. You don't remember her. Twice a day, at least, she read her Bible. That you don't remember."
Here John rose from his seat, and taking the candle Amy had provided, gave me a hearty shake of the hand. After a momentary pause, and a look of impressive earnestness, he said:—
"Happy that young man or young woman whose habits furnish proof of having been trained by such a mother. God bless thee, Frank. Good night!"
"I hope you'll sleep well," said Amy, with a smile; "and not have your rest disturbed by lady-birds. Good night!"
John and Amy retired to their respective apartments. A few moments, and I was not only enclosed in the new bedding Amy had provided, but also ready for the sweet repose I believed sleep to have in store for me. Contrary to expectation, it was two hours, or more, before the wished-for comfort came. Although my extended limbs, in the very luxury of enjoyment, told of the fatigue of the body, there were certain restless little thoughts that delayed the repose of the mind. The more I tried not to think of anything, the more quickly came something to make me think. The floating images were many and various. The chief of them seemed to suggest the question,—"will this dwelling-place afford me the same degree of comfort I might find in a lodging of my own?" I felt satisfied that the united desire of John and Amy was to contribute not only to my immediate comfort, but also to my permanent happiness; but it then appeared to me that there were certain forms appended to their efforts that would prove fatal to the consummation of their hopes. The heartfelt gratitude I already felt for their kindness evoked, at the same time, a bitter sense of the restraint that kindness might place on my youthful inclinations, I had for some time been free from social restraint, and I wished to continue so. Although, in my native town, I had always occupied, in church, a portion of the family pew on the Sabbath day, I had no recollection, till this my first evening in London, of ever reading, or hearing the Bible read during the week. At home, I had often been told that Honest John was a good sort of man, but I had never passed an evening at his cottage, or in his company, till now; and I had no idea that any of his goodness arose in reading, or having the Bible read twice a day.
These and other thoughts, concerning my own feelings and future movements, alternately crossed the mind. But, as the approach of midnight lessened the noises without, balmy sleep closed the debate I had been carrying on with myself, and adjourned the consideration of other subjects till I should rise, refreshed, and better prepared for action, after I had passed my first night in London.
Chapter v.
Pleasure and Pain.—Hope and Disappointment.
How was the first month after my arrival in London occupied? Let truth, in the following brief narrative, reply.
In three days I had had enough of Honest John, Amy, and the sofa-bedstead, Each in that brief space had contributed so much to my comfort that a relaxation, if not of good things, at least of the attendants that accompanied them, was already thought desirable. Breakfast I enjoyed, but I relished the eggs and bacon more than the two chapters by which they were preceded. Supper I also enjoyed, but the Book—the Book before breakfast and after supper—no; I didn't enjoy that. The daily appearance of the Book, however, was only one of several causes that induced an early change of abode. My companion, Silas Bloomfield, had arrived in London. By him I was informed that a latch-key to the street-door of a lodging-house was an indispensable article with any one who wished to go "sight seeing." Honest John had no latch-key, and he usually retired to rest at ten o'clock. Contrary, therefore, to the wishes of my systematic host and attentive Amy, I left the free board and lodging they wished me to retain, in order to share with my companion the expense and pleasure of an apartment in which, as he informed me, we could "do as we liked."
Pleasure-hunting against time is rather hard work. My first experience on this head receives daily confirmation from that numerous and ever-flowing body of the community commonly called "country cousins," who come to London to see everything within a given space of time. Although a good deal may be seen in such a race for pleasure, how much of the spectacle is understood or enjoyed? It may be possible to go through the form of dining six times in one day, but it is scarcely possible to partake of, much less to enjoy, a liberal share of each repast, however varied may be the dishes composing the same. An attempt to cram either mind or body with food of any sort was never yet attended by pleasing results.
At the expiration of a fortnight my friend, Silas, and the writer had seen many, or rather most of the leading "London sights." But, as we reclined on the softest place we could find in our apartment on the last day, we were better qualified to discourse on the daily fatigue arising from the labor involved in "sight seeing" than on any particular pleasure to be derived therefrom. It puzzled each of us, on a calm review of the "wonders" we had seen, to determine which was the most wonderful, or whether, in fact, there was in either of the "wonders" anything very wonderful, after all. So far as I was concerned, disappointment formed the chief ingredient in the review. Founded on sketch-books and country gossip, my imaginary picture of the marvels of London was dazzling only in the distance—the ideal having surpassed the reality.
Of the romantic forms and charming figures with which young persons, and others, sometimes people the imagination—relative to celebrated mind and matter, heard of, but unseen—a striking instance recently came under my own immediate notice. Having occasional opportuni-tiesopportunities of going into society far above my own circle, I some time since took one of my fair "country cousins" to a conversazione at which were assembled some of the leading men of the day. Here a dialogue, something after the following, and in a subdued tone of voice, ensued between us:—
"Well, cousin; as you are anxious to know a few of the London lions,—you see that gentleman in the corner of the room talking to a lady much taller than himself—that's Mr. Charles Sharp, the celebrated actor of the Princess's Theatre."
"That Mr. Charles Sharp?" enquired my fair cousin, in surprise; "why, what an insignificant little person, to be sure."
"The gentleman on his right is Lord Littlejohn, at one time Premier of England."
"Is that Lord Littlejohn? why, he's a more insignificant looking person than the last, I declare."
"The lady on the left of Lord Littlejohn is Miss Mental, the celebrated authoress."
"What a fright! I shall never like her works again."
"The gentleman in front of Miss Mental is Bishop Dogood."
"You're joking, cousin. That person a Bishop? why he's more like a barber than a bishop, I declare. Don't name any more of 'em, cousin. Yes; there is one whose name I should like to know, for he's just the picture of the finest man in our village—I mean that gentleman in the centre of the room."
"That's Mr. Alderman Turtle, cousin."
"Alderman Turtle! dear me! he's the very image of young Mr. Jolly who keeps the 'Bull's Head.'"
Before my fair cousin left town, a careful examination of the contents of a portfolio of "portraits of living and deceased celebrities" satisfied her that with nature, as with art, the most valuable works are not always in the finest frames.
To proceed with the story of my life. After the race for pleasure, came the reckoning, and a pretty reckoning it was. Each had hitherto paid his own share in the transaction; and after a final division and settlement of bills for lodging, &c., my friend, Silas, had a balance of twenty-two shillings in hand, while, on my part, two pounds, ten shillings, alone remained out of my former and entire capital of seven guineas. Of the remnant, my companion required the loan of one guinea, his own being insufficient to convey him again to his country home. Various reasons—most of which have long since escaped my memory—were assigned for the small amount of cash with which he had started, and the consequent necessity for my becoming partner in the monetary responsibility, contrary to a previously expressed note that "Frank's company is all that is required." I only remember that while I was perfectly satisfied with the causes assigned by my companion for what he had not done, the assurance of what he intended to do made me equally happy. I was yet in blissful ignorance of any way of the world that, with precocious talent, would reveal precocious deceit, cunning, or falsehood; and I never for a moment doubted the sincerity of my early bosom friend, Silas Bloomfield, when he promised to return, by first post after his arrival home, a five pound note in lieu of the guinea. He kindly considered the addition might be found useful; and after I had entered on the duties of a situation the amount could be returned at my own convenience. With this understanding, which strengthened my opinion that Silas was a "nice young fellow," we parted.
My little knowledge of arithmetic was enough to satisfy me that if one week's board and lodging cost fifteen shillings, two weeks ditto would absorb the whole of my thirty shillings; and thinking it possible, though not probable, that such a thing as a miscarriage might befall the promised five pound note, or that a suitable situation might not fall to my lot during the first week's search for the same, I deemed it desirable to seek a less expensive abode than that which I had shared with my friend Silas. Accordingly, I sought, and soon found, a suitable lodging at six shillings per week. This was to include breakfast; and having already discovered a restaurant in which I could dine for ninepence, the result of the change would be a saving of four and sixpence a week, or nearly another week's board and lodging for the thirty shillings in hand. Thus, by post, on the same day that my friend took his departure for home, I despatched the address of my new abode—the abode to which that friend's letter, containing the promised "five" was to be directed.
Friend Silas and my own desire for pleasure departed together. Night came, and refreshed me with sleep and solitude in my new and, I hoped, temporary dwelling place.
Early in the morning that launched me on my own individual resources I was up and stirring—anxious for the solution of the all-important question, "which of my epistolary introductions will yield me any, or what service?" Calling, respectively, on each of the mercantile firms to whom my letters were addressed soon solved the problem. In the following will be found the substance of the reply to each application, together with the result thereof.
No. 1.
"I perceive by this letter from one of our country agents, that you wish to obtain a situation in London. By making enquiries round town, you will, no doubt, find some one who would be glad of a smart country lad, like yourself. I regret we have no vacancy for you here. Good morning."
Hereupon the speaker retired to his counting-house; and as quickly and quietly as a novel position in an office among numerous strangers would permit, I retreated towards the street door, feeling the first prick on the spirit in no way relieved by a sound that caught my ear from one of the numerous clerks, who said to a brother scribbler, "just twig the cut of his coat."
No. 2.
"So, young gentleman, you want a situation? Been accustomed to our sort of business? No; not been accustomed to any business. Then, I can do nothing for you, my man. When you have served your apprenticeship, you can give us a call."
No. 3.
"Letter from our friend, Thomson. Walk in my private counting-house and take a seat. Mr. Thomson, in his letter, tells me you wish to obtain a mercantile situation. Most happy to do what I can for you. What premium do your friends intend to pay? Not any. Well; I don't know of a situation that would suit you just at this moment, but—' any would suit you,' you say. Well; I don't know of any, at present. You can look in again, if you like, when you pass this way. Should you return to the country, give my respects to Mr. Thompson. Here, John, show this young gentleman the way out."
No. 4.
"A situation, eh? In the present state of trade, there's not half work for those who have situations. Mr. Smith knows that as well as I do; and I'm. surprised he should send you to me. You can tell him so. Shall soon want a situation myself, unless things improve. Don't waste your time here, lad; I've nothing for you."
No. 5.
"Neither of the firm are within at present. I'm the head clerk. Is your letter on business?—Yes. Give it to me. You told me it was on business; it's an application for a situation. You had better call in about half an hour, and see one of the firm; although we have no vacancy here, except for a light porter."
At the expiration of half an hour, I called again, saw one of the firm, and enquired what duties constituted the office of light porter? With a smile, accompanied by a gentle tap on my shoulder, he said, "the duties are, by far, too heavy for you, my lad. Try elsewhere for something better. Good morning."
Thus, in a few hours, and by the natural elements I had invoked, was utterly destroyed the epistolary batch of hopes on which my mind had for some time rested. It was now four o'clock. I had not partaken of refreshment since breakfast, and was not less exhausted in body than depressed in mind. But anxiety supplied the place of hunger; for, like a poor mariner whose last chance is on his last anchor, I made way, as fast as surviving vigor would permit, towards an untried spot, leaving for awhile the commercial shallows of despondency for what might prove a welcome harbor—though a political one—of refuge. On reaching the town residence of the Right Honorable M.P. whose cause my father had often and successfully advocated, I rang the visitor's bell, resolved, if possible, to go direct to head-quarters, without revealing to servants the purport of my mission.
"What's your pleasure, young man?" enquired a gaily liveried colossus, who appeared to me a much nobler looking fellow than his master.
"Private business with his lordship," I replied.
"His lordship is at present engaged in the library; and unless your business is important he will not see you."
"My business is very important to me," I said, as courage seemed to strengthen from the effect of the day's defeat.
"To you it may be, young man, but is it of equal importance to his lordship?"
"I hope so. Please to convey to his lordship the name of my father."
So saying, I gave to my herculean interrogator a slip of paper which I had prepared for the occasion. This proved my immediate passport, for in less than a minute the commanding footman conducted me to the presence of his master, the senior M.P. for my native town.
"Son of my late respected friend, I presume?" enquired his lordship, as I entered the library. "Pray be seated. Like other young country gentlemen, you have come to London to see a few of its wonders, I suppose? "
"Have seen all I wish to see in that way, my lord."
"And are now on your way home again, eh?"
"Since my father's death and the close of his establishment I have had no country home. I should like to make this my home now, my Lord."
"This!—this house?" quickly repeated his lordship in seeming amazement.
"Pardon me, your lordship, I should have said London—if I can obtain a situation in London."
"Yes, yes; you will find no difficulty there. You possess, no doubt, the means of introduction to some of our city merchants?"
"I regret to say, my lord, I have already exhausted the means—unless your lordship—perhaps your lordship may be disposed to appoint me to a situation?"
"Quite disposed, if my means accorded with my disposition. However, I will not fail to recommend you to the notice of my friend the Home Secretary; and should anything transpire to your advantage, I will at once communicate with you. Pray leave me your address."
Assumed it might have been—but the kind and gentle manner of the noble lord formed a pleasing contrast to the rough and ready treatment I had received from the mercantile gentlemen on whom I had previously called. Extreme politeness and affability on the part of superiors surely tend to pacify, if not to lessen, the wants they may fail to supply. The polite and genial bearing of the noble lord caused me, for a moment, almost to forget, or lose sight of, my chief object with the speaker. In listening to his graceful sentences, I hardly knew, or had time to think, whether the favor I solicited would ultimately be granted or denied, or whether, in fact, his lordship had said anything to lead to a direct conclusion either one way or another. Without looking again at the paper I had placed on the table, I was not even sure that I had correctly written my own address. During the brief time my attention was thus occupied, his lordship had rung the bell and requested the presence of the butler, who quickly made his appearance.
"William," said his lordship, addressing the butler, "let my young friend here be supplied with any refreshment he may require. You have left me your address, have you, young gentleman? Yes, yes; here it is—quite right, quite right. Good morning to you, good morning, good morning."
Thus surrounded by artistic splendour, saluted by gracious smiles, and fairly bowed out of one room by a noble lord and into another by his butler, I not only felt a little out of my own element, but hardly knew what to make of that into which I had wandered. Such princely civilities disconcerted me; yet they seemed to furnish evidence that something more than mere civility was intended. Sitting alone at table, before a Sumptuous cold collation of beef, fowl, tongue, tartlets, jellies, wines, &c., and interrupted only by an occasional appearance and enquiry on the part of a stately footman, who was anxious to know whether all my wants were supplied, I did not for a moment imagine—what youth unacquainted with the way of the world would?—that the sweets of the repast would be the only ones I should ever taste on the subject that brought me hither. To have supposed that I then saw before me the alpha and omega of princely generosity would have not only evinced, on my part, a want of gratitude for the present hospitality of the noble host, but would have likewise implied a doubt on the sincerity of his future intentions. Could an inexperienced heart think, much less believe, that in the ready acknowledgement thus made of the value of political services rendered by a parent would be found a receipt in full? Or that the youthful guest of a nobleman by whom the acknowledgement was given would live to remember, with sorrow, the only return made for the past services of a sire—when an orphan was the recipient, and a statesman the donor? No, gentle reader, I did not think or believe anything of the sort. I took as freely of the good things before me as a mixed feeling of fatigue and excitement would permit, and retired therefrom with the pleasing conviction that better things were yet in store for me—the greatest consideration upper-mostuppermost in my mind being, "how many days will elapse before I shall hear from his lordship, and to what sort of situation will he appoint me?" With the mind thus engaged, the fatigue of the body was unfelt, till I was subsequently informed that I had increased the distance on my return from his lordship's mansion to my own lodging by an unnecessary circuit of some two or three miles.
The week that followed my first day's search for employment was, or seemed to be, the longest in my history. I was in daily expectation of what would have been a twofold boon to my personal state—the appointment to a government situation by a nobleman, and the receipt of a five pound note from a companion who had kindly aided me in spending my own. I tried hard to teach myself a lesson on "patience," and had ample time for the task. The hours of each day and the minutes of each hour were multiplied by suspense. From sunrise to sunset there appeared to be time enough to make a voyage to the Antipodes, and from sunset to sunrise to make the voyage back again. Though becalmed by day, the breeze of excitement at night was not only enough to keep me on the move, but to originate the anything but agreeable discovery that the London "lady-birds," of which I had been forewarned by the gentle Amy, were not identical with the class of "pretty innocent little creatures" with which I had been familiar in the country. Before the expiration of many nights, or rather during the progress or at the close of each night, I was in a condition, from active experience, to endorse Amy's declaration that "new bedstead, bed, and bedding would be found very desirable and of great advantage to a young person just from the country." During these days and nights of suspense, other reflections would now and then intrude disagreeable little queries on the mind. Some of these were the reverse of flattering to the solitary object and scantily-furnished lodging by whom and in which they were entertained. They went so far as to submit that I had acted precipitately, if not unwisely, in forsaking, so soon, the "sofa-bedstead and bedding" which had been specially prepared for me and my "own use" by the considerate Amy—especially as no London "lady-bird" had there disturbed my rest during the three nights of my tenancy. It was also suggested that, in the financial condition of the reflector, the free board and lodging of Honest John would have been more desirable than that which would completely exhaust the exchequer in about a fortnight, unless the expected five pound note, or the situation should come to hand in the interval Even the two chapters before breakfast and after supper began to appear trifling obstacles to the comfort of a guest, compared with those which might shortly present themselves. But each and all of these thoughts were pregnant with pain; and as pain is never a welcome visitor, I tried, though sometimes unsuccessfully, to ally the fate of its numerous offspring to that of the "ladybirds," by an endeavour to drown the tormentors. To return to the "sofa-bedstead," Honest John, and Amy, before I had improved my position, was altogether out of the question, although the question of "why did I leave them?" would, in spite of mental opposition, occasionally intrude on the mind.
Never were expected favors—that ever came to hand—so long as mine in coming. They never came at all. Ten days had already elapsed, and I had neither obtained the hoped-for situation, nor the promised bank-note, nor had I yet received any information on the subject of either. But what man or woman, boy or girl, is ever quick to abandon the last hope of anything in which self-interest is involved, until the thing hoped for has ceased to exist? Poor Lady Franklin would not believe the case of the lamented Sir John to be hopeless, till she received the record of his burial. Thus, in the most trifling matters of ordinary life, in which we have a personal interest, we hope against hope, so long as we dream of anything to hope for. While, in my own mind, a hundred causes were assigned, and as many excuses made, for my late companion's neglect in not forwarding either the borrowed guinea or the promised addition, that companion never made or, at least, never communicated an excuse on the subject, although three times reminded of his debt and his promise. He was, however, at too great a distance to be personally reached. Not so the noble lord from whom I still expected an appointment, and I therefore resolved to make a second application to his lordship.
I called again on my lord —, but my lord — was not at home. When his giant footman opened the door, the butler, who happened to be in the hall at the time, politely informed me that his lordship would not return till late in the evening, but, he continued, "if you will step inside, I should myself like to have a few moments conversation with you, as I hear by your speech that you are a young countryman of mine." The invitation to step inside was at once accepted, although the appended intimation that a youth's speech disclosed the district of his nativity rather puzzled a young countryman who was not aware—what young countryman is?—of bearing any oral or local mark for recognition by strangers.
"I have often heard of your father, young gentleman," said the butler, after he had placed a chair for my use, and taken one for his own. "As he has been of more service to Lord-than his lordship is ever likely to be to you, I thought I would just give you a hint, in order to save your time, and prevent disappointment."
"I am much obliged to you, sir," I replied, "but, as you are aware, his lordship has already shown me great kindness."
"His lordship is ever polite to all comers, but he has received you with greater hospitality than is usually accorded to applicants for situations. I therefore, as a friend, now that you have lost your father, tell you not to misconstrue his lordship's kindness by supposing he intends anything more."
"I thank you, sir,—yet I almost think, although his lordship didn't exactly promise me a situation, that—"
"He intended to give you one, eh? You are but young in politics, and will hardly comprehend me when I tell you that statesmen never positively promise or refuse anything to anybody."
"That's a strange sort of way," I said, and at that time I thought what I said. "By that way, it will be impossible for people to know what they mean."
"Just so. That is what they mean," said the butler.
"I don't precisely understand you, sir," I replied.
"Then you are just like those who have business with statesmen Can you understand anyone who never, directly, says yes or no? "
"No. I should only understand that as evasion."
"That word gives you the pith of the matter. Time is the only thing to tell others of a statesman's meaning. It is not unfrequently the only thing to tell him of his own meaning, for it often happens that he doesn't himself know what he means. Time will tell you all about your situation; but, in the mean time, you will find the word evasion playing the chief part in anything relating to the subject."
"But his lordship said he would recommend me to the notice of his friend the Home Secretary."
"And thus evade the disagreeable yes or no, by transferring the enquirer to one who has no interest in the enquiry. The Home Secretary may do for you what he has done for hundreds of others—place your name on the list of candidates."
"If he does that may I not have a chance with others?" I enquired.
"Yes; the chance of remaining on the list till the Secretary, or his successor, takes you off again. Those on the list marked A. 1. are like the funds. They may fluctuate according to circumstances, but they bear interest, and the warrant-holders, our statesmen, are entitled to the dividends. But the unnumbered candidates are merely paltry figures, or sums standing without interest. Till the number ones are exhausted, there is no chance whatever for the others. Had your father lived, you would have been A. 1. and your chance of a situation would then have been a good one."
"But then I should not have needed a situation."
"Consequently, you would have had less difficulty in procuring one. Government situations are not generally given to those who stand most in need of them—not to those who want a living, but to those who have the means or interest to obtain it."
"If, sir, that is the usual way, I am afraid I haven't much chance."
"Come along, my young countryman," said the butler, after having vacated his seat and tapped me on the shoulder, "come and join me in a bit of lunch. We'll renew the subject over a sandwich and a glass of ale."
Hereupon, I followed the gentleman to another apart-mentapartment, and, at his request, and agreeably with, my own inclination, seated myself opposite a dish of sandwiches and a jug of ale.
"As I told you before," said the newly constituted host, on taking his seat at table, "you are only young in politics, and as they are not likely at present to be of any use to you, I advise you to seek employment elsewhere; for, after all, the sort of situations given to youths who are not backed by exalted birth or influence are only fit for those who are themselves fit for little else."
"But, I suppose, there are some young men of talent in government offices, are there not, sir?"
"Many—too many," said the host.
"Yet, a talented young man can generally get on there, can he not?"
"Get on?" exclaimed the facetious and seemingly happy host, with a loud laugh. "Talent in a government clerk becomes like the foot of a fair celestial, through being placed in a position where there is no room for its natural expansion. Did you ever hear of government subordinates becoming great and eminent men, like striplings who rise from the ranks in other professions? I have noticed, with regret, the monotonous occupation of several young fellows who unfortunately had just enough influence to get appointed to 'easy chairs,' as we call them. Each had talent that would have made way either in the commercial or professional world, but now it is of little or no use to its owner."
"Yet, sir, if either had shown a disposition to apply it——"
"Tut, tut," interposed the host, with a shake of the head, "when the annual limit of a lad's advancement may be found in ten pounds a year, with or without ability on the part of the receiver, where is the advantage of having ability, or at least, of its application?"
"Then I am surprised that young men of talent don't try to advance themselves in some other way."
"True, my lad; but human nature is not usually active when activity is not positively required. A young man who can jog on through life, even in a donkey cart, on an even course, and at the public expense, doesn't generally try to ascend the hill of fortune, by the application of his own powers. Don't you pine for a government situation, if you can get any other. If you can't get another, why you may then call on, or write to Lord—, though your question will, most likely, only be attended by a notification founded on the official rule of evasion."
After again and again thanking his lordship's butler, and my own considerate host, for his great kindness and valuable advice, I left the nobleman's mansion to which an hour previously I had repaired for employment, with my revised opinion as to the real value of such employment lowered by, at least, fifty per cent. All I had before heard concerning the slow process of advancement in the civil departments of government was now confirmed by one whom I supposed to be something like an authority on the subject; and I therefore resolved not again to trouble Lord—, nor to solicit his aid in my behalf, if I could in any way aid myself. I also resolved not to accept any situation that might be offered by his lordship, without further solicitation on my part—if by a vigorous search through London, with its attendant toil, or even privation, I could only maintain an independent spirit, by procuring employment through my own exertion, unassisted and unfettered by that lordly patronage that is more readily given and obtained when not required than when needed.
Chapter vi.
Try Again.
"Try again" When I was a very little boy—not more than six or seven years old—my mind received a powerful and, as time has proved, a lasting impression from the moral of a little song entitled "perseverance," in which composition a repetition of the above extract is one of its leading features. Probably the illustration of the subject did something towards the perpetuation of a practical lesson therefrom. As a treat I was one evening taken to an institution in my native town to hear from a learned professor a lecture on "the effects of early training." In order to illustrate what might be accomplished by "perseverance," even in the early stages of life, the lecturer, during the evening, arranged a vocal band of children of from four to six years of age. This done, the first signal from his baton drew forth from his pretty little choir such sweet and captivating strains of harmony that I have never forgotten the simple yet commanding words:—
"If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try, try again;
'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try, try again.
"Once or twice though you may fail,
Try, try, try again;
If at last you would prevail,
Try, try, try again."
And I did "try again." From eight in the morning till dusk, day after day, for three successive weeks, I walked from street to street, from east to west, and from north to south. I penetrated warehouses, shops, counting-houses, banking-houses, and houses in professions of which I was then, and am still ignorant, while in all manner of strange and mysterious places I tried for success without obtaining it. That youth who without trade, profession, or patronage, has himself walked through London in search of employment can alone compass the extent or severity of such a trial. Fatigued in body, depressed in mind, often hungry yet afraid to spend one of the few remaining shillings, or even half the amount, for a dinner, in case there might be insufficient for my landlady at the close of the week. Such was my case during the last three days of my three weeks' search for a situation. Yet more severe, far more severe, than the physical toil of the task were the angry frowns and snarling negatives of many of the gentlemen, or rather individuals, on whom I called. Gentlemen invariably give to a courteous question a civil answer. Some such I found among the meanest no less than the highest tradesmen. Their kind "would if I could" answers were little gleams of sunshine that encouraged me on the way; and as I was always hopeful, there ever came to my comfort and assistance the most stimulating of the verses in the song just named:—
"If you find your task his hard,
Try, try, try again;
Time will bring you your reward,
Try, try, try again."
On the first morning of the fourth week, my own case not only seemed "hard," but had in reality become serious. It never occurred to me when, with thirty shillings, I embarked in life on my own individual resources, and made arrangements with myself for equalizing the monetary capital in hand, so as to ensure board and lodging for three weeks, that anything more than board and lodging would be required. But I was now reminded of a serious error or omission in my youthful and inexperienced calculations. One after another, certain little wants began to present themselves, not only to present themselves, but to prove, in the presentation, that when a young gentleman has entirely to provide for himself, something beyond, eating, drinking, and sleeping will occasionally be needed. My little stock of clean linen was nearly exhausted. All but the last shirt had been worn, when suddenly, and for the first time, the question arose:—"how and by whom are these necessaries again to be made ready for wear?" At home, they had always been found in my chest of drawers, ready for use when required, but now, when they were wanted as usual, they were not ready. The rain had also made perceptible inroads on the beauty and original shape of my chapeau; for after the first day—that day happened to be a sunny one—I consigned my umbrella to future obscurity, finding, as I did, that something either in the size, make, or color of the article often attracted more attention than the owner—one gentleman on whom I called having the curiosity to enquire, as he opened out the gingham for inspection, whether it was intended as a tent for the use of emigrants. Finding the cause of such remarks to be anything but favorable to the chief object of a youth in search of a situation, I at once discharged the umbrella from my service, while, in its early doom, I was forcibly reminded of a poor curate in my native town, who was suddenly dismissed from office for having either by his appearance or by his eloquence, attracted more attention than the vicar—thereby detracting from the importance and dignity of his master.
But while a questionable looking hat, dirty linen, and sundry other little things, told of wants the supply of which might be postponed for a short time, worse than either of these, in its immediate consequences, was a requirement that would admit of no delay. My only thick pair of walking shoes had for several days furnished their owner with a well grounded report that unless something were done, and that quickly, for arresting the rapid decline of the soles, the toes of these useful articles would not be the only ones with which they were connected that would have openly to salute the pavement at every step, or perhaps, like the unfortunate umbrella, be subject to the critical remarks of certain curious and unfeeling spectators. The shoes were therefore sent to be mended, but without any enquiry as to the cost of mending the same. To my utter amazement and dismay, the London cobbler, on the completion of his "job," as he called it, made a demand of five shillings and sixpence—one shilling less, I believe, than the original cost of the shoes in my native town.
Pecuniary embarrassment, at any period of life, is, no doubt, rather a disagreeable sort of thing. It was especially so to me during my youthful experience of the world. Yet here I was clearly insolvent before I had reached my sixteenth birthday. The position was a painful one, but the knowledge that it might have been averted made it still more painful. Although the fellowship of my first and faithless companion was the primary cause of early difficulties, the early adoption of Honest John's timely, but unheeded, advice would have prevented all. His friendly counsel was disregarded, and juvenile insolvency is the result. Although the deficiency is not, at present, large, there is the gloomy prospect of its daily enlargement. The cobbler's bill was the immediate cause of the deficit. The bill was three shillings more than I expected it would be. This paid, I had a balance in hand of five shillings, and my inventive powers on a subject of finance would admit of no calculation, though taxed to the utmost, by which I could, with the amount named, discharge, in full, a bill of six shillings and sixpence. This amount was now due to the landlady for a week's board and lodging, or rather for lodging and breakfast—the only daily meal of which I had partaken during the latter half of the closing week. I therefore resolved, before matters grew worse, or that anyone could accuse me of going on too long without making my affairs known to others when they were patent to myself, at once to hold a meeting of my creditor—the landlady. On the dirty little servant girl removing the remains of the breakfast of which I had freely partaken,—thinking it might possibly be the last for some time—I desired her to tell her mistress I should be glad to speak with her. Never have I forgotten, never can I forget, the interview that followed—an interview in which a woman created on my mind an impression the very opposite of that which has since been produced by the great majority of those of the sex with whom I have had the good fortune to become acquainted.
At the close of each of the two preceding weeks, I gave to the servant the amount due for lodging, &c, to convey to her mistress. On this occasion the delivery of a message, in place of the money, had the immediate effect of securing the requisite meeting for disclosing my embarrassed position.
"Kitty says you wish to speak to me," said Mrs. Pepper, as she entered the cheerless little room of which I was the tenant. "I've brought up your bill," she continued, at the same time giving me a small slip of paper on which was written:—
"One week bed and breakfast, 6s. 6d.
Paid,
C. Pepper."
"Pray, take a seat, Mrs. Pepper," I said.
"Lor bless ye, I aint time for sitting at any time a day, specially mornings; too many comings and goings in a house like this; one married couple, and a single young man going to-day; some people are never satisfied long anywhere; but I never did and never shall like women, specially as lodgers; sooner do for a dozen young men than one woman. I've brought up your bill, young man."
"Yes, Mrs. Pepper; the bill is the subject on which I wished to see you. You have written "paid" on it, but I regret to say I shall not be able to discharge your bill this week."
"Not—not pay the bill?" reiterated the landlady with an air of indignant surprise. "Not pay your bill, did you say?"
"I said I could not discharge it this week."
"Then, if that's the case, young man, you'd better discharge yourself, and save my son the trouble a doing it for you. We don't want people here as can't pay; but, in course, your box must remain till we're satisfied, though the sooner you go the better. Not pay, indeed? Who sent you to lodge here—somebody else as you couldn't pay, I s'pose?"
"Mrs. Pepper, if you will only allow me to——"
"I'll allow nothing, sir, afore you pay your bill. Why, we let you in at a shilling a week less than our regular terms, because you was rather young! and we took ourselves in at the bargain, as no three full-grown men in 'the house eats half the breakfast as you do. They satisfy themselves overnight afore they come home. I'll never take another from the country who goes to bed at nine, sleeps to grow hungry, and gets up to take it out of his breakfast, at the cost of his landlady. But if you can't pay, you'd better go."
"If you'll only allow me, Mrs. Pepper, I will tell you that I have been in daily expectation of a five pound note from the country, in addition to a guinea borrowed by a companion before he left London. I also hoped to have obtained a situation before this."
"Hopes and disappointments is all very well in their way," said the landlady, pointing to the dirty slip of paper she had placed on the table, "but hopes and disappointments don't pay bills. And now I remember, we never had a reference with you, young man; that is, we didn't go for one. You told us not to call on that John—somebody, somewhere in Islington; but my daughter took the address, and now we'd better see what he knows about you."
"For mercy's sake, Mrs. Pepper, don't call there; I would not have you call on John for the world"
"Not for the world, and you can't pay six and sixpence?" said the landlady as she was on the point of retiring.
"If you delay your call on John, I will use every effort to pay you to-morrow. Five shillings I can give you at once, if you will only allow the balance of eighteenpence to remain for a short time?"
"You might have told me that, before," said Mrs. Pepper, in a subdued tone. "In course, everybody knows that eighteenpence is less to lose than six and sixpence, so I'll take the five shillings."
"I hope, Mrs. Pepper, you may not lose a farthing by me; and if you will not call on John to-day, I will endeavour—nay, I will engage to pay you the balance of your bill to-morrow."
"Then, I will give you till to-morrow to pay it," replied the considerate landlady, as she took the receipted bill, with five shillings I had placed thereon, and retired from my apartment.
After this severe castigation, I sallied forth on another day's search for employment, but without the requisite nerve or composure for making a single application—the want of eighteenpence having completely obscured the more important want of a situation. Having wandered to and fro for two hours, or more, in an unenviable state of anxiety, I returned to my lodging for the purpose of ascertaining whether any small article of which I was the owner could be converted into the trifling, yet all-important monetary sum required. At this moment, I imagined that the immediate acquisition of eighteenpence would not only satisfy a resolute and curious woman, but also stay from Honest John a disclosure I so much dreaded—the penniless and friendless position to which I had been reduced through my own imprudence, in having rejected that kind advice and assistance, of which I now felt myself unworthy. And I was too much ashamed of my unworthiness again to accept or solicit what I had before accepted only to discard.
Again I entered the lodging that I was now anxious to quit for ever. The sight of the place terrified me, but the remembrance of her who made it terrible terrified me still more. Openly accused of "eating as much as any three full-grown men in the house," how could I reconcile myself either to the place or my accuser? If I had a craving stomach, I had a sensitive mind; and as one could only, in future, be satisfied at the expense of the other, I clearly foresaw that my morning meal, the only daily one of which I had recently partaken, would have to be considerably reduced. Two slices of bread and butter, instead of six, must be the maximum—otherwise, if on any particular occasion the "three full-grown lodgers" should not happen to "satisfy theirselves overnight," my very slumber might be disturbed by a trio of apparitions, preceded or followed by that of the landlady, each and all demanding the bread and butter of which they had been defrauded.
While turning out the contents of my chest in quest of some convertible relic with which to satisfy Mrs. Pepper, and ease my own mind, I was suddenly interrupted by the self-same individual whose exacting doctrines had two hours previously been propounded at the expense of her tenant's nerves. But the woman was changed, or there was a change in the woman. In person, she was evidently the same, but in manner and speech she was another being. The sudden transformation, or cause thereof, was at this moment a riddle the solution of which was unfathomable.
"You're not a packing up, young gentleman, are you?" said Mrs. Pepper, as she entered my apartment.
"Oh dear, no; but as my box is to remain here till you are satisfied, I was just placing the contents in something like order."
"Ha! ha! ha! I was only a joking you this morning, young man. Why, didn't you think when I was a talking to you about going and all that, that it was only a joke?"
"Indeed, Mrs, Pepper, I did not. I thought, and think it something more than a joke."
"Well, well; don't think anything more about it. We've been talking the matter over, and my daughter considers you a very steady young man; we are a going to do all we can for you, so make yourself quite at home, and if there's anything you want why you've only to say so. There! I've placed your five shillings on the table on the very spot where it stood this morning, so you see I was only a joking. The money, you know, may he useful to you, and, in course, I don't want it" and as for this week's or next week's bill, or the one after for the matter a that, you needn't uncompose yourself in the least about it; I know you means well, and I shall get my money some day, and if I don't, why it will be no fault a mine?I mean no fault a yours, as I'm sure you'll pay when you has it in your power. But remember, I was only a joking this morning. Why, as I live, your breakfast things arn't cleared away, and it's near upon one o'clock. I'll take 'em down at once, as I've got something to send up as you'll not object to."
Hereupon, Mrs. Pepper left the room. At the expiration of a few moments the door was re-opened, when Kitty, the dirty little servant girl, entered the apartment with a small tea tray which she placed on the table that had just been enriched with five shillings from the hands of her mistress.
"If you please, sir," said Kitty, as she arranged the ends of the cloth that covered the tray, "missus says she thought you might like broad beans and bacon, and as she's a having some for dinner, she thought she'd send you up a little. You'll find the cabbage in the white basin and the porter in the blue jug. Missus says you'll please ring if you wants anything."
Hereupon Kitty also left the room. As for me, I was altogether in a fog, with my senses so mystified by the mortal maze in which I was enclosed, that I knew not what to think, or whither to proceed. But hunger was, at this moment, too keen for the inaction of the body, or for the reflection of a sensitive or modest mind. Amid the prevailing mist, the sense of smell was so strong, that Mrs. Pepper's beans and bacon attracted my personal attention before I had time to consider either the mystery that surrounded a welcome repast, or the still greater mystery attached to a woman, who on the same day had surprised me by the representation of two characters, each the very opposite of the other. When I had finished beans, bacon, cabbage, porter and all, I not only felt better, but truly grateful for the timely gift; at the same time, I felt that nothing on earth would ever make me respect the giver. A certain antipathy towards my landlady had sprung up in my breast?a mortal horror, mixed with fear, such as I never remember to have entertained either before or since that period. Although a few weeks' experience of the way of the world had already confirmed me in the belief that I should meet with many strange characters on my journey, Mrs. Pepper was the strangest I had yet encountered.
The day was altogether an eventful one. No sooner had Kitty removed the empty plates and dishes, than she brought to me an official letter that had been forwarded from Downing-street. This was a reply to a written application made on the preceding day. The answer came too soon to be the herald of welcome intelligence. It simply confirmed a portion of the information I had previously received from the butler of the nobleman to whom I had applied for a situation. Time has proved the rest of the butler's prophecy—the following note being the last I have ever heard on the subject to which it relates:—
"Downing Street, June 10th.
"Sir,
"I am directed by Lord—to inform you that your name has been placed on the list of candidates for situations under government.
"I am, Sir,
"Your obedient servant,
"Henry—."
This letter had scarcely been deposited with other equally valuable documents in my chest, when Kitty, on presenting me with a very diminutive parcel, informed me that "It had been left by a young man who told missus Frank might guess the person who sent it." Kitty also said, as she was leaving the room, "missus told the gentleman that valuable things is generally wrapped in small parcels."
The remark of the "missus" was certainly applicable to the present case, as the parcel was small, and the contents—to me—very valuable. The guinea borrowed by my supposed friend and early companion, Silas Bloomfield, was now, at least as I imagined, returned to the lender, although the little bit of brown paper, and the message delivered by Kitty, alone escorted the prodigal coin on its return. There was nothing else to indicate from whom it came, or whither it had so long strayed from its rightful owner. But my friend had been my first and only debtor, and as the amount returned was identical with that borrowed, how could I "guess" that any other person had had a hand in the business? The absence of all written communication on the subject I attributed to my friend's inability or disinclination for an exchange of friendly relationship. Had the guinea been enclosed in the promised bank-note instead of in a bit of brown paper, the order of things would have been reversed. As it was, I concluded that my companion had acted honestly in the discharge of his own debt, but not equally so with regard to the fulfilment of a promise that would have made his friend his debtor.
A large portion of the guinea was soon disposed of. Mrs. Pepper was at once summoned to the presence of one whom she had just comforted with beans and bacon; and notwithstanding a fresh display of generosity, on her part, in stating that immediate payment of her bill was not required, I insisted on discharging not only the past but the present week's account. I was now out of debt, had a small cash balance in hand, and was comparatively happy. Without knowing what character my serio-comic landlady might next assume, I knew it would be out of her power for some few days, at least, to accuse me of being her monetary debtor. But there still hung on my memory the more unpalatable accusation of "having eaten for breakfast more than any three full-grown men in the house." However much I might have relished the morning meal, while ignorant of the crime I was committing, I was totally unable to stomach an accusation that would, in future, lessen the enjoyment of a necessary repast. Fearing that, without a considerable reduction in that repast, I might again be called on to plead to a former charge, I felt that my final departure from the establishment would be the only way to make me independent of it, and place me beyond the reach of its complex owner. How was this to be accomplished??only by obtaining a situation. With my small capital, I had no heart to enter another lodging-house, thinking I might fare worse than I had already done, and eventually get no breakfast at all. The day was only half spent, and I at once resolved to go forth and "try again" for employment.
In passing through a part of the city not far from Finsbury Square, my attention was attracted to a shop or office window in which, among a variety of announcements of vacant situations for persons of almost every grade and profession, from a pot-boy to a private secretary, appeared the following:—
"Wanted, for first-class commercial establishments, a few respectable youths and young men from the country."
Here was a sight to cheer a heart drooping with despair! How strange I had not seen the office or the announcement before. Is it a dream or a pleasing reality? Half a dozen perusals of the notice, and as many passes to and fro in front of the window in which it appeared, convinced me there was no dreaming on my part, whatever there might be on the part of those who had displayed a signal that stood as an inviting beacon to my long delayed desire. But, as the brightest hopes are often shaded by a passing cloud, my mind was suddenly depressed by the supposition that the vacant places might have been filled, although the announcement of the vacancies still remained. The gentleman within the office had perhaps omitted to remove the notice when the wants of the publisher had been supplied. With a heart agitated alike by hope and fear, I entered the office whence the excitement originated.
"I have called on the subject of a notice which appears in your window," I said to a man of respectable appearance, who sat behind the counter reading a newspaper.
"Which notice do you mean?" enquired the gentleman.
"That which states that a few youths and young men from the country are wanted."
"Under which class do you consider yourself; because we make some difference in the charge; youths have not quite so much to pay as young men."
"Pay!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "I don't want a situation where there is anything to pay, but one in which a young person would be paid for his services."
"Precisely. Such are the situations we profess to supply; but, of course, we are paid for supplying them. It is our business. In the same manner that you expect to be paid for your services, we, in the first place, expect to be paid for ours. But I perceive you are fresh from the country,"
Here the speaker was stopped, or stopped himself, through the appearance of a young woman, who at this moment entered the office, and said:—
"If you please, master, what's your charge for getting a place for under-housemaid?"
"Take a seat in the inner room, and as soon as I am disengaged I'll speak to you."
The girl obeyed the command, and the commander closed the door of the room into which she entered.
"Our charge for a commercial situation for a respectable youth, like yourself, is five shillings," continued the gentleman.
"I shall be most happy to pay that amount, sir," I replied, taking from my pocket a purse that contained but little more. "What will be the character, and what the duties of the situation?"
"Character—commercial, and of the first class. Its duties will relate to commerce, of course."
"You'll find five shillings there, sir," I said, placing on the counter that amount, which was immediately transferred by the official to his own pocket. "Will you please to inform me what day I may prepare for work?"
The answer to this question was delayed by a youth about my own age, who entered the office and said:—
"Can I see the gentleman who wants a young man from the country?"
"Walk in this room and take a seat," said the official, as he opened and closed the door of the inner room. "What did you say in reference to work?" he enquired, again turning his attention to me.
"I merely wished to know when I am to get ready for my situation," I replied.
"Soon as the situation is ready for you, of course."
"But how soon will that be, sir, if you please? "
"My good lad, I don't profess to be a prophet as well as an agent. I will do the best I can for you in my own profession, and I promise to place your name on our commercial list this very day."
The word "list" produced on my nervous system a momentary shock by no means agreeable. It was an immediate reminder of the "government list" on which my name had already been placed, without—as I was informed—any chance of securing the desire of its owner. After I had partially recovered from the effects of the electric thrill, I told the official, who was evidently anxious to engage his clients in the inner room, that although my name had already been placed on one list, I—
"I can't help that," said the agent, interrupting me. "We have no connection with any other establishment."
"But I am anxious, if possible, to get into a situation at once," I said.
"If so, you had better pay the extra or special fee," said the agent. "Then your case will be marked urgent. This will cost you another half-crown."
"Then, sir, may I depend on the situation—"
"At the earliest moment we can obtain it for you. Indeed, you may call on me early to-morrow morning, when I shall probably be disengaged. We will then go into the subject of remuneration, namely, what salary you would require. Would a merchant's office suit you?"
"Exactly," I replied.
"Well This is but seldom or ever obtained, except in special cases. You are a stranger to me, but if you take my advice, you'll pay the extra fee at once."
Although I had some slight misgivings respecting the character and business of the gentleman to whom I had already paid five shillings, my wavering doubts were not unlike those of a tradesman who has suddenly become suspicious of a debtor. He is rather inclined to enlarge a doubtful account than jeopardize all by immediate stoppage. I therefore paid the extra fee for a special case, feeling at the same time anything but sure that the services of the agent whom I had engaged to conduct it would be found worth the seven shillings and sixpence paid to secure them. On returning to my lodging with an empty purse, it occurred to me that I had again deviated from the course advised by honest John. The disposal of my three half-crowns told me that I had been trusting for aid to another, instead of to number one.
My worst fears on the subject were soon confirmed. The agent of respectable appearance and plausable address, whom I had just trusted, happened to be one of those London sharpers that are ever and anon devising some trap for catching the unwary. Although his bait was prepared only for small fry,—such as unsuspecting country lads, cooks, clerks, kitchen-maids, and the like, the angler himself was, nevertheless, practising, on a minor scale, the art of those who spread their nets for greater game. He was a miniature type of those gigantic swindlers who year after year vary the style of their materials, and introduce into their new schemes changes as striking and attractive as any that were ever designed by French milliners as "novelties for the season." Whether the honest inventors of fashion for the adornment of the human figure are, or are not more numerous than the professional authors of designs for concealing the blackest dyes of the human heart, may be a question beyond mathematical solution. But whatever may be the number of the first class, that of the second, if computed at all, must be measured by that indefinite number known as legion. When will the English government introduce into "Census Papers" space to enable gentlemen, in the extensive profession alluded to, to fill in a correct return? It is hardly right that so large a portion of the community should have their names recorded only in that miscellaneous compilation of persons to be found under the head of "Court Directory." In the way of bubble companies, British bank directors, promoters of annuity and other societies, established for the benefit of the founders, together with a host of individual Redpaths, Robsons, and Pullingers, there surely must have been, of late, individuals sufficiently numerous to have entitled them—if not for their own benefit, at least for the benefit of the public—to their proper place in the "Classification of Trades." It is to be hoped that in such classification, at least in our Directories, the omission may be supplied, and that the name of "swindler," now that the profession has become an extensive one, may in future be found in alphabetical order, and not, as is too often the case, entered with other trades under an inappropriate heading.
The swindling agent who had alternately excited my hopes and fears, at the serious cost—to me—of three half-crowns, gave me but little further trouble, beyond that which was occasioned by the loss of my money. The day after I had paid him two morning visits, each of which was unceremoniously ended by "call again to-morrow," I found his office closed. It was inaccessible beyond the exterior. During my short stay in the vicinity, numerous victims bombarded the door, and, with anything but "blessings" for the absentee, made several ineffectual attempts to effect an entrance into the apartments of the fugitive. On the following day, the Times newspaper brought the agent's history, so far as my interest was concerned, to an ignominious close. The Lord Mayor consigned him to prison, for three months, for having obtained, and disposed of a young man's gold watch, under promise of securing for its owner a situation of greater value than the article he had purloined.
The discovery, on my part, that the services of the faithless agent were for a time to be confined to the treadmill was purely accidental. The newspaper in which the statement appeared was not examined by me for information either on criminal, political, or general subjects. I had another and more important object in its perusal. By day I walked through London in search of employment, and at night I searched the newspaper merely as a supplement to my daily endeavours. I had for some time been one of that countless number of individuals—comprising every age, profession, and denomination—who wade through the advertising columns of the Times in pursuit of better fortune. Here again, on the same day and in the same paper that made me acquainted with the temporary suspension of the business career of one who had deceived me, I again beheld the very mirror that reflected my wish in the following advertisement:—"Wanted, for a large wholesale house, a respectable and well-educated youth. The situation is one that will require activity and perseverance. Address, by letter only, prepaid, (in applicant's own handwriting) to Messrs. Fountain, Pillar, and Branch,—Street, City."
To this attractive announcement, as to many others that had at various times preceded it, I immediately applied all the mental force at my command. But the heart, in the repeated venture of its fondest hopes, may become so accustomed to disappointment that disappointment itself may almost lose its sting. My disappointments had now been so numerous that, in this instance, I anticipated an addition to the number. All my written and personal applications had hitherto been made without avail; yet, in moments of dark despair, my depressed spirits still retained a spark from that long-cherished injunction that again and again fanned into a flame a resolution to "try again." So, I sat down and filled a sheet, the powerful appeal in which might, I thought,—if the advertiser in early life had only happened to have been in the applicant's position—command from a sympathetic and generous heart that attention which would insure for the author a reply stamped with the seal of success.
When my studied phraseology had been duly committed to paper, I resolved to expedite the delivery of the letter by taking it myself. Although the advertisement said "apply by letter only," I considered that the personal delivery of the epistle would be in strict accordance with the advertiser's orders, no mention being made of any particular person by whom letters should be forwarded, nor that applicants might not, if they felt disposed, save the postage by becoming their own postman. Notwithstanding the loss of my three half-crowns, I was still rich in the possession of five shillings which had been taken from, and returned to me by my considerate landlady; but deeming it desirable to keep this amount intact, in case the lady might repeat the tragic part she had already played, at the expense of my nerves, I considered it prudent to save even the small sum I should have had to pay for postage, by becoming my own letter carrier.
Next to its extensive docks and shipping, there is, perhaps, nothing of a commercial character in England's greatest city capable of exciting so much surprise in the mind of a stranger as a walk through some of the large wholesale warehouses. The magnificent sight at once presented to the view, on entering any first-class wholesale establishment—the brilliant and substantial display of every class of goods, both British and foreign—cannot fail to excite a greater degree of interest, if not surprise, with a stranger, than that occasioned by an inspection of our enormous docks, in which wealth can only be viewed in unsightly and unbroken bulk. The man who forms an opinion of London's city by a mere promenade through, and survey of its principal streets, is about the same distance from a just conception of his subject as the groundwork of the Pacific is supposed to be from the surface of its waters.
On entering the warehouse of Messrs. Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, the outward gloomy appearance of which furnished but a feint idea of its valuable contents, I was almost unnerved by surprise. The vast extent of the premises—the innumerable and immense piles of goods which, stood below, around, and towered above me, together with the numerous body of busy warehousemen by whom I was surrounded, completely stupified my senses with wonder. Enquiring for the principal of the firm, I was informed by one of the warehousemen that Mr. Fountain was not in the way, nor likely to be for some time, as he had just left for his country house, and that when in town his visits to the warehouse were few, short, and very uncertain. On asking for Mr. Pillar, I was told that Mr. Pillar was in Manchester, but that Mr. Branch would be found in his private counting-house at the end of the ware-house.
On this information, I proceeded through the centre of the establishment in search of the counting-house; but I soon found it necessary to make further enquiries, for the place was so strangely divided and subdivided by endless masses of merchandize, that I at first turned to the right and then to the left, till the interior of the premises appeared like some huge commercial maze—while those young men who were acquainted with my object seemed amused in leaving me to find it as best I could. At length, announcing my arrival at the counting-house by a gentle tap on the door, an immediate invitation—"come in"—in a sonorous voice, at once introduced me to the junior partner of the firm, who was seated at his desk busily engaged in writing.
"I beg pardon, sir, for interrupting you, but I merely wish to deliver this letter," I said.
"Letter—from whom?" enquired Mr. Branch.
"From—from myself, sir," I nervously replied.
"On what subject?" said Mr. Branch.
"It's an application for a situation, sir, if you please."
"Comply with the conditions of the advertisement and apply by letter," continued the gentleman, without taking his pen from paper or staying the work on which he was engaged.
"I have already done that, sir, and also taken the liberty of placing the letter on the desk before you."
"Then, unless you deem your letter of more importance to me than that on which I am engaged, you may go."
"Good morning, sir," was my reply.
On withdrawing from the presence of Mr. Branch, the only return to my parting salute was a side glance from that gentleman towards my person as I closed the door of the office. When I had regained the street, a loud tap on the warehouse window, accompanied by a signal from a young man within, had the effect of again bringing me into the establishment, when I was told to return to the office I had just left, as Mr. Branch wished to see me.
I had often before heard that a sudden surprise may have the effect of sending the human heart into its owner's mouth, but at this moment mine appeared to be making violent efforts to escape from bondage altogether. As I tremulously returned to the private counting-house of Mr. Branch, certain rapid heavings in a sensitive region told me I might have to appear before my late inquisitor without any heart at all. Faint as was my chance of success in the simple order issued by a gentleman for another interview, or second sight, it, nevertheless, was the only glimmer even of distant hope I had yet seen in any of my fruitless endeavours. The novelty of the little spark was so exciting that it actually made me tremble for its vitality, or through fear of its early extinction. In this state I re-entered the counting-house of Mr. Branch, who was now engaged, not in writing his own letter but in reading mine. The fevered pulse of the most feverish of patients never reached a higher rate of speed than was attained by mine during the few silent moments occupied by Mr. Branch in reading my appeal for a situation. The acuteness of the sensation was intense, and its intensity was rather increased than diminished by the first few words that broke silence only to agitate suspense:—
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Branch, as he laid the letter on his desk. "What was the name?" he said, again looking at the signature. "Frank!—Frank is it? Well; the letter seems frank enough certainly. It tells me you are an orphan; but you are neither better nor worse for that, I suppose? You appear very anxious for something to do; what are you fit for, lad?"
Beyond the involuntary liquid drop the occasion gave rise to, an ineffectual movement of the lips was the only reply.
"Oh! if that's all you're fit for, I'm afraid you—sit down, lad, sit down."
A seat was a relief, at least, to the body. As my interrogator extended the interval of silence by looking at his newspaper, I felt that any silly and obtrusive tear that comes when it is not wanted ought to have been previously buried in the bosom of the ocean. To the utmost depths thereof did I wish consigned that which now discomposed me.
"How long have you been in London?" enquired Mr. Branch, with his eyes rather than his attention directed to the newspaper.
"Fi—fi—nearly six weeks, sir."
"You say in your letter you are ready to engage in anything in which you would have an opportunity of working your way upward? Lads too often promise what they fail to perform. You mean what you say, I suppose?"
"Always, sir."
"And intend to practise what you promise?"
"If I could only have the chance, sir."
"Then you shall have it," said Mr. Branch.
Again I was almost overcome—no longer with suspense but joy—but encouragement now made strength of mind too powerful for a second display of weakness in another region.
"The terms on which youths are received into our establishment are these:—They receive, in return for three years' service, board and lodging, together with such knowledge of the department in which they may be placed as may be acquired by their own industry and ability. We never accept a premium, nor retain in our employ any one not worthy retention. On the other hand, the services of a youth have sometimes been found sufficiently meritorious to entitle him to some pecuniary mark of recognition before the expiration of his term. As a preliminary step to this arrangement, we generally receive a youth for two or three months on trial. Are you prepared for the first test?"
"Quite prepared, sir, and will do my best."
"That will be your business; it will be ours to estimate the value of your best. With what friend or relation do you now reside?"
"At present, sir, I am in lodgings."
"Lodgings! Then, whom do you expect, during your three years' term, to supply you with clothes?"
"I—I think, sir, I have nearly enough to last that time."
"Well," said Mr. Branch, with a smile, "I will write to one of the gentlemen in your native town to whom you refer. Should he have nothing to say to your disadvantage, you may enter on your duties in this establishment at nine o'clock in the morning on the first of the ensuing month."
Experience induces me to believe that great excitement at any important moment, while it impresses the mind with the chief object, tends to mystify or efface the details of any incident from which such excitement may arise. Soon after the period of the above-named interview I attempted to discover, but have not yet discovered, the manner in which I took leave of Mr. Branch, after having received the joyful announcement of my first commercial engagement. According to the natural course of things, I must have passed from that gentleman's presence, through the warehouse, into the street. But the mode of my escape has ever been a mystery. From the close of the sentence that told me I was to enter on my duties in the establishment on the first of the ensuing month, till I found that on going backward at the corner of the street to get a good view of the exterior of the premises I had upset an apple-stall, the passage remains blank.
The collision with the apple-stall, followed by a volley of abuse from its female proprietor, had the effect of shaking the mind out of its pleasing abstraction. From this point the veil is withdrawn from the memory. The apple-woman at once raised me to that state of consciousness that made my position as clear as the stall I had upset. I was too happy, however, to feel any concern for the mishap, beyond a desire to make compensation for the same. The award of a shilling at once elicited from my abuser the consolatory declaration that "a jintleman always acts as sich." From this point, all, at present, went smooth. I thought the streets, the people, and everything I passed, looked brighter and better than they had ever looked before —brighter at least, than they appeared during my three weeks' search for what I had now secured. Even Kitty, the dirty little maid who opened the door at my lodgings, became an attractive object; and although I had never exchanged words with the girl, except on some domestic subject similar to that of the "beans and bacon," yet, on this occasion I remember to have said, "well, Kitty, I've got a situation at last."
When a night's repose had calmed the excitement of the preceding day, I found time to discover a few of the immediate wants occasioned by success. The chief of these was a desire to leave for ever the lodging in which my hourly fear was that of having again to encounter, either in kindness or anger, a landlady whose character was altogether beyond my power of comprehension. Fifteen days had to expire to bring the first of the ensuing month—the time appointed for the opening of my commercial duties. I had only four shillings to offer Mrs. Pepper in part payment of six shillings and sixpence, now due for a week's lodging. After this lady's unpalatable accusation concerning my breakfast, and the consequent reduction made by me in the quantity thereof, a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter, at a little shop in the vicinity, had often served me as an early dinner. The proprietor of this house had both the manner and appearance of respectability, and I resolved to make all the circumstances of my position known to this person, and ask him to receive me for a fortnight into his house. He at once assented and declined to accept, as security for payment, the most valuable article—my watch—I possessed, although he supplied me with half-a-crown to complete the amount due to Mrs. Pepper.
"It never rains but it pours." I now began to think that, on a small scale, my own case was about to illustrate this well-known adage. One goodly stream of fortune that had but yesterday refreshed a drooping spirit after a long drought, was to-day followed by another, while a successor was yet at hand. On reaching the lodging I was about to vacate, Kitty gave me a small sealed parcel which, during my absence, had been left by the person from whom a little parcel had previously been received. The delivery of the second packet was simply accompanied by a repetition of the message left with the first, viz.,—"Frank might guess the person who sent it." I did guess and, so far as related to the value of the parcel, the guess was a correct one, but whether it was equally so with regard to the person from whom the packet came will presently appear. For the receipt of the five pound Bank of England note which was wrapped up in a bit of brown paper, I at once considered myself indebted to the young gentleman whose delay in the fulfilment of his promise had induced me, in my own mind, to libel him as a faithless friend. The only mystery about the note appeared to be the absence of all communication on the subject, beyond a repetition of the verbal message that had been left with the previous guinea. But I resolved to write to my country friend from my new lodging. With this determination, I tried to fortify my nerves for a final interview with a landlady of whom I stood in fear—although the possession of means for the discharge of her claim supplied me, in the place of a large amount of former fear, with a proportionate degree of independence.
"Kitty says you wish to see me," said Mrs. Pepper, as she entered my apartment.
"I owe you for a week's lodging, Mrs. Pepper," was my reply.
"I believe you do; but if you owed me for two weeks it would be all the same."
"But the amount would not be the same, Mrs. Pepper?"
"Well, that's very true; but you know what I mean; it's the same thing whether you pay this week or next week, or the week arter, for the matter o' that. I shall be satisfied anyhow."
"I hope so, Mrs. Pepper, and as my week expires to-day, I wish to satisfy you before I go."
"Why, you're not a going out again to-day? It's not good for you, young man, to walk so much. Do rest a little. I was just a going to send you up a little bit of gooseberry tart. Don't spare the sugar, for the berries are mortally sour. As we've got no cream, you'll find a little milk take off the sharpness. I'll tell Kitty to bring you up a little."
"Really, Mrs. Pepper, I am much obliged to you, but I'd rather be excused. I don't think you understood me when I talked of going?"
"Understood! Of course I understood. You are a going to your situation—but not to-day; and when you do go I s'pose you'll sleep here at nights? The young people don't live in the house there, do they? But what day are you a going—in about a fortnight, I believe?"
"Yes; I go to my situation in a fortnight, but I am going from here to-day."
"Oh!" exclaimed the landlady, with a frown as long and angry as that of a sulky child, "if that's the case, young man, I see through it all. But I don't blame you; it's him as gave security for you who's done it."
"Him who gave security for me?" I enquired in amazement.
"Yes; for your board and lodging, and promised something for the maid. Honest John, as you call him; it's to him you're a going, I s'pose?"
"Indeed it is not," I said, as the blood seemed to fire my every vein, "and after your promise, Mrs. Pepper, I am surprised you should have called on him."
"Are you, though?" said the landlady with a sneer. "At your age, young man, you should not be surprised at anything; but you'll not be quite so young when you are a little older."
"I am old enough to know that," I replied, having now greater contempt than fear for a woman who had broken faith and revealed my position to those from whom I wished to withhold it. "Again, Mrs. Pepper, I tell you I am very much surprised that you should have called on John at all."
"And, again, I tell you, young man, that at your age you must not be surprised at anything. One of your size to talk to a person of my experience. Wait till you're full grown; perhaps you never will be. It's my opinion you never was full grown, not as a baby; you must a been born rather young, or you'd know more 'an you do."
"If you change this note and take the six and sixpence to which you are entitled, I shall be out of your debt, madam," I said, at the same time placing a five pound note on the table.
"And this is all one gets for doing a good turn," said Mrs. Pepper, taking up the note. "You'd a never had the note nor the guinea, nor any part of it, if it hadn't a been for me—ask the man you're a going to else. Didn't I tell him all about you, and all about the country friend as cheated you; and didn't he say he'd send the self same sums as you had lost, and send 'em all anonmously? Ask him if I didn't tell him all, and if he didn't thank me for taking compassion on you? But, as I'm a woman, it's the last time I ever concerns myself for the benefit of another."
Mrs. Pepper now left the room, but returned in a few moments with what she called "the balance" from the bank-note.
"Your bill, with extras, is eighteen shillings. There's the balance," said the landlady, as she placed four pounds two shillings on the table, and again left the room without saying another word.
From this moment I had no desire to see, and never again saw, the woman who had now ceased to be my landlady. The portrait of the character she had previously left on my mind received its final touch from the extras by which a bill of six and sixpence was suddenly raised to eighteen shillings. Whether justly or unjustly, I decided that the original of the picture belonged to the second class of number ones to which Honest John had directed my attention, when he informed me that the various characters to be found in the way of the world might be divided into two classes. After Kitty had been satisfied with a few shillings from the change returned by her mistress, I shouldered my trunk and started for the new lodgings, in which I received every comfort and attention.
It was not till the day preceding that on which I entered my first situation that I found sufficient courage to face the anonymous benefactor who had rescued me from my difficulties. The imaginary friend whose companionship caused those difficulties proved false. To the secret aid of Honest John I was alone indebted for the relief of troubles his good advice had failed to avert. But fearing his anger would accord with my own deserts, I delayed my visit till the day that prefaced the opening of my commercial duties, and the visit was then enforced rather by a sense of gratitude for great kindness, than by a desire for a personal acknowledgement of the same.
Dreary darkness is not more directly opposed to cheerful light than was my anticipated gloomy reception at the hands of Honest John to the sunny one which Honest John accorded me. In place of expected frowns and merited censure, I received nothing but smiles and encouragement. Instead of being upbraided by a list of past errors, I was only commended for good intentions in the future. Reference to bygone folly was never made, except in the sorrow expressed for the penalty I had paid for it. The faithlessness of my early companion was not even alluded to, except in the hope that I might meet with friends more worthy of confidence. But this generous sympathy created in my mind a deeper impression of the mistakes I had made than if they had been presented and condemned in the darkest colors. Now, and not till now, I felt the real value of parental or guardian love. When my father lived I never felt the want of a father's protecting care, and therefore never knew its inestimable worth. Here I found a second father—not of kindred birth and station—in the faithful servant of the first. Honest John evinced that tender regard for my welfare that every affectionate parent cherishes for his child. May every youthful heart learn the true worth of the first family jewel while its mortal spirit survives, for there are but few who ever find a second. Father and mother are often unheeded, sometimes unloved, while living. Would it be thus if children discovered the worth of their parents before they lost them? On this, the evening preceding my mercantile probation, I was enabled to estimate the real value of the protector I had lost, by the worth of the one I had gained. Never did youth feel greater reverence for his father, nor a more affectionate regard for his sister, than that entertained by me for Honest John and the gentle Amy, as I took a dutiful farewell about twelve hours before the time fixed for the dawn of my commercial life.
On telling John that no person could judge of the contents of the house I was about to enter by its external appearance, he Said—
"That house is like the heart of man—remember that, Frank. You can only judge of the interior by becoming acquainted with its contents. It is even so with the human structure. Judge no one by outward appearances. Like the external aspect of the establishment you are about to enter, the outward form or figure of a man is by no means a sure sign of the stuff within. It may be good, or it may be good for nothing. This knowledge can only be obtained through your dealings with the owner. But if you'd take a hint from an old traveller, and one who has had some narrow escapes in the way of the world, remember, Frank, that rough ground is less dangerous than a slippery surface."
Chapter vii.
Frank's First Appearance on the Stage of Commerce.
At nine o'clock on the morning of the appointed day I entered the establishment of Messrs. Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. The house was an extensive one—one of the largest of its class in the city of London. The business of the firm was that of wholesale silk, Manchester, Scotch, and general warehousemen. The departments were numerous, and included almost every class of goods suited to the retail trade—drapers—or shippers, either for the home or foreign markets. The entire staff of the house was a large one, though it varied a little in what are called the "flat" or "busy seasons" of the year. Including warehousemen, clerks, youths, and porters, the average number of employés was about two hundred. Of these, about one hundred and thirty were boarded and lodged on the premises. The remaining seventy, which comprised the buyers and heads of the respective departments and the chief clerks, dined and took tea in the house, but resided at their own villas, or in their own apartments, at various distances and in various directions from the house of business, agreeably with their own peculiar fancies or social habits.
Before I had been ten minutes in the warehouse of Messrs. Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, and while waiting to be installed into office, I beheld a practical illustration of the first vital rule of commerce—the chief pivot on which commercial success has ever, in a great measure, depended, and must ever depend. This was the grand principle of action adopted by every first-class establishment in the United Kingdom, viz.,—punctuality. When I entered the warehouse a few minutes before nine, a continuous stream of young and middle-aged men fresh from their homes and families, marched down the centre of the great mercantile depôt, and branched off right and left to their respective departments with all the regularity and precision of a picket of grenadiers who deploy and halt at their allotted stations. When the warehouse clock had sounded the final stroke of nine, the stream of living vessels had ceased to flow. Each of the tributaries of active labor had sent its quota of heads and hands to the central station; that all might there discharge their daily duties, and return for a fresh supply of vigor with which to pursue their wonted course on the morrow.
A few moments after the hour for all to be in their places, a tall shrewd-looking business-like man, marched down the centre of the warehouse, and took up a position commanding a view of the entrance. This gentleman was the general of the establishment. His duties correspond with those of shop-walker in a retail house. He superintends order, notes the arrival and departure of the young men, and does the "polite" to wholesale buyers in a manner quite as agreeable and sometimes more substantial than that displayed by retail dealers towards their equally welcome but less extensive customers. Either by this officer, or the chief of some particular department, a "large buyer" is usually conducted to lunch, dinner, tea, or wine, as the time of day or circumstances of the case might require. But like all head officers in large wholesale establishments, the general, while all-important in his own department, is comparatively useless beyond it. He superintends and sees that the wants of each buyer are supplied, without himself being able to supply them. He knows the class of goods and the variety of the class each department contains, but would be unable to select from such class or classes any particular number, make, or quality of goods enquired for. That is the business of others. The business of the general, or warehouse-walker is to superintend, not to serve.
"Well, my lad, what's your business?" enquired the superintendent, as he discovered me standing in the warehouse waiting the arrival of the junior of the firm.
"Mr. Branch appointed this morning for me to enter my situation, sir."
"Oh! you are one of Mr. Branch's children, are you? Come this way. Here Mr. Fourquarter, here's a little of the raw material for you; see what you can make of it."
In this unceremonious manner I was at once introduced to the largest department in the house, to its buyer and my own immediate master, and to the opening scene in the commercial drama, the first act of which might determine whether success or failure would be the result of the trial.
Alas! how severe are the trials of disposition and temper, by every imaginable mortal test, to which a youth is sometimes subject before he makes himself master of his first commercial or professional position—especially when he becomes the subordinate of rough, spiteful, or heartless seniors. Without that invincible determination that springs from necessity, how often is the heart of youth crushed in its first praiseworthy effort—not through its own fault, but by the harsh treatment of others. I have seen this more than once. For my own part, when I upset the apple-stall in the joyful excitement of the scene in which my first situation had been secured and revelled over, I considered that my troubles were all coming to a close. But here again the imagination had drawn a picture entirely opposed to the reality. My first month of office proved a calendar of disagreeable discoveries. I found the difficulty of securing a situation was now surpassed by the difficulty of keeping it. The troubles and trials encountered in the way to the first step on fortune's ladder were succeeded by others which made it hard, very hard, to hold the footing that cost so much labor to obtain. Fortunately I had no indulgent parents to fall back upon, or I might have lost the position I had gained. Aware of this, I held fast, though more than an average share of the annoyances that usually befel fresh comers or "young flats," as they are called, appeared to be reserved for the "countryman."
Not only did the young warehousemen, who were already familiar with the trade, leave me to acquire knowledge as best I could, but in all places and at all times, in business or out of business, "chaff," practical jokes, and occasional injuries were remorselessly and unceasingly heaped on the devoted head of the new comer. By the agency of an unseen hand, a tall and heavy pile of goods would now and then roll over, and in its downward course carry me flat on the floor, to the evident delight of those who had devised and executed the mischief. On one occasion I remember that, on putting on my hat and again removing it, I was smothered from head to foot with flour that had been placed in it. But these and other mischievous games were invariably carried on by junior warehousemen in the temporary absence of the heads of the departments. The sporting young men of the establishment selected for their victims those of their juniors whom they knew would rather be tormented than exiled. Any complaint of their conduct would have ultimately insured the discharge of the reporter instead of the person reported.
The position of an orphan is generally regarded as an unfortunate one. In most cases it may prove to be so. But there are exceptions to this, as to every other current of life by which the human form is carried. Of such exceptions, the writer's early history will furnish one. The melancholy accident, as it is often regarded, of being thrown parentless on the world was one of the most fortunate incidents in my own life. In it, I found a richer legacy than gold or the means of self-indulgence—I found the key to self-dependence, together with a knowledge of the real value of the inheritance, gathered from early experience. God only knows what might have been my position or sphere of life, had my parents lived. Yet I know full well, and may truly aver, that on more than one occasion, I should have abandoned my position in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, if indulgent parents had been alive, and ready to receive their "poor boy" from the commercial school and schooling which only proved for the benefit of the scholar. Reflection was my sole referee and prompter. Here I found it would be wiser to submit to trifling annoyances—wiser to battle against present difficulties, than rashly subject myself to future and greater ones. The former want of a good dinner, with the prospect of remaining poor and fit for nothing, now taught me the worth of a good dinner, with the chance of becoming independent and fit for something. In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, there, was no limit to the number of slices of bread and butter supplied for a youth's breakfast. With the daily recognition of this agreeable fact, I was ever reminded of Mrs. Pepper and the abridgement of my morning meal. The contrast was too striking to escape the memory. I therefore resolved to keep and, if possible, to improve my footing, and thereby lessen its difficulties, in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch—unlike
A Youth Who'd Play, But Wouldn't Work.
Poor Robin Rose! Robin Rose was a youth about my own age. His first situation was in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. Adjoining that in which I was placed stood the department selected by the firm for Robin's opening scene. The day that introduced Robin to the stage of commerce raised the curtain on another débutant in the person of the writer. Our respective parts were cast by the same commercial manager, and differed only in detail. But between the actors the contrast was much greater. The accomplished young townsman had many advantages over the crude young countryman. Education, personal appearance, and knowledge of local customs were each on the side of the Londoner. Against these I possessed but one stronghold—perseverance. Of this, Robin was deficient,—it was his weak point. Although he escaped the annoyances and practical jokes to which I was subject, Robin made troubles for himself. The daily duties of his situation were regarded as so many daily hardships. He would have liked his place in a first-class house, without the work attached to it. The commercial obligations of the establishment were less in keeping with Robin's taste than the domestic and social comforts within the house. He preferred the sitting-room to the wareroom. Evening pleasure suited him better than morning labor.
Robin, moreover, was an especial favorite. But—like his own taste—the favor was rather of social than commercial origin. He was held in higher esteem by the juniors of the establishment than by the chief of his own department—by those who liked an entertaining companion, rather than by one who prized a useful assistant. The lads admired the refinement of Robin's taste in dress, envied the ring that adorned his little finger, applauded to the echo his genial style of telling a story, or singing a song, and ever regarded him as the head of the youthful and social gathering. But the evening and morning pictures told different tales. In one, Robin was the hero; in the other, he was a sluggard. He played "first fiddle" in the first, but no fiddle at all in the second. The same spirit that at night afforded pleasure to those whose praise was worth nothing, provoked, by day, the displeasure of those whose good opinion was worth something. In fine, the delicate hand that displayed a cambric handkerchief to the greatest advantage, was found a very bad hand in the use of a duster, and that sweet voice which charmed the social circle was always out of tune in the march of commerce.
Poor Robin! Robin had indulgent parents. They were told by their "poor boy" that his commercial hardships were unbearable. The parents complained to the firm. The firm replied with a corresponding grievance:—"We have no desire to subject to hardships a youth from whom we receive no benefit. The services of your son being of no value here, your early removal of the same from this establishment will oblige—Fountain, Pillar, and Branch."
Thus ended the first act in Robin's commercial career. After a brief trial of two months, he was withdrawn from the great mercantile house in which he had been placed. His withdrawal was universally regretted by those youths to whose evening pleasures he had so largely contributed. But the heads of the commercial department, to which Robin had contributed nothing, evinced no corresponding regret for the social loss of the juniors. "Robin's going—let him go," said his seniors in office, on the day of his departure. "Robin's gone—luck go with him," said his seniors on the day after his departure. He had made no impression—or a bad one, if, any—in business, and his name was thus dismissed and forgotten by business men. Yet, a few of his youthful companions, who had enjoyed the pleasantries of his companionship, noted with curiosity, and learned with regret, the career and subsequent fate of one who had been the hero of the sitting-room, and the sluggard of the wareroom:—
In the commercial as in the scientific world, that knowledge, skill, or position which may be the most difficult to secure, is generally of the greatest value when secured; but that which is obtained without labor is often worth nothing. Robin soon found, and for some years kept, a situation in which he had little to do, and as little to learn. Here he found leisure for his idle habits by day, and for the cultivation of his expensive pleasures at night. On the death of his parents, however, he discovered to his sorrow, that idleness and pleasure failed to supply their owner either with board and lodging, clothes, or pocket money. He also found that the master who had accepted his services, without pay, to do next to nothing, was not disposed to retain his services on any other terms.
Poor Robin! For some years the diminished wick of his broken and waning spirit flickered on through a precarious existence. At one time he was waiter at an hotel, at another time he was billiard-marker, then an omnibus conductor; but, more frequently than either, or any thing else, he was the unemployed recipient of favors from those on whom he had either the claim of relationship, or former friendship. The last time I saw him he received from me the sum of two shillings and sixpence, in reply to his declaration—endorced by his appearance—that he stood in want of a dinner. The last I heard of him was in the melancholy report, that, behind the door of the bed-room to which he had retired, he had—in place of his coat—suspended himself. Poor Robin Rose!
The sad career and still more dismal end of Robin Rose furnish a truthful, yet fearful, lesson on the fruit of idleness, arising from seed allowed to germinate in the path of youth. Through an indulgent but mistaken feeling of kindness, parents are apt to favor the views of their sons, by regarding a little work as a great hardship—although to the want of it may be traced many of those baneful evils which give birth to the follies of youth, kindle the vice of manhood, and darken the sorrows of old age. It is a serious mistake—one of common occurrence—to suppose that a situation in which the duties offer leisure for every indulgence, is that which affords the greatest facilities for advancement. If the body be inactive, the mind must be occupied on what is profitable or unprofitable. If idleness be allowed to feed the mind of youth with unwholesome matter, time will only tend to increase and strengthen a taste for what will soon become habitual. How many hundreds, how many thousands, of promising and intelligent youths are at this moment wasting their precious hours in the offices of some petty would-be merchant? Are there not, of the number, many whose duties consist in dusting the office in the morning, entering the names of callers during the day, and returning to their friends with the fruit of their labor—loss of time—at night, and with the brilliant prospect of the same profitable occupation on the morrow?
What a contrast and variety, both in feeling, disposition, and action, does the character of youth display! The large number of youths in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch might have formed an extensive study for the moralist. The varied and opposite features by which their character was developed would have required a skilful hand to embody the same, not owing to the obscurity, but rather to the undisguised prominence of the figures. The peculiar construction, complicated machinery, and different degrees of action of human nature may be more conspicuously seen in youth than at any subsequent period. In youth, nature is revealed in her true colors. That artifice which in manhood assumes so many forms, and is capable of so much deception, is almost a stranger to youth, in which age the natural gentleness or wickedness, gaiety or gravity, of disposition may be seen without disguise.
Yet how frequent are the mistakes which occur in the management of youth—although the most disagreeable characters may often, at an early age, be tempered, if not entirely changed by suitable treatment. Excessive indulgence and excessive severity are the extremes which lead to the ruin of thousands. A self-willed disposition may, for a time, be frightened into submission by force, but will fail to receive any benefit from it. The rod may terrify the spirit, but cannot conquer it. An attempt to grow oranges on the top of Mont Blanc, or to improve an unpromising sapling by throwing hot water on its roots, will scarcely prove more unsuccessful than an endeavour to cultivate meekness in the most stubborn mould of nature by severe treatment.
Parents often regard others as the originators of any imperfections which may present themselves in their own children. It is not a thing of rare occurrence for an indulgent parent to attribute to the monitor or commercial instructor of his child, not only the discovery of any bad quality, but, at the same time, to lay the cause entirely at the master's door—although it might have only opened a stronger light on growing evils created or neglected under his own paternal roof. Early impressions on the mind are generally the most permanent. They may, for a time, be partially obscured, or even perverted, by the changes and allurements of life, but their effect is but seldom, if ever, wholly effaced. Virtue being the cultivated vine, rather than a wild and growing instinct of nature, and being ourselves, even in infancy, the creatures of imitation, we are more likely to follow good qualities than to generate them, although in some instances they may be neglected or abandoned in maturity. If the proper principles be not instilled before the youth enters on his commercial career, the chance of their future installation will be small indeed. Although, in the spring of commercial life, opportunities may occur for the improvement of character under various aspects, such opportunities are seldom embraced if a foretaste of what is desirable has not been previously acquired. Should a parent forget at an early period, to prepare in his son's mind the way to a substantial foundation, or omit to cultivate the path by the force of good example, there will be but faint hope of its subsequent formation. Suddenly launched on the world, often among those who introduce evil habits where good ones are not already planted, a youth requires great moral power to cling to what is right where wrong predominates in those around.
Let me here make a passing remark on the salutary effect of good, and the pernicious tendency of unwholesome literature on the mind of youth. The Press of a country may be taken as a faithful type of the people, and England may indeed be envied by other nations, not only in reference to the high character and unbridled freedom of her Press, but also with regard to the corresponding advantages and blessings enjoyed by her people. But the Press is a large family, and large families not unfrequently contain members who are a disgrace to their own kin. It is even so with the Press. There are scavengers in the paths of literature, as in other departments of social science. There are literary reptiles or carnivorous crows whose polluted quills are ever ready to pander to a vitiated taste; writers who—in the words of the Times—"make lust the alpha, and murder the omega of their filthy productions." It is by these that the mind of youth is not only polluted, but frequently led into the mud-pool of reality, past all redemption. If you find a youth good for nothing, or good only for mischief, just make some enquiry respecting his taste for literature. If he has any taste at all on the subject, you will, in nine cases out of ten, find that taste to be a depraved one. I have known several youths—Robin Rose was one—whose early ruin might be partially, if not entirely attributed to the love of horrible, yet at the same time most seductive, and exciting tales of the devil's creation. I thank God that no work of that kind can be ranked among my many offences.
Fortunately, the working classes of the present day need not waste their pence on literary trash, unless they desire to do so. It cannot be said "there is nothing better in the market at the same price." The issue of cheap literature is not now entirely monopolised by the black-feathered tribe. There is no occasion for the artizan or laborer to take his weekly or monthly penny for a sheet of mental poison—always "to-be continued" for the ruin of its victims. So long as the "British Workman," and other publications recommended by the Pure Literature Society, continue to supply matter that tends to purify the morals and elevate the mind, the people have only themselves to blame if they choose those fables that have nothing hut a hellish tendency.
In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, the staff of junior officers was a large one. Including those in each department—ware-room, entering-room, and counting-house—the average number of youths from fourteen to eighteen years of age was about twenty. The school itself is, or rather was during my probation, one that might have furnished subjects for the constant employment of a Hogarth. The varied scenes enacted therein might have been vividly sketched by the masterly pencil of such an artist. They cannot be transcribed, but only alluded to, by the feeble pen of the writer. The meeting of youthful spirits, after the commercial duties of the day, might be compared to a whirlpool or centre of opposite currents,—to which objects of various sizes, dispositions, and degrees had gathered together, and were now, aided by their own buoyancy, being turned round in the most conflicting confusion. Never did priestly conclave of Romans and lay agents, from Pope No-no down to Guy Fawkes, hatch a greater amount of mischief in a given time, than was nightly devised, and often executed, by the youthful disturbers of the peace, of which body the writer was a member. No sooner were the commercial duties of the day at an end, than the games of the evening—whether serious or comic, hurtful or harmless—at once began. True, the machinations of the youthful assembly involved nothing so grave as the ruin of country, the extirpation of state, or the change of creed; but the mischievous games of the desperadoes of the tribe often gave rise to social disorder that proved anything but agreeable to the victim or victims selected for the sport of any particular occasion. Each proposition, however wicked or absurd, that was supported by the majority of the party enforced the silent acquiescence of the opponents, as open hostility or dissent only served to mark the opponent as the next subject to be operated on. The majority carried every scheme—whether of innocent sport, or wanton mischief and cruelty. On one occasion, a youth who had given offence was condemned to be cropped, and a secret committee was accordingly appointed to execute the sentence. Ignorant of the penalty that awaited him, the unconscious culprit—like Samson asleep—was one night deprived of his curly locks—at least, as many of the same as the shearers could sever without disturbing the repose of the slumbering innocent. His appearance at the breakfast table the following morning provoked, as may be imagined, loud or suppressed laughter on the part of all present but the hairless stripling whose grotesque appearance occasioned the merriment. On another occasion, the manager of the establishment had himself aroused the displeasure of the juniors, by the introduction of a few social reforms. For this legitimate exercise of authority, the offender's hat, which hung in the hall, was polluted by the insertion of a quantity of indescribable fifth, which descended on the head of the general as he placed his hat thereon. Neither in this, nor any such act, were the criminals ever discovered. Secrecy was invariably observed. Anything else would have insured either the immediate expulsion of the informer, or the discharge—by the firm—of the entire juvenile staff. In a large establish-mentestablishment, the adoption of this alternative is not always convenient.
Happily, not only the scenes just alluded to, but most of those of a similar character, are numbered with the things of the past. In social reform, much has been accomplished during the last forty years. That time has nearly elapsed since I entered on the duties of my first commercial situation in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. Mercantile establishments had not then—as now—well-stocked libraries for the mental and moral improvement of the inmates. In that day, masters who were not themselves advanced in anything but commercial knowledge, failed to display that solicitude which is now evinced by employers for the intellectual advancement of the employés. To furnish the pocket, not the mind, was the chief object of business men. The higher branches of learning were then deemed useless appendages in a young warehouseman's education, because the cost of ensuring their possession would have involved an outlay for which there was no certainty of a profitable return. If £ s. d. be still the dominant features in the world, young people are, at least, impressed with the advantages that may arise from a knowledge of the arts and sciences. If, in many cases, the arts and sciences have done little more for the fathers and grand-fathers of the present generation than satisfy them of their utility, the aged members of the community evince a laudable desire to impart to their sons what was denied in the early stages of their own career. If number one be still found, and will still be found, the leading figure in the way of the world, there is at present an evident and growing endeavour to refine, and give a greater degree of finish to the picture
In this allusion to the advantages of a suitable education for each and every class of society, the writer does not wish to be misunderstood. If social reformers of former days neglected to impress on parents and employers the benefits that would accrue from having their sons and servants mentally qualified for their respective positions in life, some of our modern philanthropists seem desirous of rushing to the opposite extreme. They would not only have people educated for positions beyond those designed for them, but, in many cases, they lead the ignorant to suppose that education is to do everything for them. Such assurances are not only illusory, but dangerous. If by the application of mental knowledge to natural talent or genius, certain poor men have become, as others may become, great and eminent, it is absurd to argue, by the same rule, that education would develop in the many what nature has given only to the few. Education may perfect the shoot, but cannot plant the seed of genius. Those who would make mechanics and artizans classical scholars, or invest cooks and kitchen-maids with drawing-room accomplishments, are not social reformers, but social revolutionists. They would destroy law and order, and disturb the peace of society rather than consolidate it. Servants who acquire a superficial knowledge of what they are not qualified, either by nature or position to practise, are themselves seldom satisfied with their own situation in life, and seldom satisfy those whom they engage to serve.
Even so with young people who beguile themselves on another subject—a reliance on others, instead of on themselves. The poor mechanic who has learned to read and write and to do a little in vulgar fractions, and who complacently believes himself to be a man of letters, is no more an object of self-delusion than that youth who places his trust in the reputed wealth of friend or relative, either for his own permanent advancement, or for a position of future independence. The simple circumstance of a lad being blessed with wealthy or independent parents cannot, in itself, be a misfortune, although a greater misfortune can scarcely befall a youth than to make his own knowledge of such wealth or independence an excuse for inactivity or idleness. This declaration is founded on personal observation. I look around me for the old and middle-aged men who, nearly forty years ago, played—with the writer—their youthful parts in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. What were the prospects of those young men then? What is the position of these old men now? Of about two-thirds of the staff, I am unable to speak. We are either separated by death, divided by country, or lost to memory through change of occupation, or change of appearance. But one-third, or about seven of my warehouse companious are still before me. Three of the number are not only independent, but very wealthy men—one of them a millionaire. The remaining four are anything but independent. One is, or rather was a few weeks since, in the wine trade, and has, in his time, been in a variety of other trades; another—a fine grey-headed, well-educated, old man—is canvasser and collector for the proprietors of a metropolitan publication; another is in a very small, but has been in a very large way of business; and the last of the number is often recognised at the corner of a certain street in the city. He never fails to recognise any old friend or acquaintance, of whom he is ever ready to receive anything in the shape of a gratuity, from sixpence to a sovereign.
To their own unaided exertions in early life, two out of the commercial trio of wealthy gentlemen just named are entirely indebted for their present independent position. Their friends were too poor to assist them with anything but good advice. The parents of the third were in a respectable way of business, and probably started their son when, on his own account, he entered on the path to fortune. The last four gentlemen alluded to could boast, and did boast, of friends and relations in good or easy circumstances. These facts tell their own tale, without comment. "The 'old uns' have plenty of money, why should I work?" In this Observation—which I have often heard—may he found the key to the present position of the four gentlemen just referred to. The reader may naturally enquire, "to which of the two classes mentioned does the writer himself belong?" The answer is, "To neither." Although I had neither parent nor friend to ease the struggles of a somewhat arduous and varied career, I am neither wealthy nor entirety independent. But, thank God, I am contented, not only contented, but happy. I might have been richer without being happier; but the reason I am not richer than I am cannot be traced to the want of opportunities. The veil that covers the loss or neglect of such opportunities will be raised for the reader in due time. At present it is necessary, for a moment, to return to the first stage in the warehouseman's career, in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch.
Before I had been three months in my situation, the difficulties and annoyances by which I was at first surrounded had diminished both in number and magnitude. The buyer or head of my department, who—speaking symbolically—had favored me with a greater number of kicks than kisses, began to relax the severity of his treatment. When he found his pupil attentive, industrious, and, if not an apt scholar, at least, anxious to learn, he gradually changed the tone of his commands and corrections from bitter notes of anger to gentle admonitions, and from gentle admonitions to words of kindness and encouragement. Gaining strength with the senior in office, I lessened the opposition and annoyance of juniors who are ever ready to take advantage of, rather than to relieve the embarrassment of a new comer or commercial novice. I endeavoured to give all the satisfaction my limited knowledge of business would allow, and, at the same time, to increase the amount of knowledge by which greater satisfaction might be given. The endeavour was recognised and acknowledged. One morning, when all the young men in the department were engaged, and after a successful attempt, on my part, to supply the wants of a customer, the senior, in his rough, business-like way, said, "well done young-un; you'll do. Remember, the governor has got his eye on you." Although immensely pleased, after my early doubts and fears, to hear from the head of my department that I should "do," I was altogether at a loss to know how the governor—a term always applied to one of the firm—could have his "eye on me." Not only had neither of the governors spoken to me since the day when my engagement was closed with Mr. Branch, but I had not seen them, except in an occasional and hasty walk through the wareroom, on their way to or from the counting-house. From the following incidents, however, I subsequently, for a moment, supposed that it was quite possible for governors to have their eyes where they are not themselves seen.
Although treated with greater consideration in business than at first, I was not yet free from annoyance out of business. Each inmate of the house had small, but separate beds. I had two bed-room companions. They had been, and continued to be, my relentless tormentors. But practical joke players sometimes carry their fun beyond the forbearance of those on whom they play, and a little too far for their own enjoyment. It was so here. Having one night retired to bed and fallen asleep before the arrival of my peace-destroyers, I was shortly afterwards awoke, partly by a shivering sensation through the system, and partly by the loud laughter of my tormentors, one of whom stood near my head with the jug from which he had been pouring cold water down my back. Consciousness was no sooner restored me, than I was suddenly invested with a power for action such as I never before, and have never since felt, and such as, I trust, I may never again feel. A vivid recollection of the forbearance with which I had suffered former indignities at once floated on the memory, and made the present insult the signal for a terrific explosion of suppressed anger. The electric flash that fired the spirit was so instantaneous, that between the conception and execution of a desire for retributive justice there was no time for reflection. In a moment I was out of bed; in another moment I was engaged in administering to the culprit a personal chastisement as severe as was ever received by one youth from the hands of another. He was finally left almost breathless, but not altogether bruiseless, on the bed he had saturated with water, while I took possession of the dry one he intended for himself.
Young wags are generally young cowards. One of the present was, and the other was not an exception to the rule. The twin culprit who had been equally guilty with the brother who had executed the watery design of the pair, not only abandoned his comrade during the pugilistic encounter, but hastily sneaked into his bed before he was half undressed, in order to avoid the share of punishment to which he was entitled, and which—had he maintained an erect position—he would probably have received.
The temporary satisfaction or pleasure that may arise from having administered personal chastisement to another may he succeeded by anything but agreeable reflections. Correction in this case was merited by the offender. But the hand which, at the moment, was incapable of selfrestraint would, within the same hour, have gladly withdrawn the punishment it had inflicted. Directly beneath our bed-room was the sleeping apartment of the manager or warehouse-walker of the establishment. Whether he had been disturbed by the noise arising from the scuffle that had taken place above him, or whether the water from the jug that was broken in the encounter had penetrated the ceiling and opened a communication with his head, I am unable to say. Be this as it may, I was no sooner settled in bed than a loud rap on the bed-room door (which received no response from the affrighted belligerents within) was followed by the entrance of the superintendent, who was robed in his dressing-gown and carried in his hand a lighted candle. After a momentary glance at the disordered state of the apartment and the pieces of broken jug winch covered the room, the managerial visitor, in a tone of striking significance, enquired:—
"What's the meaning of all this?"
To this, however, a death-like silence was alone vouchsafed by those who-to use a common expression—were too "wide awake" to dream even of an attempt to solve a query that might involve the respondent in further trouble After the lapse of a few moments, the manager approached the couch on which lay, in silent purgatory, rather than in sweet repose, Robert Turnbull the youth who was expiating his offence on the damp bed he intended for another, but which—unfortunately for the designer—he had prepared for himself.
"Robert, what's the meaning of all this?" enquired the manager with increased emphasis.
"I—I have been the cause of it all, sir," replied Robert, in a tone that betrayed a spirit quivering between penitence and despair.
"Oh! you acknowledge your guilt, do you? Wait on me in the morning in my office, before you enter on your duties in the warehouse."
Thus, the manager closed his speech, his visit, and the door of the bed-room from which he retired in seeming disgust. Of the sensations which at this moment agitated my bed-room companions, I am unable to speak; mine were made up of strong solutions of sorrow, fear, and pity—sorrow for what I had done, fear of the consequences, and pity for one who had already pleaded guilty to the leading count in the indictment. In his honest confession, Robert Turnbull, the agressor, at once caused me to pity the heart I had punished; for that heart in the time of error and, perhaps, danger, had revealed, at least, one noble feature in its owner. The plea of "guilty" instantly changed a feeling of contempt to one of respect. I had no longer anything to forgive my adversary, but all to be forgiven by him. I had previously considered him false as well as vicious, cunning as well as cruel, but I was mistaken. He was not one of those who offer insult without shame, and receive it without resentment. Unlike his companion in mischief, Robert was not a coward. He erred, contested his error, was defeated, and manfully acknowledged his fault, by taking on himself its entire responsibility. Out of the stalk which was supposed to contain only "chaff" had been thrashed a noble ear of corn. We had fought our way to friendship, and were now the best of friends. So far, the conflict terminated amicably and was productive of good. But the friendly pair that disturbed and made peace with themselves had, unfortunately, disturbed and not made peace with, others. There resided in the house a law-maker as well as a peacemaker. This was the judge who now agitated the minds of those who had fought and fraternized, but had yet to be called up for judgment.
My recent foe, but present friend, Robert Turnbull, was nephew to Mr. Branch, the junior partner of the firm. This fact, though formidable in itself, was only a dark cloud in the distance. But primà facie evidence of the liberty I had taken with the nephew of a gentleman to whom I was indebted for my first step in the commercial world, made me tremble for the result of the coming storm. I was fearful—and my very dreams were pregnant with the fear—that one, if not both, of the combatants might be swept from the establishment in disgrace. For his own sake, Robert would, if possible, keep the affair from the knowledge of his uncle; but for the sake of the establishment, and the preservation of good order therein, the manager, in all probability, would prevent the consummation of such a desire. It would, I thought, have been better for me if I had communicated, and left the faults of my companion to the care of, and for correction by, other hands. But after-thoughts on what has been done are not preventives. I had now to look at the probable consequences of the reflection, without being able to efface the cause. The fear of being again cast on the world, and of losing the situation that cost so much labor and anxiety to secure, was already a punishment far greater either than a damp bed, or the chastisement awarded the offender. While Robert, during the night, gave unmistakable signs that his punishment had not deprived him of sleep, the restless spirit by which that punishment was administered was tossing to and fro like a ship on a troubled sea. The calm of one body and the agitation of the other might be easily accounted for. In the event of his being cashiered Robert had friends and bread and butter to fly to. I had neither. Therein our cases differed, and the knowledge of this difference served as a narcotic to the mind of one patient, and as an irritant to the mind of the other.
Mrs. Pepper, my first and never to be forgotten landlady, and the limited breakfast she supplied, when that breakfast constituted my only daily meal, were subjects still fresh on the memory—so fresh, that the very reflection of what had fallen and might again fall to my lot, either kept me awake, or furnished my dreams with pictures more terrible even than the realities. After this fashion, I passed the night, like a poor criminal whose mind is disturbed by dismal forebodings of the morrow.
The morrow came and, with it, certain signs to strengthen the belief that my worst fears would be realized. Robert Turnbull was absent from the breakfast table. Where was he? He was neither in his bed-room, nor in the warehouse. Was he in the manager's office, or had he been sent thus early to the private residence of his uncle, for immediate examination and judgment? These and similar queries emanated from, and struck terror to, the mind that asked itself, in vain, for solutions. Now, for the first time since I had entered the establishment of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, I sat at breakfast without any appetite for the same. The niggardly Mrs. Pepper might herself have been satisfied with the moderate inroad made on my morning meal. I partook freely of the liquid portion of the repast, but bread and butter were altogether at a discount, though unlike property generally quoted at a discount—it would not "go down." I felt tolerably sure that Robert had been cashiered, and that my own discharge would soon be announced. The absence of my companion could not be attributed to the enlargement made by a fistic concussion over one of his eyes, for, on leaving bed, he declared his intention to boldly face any remarks or merriment his personal appearance might provoke. Robert was evidently gone. It was, therefore, no longer a question of whether, it was only a question of when I should have to follow?
Contrary to expectation, the day passed and a week passed, without anything or anybody, except my own suspense and anxiety—in themselves, anything but comforters—disturbing me on the subject in which I was deeply concerned and as deeply implicated. Robert was gone. But as no enquiries were made concerning him, except by the juniors of the establishment, it was evident that somebody at head-quarters knew both of his going and his whereabouts. I had two fresh bed-room companions who were, alike, agreeable and free from mischief. Neither of them evinced the least disposition or desire either to play upon the "young countryman" or to provoke him to a combat similar to that which had recently taken place in the same apartment.
After the lapse of a fortnight from the time of Robert's departure, I was one morning startled by a tap on the shoulder from the hand of one of the clerks of the establishment, by whom I was informed that Mr. Branch required my immediate presence in his private counting-house. The announcement had the momentary effect of suspending my power of speech. I looked—and no doubt looked very pale—at the messenger, as I bowed my head in dutiful recognition of his message, without giving any oral sign of my obedience. The cause of the summons, and the reason I had not been summoned before, floated on my mind in an instant. The probationary time named on the day of my engagement had now expired. I had been in my situation exactly three months. This was the period mentioned by Mr. Branch for testing my business qualifications and disposition for work. The gentleman had waited till the last day of the term—not to acquaint me that I was unequal to the commercial duties to which I had been appointed, but to punish and discharge the hand that had presumed to correct and chastise the nephew of one of the firm. My banishment was certain. Such, at least, was my conviction, as with parched lips and a tremulous frame I approached and entered the office in which Mr. Branch was seated.
"Well, sir," exclaimed Mr. Branch, in seeming abstraction, as he was in the act of folding a letter, "I'll settle my business with you immediately. I have been informed—that—you—"
"It was not by me, sir, the quarrel was begun," I softly muttered, in anticipation of the dreaded sentence, and in hope of its mitigation.
"What's that you say?" continued Mr. Branch, as he gave the finishing seal to his epistle and placed it in a receptacle marked 'letters for post,' "quarrel! what quarrel?—quarrel with whom?"
"The quarrel with your nephew, Robert, sir;" I reluctantly replied, being suddenly impressed, with a sense of my own folly, in having opened the subject.
"What!" said Mr. Branch in seeming surprise, "has the young scapegrace returned? The manager told me he had given him a month's holiday. He'll never be worth his salt. I know nothing of your quarrels; if you fall out you must fall in again. But I have lately been informed by the head of your department that he hopes to make a man of you—that is, if your past industry and attention to your duties are to be taken as fair samples of future exertions. We seldom, if ever, reward any youth till he has been in the house, at least, twelve months; but, in your case, the favorable report of the senior of your department may justify an exception. At present, young man, you will receive a salary of twenty pounds a-year; and in consideration of your position—did you not say, when I engaged you, that your parents were dead?"
Observing that my feelings, at the moment, were not equal to a reply, Mr. Branch proceeded:—
"We have dated the commencement of your pay from the day on which you entered our establishment. You are, therefore, entitled to a quarter's salary. Go on as you have begun, and your reward shall keep pace with your merit. There, young man, take that, and make good use of it."
So saying, Mr. Branch gave me a five-pound note, and again seated himself at his desk.
I attempted to acknowledge the gift, and in the attempt did, I believe, produce a sound something like th—th—th—th—ank you, sir. Then, with a feeling that might have been eloquent had it not been mute, I withdrew from the presence of my benefactor, and hastened to rather a gloomy and secluded part of the establishment, called the "lumber room." Here, in a remote corner, behind a pile of empty boxes, I gave vent to a mixture of joy and surprise which equalled, both in quantity and vivacity, any that ever filled and fermented a body of similar proportions.
Did ever anticipated pain resolve into such boundless pleasure! Never did criminal receive a "free pardon" with greater joy than that which now agitated the breast of Frank Foster. At the very moment when I expected to have been transported from the hopeful and busy ranks of commerce to the gloomy desert of despair, my commercial judge and master not only continued me in his service, but sent me again to that service without censure, not only without censure but with praise, not only with praise, but with the substantial reward arising from the cause on which that praise was founded.
Those of my readers who have been, and who remember the day on which they first became, salaried assistants, may readily compass the agreeable sensations of a penniless youth suddenly invested with a salary of twenty pounds a-year. Twenty pounds a-year! Did ever twenty thousand pounds a-year yield the rich possessor a happier day than that which made me master of the lesser sum? Impossible. Twenty pounds a-year! Ennobling sound—repeated not only twenty times, but twenty times twenty within the space of the first twenty-four hours in which it became familiar to my ear. That space comprised one of those brief periods in one's life, during which the supply of human happiness is found equal to the demand. A time when the heart has ceased to look beyond its own possessions for one of the most precious of mortal treasures—a jewel named "content."
My probation was now at an end. I was no longer a youth on trial, but a salaried assistant. I was no longer one whose fitness for the early stages of business had to be tested, but one who had obtained his certificate of qualification; no longer one whose retention or loss of office could be effected by the undeserved favor or unmerited censure of others, but one whose future advancement depended on that continued application to business, and that earnest desire for knowledge therein, which had already received an early and substantial recognition in a bank of England, note. That was, by far, the most valuable piece of paper money that has ever fallen to my lot. Notes of greater monetary value I have had, but not one the intrinsic worth of which could be compared with that of the first. Other notes have been valuable only for the sums they may have represented, but my first note brought knowledge of present, as well as promise of future gain. My first note made me not only a happy young man, but one of the most independent of young men. It established my independence, by proving that I had the means, through the use of my hands, of self-support. It was even so. The happiest and most independent day of my life was that on which I was declared to be entitled, through my own personal exertions, to a salary of twenty pounds a-year!
Thus began and ended my first three months on the great ocean of life. Though not unattended by dangers and anxieties, the trip was, on the whole, successfully accomplished. It is one of the few steps in a varied career to which I look back with satisfaction. Had all subsequent steps been equally free from mistakes, there would have been no occasion for the present volume—at least, not from the hand by which it is now penned.
Chapter viii.
Desire for Change of Occupation.
It is now twelve months since I entered on the duties of my first commercial situation in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. As junior or "duster" of my department, I had for some time represented an article, the services of which are called into action or laid aside, as occasion might require. The scene changes. The boy who had been at the beck and call of the commercial staff, becomes himself one of the staff, having a boy "at call." I am no longer deputy or lad of all work, but a youth or young man (what youth at 17 is not a young man?) occupying, in an important department, the position of third-salesman, at an improved salary of forty pounds a-year!
This, an unskilled laborer's first year's crop from the field of commerce, is, beyond doubt, a good one. The hand of labor has produced early and fruitful results. The first harvest is not only rich in itself, but is still richer with promises of that to come. Industry has been amply rewarded, and her future prospect is even better than her present gain.
"Well. Does it always follow that each upward step in life yields joy greater than was to be found on that which preceded it? My second commercial season opens auspi-ciouslyauspiciously. A higher position than I have hitherto filled awaits me, and my salary is doubled on the opening day. I am relieved by a junior from the minor duties of office; I feel not only equal to the requirements of my improved position, but also sanguine of obtaining a higher, and yet a higher post, till I become the head of the department in which fortune first placed me.
But am I more contented with forty than I was with twenty pounds a-year? Nothing of the kind. Can any one be happier than happy? My salary has been doubled, so have my desires. With twenty pounds a-year my wants were all supplied; with forty pounds a-year, new discoveries are made, and fresh wants immediately follow. No sooner is my footing secure on one path of life, than I cast a longing eye on another, and another, and another path.
Here, my young reader, you have already a faint glimpse of one of the greatest mistakes in the life of the writer—perhaps one of the greatest errors in your own life at this moment—viz., a desire for any trade, profession, or occupation other than that in hand. Such desire is not a solitary sound, as it is often heard in the way of the world. The young draper wishes he had been a druggist, the druggist regrets he was not made a lawyer, the lawyer would have been a doctor, the doctor of medicine says he ought to have been a doctor of divinity, or a curer of souls instead of bodies; and thus the wish resounds from one side of the globe to the other, from merchant as from mechanic, from the sea-sick sailor on his first voyage, as from the home-sick soldier in his first engagement—each desires to be other than he is. It is not always so, nor is it so with all; but it is often so, and ever so with many.
"I should like to be anything but what I am." When-everWhenever such avowal is a faithful reflex of the mind of youth, it reveals that kind of restraint on individual exertion that often proves a serious obstacle, if not a fatal barrier to future advancement. To originate or encourage personal antipathy to labor by which one has to live, and cannot exchange, is to pick a quarrel with one's own dinner. So long as the meal is needed, it is surely a silly thing to complain of the only means by which' It may be obtained. The lamentation is a perpetual drag on the wheel of fortune—especially when suspended from the arm of one who retards his own progress of life, without being able to change its course.
"As thy son will succeed best in the profession he may himself select, check not thy son's inclination." So says a well-known writer, and so say I—that is, if the choice of the son be compatible with the means or station of the parent. It often happens—as in the present case—that either the loss of parents, or position of friends, leaves no choice in the matter. In such case, would not a youth do well to improve, rather than to mourn or despise the calling in which circumstances might have placed him? By improving his position in such calling, he might eventually obtain that to which his heart aspires. Of this, two striking cases will presently be instaneed.
My present improved position is already attended by one or two of the usual accessions occasioned by a rise in the world. That spot which contains the greatest quantity of sugar is sure to be surrounded by the largest number of flies. Let what may decline, acquaintances ever multiply with each upward move in life. This is already perceptible in the second stage of my commercial existence. Without solicitation on my part, my salary is doubled. So is the number of my acquaintances. Unfortunately, the increase represents greater value on the part of the specie than on the part of humanity. But the expensive impression left on the mind by my first faithless companion, Silas Bloomfield, induced me to regard voluntary friends for what they were worth, or rather to weigh them by their own standard—whether their love consisted in the loan of a guinea or a cigar, or in that rarer and more genuine element of friendship that seeks a return only in the image of itself.
Yet, for an extended knowledge of the way of the world I found it quite as necessary to form acquaintances, as it was desirable to ascertain the individual and relative value of such acquaintances. An isolated being becomes as contracted in ideas as in habits. To cage the mind is not the way to insure its expansion. If some of my companions were deficient in those business habits by which I secured their good opinion, others had mastered accomplishments in which I discovered my own defects. While in scientific, medical, and other students, I saw professions the duties of which were more in accordance with my own taste than those of a warehouseman, I found at the same time that my desire was soaring beyond either the means or education of its owner.
But the light that kindled this desire was valuable not merely on account of mental deficiencies discovered, but on account of wants thereby created. By the reflection of other minds, I beheld the advantages of a better education than I was then master of. I saw, and saw clearly, that if mental knowledge was not necessary to the duties of a warehouseman, its acquisition might benefit the possessor in other ways—if only as a means of defence against a satirical or one-sided compliment in the social circle. "A still tongue may make a wise head," but it occurred to me, during rather a protracted display of my wisdom, that the tongue which is not prepared to be other than still must naturally be attached to rather a stupid head.
On the strength of this conviction, I resolved to go, and immediately carried out my resolution by going to school. I was not the only big scholar who felt anxious to improve what had been neglected in the past. The prosecution of my studies every evening from eight till ten o'clock soon enabled me to see, in the mental progress I had already made, how far I must previously have been behind—even in the elementary branches of knowledge.
The value of the ground I had gained created a desire for further advancement; and when, at a subsequent period, the City of London Literary and Scientific Institution was opened in Aldersgate Street, I became one of its first members, of which there was, in a short time, a large number. As it was scarcely possible for young men to pass their evenings here without benefit to themselves, there was nothing very remarkable in the fact that I soon found myself among those who derived greater profit from a reading or lecture room, than from a cigar shop or low singing establishment. I will not insult those of my young readers whose education may have been neglected either by themselves or friends, by an attempt to elaborate the simple truth that by evening study—by a couple of hours two or three times a week—they may do for themselves what others have failed to do for them. Out of a number of living proofs, I will simply mention two or three cases to illustrate not only the ready acquisition of knowledge by means of self-instruction, but also the profitable application of such knowledge when so acquired.
The first case of unaided self-advancement that occurs to my mind is that of one of the most popular preachers (of the Established Church) of the present day.
The Rev. Daniel—, the present incumbent of—, on the south side of London, and—lecturer in the City, was once an intelligent youth who filled an unimportant situation in a warehouse not far from St. Paul's. His occupation was not in accordance with his taste. But his taste soared beyond the means of his respectable but by no means wealthy parents. He joined, and soon became a distinguished member of the Literary Institution just named. In the discussion class of this institution he was at once recognised as an able debater, especially on social, philosophical, and historical subjects. In a short time, he was acknowledged the very first member not only of the particular class mentioned, but of the entire institution. On his retirement, his brother members presented him with a very valuable gift.
The youth now gladly forsook his commercial duties to pursue, at college, studies more in accordance with his own taste. It is not necessary to dwell on that subsequent upward course in his career that led to his present exalted position. It is enough to say that to that position the warehouse-boy raised himself by his own individual exertions.
There was another member of the institution whose early career is still more worthy of note, inasmuch as the aspirant's rise to eminence, although as rapid as that instanced in the foregoing case, was attended by opposition, and was therefore more difficult of attainment.
Unlike the former, this youth, on his first appearance as a speaker in the class of which he was a member, made anything but a favorable impression. His crude style of address and action often proved a source of merriment to those around, while his lofty aspirations (it was whispered in the class that he was anxious to exchange the duties of a draper's shop-boy for those of a barrister) were ridiculed by every member hut himself. In his early oratorical and elocutionary efforts he succeeded only in provoking the laughter of his audience. Night after night and week after week he spoke, or attempted to speak, on every subject under discussion; and night after night and week after week, his impatient audience endeavoured to put him down. But he was not to be put down. Having one evening, during a temporary lull, obtained a hearing, he addressed the members in nearly the following words:—
"Brother members,—permit me to say a word or two before I retire—(a sudden burst of applause for a moment interrupted the speaker, the applauders supposing the persecuted young candidate was about to retire from the contest. Silence restored, the speaker continued)—before I retire to the door for a little fresh air, after those noisy salutations with which my humble efforts are invariably greeted. But I beg to submit one rather important fact for your serious consideration during my temporary absence.
"Everything and everybody, as you are aware, gentlemen, must have had a beginning. And some of the greatest things, and some of the greatest beings in the world, and some of the noisiest spirits in this class, have had very small beginnings. Mine, as you well know, and have made me know and feel too, is a very small beginning. But by perseverance and, I trust, improvement, I may, by degrees, rise in the world as others have risen. Thus, in the course of time, I may secure, even here, that good opinion which I have hitherto failed to obtain. I am not a poet, gentlemen, although the following lines—pre-paredprepared for the occasion—may furnish you at the same time with my past position and future intention in this class:—
"'Climbing for knowledge, a little boy, like me,
Was one day seen upon a lofty tree;
When bigger boys, like you, on mischief bent,
Aimed at the young one's head—and down he went;
But inspired by courage, though repelled by pain,—
To gain the fruit—he climbed the tree again.'"
The good humored, cool, yet emphatic manner in which this address was delivered created, for the first time, a light feeling in favor of the speaker. Having succeeded in obtaining the ear of his class, his subsequent speeches were not only listened to without dissent, but were received by approval. His improvement was rapid and his success unequivocal. The only thing that interrupted his future addresses was the applause by which they were greeted. In less than twelve months he became one of the best speakers in the Institution. Agreeably with his own determination, he continued to climb the tree of knowledge till he reached a high, if not the highest branch in his profession. The draper's boy, that was, is, at this present writing, the well-known Mr. Sergeant—, one of the most eloquent and popular barristers of the day.
Well. In this case of self-instruction and advancement, did the hero originally possess mental talents superior to those owned by the majority of youthful heads? Nothing of the sort. In youth, the intellectual faculties of Mr. Sergeant—were not above the average. The secret of success cannot here be traced to great or precocious talents, but simply to perseverance, and a resolute spirit on the part of the aspirant to make the most of what talent he possessed.
If this case can prove anything, it can prove this—that success in public speaking is less dependent on the quality of the original stock from which it may spring than on the assiduous cultivation of the same. Perseverance and confidence were the chief elements of success. This youth, with a little talent, and the necessary confidence for its application, raised himself from obscurity to eminence, while other youths in the same class, with superior talents, utterly failed for want of confidence in their own powers. Diffidence—in the absence of the requisite perseverance for overcoming the same—has proved a fatal barrier to hundreds of would-be orators. It was nearly so with me. I had only just enough nerve during my early trial to turn the scale in my own favor. Once turned, and confidence acquired, I became a frequent speaker. But other young men there were, whose talents far exceeded any I ever possessed, who fell, like tender flowers, on the first rude blast of opposition. They were either held from their desire to speak through fear, or, after their first attempt to say something, were kept in perpetual retirement, entirely through diffidence. Practice is the only remedy for this; and practice before private friends—in the way of elocutionary entertainment, or declamatory addresses—would soon enable the speakers, should they desire it, to command the attention of the public.
Is not the acquisition of this confidence a thing to be desired by any youth? Its application may not be needed, but its possession, in case of need, may prove of the utmost value. Diffidence can be more easily rooted out in spring than at any subsequent period of life. Can any stripling tell what may be his position or requirements in the world at the age of maturity? In the future of the poorest boy now living, there may be times and occasions when the fluency of speech, or, at least, the power of giving clear expression to thought, may be of the greatest service. The poor boy may become a man of note; and it cannot be an agreeable thing for a clever man to make a fool of himself—if only in responding to the toast of his own health.
But this subject may find an appropriate conclusion in a verbatim report of a speech that was once delivered to a distinguished company by a gentleman who was clever at almost anything but the art of speech-making:—
"Mr. Chairman,—ladies—ladies and gentlemen. In returning—in rising to return, ladies and gentlemen—in returning my sincere thanks for the great—for the great and distinguished honor you have—I have just—just conferred, permit me to say that I—I beg to assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that nothing that I can say on the present occasion can sufficiently express my—your—your sense of my kindness—-(loud applause and suppressed laughter)—will—kindle a most—I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this is—this is the happiest moment of my life—(applause)—and in—in returning from the bottom of my heart—(loud cheers). But it is unnecessary to say anything—(cries of 'go on')—and I trust I have said nothing—(laughter)—nothing on the present occasion that—but I'll not detain you, ladies and gentlemen, by saying that—having said more than I intended to say on the present occasion—I can only say that—that in returning you my sincere thanks, I—I—I beg most sincerely to thank you." (The speaker, on resuming his seat, was rewarded with several rounds of applause of the most unmistakable kind.)
Chapter ix.
Authorship.—Budding Shoots from Early Taste.
"Determine your future course, boys, and steadfastly pursue it!"
Such were the words once addressed by a self-instructed genius to his three sons, who subsequently became distinguished characters in their respective professions. Here, as in hundreds of cases in the world, the young men had the advantage of mating their own choice. But there are other cases, in which there is no choice in the matter—cases in which youths are compelled to take what they can get. Such happened to be my case. It is, no doubt, the exception, not the rule, where a youth has no inclination or preference of his own in the allotment of his future occupation. It may be fortunate for those who have the privilege of making their own selection. Those who are not so favored have no alternative but that of doing the best they can for themselves. In some cases—as in those instanced in the preceding chapter—the want of assistance is not a bar to advancement in any way in the world that may be selected by young persons in their aspirations to fame or fortune.
I was now eighteen years of age, had been little more than two years in my first situation, and was in the receipt of a salary of one hundred pounds a year. Still I was not satisfied. While satisfied with, the pay, I was not satisfied with the occupation from which the pay was derived. My interest was in the warehouse, but my heart was no longer there. I saw professions that I liked, or thought I should like, better. But unlike those of my fellow class-men in learning, who forsook all emolument and commercial prospect for the attainment of one object, I had not the courage to risk what I had in hand for the uncertainty of obtaining what I desired. In my case, there would have been a greater sacrifice with a smaller prospect of gain, for my salary was greater, and my proficiency in learning less than came to the share of those who changed their occupations. Faith in the old adage—"a bird in hand is worth two in the bush"—induced me, for a time, to retain the contributor to present wants. Nevertheless, I heard other birds whose songs were more in harmony with the mind of the listener, than the never varying monetary strain to be heard in the march of commerce.
From a very early age—eight or nine years old—I had evinced a love for scribbling, or composing, in metrical form, a certain number of lines or verses, commonly called (by young people) poetry. This was my "hobby." In the common acceptation of the word a "hobby" refers to an expensive and—apart from the pleasure it may afford the indulger—to an almost useless kind of taste or pastime. But hobbies and hobbyists are not all of the same character. "While some hobbies involve an extravagant outlay of time and money, others have an opposite tendency. Some of the greatest men that ever lived have had their "hobbies"—hobbies by which they acquired their greatness. Watt, Stephenson, Shakspeare, Burns, and hundreds of others, when obscure and penniless boys, indulged in hobbies which lead to fame and fortune—while inferior or less gifted minds have, by the cultivation of their natural tastes, benefitted the world and themselves in a proportinate degree. A hobby is the natural offspring of the mind, and typifies the character of the mould in which it is formed, or the quality of the soil from which it emanates. It is part and parcel of its parent's being. Should that being be an intellectual and scientific one, the hobby will relate to science, and receive its culture from the intellect. Every hobby has its prototype in the parent mind. My hobby was that of authorship. I wished to become an author.
Become an author? "Never think of becoming an author." This piece of advice is often tendered by one young friend to another. In my early scribbling days, it was a gratuity of which I frequently became the recipient. But kind friends by whom such advice is given are apt to estimate the value of what they give, without considering the impossibility of its adoption by those who are already what they are advised not to become, A youth either is or is not an author—or, at least, he either has, or has not the means within himself of establishing his claim to the title. In the infant mind—the author in embryo—the matter already exists, although it may never reach maturity. The germs of authorship are there, though they may never sprout. The ore is there, though the mine may never be worked. "The spirit may exist without the letter." Yet a man must not necessarily be a learned man to be an author. As was remarked in another chapter, education may perfect the shoot, but cannot plant the seed of genius. A mechanic, in the humblest walk of art, may display an inventive genius of the highest order, although he may neither have the means nor the education to perfect what he has invented. On the other hand, the most finished workman is not an author, if he only adds a finish to the design of another. A man may be a classical scholar, but if he has never parented or given to the "world an original idea, he is not an author.
For certes then, so far as I am myself concerned in the matter, I have not, nor ever had, the least pretension to anything classical. How should I? When launched on the world to do for myself-—both with regard to mind and body—in the best way I could, reading and writing comprised the sum total of my scholastic attainments. Add to these the effects of a little dip into mathematics, with a few outward flourishes in composition—made during the evenings passed in a Literary Institution—and the addition will give the entire educational stock of a youth who wished to become an author. That I was already what I desired to become may presently be inferred by a brief reference to the work on which I was then engaged. As since that period, I have written fifteen or sixteen distinct works—some of which have passed through five editions—there will appear nothing like vanity in the statement that, not with standing the want of a finished education, I did become an author. So far, I attained the object of my desire. Whether anything was lost, or what was lost, in obtaining that desire, or whether it proved of its anticipated value to its owner when obtained, may appear in due course.
During the first two years of my commercial life, I found occasional leisure for the indulgence of my own particular "hobby." Like the lark, I was up early—not to sing, but to write songs; and, like the nightingale, I often tuned my compositions when other birds were taking their rest. Although I didn't write verses for the "million," I wrote them for a large number of my commercial companions. When a new song, an acrostic, or a few verses to commemorate some special event, happened to be wanted, either by a friend or a friend's friend, mine was the hand to which was assigned the honor of composition. The pleasure I derived in thus contributing to the poetical wants of my companions was ever an ample return for the task of preparing the mental offering. Neither singer, reciter, nor hearer, ever derived more satisfaction in the illustration of my early compositions than was experienced by the humble individual by whom the words were composed:—
"Who's the author of that piece?"
"Frank Foster."
To a young writer's heart—at least, it was so to mine—the question admits the value of the work; the answer pays it.
This sort of self-gratification or heartfelt pride—so long as it does not resolve itself into absolute vanity or personal conceit—is, perhaps, undeserving censure, provided the object or "hobby," of which the spirit is proud, is not in itself a foolish one. It is an isolated, if not a barren heart, that is not proud of something in the world besides flesh and blood—whether the pride may consist in the knowledge and love of a flower garden, the laws of gravitation, or the study of the stars.
With those, however, who desire to turn their fancies to some practical account, praise itself soon ceases to afford satisfaction, unless accompanied by that substantial acknowledgement that places the value of the commendation beyond doubt. The presence of the one proves the worth of the other. And no enthusiast ever yet had a spirit sufficiently buoyant to support its owner entirely by the effervescent laudations of kindred spirits. Those who are willing to pay for what they approve in the way of enter-tainmententertainment, are better qualified and more disposed to give impartial opinions on the quality of their fare, than those kind friends who are ever ready to approve, when approval is to be the extent of their award. By partial admirers, I had often been told that my songs and verses were "very pretty," but I now required extended proofs of their beauty. Although several of my poetical pieces had been published in the periodicals of the day, they had been sent to, and accepted by the editors as gratuitous and anonymous contributions. I now resolved to take the first step towards testing my capabilities, with a view of becoming a professional author. My stock of poetical pieces not being large enough to form a volume, I determined on making my first effort—for the public eye—in a prose sketch of "City Life"—more especially the life in which I was immediately engaged.
In order, if possible, to give a faithful coloring to the characters and scenes to be introduced in my first publication. I thought it desirable, in the first place, to obtain something more than a superficial knowledge of the various subjects to be introduced. I wanted to reach the foundation of certain social as well as commercial anomalies which were yet beyond my comprehension. In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch—as in most large city establishments—the young men and youths had their evenings at their own disposal. From the close of business—six o'clock—till the close of the doors to the private dwelling—eleven o'clock—they had nothing but the dictates of their own inclinations to guide and govern them. About one-fourth of the number of youths in the house applied their leisure to the rational exercise of the body, the cultivation of the mind, and the improvement of an indifferent or neglected education. With the remaining three-fourths, there was such a contrarity of tastes and habits, that I was anxious to learn whether the cause or causes for such diversity could be traced to any other source than the natural inclinations of the young men themselves. Before my opinions were committed to paper, I wanted to learn:—why some young men passed the majority of their evenings, their Sabbaths, and their leisure hours with their friends at home, while other young men seldom visited their friends, and rarely spent an evening, a Sabbath, or a leisure hour at home at all; why some did everything that was calculated to impart a bloom to the intelligence of youth and vigor to the years of manhood, while others did everything that had an opposite tendency; why some selected, for mental fare, books with which to elevate the mind and enrich the understanding, while others—if they read anything beyond a Sunday newspaper—were ever ready to dive with avidity into the fulsome romances of the Eugene Sue class, or the trashy productions of other of the black-feathered tribe, whose polluted quills are ever ready to pander to a vitiated taste; why, in fine, some young men were content with innocent recreation and rational entertainments, while others sought, and were only satisfied with pastimes and pleasures of an expensive or immoral character?
How was I to penetrate the mystery, so as to reach the cause of the contrary currents, and thereby discover whether there was any other cause to be assigned for the existence of such opposites—beyond the natural and varied tastes of the human mind? Through the instrumentality of my brother warehousemen, I sought and found opportunities for spending an occasional hour or two, or sometimes an evening, in the family circles of those parents whose sons—aye, and daughters too!—displayed, in the selection of their pastimes, a contrast as striking as was over presented between virtue and vice.
No sooner had I made a number of friendly visits, than the veil of the mystery by which I had been surrounded was partially withdrawn. I saw certain lights that enabled me to unravel a few of the mystic threads of social life—lights by which I could trace a direct line to parental influence on youthful minds and actions. I saw that the follies of some young men, although not founded on parental example, were sometimes occasioned by the want of parental consideration. From my own requirements, no less than what I found to be required by other youths, I knew that young people needed occasional recreation and entertainment. And I soon found that where the head of a family was opposed to, or prevented innocent amusement, the vacancy was often supplied—either at home or abroad—by entertainments of an opposite tendency. In the middle, or commercial class of society, to which my attention was then directed, I found the cheerful aspect of some, and the gloomy aspect of other family circles, quite as remarkable as the opposite effects produced on the youthful branches of such families. A few brief sentences will give a rough outline of the leading features of one or two of the families I visited, and show, at the same time, how striking is the contrast caused by the comparison. Take family number one:—
After the usual labors of the day, when business and business thoughts had been closed for the night, here might be found Mr. and Mrs. Lamb, surrounded by their little ones—each anxious to contribute to the enjoyment and happiness of the rest, and one and all ready, by their united efforts, to cater for the entertainment of any friendly visitor or visitors that might happen to drop in during the evening.
The family recreations combined the useful with the ornamental, the scientific with the humorous, the mental with the physical, the anecdotical with the musical. Here was something to please every taste, and nothing to offend any.
Are the visitors parents?—then a few words from Mr. Lamb on homœopathy, illustrated by the contents of a little medical chest, may indicate how some parents become practical conservators both of their own health and that of their children. Is it the summer season, and are the visitors partial to horticulture?—then Seymour, the senior lamb of the family, will exhibit, in his highly cultivated little garden and lawn, not only the result of skilful labor on the part of an amateur gardener, but also the way in which that gardener employs his leisure hours and improves his health at the same time. On the other hand, are the days short, the evenings long, and in-door rather than out-door recreations desirable?—then the highly finished drawings from the pencil of the accomplished Clara, the charming vocal and instrumental solos, duets, trios, and concerted pieces from other members of an agreeable and happy little band, with an occasional quadrille to vary the entertainment, all tend to make an attractive programme, with which to enliven the family circle and entertain any friends that may happen to drop in during a winter evening.
Mr. and Mrs. Lamb are not slaves to the conventional forms of fashionable society. They are not members of those would-be aristocrats who ape the manners of a higher circle, or display, in themselves or their children, an external and artificial grandeur at the cost of internal comfort or domestic wants. They never give large and expensive parties. They are not of those showy entertainers who, with every delicacy of the season, give sumptuous entertainments to other families—thereby involving the necessity of keeping their own on "short commons" during the intervals. Discretion is the family steward, and prudence the hand by which the supplies are administered. And the pleasure each member finds in the social circle prevents a desire for seeking pleasure elsewhere.
Change the scene. Take family number two:—
By the fire-side, in an easy, or rather an uneasy chair, sits Mr. Bull—in an unenviable state of ill-humour, both with himself and everybody else. Mr. Bull has had—no novelty in the family—an unlucky day "on change." Nevertheless, the business of the day is, or ought to be, over, and Mrs. Bull and family are anxious for a little innocent recreation or social enjoyment.
"Papa, dear," says Miss Bull, "may we have a little music this evening?"
"No!"—replies Mr. Bull, in a clap of thunder—" not in a musical humor!"
"Well then, may Edward and Evelina rehearse their new charade, papa?"
"Flummery!—no!" (Here the unhappy man turns his attention to the subject in which he is more painfully concerned, and on which he soliloquizes). "Consols at ninety-one, and downward bent!—five hundred lost through not selling out to-day—fool!—fool!—fool!"
If the scene be changed to the family circle of a brother, who is a shopkeeper, the lamentation would run thus:—
"Ten pounds less taken in the shop to-day than yesterday;—we shall all go to the workhouse;—music indeed?—sell your piano and look out for a situation!"
Thus it is,—in such families the parents fail either to amuse their children, or to let them amuse themselves. Deprived of all entertainment at home—unless they delight in stern looks and solemn sentences—the young Bulls not only seek entertainment where it is to be found, but often find that which ends in sorrow, if not in ultimate ruin and disgrace.
Having referred to the Lambs and Bulls of English society of the middle class, I may briefly allude to another family, which is perhaps as well, or better, known than either. Their relations may be found in every part of the United Kingdom.
This family is named "Stuffem." They are liberal entertainers both of themselves, their children, and their friends, and their entertainment is entirely of a social character. The Stuffems are for everlasting eating and drinking. They have a large number of friends—persons who are always found where there is plenty to eat and drink and nothing to pay. The Stuffems, in place of intellectual fare, entertain their friends with what is commonly called "a good blow out," and the visitors are generally those who can appreciate the entertainment.
In their out-door pleasure, the Stuffems never fail to illustrate the principal feature of their in-door amusement. Go where you will—by rail or by boat—you no sooner start on your journey than you find the attention of the Stuffems directed to a familiar basket, from which they draw their supplies during the remainder of the excursion. You may pass, and continue to pass, land and lake scenery of the most charming description; but the beauties of nature have no attraction for the Stuffems—while there is anything left in the basket.
Now, although eating and drinking are very desirable pastimes at the proper seasons and places, the vulgar display of such enjoyment is entirely confined to the class of persons alluded to. Their peculiarities are of English origin. So far as my experience goes, this outward show of "stuffing" is not to be seen in any part of the continent. It is only to be found in the United Kingdom—more especially in that part of the kingdom known as England.
After a goodly number of evenings had been spent in gaining an insight into the "doings" of the various family circles to which I had been introduced, I ventured, with the notes I had taken on social life, together with the more voluminous ones entered on commercial matters, to prepare my first pamphlet for the press. Six weeks—or rather the leisure hours of six weeks thus employed—may be passed over during the five or six minutes with which my young reader may learn the leading features of an incident that might have proved fatal to my prospects in life. The business or sport on which the incident originated did subsequently prove fatal to the commercial hopes of the young gentleman by whom I was, for a time, led into danger. It affords a striking illustration of
The Danger of Associating with a Gambler.
My early tormentor, Robert Turnbull, whom I had punished, and whose punishment, for a while, caused me some uneasiness for the safety of my own situation, still held a position in the warehouse, or rather counting-house, of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. Strange to say, from the day on which Robert returned to his duties—after having recruited his health and worn out the marks of his chastisement—the hand by which his chastisement had been administered was held in the greatest esteem. On my part, however, the friendship was in no way solicited, and barely reciprocated. Robert's habits were not altogether in unison with the taste of him whom he now regarded as his friend. His family connexions, rather than his own habits, made his friendship endurable, if not desirable. At all events, the position I held in the young gentleman's esteem was envied by many of the clerks and warehousemen in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. That house was a wealthy and extensive one, and Robert's uncle was a member of the firm. Mr. Branch had no child of his own, and—unless forfeited by glaring misconduct—there was every prospect of an early partnership for the nephew. Independent of this connection. Robert's parents were persons of position and property. They honored me with frequent invitations, and I was invariably received with kindness and consideration. The only thing that made those visits unpleasant to my (then) modest nature was an occasional reference to my particular tastes—as patterns by which the more gaily disposed inclinations of Robert might take a lesson. More valuable than Robert's friendship—there was something else which, probably, induced certain young gentleman, who had an eye to number one in the way of the world, to envy my acquaintance with the family. There was a lovely, accomplished, and only daughter—but not for me—who was subsequently married to a Baronet.
It is a wholesome piece of good old English advice that enjoins young people to seek companions above, rather than below, their own station in life. The injunction can have but one meaning—that is, that such companions should be In Every Way above those who desire their acquaintance. Can any consideration, especially a selfish one, justify a young man in accepting, as an intimate friend, one who disgraces a high position by low habits? In this particular case, the sequel will prove the best answer to the question.
Betting, smoking, and a disposition for anything in the way of gambling, were a few of the many extravagant propensities of Robert Turnbull. Beyond an occasional cigar, I had not, during an acquaintance of two years, been tempted to join my companion in any of his expensive pleasures. Unless homeward bent, I seldom accompanied him in his rambles. But who can make a friend of folly, without making a foolish step? The connexion itself is a step in the wrong direction, but its continuance is sure to lead to something worse—a step that will be deeper and darker than the first. In his gambling speculations, Robert had one day had a piece of "good luck." Luck! I never hear that word without a feeling of shame and sorrow at the very sound. It is a fiction of an excited and deluded brain. There is no such thing as "luck." If there is—it is good luck only where a youth, in speculation, loses all he has, rather than wins what he desires, for he will be more likely to be turned from his folly by his losses than by his gains.
That which Robert designated "good luck," and which, for a brief season, I regarded as such, was the sum of one hundred pounds Sterling won by my companion in a lottery. There was at that time a well-known tavern in the city, at which a sort of "sweepstakes" or subscription lottery was organised and carried out—pertaining to every celebrated horse-race that occurred during the year. Each subscriber held a ticket, with the name of some horse entered for a particular race, and in the event of such horse being first, second, or third in the race, the ticket-holder would be entitled to a specified sum—subject to certain conditions and deductions hereafter named—according to the amount originally subscribed.
How many pounds, or scores of pounds, Robert had previously spent in these ventures, without any other result than the loss of the same, I am unable to say. One evening, however, when I was quietly seated in a little private room, and busily engaged composing my work for the press, Robert Turnbull suddenly entered. For a time, I thought he had gone mad. He certainly was mad with excitement. After sending me and the chair on which I was seated flat on the floor, he at once committed my MSS.—the work of a fortnight—to the flames, and, brandishing the poker over his head, he exclaimed in delirious fits of joy and excitement:—
"Clear out of this! Take a lesson in something noble! Look at that! (Here he threw on the table a bank note for fifty pounds.) Play the fool no longer. There's a little of the superannuated essence of sport! Put that by for me. I can trust you. Why, Frank Foster, why stick to this scribbling hobby of yours? You're mad!"
"I am—if you have communicated the disease. In the name of fortune, Robert, what has possessed you?"
"That's it!" he replied, with a fit of laughter, as he became more subdued and seated himself at the table. "Fortune has possessed me, and I intend to invest you with a few of her charms. Won a hundred yesterday on the Derby. What dy'e think of that, Frank? There—there's a present for you! That's a ticket for the Oaks to morrow. If your horse should win you'll net a hundred pounds; should he come in second, you'll net fifty, and if he should only get in third, there'll be twenty-five for you. Talk about work! Who wants to be working here for a beggarly hundred a year, when he can win a hundred in a day? I was with a young fellow yesterday, who netted five hundred on a single race! And they tell me that Lord Tinsel won over ten thousand! That's my standard of good luck! At present, I have only had a small slice—a mere taste! But it's enough to give one a relish, Frank!"
Here the sound of the supper-bell, by which we were summoned to our evening meal, suspended the conversation.
On the following day, I began to think that if Robert had not communicated to me a little of his madness, he had, at least, invested me with a share of his "good luck." Long before receiving the congratulations of my friend, who had gone to the races, I was informed that the ticket with which he made me a shareholder in the speculation, bore the name of a horse which had been placed third in the race; and that I should thus be entitled to the sum of twenty-five pounds! Such was the fact. The amount of a quarter's salary in return for a guinea ticket—that ticket a present, too!
On his return to town, Robert made me acquainted with the conditions on which the money was receivable. The conditions were as fellows:—The winner of the first prize (£100) to pay twenty pounds, the winner of the second prize (£50) ten pounds, and the winner of the third prize (£25) five pounds towards providing a "champagne supper" for the general body of subscribers. The prizes to be paid to the winners only on the night of the supper.
Although I would rather have taken my twenty-five pounds without the conditional supper, the love of money was sufficiently strong to induce my attendance at the feast. Rather than lose twenty pounds, I decided to take my seat at table with those whose company and habits I disliked. The supper was a sumptuous one, while the supply of champagne was far greater than the discretion of some of those who seldom partook of so costly a beverage. When the cloth had been removed, and the young gentlemen had retained their seats sufficiently long to show that wine in the human system—like water on a mill—makes the tongue run, some person, either by accident or design, proposed cards. Whether I acceded to the proposition of "play" of my own free will, or through the persuasion of my friend Robert Turnbull, I am now (as on the morning after the game) unable to say. It only remains to add that the twenty pounds which I received at the supper table I lost the same evening, and in the same room, at the card table. I will not add to my own condemnation by recording my opinion of some of the winners at the card table that evening. While there, I was one of the party of players. If they were tainted, how could I be pure? But I never gambled after that night.
Not so with my companion, Robert Turnbull. His "good luck," as he called it, drew him deeper and deeper on that reckless current of speculation that leads its votaries either to ill-gotten gain and misery, or to utter ruin and despair. I tried to turn him from his folly. As my efforts were of no avail, I severed, once and for ever, that friendly tie which—on my part—ought never to have been formed. I still spoke to, but was not again seen walking or smoking with Robert Turnbull:
The close of Robert's commercial career was a sad one. The close of his earthly career was still more sad. Through a long run of what he called his "bad luck," he ultimately became involved in pecuniary obligations to certain members of the betting fraternity. In order to relieve his (temporary as he hoped) embarrassment, and tempt luck to flow again in the right direction, he made free with nearly six hundred pounds—monies belonging to the firm of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. And before his anticipated tide of fortune enabled him to replace the absent cash, the deficiency was discovered.
A few months previous to this affair, a clerk in the same house had been transported for embezzlement. By his relationship with one of the firm, Robert was saved from the like disgrace. But a misfortune as great, or even greater, awaited him. His friends procured for him a situation in Sierra Leone. This might appear anything but a desirable place for a young man whose constitution had been already impaired by indulgence. But to Sierra Leone Robert was sent, and in Sierra Leone Robert died, from the effects of fever, a month after his arrival. For some time after his death, it was frequently remarked by the young men in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, that "Robert was only saved from transportation to be sentenced to death," while others observed that "he was saved from one of the penalties to pay both."
Thus, at the age of twenty-one, ended the life of Robert Turnbull. Robert was what some young men called "a fool only to himself." His companions, on whom he wasted his time and money, called him so. Hangers-on, who flattered their dupe while they duped him, called him so—not only, in his absence, called him so, but thought they paid him a sort of compliment by the title.
Robert did, indeed, play the "fool to himself," by allowing others to play the fool with him. He had a generous but foolish disposition. The generosity of his heart was the bait that induced false friends to study and flatter the weak points of their victim. Playing the fool to oneself is an act that is often spoken of very lightly by thoughtless spectators. But it too often proves a serious part for the player. Playing the "fool to himself" was the first act in the sad yet truthful drama in which Robert Turnbull hurried his own life to a close at the age of twenty-one.
One night of dissipation and excitement in a betting-room, and at a card table, proved enough for me—enough not only to destroy any existing taste for such sport, but to obviate the necessity for a repetition of a dose by which the nausea produced by the indulgence had been cured. The surfeit increased my taste for retirement, and for the harmless scribbling from which I had been withdrawn. Although Robert, in his uncontrollable joy, arising from that "good luck" which gave him his first prize and the key to his ruin, had committed my literary notes to the flames, I completed my little pamphlet in six weeks.
The book was published in Paternoster Row. Among a certain class of citizens—warehousemen—it caused a good deal of talk, and that talk made the work sell, and sell freely. The commercial and social evils mentioned, and the remedies suggested, might have aided, and, no doubt, did aid the sale of the pamphlet. The crudity of the composition was, certainly, not the cause of its success. But it was successful. This may be inferred from the simple fact that in less than twelve months four thousand copies of my little shilling book had been sold.
How shall I describe the sensations produced on my mind by my first literary success? For two reasons, I will attempt nothing of the sort. Those who have experienced the like sensations would alone comprehend them; and to the majority of my readers an attempted description might seem almost as extravagant as the joy occasioned by the first success of my late companion—the young gambler. If poor Robert Turnbull was driven mad by the speed of the horse that brought him his first prize, I was unconsciously taken a long way in the same direction by the success of my first book.
The question about my becoming a professional author was now settled—of course in the affirmative. That which had ceased to be a question was succeeded by another question of still more importance:—"If a little book which had been written in six weeks had produced its author a net profit of eighty pounds, what amount ought to be realized by a big book, or the portions of a book, on which the same author had been engaged many years?" Though unable by any mathematical rule to determine the exact sum to be expected from the more important work of the two, my own imagination permitted me to anticipate a very large amount. Fortunately, in the early stages of my career, my movements were regulated by a certain degree of caution. After due consideration, prudence suggested the retention of my commercial situation till the issue of a second literary work had confirmed and enlarged the success caused by the publication of the first.
Poems!—poems!—poems! Collecting all I had composed, I granted my muse twelve months to make an addition to the number—confident in the belief that, at the end of the allotted period, I should be prepared to satisfy the public with a volume of poems that would make a man of the author!
Chapter x.
Honest John.—
A Little Legacy.
Who is there that has not occasionally, if not often, heard some reverend gentleman, after an eloquent description of the way of the world, at once localize and concentrate the general application of his argument and its object, by a direct appeal to those around him, in the sharp-pointed home thrust—"are such, my dear hearers, your ways?"
Reader! don't be alarmed. I am not going to preach a sermon. Nor am I an advocate for sermonizing, except by proper persons, and in proper places. I am simply about to preface a social incident in my own life, by one or two questions which will bear on the subject in hand, and may, possibly, evoke, on the part of others, a kindred recognition of a truthful story. I will not even deal in generalities, unless my own case should happen, unfortunately, to have a general bearing. Beyond the parabolical aspect of the questions, I will not be personal, as the particular incident in question will affect no one but the narrator.
Well, reader; did you, from friend or stranger, ever receive either kind attention to your immediate wants, seasonable but unsolicited favors, or some special act or acts of generosity for which, on your part, gratitude failed to make a suitable return? Have you in your early career been indebted for something either in money, good advice, or personal advancement, that has tended to promote your own welfare;—and have you, at a subsequent period, altogether forgotten, or failed to acknowledge the gratitude due to your benefactor or benefactors? Have the changes of fortune, the allurements of life, or the attractions of an improved position, made you forget—as many are apt to forget—even father, mother, brother, sister, or some valuable friend, unconnected by family ties, who assisted you when you needed assistance?
If a charitable heart brings its own reward, an ungrateful heart will some day bring its own punishment. In the case I am about to mention, the heart was full of gratitude—but the gratitude remained at home. The fact of having the means to pay, while leaving unpaid, a just debt, is not a plea with which to satisfy a creditor. Nor will such knowledge long satisfy the awakening conscience of a debtor.
When, without friends, and with only a few pounds in my pocket, I first arrived in London to seek my own fortune—had I known anything of the way of the world, or had I allowed the hand of experience to put me at once in the right way—I might have avoided many, if not all, of those personal wants and annoyances, to which I was subject before my first situation had been procured. On the first day, however, of my arrival in London I found a real friend. But, not knowing the value of the prize, I at once forsook it for a counterfeit. The exchange and consequent effects thereof are described in the early part of the volume. There also will be found a brief notice of the friend alluded to.
Honest John. He it was who became the orphan's friend when that orphan had no other friend in the world. He it was who would have cared, and did care, both for my spiritual and temporal welfare, when I was unable to care for either. He it was whose home I forsook and whose advice I disregarded, when by a false friend I was drawn into trouble. But the exchange proved a lesson for my inexperience, rather than the total loss of my only friend. Though I withdrew from the friendship and protection of Honest John, Honest John did not withdraw his friendship and protection from me. When self-abasement brought shame, and shame caused me for a time to suffer the loss of, rather than to seek the boon I had rejected, Honest John—unknown to the truant—discovered my whereabouts and secretly administered to my wants. My first landlady was herself the key by which I discovered the faithlessness of my early companion, and the true worth of my benefactor, Honest John. Of the worthlessness of the one, or of the real value of the other, I might still have been ignorant, had my ignorance not been enlightened by the selfishness and treachery of Mrs. Pepper.
Honest John was my first and greatest benefactor. He assisted me at a time when I most needed assistance—when I wanted a meal, and wanted the means to obtain it. How far, then, did I display by outward signs, or how long did I retain through the heart's reflection, a becoming sense of gratitude for benefits thus received on the very dawn of my commercial existence? Like that of any other hungry animal that remembers for a time the hand by which its wants have been supplied, instinct, if not gratitude, evinced a keen sense of the quarter from which I had derived material or bodily aid. Though the value of a gift may sometimes obscure the giver, it is almost impossible to enjoy a boon and altogether forget its origin. Animal nature only turns to the source of its last supply when another supply is needed. But in human nature a consciousness of coming wants, even during the enjoyment of present ones, ever keeps the mind alive to the fountain-head—at least, so long as anything is supplied or may be expected therefrom.
When I entered, and for some time after I had entered, on the duties of my first situation, Honest John was first and foremost in my affections. He had treated me as a considerate parent treats his own child; and I regarded him as a dutiful son regards an affectionate parent. While at the close of business I frequently spent an evening with him and his intelligent Amy, I seldom, if ever, failed to pass the Sabbath day in their company. The sacred character of that day was, perhaps, a little more rigidly observed than was at all times agreeable. Yet, in the company of Honest John, I never objected to do as John did—even if unable to feel as John felt. If his practical christianity was something I could more readily appreciate than his christian piety, the benefit I had received from the one made me, at least, respect the other. I was thankful for the hospitality of my mortal benefactor—even while I failed, in the proper spirit, to return thanks to Him who gave each his daily bread. Going to church at this time was, on my part, a ceremony performed more out of respect to Honest John than to anything else. How many times have I been seated near a pulpit, when my mind has been anywhere else? How often during divine service have I been gathering from the imagination a choice bouquet of wild flowers for some poem of my own? What figure shall number the periods when the rising up and sitting down of a congregation alone reminded me of what was going on in church, till it was time to go away?
It is not for me to premise what benefit, if any, may ultimately be derived by other listless frequenters of a place of worship. If, on my part, any future good arose through subscribing an attendance to what I neither objected to nor sought after, the circumstance will be duly noted. At present, I will simply state what was the immediate effect of good example. If going to church, at the instigation of Honest John, failed either to make me religious, or even attentive to religious services, it, at least, imprinted on the mind a never to be effaced regard for those who were better than myself. While my own portrait bore testimony to the truth of the old adage that "people who go to church are not all good people," the wickedness of one half of the flock, of which I formed an unit, tended only to display more clearly the virtues of the other half. I knew that Honest John didn't go to church to make money, though he gave a good deal to the poor; I knew he didn't go to church to please other people, for—however well known he might have been by the frequenters of the parish church in his native town—he was, probably, not known by a dozen of the regular congregation at the parish church of Islington. I knew a little—no one but himself knew all—of the daily aid he secretly rendered to those in distress. This knowledge induced me to think, if the readiness manifested by Honest John to administer to the temporal wants of others had anything to do with a desire he evinced for his own spiritual welfare, there must be some precious gem in the habit of Christianity, the value of which is known only to the wearer. Therefore, I believed in the good things associated with christian life, although I was not yet familiar with the treasures from which the christian contributed so much both to his own happiness and that of others. The consequence was, that I always, from this time, respected those whom I believed to be truly pious, although I was not myself one of the number. At no period of a varied career did I ever countenance anything in the way of light or irreverent remarks on the subject of religion.
But it was not the love created by the good qualities of Honest John that alone induced the frequent visits which I made to my benefactor during the first few months of my commercial probation. Those visits were occasioned partly by gratitude for past kindness, and partly through a natural desire to enlist sympathy for present troubles. When the human heart has a grievance, it seeks that considerate friend who is, at least, ready to offer consolation for the complaint, even if unable to cure the malady. While I had many grievances and only one friend—when the youths in the house in which I filled my first situation were all against the "young countryman," and I found none but an old countryman to take my part, Honest John gave me counsel, comfort, and protection. His advice cheered my spirits under difficulties, fortified my courage for increased energy, and imparted that firm and fearless tone to honest action that converted enemies into friends, and raised me to a position in the good opinion of my employers which made me independent of all below.
The numerous troubles and difficulties that presented themselves in my opening career were now at an end. What followed? The benefactor to whom I was indebted for valuable aid in the cure of complaints incidental to the first stage of a commercial life, was soon treated like a physician whose services are no longer required by his once drooping but now restored and cheerful patient. Number one was "all right." My steps were again firm. I was equal to my own guidance in the way of the world, and had no further occasion or desire for the advice or assistance of another. At the time when troubles were on the increase, my visits to Honest John were many and long. But now, when I had no grievances, or was sufficiently strong to master those which presented themselves, the visits to my benefactor gradually became less both in number and duration. So long as advice and assistance were needed, my mind was sufficiently elastic to yield to a few distasteful customs, in order to obtain an object. When the occasion for personal favors had been withdrawn, personal sacrifice was no longer a necessity. When—which was not often—I did pay a visit to Honest John, such visits were made and ended either before prayers during the week, or after church-time on Sundays. Gratitude still prompted me to offer my respects to an old friend, so long as the duty involved no further obligation. But when the performance of that duty was made unpleasant by an occasional hint from my host that I was neglecting certain important duties of my own, even gratitude itself strove to avoid so bold a creditor; and from this time Honest John seldom beheld the youth whose spiritual and temporal welfare he had so much at heart.
Number one is a figure in youth that imperceptibly grows with his own growth. Its expansion is typified by every new coat, cap, or other garment, the size of which exceeds that by which it was preceded. The increased and increasing prominence of the figure may be seen by anyone but the wearer. At every stage—boy, youth, and young man—the heart is inclined to think more of itself and less of others. Such is the figure described by Honest John—of self, which denotes the great majority of mankind. The other number one had no mean representative in that (noble) man—of which only a feeble sketch is here given—who, in naming a few of the leading features of the character unintentionally drew his own.
In the way of the world, the attractions were too many and too great, and exercised on the mind an influence of too much power to allow me any longer to subject myself to certain forms and restrictions to which I had previously submitted in the way followed by Honest John. In lieu of daily or weekly calls on my benefactor, extended intervals of one, two, three, and four months successively served to divide the periods of visits, which grew shorter as they became less frequent.
One evening, after an interval of about six months; I called at John's lodgings, with the intention of leaving a card—a case of visiting cards had just been added to my personal requisites—and proceeding, with the companion by whom I was accompanied, on some errand of more importance. The opportunity, however, for the presentation of "my card" was unexpectedly delayed. The door was not opened, as usual, by the servant of the house, but by the gentle Amy, the adopted child—now a blooming lass of eighteen—of Honest John.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Amy, in seeming surprise, "here's Frank—I beg pardon—Mr. Foster, I declare."
The sudden flight of the speaker from the familiar "Frank" to the formal "Mister" appeared like an appropriate but severe satire on the personal vanity indicated by the highly-glazed card I held in my hand ready for the servant, but which I now returned, like a dishonored bill, to the pocket of its owner.
"Won't you walk inside, Mr. Foster?" enquired Amy.
"Not this evening. I have a friend with me."
"There is room enough for your friend," she replied.
"I am aware of that. But I merely called to enquire after John. How has he been this long time?"
"Very ill," replied Amy, with an ominous shake of the head.
"Very ill?" I repeated in surprise. "How long has he been ill?"
"Nearly six months."
"Six months? This is the first time I have heard a word about it."
"Indeed!" said Amy, in an assumed tone of wonder. "I suppose, then, it must be six months since you made any enquiry?"
"Why—it is, I believe, some time since I—(here an indescribable feeling of shame suddenly fired the heart with a bitter consciousness of ingratitude)—called. But other engagements have prevented me from—has John been confined to bed?"
"Yes; and is still confined to his room."
"Tell him I have been so much engaged of late that I—no; I'll see him myself. Walk in Harry. Amy, please to show my friend to the sitting-room. I'll ascertain, at the bed-room door, whether I can see the invalid." A rap on the door, followed by an invitation to "Come in!" soon decided the question, and introduced me at once to the presence of Honest John.
Patient sufferer! cruel benefactor!—cruel only in being kind. Why were you not angry, that I might have found an excuse for my long absence? Why did you not scold me, that I might have found an excuse to depart? Why, on my entrance, did you at once greet me with a ready hand and a smile of welcome from a warm heart? Why did you condone a grievous fault, and at the same moment, and with the same breath, prick a guilty conscience with—"I suppose, by your long absence, you have been busy lately, Frank?" And why with kind words and cheerful strains did you add to the love that already inconvenienced the bearer? Why did you re-win the affections I tried to. estrange—when they told of duties which were not always convenient or agreeable to perform? Why did you make sorrow a subject for joy, why in sickness were you all sunshine, and why did your lively spirit cheer the heart of one who expected nothing but frowns and gloomy apprehensions?
Ten minutes. That was the time I proposed to pass with Honest John ere I entered his room. Two hours. That was the time I had unconsciously passed with my sick friend when I left his room. The cause of the difference between what was intended and what was done can only be assigned to the unexpected treatment that created an extension of time, and concealed the knowledge of the same from the mind of the visitor. I anticipated distasteful fare, but was treated with an agreeable repast. Honest John at once secured my attention and interest by turning to the scenes of my childhood, and by relating a truthful history of the rise and fall, the sayings and doings, and the vices and virtues of those I had either known or heard of "at home."
Contrary to expectation, the interview, notwithstanding the illness of the host, had afforded me much pleasure. Yet there was an absence of something at that meeting which afterwards caused a good deal of reflection. It was a vacuum I was altogether at a loss to understand. Not a word had been said by my sick friend on the subject of religion. He had not even treated me to a chapter in the Bible. Had he done so, it would simply have been regarded by the visitor as a family habit, and I should have thought no more about the matter after it had been over. But now the subject presented itself not only once or twice, but, at least, a hundred times. The absence of the sacred volume was something so remarkable, that the Book was ever before me. It floated on the mind again and again—not to bring me to a daily study of its contents, but to excite my surprise at Honest John—when we had not met for so long a period—having omitted his former invariable custom. Was the omission caused by a change of taste on the part of the good man? If so, his entire nature must have undergone a change. When I was his frequent visitor, Honest John would not have laid aside his daily custom for any one—not even if Pope Nono had been his guest. How did it happen, then, that the Book was not introduced on the occasion of my visit, after so long an absence? In spite of opposition, the intrusion of this question on the mind caused me to think more about the Bible in one week than I had done during the preceding twelve months.
The world is made of wonders. From nature as from art, there has ever been, and ever will be, a constant flow of surprises. A perpetual motion may some day astonish mankind. But the fundamental principle of such motion will then, as now, be as old as the hills, for the world itself has ever been, and ever will be, a perpetual motion of surprises. In the great social circle of humanity, the daily incidents of wonder are probably more numerous than those which, ever and anon, arise in the commercial, political, and scientific arenas of life. Nor does the universality of a surprise make it more exciting to those concerned than if it were a shock confined to a couple of homesteads or a pair of human hearts. The surprise of a dethroned monarch at the unexpected loss of his sceptre is not greater than the astonishment of a lad suddenly caught in the act of stealing an apple from a neighbour's garden.
For two hours, Honest John had entertained me with a variety of surprising tales. The humorous manner in which these were told by one who (as it subsequently proved) was within a few days of death, formed a subject of surprise for his visitor long after the heart that caused the reflection had ceased to beat.
Strange coincidence! During the time a sick friend was captivating my ear and laying the basis for future wonder, my companion in the adjoining room was (as it subsequently appeared) laying the foundation for a surprise that would prove quite as startling as its twin disturber. Two hours' conversation between my gallant young friend, Harry Shorthose, and the gentle Amy, had already prepared the way for opening a clandestine correspondence, the issue of which will be recorded hereafter.
On the third day after my interview with Honest John, I received the following note:—
"Thursday morning.
"Dear Frank,
"Since you were here on Monday, uncle has been gradually getting worse. Last night he had very little sleep, and he is much exhausted this morning. He desired me to say he would be glad to see you, if you can spare time to run up this evening.
"Yours truly
"Mr. F. Foster." "Amy Easto.
In a twofold sense, this epistle was the bearer of most unwelcome intelligence. I was not only sorry to hear of the more serious illness of my benefactor, but I was also sorry that his summons could not be obeyed at the time named. In order to celebrate the anniversary of the birth-day of a young lady friend, I had just composed a charade, in which the author was himself east for one of the leading characters. This evening was to be the final rehearsal of the same. The grand performance was appointed for the morrow, for the evening of which a party of friends had been invited by the parents of the young lady in whose honor the entertainment was to be given.
As author, conductor, and leading performer in the literary or dramatic part of the soirée, my heart, my ability, and my reputation had each too large a stake in the undertaking to forego the praise, or sacrifice all the honor thereof—even for the best friend in the world. I never for a moment supposed that Honest John was dangerously ill. I therefore decided on writing a letter, expressive of sorrow at the intelligence I had received, at the same time informing my correspondent that the invitation conveyed in her note could not—owing to previous important engagements—be personally responded to for a couple of days.
The night and the hour appointed for the soirée had arrived. The cab that was to have conveyed me thither stood at the door of my city home. I had just completed my toilet, when one of the servants of the establishment knocked at my bed-room door, handed me a card, and said, a gentleman who had just alighted from his carriage was waiting in the hall, and wished to speak with me immediately. Seeing the card bore the name of "Dr. Daniel," whom I knew to be Honest John's medical adviser, an involuntary shudder—the sudden offspring of some dismal foreboding—seemed almost to prostrate the entire system with the fear of a revelation of a terrible calamity. Have I lost my benefactor? Have I disregarded his summons when I was summoned, perhaps, to receive his parting farewell or final blessing? The effect on the mind of a flash from these doubts withdrew nearly all support from the legs that bore an agitated frame to the presence of an unexpected visitor, who was waiting either to confirm or relieve my gloomy apprehensions.
"Good evening, young gentleman," said Dr. Daniel, as I descended the stairs leading to the hall." Having had occasion to drive in this direction, I was requested to inform you that your friend lies in a very precarious state."
Sad as was the tenor of this intelligence, it at once relieved my mind of an immense weight of anxiety—fearing, as I did fear, the speaker was about to tell not of the living, but of the dead.
"Then, your patient is not dangerously ill, is he, doctor?" I enquired.
"His condition is, perhaps, less favorable than when you saw him this morning."
"I—I have—not seen him this morning," I replied with hesitation, and not without shame.
"Indeed!" said my informant. "Has he not expressed a wish to see you?"
"Yes;—but—having a—a particular—engagement for this evening, I intended to see him early in the—but I'll go at once. Perhaps, doctor, I may be able to fulfil my engagement afterwards?"
"You will be the best judge of that. I simply advise you to see my patient first."
"I will do so," I replied as my visitor took his departure.
"Precarious state! Precarious means uncertain. I am uncertain whether this is one of the evasive answers of a medical man, or whether Honest John is really in a dangerous state. It only wants a quarter to eight o'clock. The party, for which I am dressed, is invited to meet at eight. How can the play be performed without the leading character! Should I disappoint my friends, they'll never forgive me. I must go. But should anything serious happen to poor John before I have seen him, I should never forgive myself. What shall I do?"
As I stood in the hall, putting these queries to myself, a double knock induced me to think my visitor had returned. When I had partially opened the door, the doctor introduced his head, and in a subdued tone said, "I omitted to mention that my patient desires to say something to you on the subject of a little legacy." With this remark, the doctor again withdrew, entered his carriage, and hastily drove off.
"A little legacy! Dear old man!"
Was it the singular sensation created by the unexpected announcement of "a little legacy," or was it my own unselfish love for the "dear old man," that gave birth to the tear which at this moment trickled down my cheek? Conscience may be pardoned for leaving this question unanswered. Though an honest answer might reflect a leading feature in the way of the world, it would not, it is hoped, reflect all the world.
The origin of the sensitive tear that came forth at the sound of "a little legacy" may be partially traced by what followed. It was no longer the festivities of a birth-day party, but the solemnities of a sick-man's room that now engaged my mind. It was no longer the comic but the serious drama of life that impelled my movements, when in the cab that was to have conveyed me to a place of merriment I was hastily driven to a scene of sorrow.
"A little legacy? Dear old man! Is this your return for my ingratitude? Impossible. The thing must be altogether a delusion. Either by the doctor or his patient, the idea has originated in a dream. Why a legacy for me? I have a good situation, and can earn money enough for my own support. Amy is entirely dependent on Honest John. Can he from the adopted child, who has done everything to please him, take one shilling for the benefit of a youth who has done everything to incur his displeasure? I think not. Yet, the best of men sometimes do strange things, and the worst of men as often get what the best alone merit. Who shall say that Honest John may not leave me a legacy of two or three hundred—just to make me feel I never deserved it? Three hundred! What a godsend! But I haven't at present got it. Three hundred pounds! A nice little legacy! I could do wonders with it—at least, I could see wonders, and that, perhaps, would be easier than doing them. Three hundred—perhaps, five hundred pounds! Charming legacy! What would I—or what would I not do with it? I would no longer study French and German in the evening classes of our literary institution, for no young men with money go there. I would no longer give gratuitous instruction to the charity children of our parish school, for no young men with money go there. But I know where I would go. I'd go up the Rhine, for everybody with money goes there. I'd go to the opera once a-week, for everybody with money goes there. I'd go—."
At this moment the cab stopped at the house in which Honest John resided. Leaving both the conveyance and my soliloquy on possibilities, I at once proceeded on my way to the benefactor from whom I expected "a little legacy." On entering the sitting-room, my fears were again awakened. Here was the gentle Amy—"like Niobe, all tears." She was under a cloud that never breaks on one member of a family without affecting the entire circle. When to my enquiry of "How is John this evening?" Amy responded only with sobs and sighs, my own spirit betrayed internal symptoms of a partnership in sorrow, although I endeavoured to restrain and conceal all outward signs of the same. The veil of suspense and uncertainty by which I was surrounded was at length removed by an old woman who emerged from the adjoining bed-room.
"Rallied!—in course, he has," said Mrs. Tuck, as she entered the sitting-room. I told you he'd rally, didn't I, Miss?—in course I did. Well, well; nursing aint the most inwiting of callings, is it Miss? I hopes you'll never come to that. Is there a little drop a gin in the bottle?"
Mrs. Tuck, hereupon, took from a corner cupboard a bottle of gin, from which she filled a large wine glass, and drank the contents with a smack of the lips that seemed to flavor the draught.
"If all inwalids suffered as patiently as your dear old uncle, why there's nobody as wouldn't have a friend or two always ill, jist for the pleasure a waiting on 'em. Beg pardon, sir," she continued, on discovering a visitor of whose presence she was not previously aware. "Is this the young gentleman as master has been asking for?"
Amy signified her assent.
"Been abroad, sir, I s'pose?" continued Mrs. Tuck. "Master's been looking for you these two days and more. Miss Easto was a thinking you'd be too late to see the poor old gentleman—that is, you'd be too late for him to see you. Matters did seem wery doubtful a little while ago. But I said he'd rally; and so, in course, he did. Can't disturb the dear man now. He's gone off into a wery comfortable doze. But I'll tell you the moment you can come in. The Lord be praised, you'll find a patient sufferer. It does one's heart good to see such christian wirtue."
Mrs. Tuck re-entered the bed-room of Honest John, and was immediately followed by Amy, whose countenance had considerably brightened, on hearing that an improvement had taken place in the patient.
Fearing from what I had already gathered, through the deep distress of the gentle Amy, and from the ominous words of a mechanical sort of nurse, that my benefactor was not only dangerously ill, but that he was, probably, near the period of his dissolution, an indescribable feeling of awe accompanied the direful supposition. I had never witnessed the reality of a death-bed scene. But my imagination had pictured such a scene in the darkest colors. Mental and physical agony, heart-rending groans, hideous contortions of the body, and everything that could torment the sufferer and grieve the spectator, aided my mind in producing a sketch that made a very coward of the author. Terrified at my own picture, it was no wonder I trembled at the thought of beholding the reality.
After sitting about two hours in a solitary state of suspense and anxiety, with no other occupation than that of snuffing the candles and conjuring up in my imagination all sorts of disagreeable fancies, the time had arrived when the illusions I had practised on my own mind would be made apparent.
"No lamb ever suffered more quieter," said Mrs. Tuck, as she entered the sitting-room. "But he aint in no pain now—no pain at all."
"I am glad to hear that. Of course, then, nurse, he is better, is he not?" I enquired.
"Why, it don't follow in every indiwidual case that a patient is better 'cause he aint no longer in pain. I don't wish to hurt your feelings, young man,—'cause a few hours will show whether my suspicions is werified. The dear man is now a waking up; so you'd better go in and sit by his bed-side, along with Miss Easto, and I'll take a little rest here on the sofa. If I'm wanted, please tell Miss Easto to knock the wall, as usual."
With noiseless steps, I now entered the bed-room of Honest John. On closing the door after my entrance, my eye accidently discovered Mrs. Tuck, taking from the little corner cupboard in the sitting-room the black bottle from which she had previously refreshed herself.
Amy stood at the head of the bed on which Honest John reposed. She beckoned me to approach and look on the patient. His spirit was in that transient state which is usually described "between sleeping and waking." His placid features were like those of a happy child at the moment of its entering the pillowy region of slumber. As I stood ruminating in surprise at the sweet tranquillity of one who was in imminent danger, the patient awoke. The moment he saw me at his side his lips greeted me with one of the most expressive smiles of welcome I ever beheld. Seeing the difficulty he had in moving his arm, I anticipated his wish, by embracing his damp and almost lifeless hand, as he tried to raise it from the bed.
"I hope, John, you'll soon be better," I said.
The patient smiled, while his voice, which was almost inaudible, whispered, in a broken sentence,
"Very—very soon."
"You feel a little easier than you did, do you not?"
"Nev—never better in—in my life," he replied with an effort that appeared to exhaust him.
This reply induced me to think that the words and meaning of an almost breathless sufferer were opposed to each other.
"I sincerely hope you will be better in a little while," I said.
"Quite—quite well in a—in a little while," he whis-peredwhispered, with a smile, although he was now unable to connect his words.
"His mind begins to wander," I remarked to Amy in a subdued tone.
The dear old man either heard the remark, or correctly premised its purport. He not only signified a negative to my proposition by shaking his head, but he accompanied the movement by a gentle smile of forgiveness for the injury I had inflicted. I have never forgotten,—can never forget, the eloquent and touching appeal conveyed by that significant look of my benefactor, at the moment when I made the weakness of his body and the feebleness of his words the foundation for a doubt on the strength of his mind. There was something in that look that touched at once the most sensitive part of my nature. In the uncontrollable tears that rolled down my cheek, Honest John himself beheld my silent response. On turning his eyes towards the chimney-piece, his meaning appeared to be understood by Amy, who handed me a slip of paper. She said the lines thereon were written by her in the morning at the dictation of the patient, who composed them as he lay in bed. They were as follows:—
"Weep not for John,
When he has left
This earthly shore;
God's only son
For sinners wept,
But weeps no more.
"Weep not for John,
When he has slept
To wake no more;
God's only son
Will raise his own,
When all is o'er."
After I had read (to myself) the foregoing lines and returned them to Amy, Honest John, with a voice that seemed to grow weaker every minute, said—
"Weep—and—pray—for—for those who—who are not—not pre—prepared to—to die. I—I am—ready and hap—happy! The blessed cause of—of this—you—you may—learn—learn there!—there! there!"
Looking towards the Bible that lay on the bed, he repeated the word "there!" in a tone that was loud, compared with his previous words. Immediately after this effort, his features became deadly pale, while his breathing was more labored. Amy, who could no longer control her feelings, hastily left the room. Her loud, though distant, sobs were almost as painful to hear as the fading sounds from the voice of her dying protector. From the time Amy quitted the apartment, Honest John kept his eyes in the direction of the door. Mrs. Tuck entered the room and, after a momentary glance at the patient, again left. She quickly returned with Amy, whom she led to the head of the bed, telling her to restrain her feelings for a short time. When the patient again beheld his adopted child, a heavenly smile played over his features. The intervals between his respirations now grew longer. A movement of the lips, several times repeated, induced the belief that he had something of importance to communicate. On placing my head near him, I presently heard from his feeble lips the name of "Jesus!" All for a few moments seemed quiet. Then, we heard a quivering sound, like the bubbling of water in the throat. After this, the patient slept—for ever.
"Come, my dear young mistress," said Mrs. Tuck, as she took Amy by the arm, "it's all over."
Amy uttered a long deep sigh and fainted. She was immediately carried to her own room. As I withdrew from the death-bed of Honest John, there passed through my mind a fervent prayer that the close of my life might be like that I had witnessed. My spirit again and again said, "Lord, let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."
A dark cold November morning was in keeping with the surrounding gloom. When the church clock sounded the final stroke of "six" I was reminded both of the time present and that which had passed since, on the previous evening, I entered the dwelling of my (now) late benefactor. During the ten long hours that had intervened, I never for one moment thought either of "a little legacy," or of the "birthday party," which had before been the cause of some anxiety. The calm resignation and joyful peace of a christian on the approach of death were subjects of sufficient interest to occupy my mind, till the last breath of that christian had loosed his spirit for a happier sphere.
But the presentation of a sealed parcel by Mrs. Tuck, and my subsequent departure with the same, again told of previous doubts, hopes, and expectations concerning "a little legacy." There also arose on the mind certain reflections of my own disgrace, and the disappointment I must have occasioned others, through my unexplained absence at a performance, for which I had engaged myself as the leading character.
"Nothing like sleep for trouble and wexation," said Mrs. Tuck, as she entered from Amy's bedroom. "Soon as my young mistress gets a right down good sleep she'll wake quite another thing—in course she will. She told me to give you this packet, cause its wery particular you should have it, and cause she aint well enough to give it to you herself."
After the speaker had delivered her message, and a small parcel which was sealed in half-a-dozen places, she proceeded to the black bottle in the little corner cupboard.
"The dear departed one!" continued Mrs. Tuck, as she finished a glass of the liquid, of the odour of which her person had long been the bearer. "When he wrote on that parcel, which he wanted to conwey with his own hand, he was a thinking he should never see you no more. It was only this blessed morning he did it. And now—the Lord be praised—his spirit is in heaven, where I hopes ours may some day be."
"When I had partaken of a cup of coffee, I took the sealed parcel and my own departure from the house—leaving Mrs. Tuck to recover from the effects of a heavily-taxed spirit, by a little repose on the couch of her late master.
What a powerful magnet is money! How striking and immediate its influence on the mind! On the death of my benefactor, which had just taken place, I was both mentally and physically exhausted. The want of a little of that repose, recommended by Mrs. Tuck "for trouble and wexation," was, as I imagined, the primary cause of heaviness, for which I then anticipated "sleep" as the only remedy. There was, however, another and more immediate remedy for languor, and, perhaps, for other complaints. On the appearance of a sealed parcel, with "a little legacy," I was not only wide awake, but felt as if my entire system had been suddenly transformed and refreshed by some magical operation.
"Gold that can make a clouded prospect fair,
May, for a season, cure each mortal care."
One hour offered ample time for an active youth to walk a distance of about two miles. At seven o'clock, I was not more than two miles from my city home, in which breakfast was served at eight. The paper parcel that contained "a little legacy" was neither bulky nor heavy. Although I had not been in bed during the night, I might have walked the distance named in half the time named. But walking would not have been consistent either with the habit or dignity of a young man of property, as I then supposed myself to be. Seeing an empty hackney coach pass, I hailed the driver, who appeared disinclined to accept another fare. He said he was "going home to feed." But the moment the reply of "I'll give you ten shillings to drive me to the city" reached the ear of the drowsy driver, he cracked his whip across the backs of his horses, and, turning the heads of the unwilling animals, touched his hat, and, as soon as I had entered the carriage, drove off in the direction indicated by the tempting offer of "treble fare."
The sealed parcel which had produced such a magical effect on my feelings bore the following superscription, in the hand of the late donor:—
"Enclosed is a little legacy for Frank Foster. But the packet is not to be opened till six months after my death.
"If the receiver ever esteemed the giver while he lived, the greatest respect he can pay to his memory will be to guard, with brotherly love, the orphan Amy, when she has no other guardian but her Heavenly One.
"H. J"
Dear old man! Shall I not obey your last command? Yes. Not a day shall pass without my calling to see the desolate and gentle Amy. But why did John forbid me to open the packet for six months? He did not, I suppose, wish to show at once the extent of his generosity, and thus overwhelm me with the sudden conviction of my own unworthiness. How very considerate. Yet, I should like just to see the contents of the packet. But, no; I'll not forfeit my right to it, by violating the sacred wish of my benefactor. I'll place the parcel in the hands of our head clerk, so that its safety may be insured in the iron safe of the house till six months shall have expired. This day six months! That will be the twenty-fourth of May. Just the season for a trip up the Rhine! The amount of the legacy will, of course, regulate my movements. But whatever the sum, it is more than anybody else would have left me. Then why do I think so much about the disappointment I might have occasioned a lot of singing, dancing, and merry-making friends, when my absence from their party was caused by a serious duty elsewhere. Was there one at that soirée that would leave me five hundred pounds—or even five hundred pence? Not one.
While reasoning on these and other questions, with a degree of philosophy suited to the occasion, the hackney coach stopped at the door of my city home, into which I immediately conducted myself and "a little legacy."
Chapter xi.
Effect of a Little Legacy.
My first volume of poems, from the publication of which I anticipated great results, had been before the public—or might have been in that proud position, had the desire of the public on the subject corresponded with that of the author—nearly four months. This was the work, the success of which would at once have changed a commercial life to that of a professional or literary one. I only waited a favorable verdict to leave for ever the busy mart of commerce, for the more exalted, yet secluded walks of literature.
"But, then, the thought of hunger on the plain,
Destroyed the hope of solitude again,"
It had taken a long time to write the poems; but it took a much longer time to sell them. Three months after their publication, fifteen copies only had been sold. I was altogether at a loss to understand this seeming want of taste on the part of a public that had purchased about three thousand copies of my prose composition in a similar space of time. Was the poetry inferior to the prose? The publisher said—"no." Then, why did it fail to sell? "Because there is no demand for the article," was the reply. And by way of consolation, my comforter, on calling my attention to some favorable "reviews," politely informed me that I had every reason to be satisfied, although the sale of the work I had launched on the world would, probably, not pay the price of the paper on which it was printed.
Instead of finding "every reason to be satisfied," I failed to discover, in my publisher's statement, even the smallest cause for satisfaction. His balm for disappointment might have been sufficient to illumine the hope of some less worldly and more exalted poetic genius,—then, probably located in the lofty region of a garret, working hard for bread and water and posthumous fame. But the link that had made me familiar with the substantial results of commercial life had some influence in causing me to regard either mental or physical labor from certain £ s. d. points of view. This early acquired number one knowledge induced me to question the policy of bringing to market any further supply of an article which had already shown a balance on the wrong side of the ledger. I did not approve the principle of supplying even a mental commodity at a serious pecuniary loss to the producer—notwithstanding an assurance from my literary agent that I had "every reason to be satisfied." True, I had an uncontrollable passion for composition, and wanted to become a professional author. But, at the same time, I could not forget that I now received a salary of two hundred pounds a-year for my commercial services. To withdraw from this income and the good things arising therefrom, I required something more than the prospect of future retirement in a garret. The indulgence of a poetic taste would have been sweet, but not at the sacrifice of all other sweets. I therefore decided to hold the "bird in hand" a little longer.
"For trouble and wexation," says a certain authority, you must "diwert the mind by day, and conwince it of the walue of sleep by night." Nobody would be disposed either to question this doctrine, or to deny the value of the specific,—when, as in my case, the remedy can be applied. I had a counter cause to divert the mind from its depression. The fate of poems, from the vitality and sale of which I had anticipated fame and fortune, would have proved a heavy blow for the author had there not been something of a cheering aspect in the distance. The time was now drawing near when the value of "a little legacy" would be revealed to its owner. My hope with regard to the hidden boon was sufficiently buoyant to support a disappointed spirit, when other hopes had vanished.
The interval between the death of my benefactor and the revelation of the value of "a little legacy" to which I was entitled, gave birth to a variety of curious pictures by friendly artists. If these pictures—in which cash was ever the leading figure—displayed any analogy between my own way and the way of the world, the way of the world, in the brief space of a few months, presented my way in anything but pleasing colors.
So soon as my brother warehousemen, private friends, and outside acquaintances heard it whispered that I was entitled to "a little legacy," the monetary value of the gift, though yet unknown to the legitimate heir, was determined, published, and commented on, agreeably with the particular fancies of those who became suddenly inspired with an ardent desire for the welfare of the legatee. With regard to the amount of the treasure, the "reports" varied from one to ten thousand pounds! Such were the reports. They were like so many snow balls, whose proportions expand by being propelled in their own element. It re-mainsremains to be seen whether, like snow balls, they were equally susceptible of sudden dissolution. In the mean time, the simple fact of being reported rich foreshadowed, in the way of the world, a little of that magnetic influence that would be likely to spring from the actual possession of riches. The following are only a few, but they represent a large number of favors which, like April showers, fell on my devoted head from those mortal bodies that anticipated warmth from the sunny rays of "a little legacy" that would presently make its appearance:—
(No. 1.)
"Friday, noon.
"Dear Foster,
"Enclosed you have a couple of stall tickets for tomorrow night. Make use of my services in this way whenever you need them.
"Allow me to congratulate you on that recent slice of luck that adds to your name the title of 'legatee.' This is the character so many poor devils (myself included) would like to play, as it fills the pocket without exertion. I hope you are as warm in the part as report makes you.
"Yours faithfully,"
Septimus—.
"P.S.—You are, of course, invited to Sinclair's party for Wednesday next? Miss Inverarity and her cousin, Julia, will be there."
The writer of this letter was in some way connected with His Majesty's Theatre, of which Mr. Laporte was at that time lessee. I had often met the young gentleman, and he had as often made unsuccessful efforts to induce me to join him at "loo." But he had not, till now, either sent or offered me cards for the opera.
(No. 2.)
"April 1st.
"My dear Sir,
"I delayed replying to your very kind explanatory letter of 25th November last, not wishing to hurt your feelings immediately after the loss of your friend.
"We were, of course, much disappointed at the non-performance of your charade at Theadora's birthday party, but your note on the following day entirely justified your absence on the occasion.
"Robert and the young ladies desire to be kindly remembered, while conveying to you their kind remembrances; and they all unite with me in the hope that you will soon favor us with your agreeable company, or, at least, with an early call after your long absence.
"Believe me, my dear sir,
"Very truly yours,
"Maria——.
"Frank Foster, Esq."
The foregoing epistle was from the mother of the young lady, to the honor of whom I engaged—and failed—to perform on the night of Honest John's death. A desire "not to hurt my feelings" is the cause assigned for not replying to my "kind letter" for more than four months. The present reader may assume, if necessary, any other cause for the delay—or rather for the letter after such delay.
(No. 3.)
"Foster, my dear fellow, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Sharp, who, on meeting me on Cornhill, accompanied his oral salute by a hearty shake of the hand. "You are just the young man I wished to see. I am at present in a position to put you in the way of a good thing. Can't give you the key to it at this moment, but will do so in the evening. Can you call at my private house at six o'clock?"
I replied in the affirmative.
"Well. Good bye for the present. Remember the time—six o'clock."
Joining the friend from whom he had for a moment withdrawn, Mr. Sharp again proceeded on his way.
Mr. Sharp was a gentleman who had lived for a short period (with greater satisfaction to himself than to his employers) in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. On leaving the establishment—not of his own accord—he became manager of a certain company in the city of London. Previously to this, he had either regarded himself too big or Frank Foster too little to take any notice of the junior warehouseman, beyond a distant shake of the head. But a change had suddenly taken place in the lofty bearing of Mr. Sharp; and as he was "in a position to put me in the way of a good thing," a desire on my part to obtain the promised "key" thereof made me faithful at the appointed hour for meeting my mysterious patron.
As the house clock was striking the hour of six, I entered the drawing-room of my new friend.
"'Tis thus a man of business ever keeps his appointment," exclaimed Mr. Sharp.
"Dinner's on the table, sir," said a well-fitted and bright-buttoned youth of sixteen.
"And thus good servants ever keep their engagements," continued the host, as he conducted me to the dining-room.
In the absence of any previous intimation from Mr. Sharp that a "call at his private house" meant an invitation to dinner, I was not exactly prepared—as I thought—for a second dinner, especially as I had just partaken of tea. But I soon discovered that a good deal may be accomplished in the way of eating and drinking, even by one who had just concluded a similar engagement. Fish, fowl, and other delicacies are not often placed before the junior employés of large city establishments. A "wee bit," and then a "wee bit more" from some, if not from the majority, of these dishes convinced me that taste is a conductor that can find room for a few nice little things, although appetite may pronounce the vehicle "full."
Dinner over, Mrs. Sharp and her two daughters retired, and Mr. Sharp proceeded at once to the business for which I had been more immediately invited.
"Well, Foster, as I before observed, you are a man of business, and deserve a better position than that which you now occupy. What salary do they give you at the old house?"
"Two hundred a year," I replied.
"Is that all? But you would have no objection, I suppose, to have it doubled?"
"Not the least objection, Mr. Sharp."
"And to obtain at once so desirable an end, you would not, I presume, object to a small outlay?"
"Pardon my stupidity; but I confess I don't understand this question quite so well as the last."
"To make the matter clear—would not an addition to your present income of two hundred a year for life be cheap at four hundred pounds?"
"Very, provided the duties of—"
"The duties of the office are a mere bagatelle," said Mr. Sharp, interrupting me. "I see, Foster, you have the cue to my meaning?"
"Which, as I take it, Mr. Sharp, is simply this,—a permanent appointment of four hundred a year may be secured for the sum of four hundred pounds?"
"Exactly!—that tells the whole story, so far as relates to a simple matter of exchange. Now for the situation to which it refers. We require a secretary to our company. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir; I understand what you say. But has Mr. Faithful, your present secretary, resigned?"
"His resignation will not be required till his successor has been appointed."
"Does he not suit the directors?" I enquired.
"He doesn't suit me," replied Mr. Sharp. "I'm the manager. The directors of a company are often like figures in a hall—more for ornament than use, having less of the reality than of the semblance of power."
"Then, the manager himself decides on the most suitable candidate?"
"Precisely. The directors have the privilege of confirming the selection."
"Suppose, Mr. Sharp, the directors should appoint a candidate of their own choice?"
"They did so on the formation of the company, twelve months ago. But, as I told you before, the gentleman doesn't suit. We need not dwell on that part of the subject. The appointment is now in my hands. You are in every way qualified to fill it. I have nothing more to add. Decision is the only thing wanting. You have mine. The relative must come from you."
"If I understand you, Mr. Sharp, my acceptance of the office would involve the outlay of four hundred pounds?"
"Just so. Or one hundred less than I should expect, and can, in fact, obtain from another. Of course, my friend, the subject of this conversation must be regarded as confidential on either side, although in the absence of a third person we may speak without reserve. Now, to tell you the truth, Foster, I have in my pocket (in answer to an advertisement of mine in the Times) a letter from a gentleman who says he would cheerfully pay five hundred pounds for the appointment in question. But rather than negotiate the matter with a stranger, I will readily make a sacrifice of one hundred pounds in your favor, though aware that you have at present a thousand pounds at your command."
"A thousand pounds! Me? Really, Mr. Sharp, I am not aware of it. It may be so, but if so, your knowledge on the subject is in advance of mine."
"Well, I am thus informed by a gentleman in the house you now represent. Are you not entitled to a legacy of a thousand pounds?"
"I am entitled to a legacy. But of its value I am at present totally ignorant, and must remain so for another month."
"Oh, oh! That's the state of the case, is it?" said Mr. Sharp, while he appeared for a moment to reflect on what had taken place. "Fools will talk; and a wise man who is gulled by the report of a fool is the greater fool of the two. Well, Foster, for the present, we'll let the matter stand over. Meanwhile regard me as your friend. Let us join the ladies in the drawing-room."
Hereupon, we proceeded to the drawing-room, in which, either by accident or invitation, several friends or acquaintances of the host had assembled. After coffee had been served, the time was enlivened by music, recitations, quadrilles, etc., etc.; and, altogether, I passed a very pleasant evening in the family circle of Mr. and Mrs. Sharp.
At the close of this agreeable meeting, my brief connexion with the Sharps ended. The situation for which I had been specially invited was never filled by me. The reason, or one of the reasons, for this will presently appear. Meanwhile, I may observe that the office of Secretary, which was promised "for life," soon became permanently vacant, as the company itself suddenly expired five months after I had received the offer of a desirable appointment therein for the small sum of four hundred pounds.
The foregoing represent only a few of the "good things" which were tendered for my acceptance during the brief space of six months—each offer having originated in the report of "a little legacy" to which I was entitled.
Before the close of the chapter, and the revelation of my own legacy, let me in a few sentences record the effect of a legacy elsewhere.
After the death of Honest John, I discharged, to the best of my ability, the duty to which I had been appointed by the last wish of my benefactor. If, through want of the natural elements of the part, I failed to regard the orphan, Amy, with the "brotherly love" to which I had been enjoined, I was, at least, ever mindful of the responsibilities of office. Though unable to invest myself with the affection of a brother, I was not wanting in brotherly attention. My visits to the lady were frequent. Indeed, I was subsequently induced to believe that such visits had been more frequent than agreeable; that respect to the memory of Honest John, rather than to me, had prevented the gentle Amy from saying more than "I am sorry, Mr. Foster, you take so much trouble on my account." But in discharging the duty imposed by the mandate of Honest John, I did not for a moment imagine that Amy had any "other guardian but her Heavenly One." Her Heavenly One knew better. When, by accident, I became acquainted with the fact, it occurred to me that the wisest testators would do well to make provision for contingencies that may arise hereafter—for little incidents which may take place after their departure from a world in which, both with regard to matter and mind, the future is all uncertainty.
For some time after the marriage of Queen Victoria, a large number of persons made excursions to Windsor for the purpose of seeing the Royal Pair, who at that time condescended daily to gratify the curiosity of the public, by making, at least, one circuit of the Castle-terrace between files of the assembled spectators. It was on a fine Sunday in the month of May that I accompanied my warehouse compannion, Harry Shorthose, on one of these trips. In the evening, on our return to town, we parted company. Harry had—as he said—to call on a relative. I therefore started for home; but, before reaching the establishment, changed my course, and proceeded on a visit to the gentle Amy.
Amy and the aunt with whom she resided were both from home. According to their usual custom, when they left home separately, or there was a probability of their returning in the same way, they placed the keys of their apartments with the landlady of the house—an officer's widow, whose habitation was on the ground floor. Being well known to the lady and her family, I had no difficulty in obtaining the key of the apartment in which I desired to rest till the return of the fair tenants. Finding on my entrance to the sitting-room that the sofa on which I wished to recline was occupied by caps, artificial flowers, and other articles of finery, I threw my weary limbs on the outside of the bed in the adjoining room, and soon fell into a sound sleep.
Now, the son of the landlady—a gay young ensign in the English army—happened not only to enjoy the practical jokes of others, but was himself equally fond of thus indulging his own taste whenever an opportunity offered. This young gentleman—though the culprit was unknown at the time—found the present occasion exactly suited for the indulgence of a "lark." Having observed that, on entering the apartments of my absent friends, I incautiously left the key in the door, the young "red jacket" watched an opportunity for secretly and silently locking that door and again placing the key in the position in which it had been left by the owner. The chief object or fun anticipated in this trick by the originator was simply the detention of his prisoner, in the event of a desire to escape. But the joke itself proved a key to scenes and surprises never contemplated by the author, who looked for his sport to the captive he had just made, rather than to the liberators thereof.
In a short time Amy returned home—not alone, nor in the company of her aunt. Finding the key of the door in possession of the landlady, with whom it had been left, she did not for a moment imagine that her aunt or anybody else occupied an apartment that was locked from the outside. Accompanied by her friend, she entered the sitting-room, in blissful ignorance of the presence of a third person who lay at full length on the bed in the adjoining apartment.
The sleep in which I had indulged was now brought to a close. Either enough had been obtained, or consciousness restored to the sleeper by the surrounding noise. I awoke, and was just about to quit my downy resting place, when a familiar voice—beyond that of Amy—suddenly caught my ear. Surprise and curiosity were at once produced by the sound. Instead of quitting my position, I quietly retained it on the bed—but with eyes and ears open. The former were, at the moment, of little service, as evening twilight had almost disappeared. Yet I dimly saw, but was unseen by, a female figure that entered the bed-room, passed close to the bed on which I lay, placed a bonnet and shawl on the chest of drawers, and hastily returned to the adjoining sitting-room.
"How did you like our new minister this evening?" said Amy to her outside friend, as she left the bed-room.
"How did you like him?" said one whom (to my utter astonishment) I knew to be my companion, Harry Shorthose, who had been with me this very day on an excursion to "Windsor.
"I like him very much," replied Amy.
"So do I," rejoined Harry.
"Do you like him as well as our late incumbent?" said Amy.
"Do you like him as well?" repeated Harry.
"I like him better," replied Amy.
"So do I," rejoined Harry.
"What did you think of the curate's reading?" said Amy.
"What did you think of it?" repeated Harry.
"Not much," replied Amy.
"Nor did I," rejoined Harry.
"What church did you attend this morning?" said Amy.
"Well,—it was my intention to have gone to Brixton, but—will you go there next Sunday morning, Amy?"
"Me? You know I have a great aversion to Sunday travelling."
"So have I, love."
The effect of the last word on a mind that was totally unconscious of any existing friendship between the speakers was electrical. "Love!" I muttered to myself, as the bed under me almost shook from the effect of the shock I had experienced. Love, indeed! But they are evidently not strangers to the sound. Confirmation on this head was not long delayed.
"Then, of course, dear, you would not think of travelling on Sundays?" said Amy.
"Certainly not, love," replied Harry. "I have a very poor opinion of those who make their excursions on such days."
"I am, indeed, pleased to hear you say so, Harry. But I fear your friend, Frank Foster, has no such scruples."
"I am afraid not, Amy."
Impudent imposter! Barefaced hypocrite! These and other expressions crossed my mind, as I thought, for a moment, of at once confronting the culprit. But I managed to hold the reins on a spirit that was as difficult to restrain as that of a colt bitten by a forest fly. When the sting was withdrawn from "self" I contrived to bear the less painful part of the dialogue with that calm resignation which will generally submit to a trifling infliction, in order to reach the end of an exciting story.
"There is certainly one consistent feature in the character of Frank," said Amy. "He never makes the least pretension to religion."
"Never," replied Harry. "His motto has always been esto quod esse videris, or be what you seem to be. Yes, Amy, he is, at least, consistent."
"Indeed, I have always found him so. And if people are not always what they should be, I don't like them to appear other than they are, do you, dear?"
"Certainly not, love—though Shakspeare says, 'Assume a virtue if you have it not.'"
"Does Shakspeare say so? It can't be in Frank's edition, for this is his favorite book. He appears to like it better than any other."
"So do I," said Harry.
"Better than any other book?" enquired Amy.
"Of course, love, with the exception of one book," was the reply.
"Ah me! Poor Frank!" exclaimed Amy with a deep sigh.
"Poor Frank! with a sigh too. What's the meaning of that, love? Have you any cause to bewail his present position? His friends report him rich, not poor."
"There are riches which are not of gold, but are yet more precious," said Amy.
"Very true, love. There are the riches of the mind, of which my own dear Amy owns a very fair—"
The conclusion of the sentence was rendered inaudable—at least in the bed-room—by certain lovers' salutations which often prove more eloquent than words.
"Did I not, love," continued Harry, "on one occasion, hear you say that no one but yourself would know the value of Frank's legacy till the parcel containing it shall have been opened?"
"I don't remember saying so," replied Amy. "If I did say so, it was simply the truth."
"But why, Amy, do you guard the subject with such secrecy?"
"Because enjoined to do so by my dear departed guardian. You would not have me violate his last wish?"
"Certainly not, love."
"By brotherly attention, since the death of Honest John, your companion, Frank Foster, has faithfully discharged the duty to which he was appointed, and I trust he may be satisfied with his reward. With this reward he will, no doubt, become personally acquainted on Saturday next, when the time named for its concealment from the owner will have expired."
"On Saturday next?" said Harry. "That will be the twenty-fourth of May. Six months have already elapsed since we first became acquainted, love! Of this acquaintance Harry knows less than of his own legacy! How strange!"
"Would it not be still more strange if both secrets should be revealed to him on the same day?" said Amy.
"It would, indeed, love," replied Harry, as his voice launched out into a roll of laughter, in which he was joined by his fair companion.
I cannot say which of the three had the greater reason to laugh; but I laughed as heartily as either, although my laughter was carried on in an under current that was unheard amidst the general roar.
"A very fortunate thing," said Harry, "that Frank has not made his visits here on Sundays."
"More fortunate, perhaps, for us than for himself," replied Amy. "I have often reflected, with pain, on the fact that while in his brotherly attentions he has frequently invited me to places of amusement, he never asked me to accompany him to a place of worship."
"Still, Amy, he never asked you to stay away. I hate to be dragged—I mean Frank hates force in any way, especially in the way of religion."
"If either of you were drowning, would either object to be dragged from a perilous position?"
"I should say not, love. Life is too precious to object to the rescue of the body from danger."
"And is the body more precious than the soul?" enquired Amy.
"Well, dear; let us avoid a discussion on this subject. You know my opinion entirely accords with your own, love."
At this moment a terrible commotion was created throughout the establishment. It was the result of an accident. On leaving the bed on which I had been lying, I wished, if possible, to make a secret and silent escape from the house. But in groping about in the dark I accidently upset a small table, the numerous glass ornaments on which caused, in their fall, a fearful noise and confusion in a room which was not supposed—at least by Amy and her companion—to be at that time occupied by any human spirit.
After a loud shriek, which was succeeded by the treble cry of "Thieves! police! help!" Amy made a precipitate retreat, followed by her brave companion, till she reached the hall leading to the street door. Here she was met by the affrighted landlady and her two daughters, who had rushed from their apartments to learn the cause of the alarm. The young ensign, with whom the mischief originated, remained within—no doubt in the full enjoyment of the unexpected excitement caused by his handy work.
On descending the stairs in search of the terrified absentees, I was met and instantly seized by a burly policeman, who in stature, as in manner, was big enough to swallow me.
"Don't distress yourself, my good man," I said to this powerful guardian of the public peace, whose breath, which was strongly impregnated with a smell of onions, was the only thing in my proximity to his person that made me feel uneasy.
"Sunday robberies is on the increase of late," said my resolute captor, as he took a firmer hold of the wristband of my coat. "Any more of your friends concerned in this job?" he enquired.
"Yes; here are two just coming up," was the reply, as I beheld Amy and her lover, like a couple of scared kittens, cautiously returning to their quarters and placing one foot before the other at extended intervals.
"Mercy on me! why it's Mr. Foster!" exclaimed Amy, who staggered again from the effect of the surprise.
Her companion was the greater coward of the two. So soon as he caught sight of the individual who had been made captive by the officer, he suddenly withdrew himself from the scene, calling out in his retreat—"Let him go, policeman! It's a mistake!—follow me!" Although the officer was less alarmed than either, he was, probably, more surprised than either. But the friendly recognition of his prisoner by those who sent him to secure a supposed robber made him at once release the captive, and fly for an explanation to the retreating lover whose voice again sounded the command of "follow me!" Neither of these actors again appeared on the scene.
"I was not aware, till now, of Mr. Foster being a spy," said Amy, as she re-entered and seated herself in her apartment.
"I am not myself aware of it even now," was my reply. "If in an open house all lovers are as clear and as open as you have been, they must not blame outside and accidental hearers."
"I am surprised, Mr. Foster, that you should lock yourself in my apartment and call it an 'accident.' Your friend, Mr. Shorthose,—"
"He is no longer my friend; and if you take my advice, he will from this moment cease to be yours."
"I suppose, sir, I may be allowed to—"
The speaker here covered her face with her handkerchief and began to cry.
"Harry Shorthose has evidently been attracted here by your money, Amy. But Honest John in his last command appointed me to watch your interests. I should not prove faithfnl to my charge, did I fail to warn you of the impending danger which has this evening come to my knowledge."
Amy's sobs now grew so loud and so painful to hear, that I resolved to postpone further comment on the subject that provoked them. But at this moment her aunt entered the room. After briefly referring her to her niece for an explanation of the scene, I immediately left the house. Outside stood the "fast" young ensign, smoking a cigar. This young gentleman was a wit as well as a wag. His sharp repartees told with considerable effect on the sentences of any speaker who happened to be no match for the soldier.
"Allow me to offer you a cigar this evening, Mr. Foster," said the punster as I passed him.
"I never smoke, except when I am in a passion," was my reply.
"Then, sir," said the "red jacket," with a smile, "you've smoked some mortal 'biguns' to night, havn't you?" Hereupon we parted company.
The following morning I prepared to question Harry Shorthose on the subject that had accidently come to my knowledge. But he never again entered the house of Fountain, Pillar and Branch. He simply sent to the firm the written resignation of his situation, with an intimation of his intention to retire from the particular kind of business in which he had been engaged.
This sudden move alarmed me. I began to anticipate and fear unwelcome intelligence. In the evening, and on four succeeding evenings, I called to enquire after Amy, but Amy on each occasion was from home. At least, the door of her apartment was on each occasion locked—whether from within or without I am unable to say. But the excitement on this subject was for a short time eclipsed by greater excitement on a subject still nearer home.
On Saturday, the twenty-fourth day of May, the question which had caused me a little anxiety, and my friends more than a little speculation, was to be solved. The day for the solution had now arrived. "A little legacy!" What is the value thereof?—that is the question. Taking from an iron safe the parcel that had for six months kept the knowledge of its contents from the legatee, I quietly withdrew to my bedroom for the unobserved enjoyment of a pleasing revelation.
On opening the parcel that was to make me a rich, or leave me still a poor young man, I discovered that the "little legacy," for which I had been anxiously waiting during the past six months, was nothing more nor less than—a little Bible!
I will not now—because I cannot—describe the sensation this disclosure produced on the mind of the legatee. On a partial recovery from the effect of surprise and disappointment, I read the inscription on the fly-leaf of the sacred volume. It was as follows:—
"To Frank Foster,—
"In this book I leave you what you stand most in need of. Make your heart a storehouse for its treasures. They are the only riches that will carry you from earth to meet again in heaven your well-wisher,
"Honest John."
When I had carefully examined the paper in which the book had been enclosed, without finding anything else, I returned the volume to its wrapper and placed it in the most remote corner at the bottom of my chest. The box was no sooner locked than a tap on the outside of the bedroom door, by the head clerk of the house, was followed by the inquiry of—
"Has the legacy equalled your expectation, Frank?"
"Greatly exceeded it," I said, in an assumed tone of joy.
"Will you again require the use of the iron safe?"
"Not at present," was my reply—after which the clerk retired.
This early enquiry from one friend gave me a gentle hint of what might be expected from others on the same subject. I therefore resolved not to publish my own disappointment, but rather to give an evasive answer to anyone who might desire information concerning my imaginary fortune. The resolution proved to be a judicious one. I was still treated by my friends as a young man of property, and obtained from them the additional credit of knowing how to take care of it. In truth, the absence of the expected fortune was, to me, the greatest fortune of all—although it took me some time to realize and reconcile myself to the fact. The facinations of the society by which I was surrounded, together with a long cherished hope for a continental tour, would soon have dissipated a monetary legacy, whatever might have been the amount thereof. Certain friends and acquaintances would then have blamed me for my folly. On the other hand, these friends and acquaintances ever lauded my prudence, and gave me credit for taking care of a fortune which I never possessed.
Trouble, it is said, "never comes alone." On Monday the twenty-sixth day of May—two days after my disap-pointmentdisappointment in the legacy affair—another disagreeable surprise awaited me. I received by post a letter, or rather an envelope, in which was enclosed wedding cards bearing the names of "Mr. and Mrs. Shorthose." The envelope bore the Brighton post-mark of the twenty-fourth of May. By this I inferred—what subsequently proved to be the case—that the orphan, Amy, the gentle Amy to whom I had been appointed temporary guardian, had found a more permanent protector in the acceptance of a husband. And this event was solemnized the very day on which I discovered that my own "little legacy" resolved itself into a little Bible.
Well. After a secret courtship of six months' duration, my late companion, Harry Shorthose, wedded either the orphan Amy, or her fortune of twelve hundred pounds, which had been left to her by Honest John. Harry Shorthose was a most intelligent and talented young man. He appeared in every way—but one way—qualified to make a good husband. Yet Harry was one of the last young men in the world I should have recommended Amy to marry. Out of his own mouth I judged him. During our early acquaintance, prior to my friend's introduction to Amy, I had heard Harry declare—"If ever I marry, I'll marry for money, though the bride be ugly as sin; and I'll never marry without money, though she be fair as an angel." The remembrance of this declaration of the bridegroom made me tremble for the future happiness of the bride. That bride, although one of the most gentle and accomplished of her sex, was certainly not one of the fairest.
The human heart is not always so bad as it may seem. I mistook the character of my companion, inasmuch as my companion had mistaken himself. He had intended to marry for money. But finding the lady's gold the least among her riches, he had it settled on herself. She won his love before marriage, and strengthened it after. Than Mr., Mrs., and the Misses Shorthose, there does not, I believe, exist at this moment a happier family in the city of Dublin.
Success, however, in any cause—good or bad—is usually rewarded by smiles, if not by general applause, while failure in any cause—good or bad—is followed by the opposite group of frowns and universal contempt. But success often brings to light any sterling metal that may be secreted in the mind of its hero, while failure would have left it concealed in the mire. Had a reigning monarch died in early exile, or during his futile attempt to invade the country he now governs, history would have declared, as everybody did declare, the bold aspirant to a tenanted throne to be a "natural fool." But everybody now knows that the monarch in question is no fool, although various opinions may exist concerning the use made of his talents.
Chapter xii.
A Large House on a Little Foundation, or Aiming at Great Things Before Little ones have been Accomplished.
At the close of my connexion with the house of Fountain, Pillar and Branch, I became an interested witness in one of those suicidal performances which occasionally take place in the commercial world.
It is well known—at least in the United Kingdom—that eminent mercantile establishments, like sturdy oaks, are generally of slow growth. In new countries, as, for instance, in America, houses and men sometimes jump into fame in the course of a few years, or even in a few months. In the old country, however, such cases are rare and are altogether exceptional. People here are not so fast as in the new world. In commercial, professional, or even in political life, it takes a beginner a long time to secure the suffrages of the public. Once secured, they are not easily enticed away—not even by the offer of superior advantages elsewhere. Most of our extensive and eminent houses originated in a small, a very small way. Like acorns, their rise has been gradual, and their expansion and power have been a work of time. Although in the field of commerce an occasional attempt to change the natural course of things has been attended with success, such attempts have more frequently resulted in failure.
The house of Fountain, Pillar and Branch was a very old, extensive, and eminent one. It was here I commenced my business education. Here, from the alphabet of commercial knowledge to the more advanced stages of "profit and loss," I became versed in all—however little—of which I was at present master. But there are in the world a large number of young persons, of which at this time I happened to be one, who fail to discover when they are "well off," and who never learn the value of a good situation until it is lost. A combination and sudden move on the part of two of the leading men of the house induced me—for an imaginary advantage—to withdraw from the great commercial school in which I had been tutored, and from the service of Messrs. Fountain, Pillar and Branch.
In this, as in other large wholesale houses of the same class, there were numerous important departments. Though each department, like the branch of a railway, is connected with, and adds to or detracts from, the profits of the main establishment, each has its separate staff of assistants and manager—the manager in this particular trade being generally known as the "buyer." The returns made, the expenses incurred, and the stock kept by the respective buyers are presented to the firm, by the chief clerk, in an annual "balance sheet," in which every department displays its distinctive features. Thus, not only is the relative value of each branch of business ascertained, but likewise the value of the services of each "buyer," who is regarded as the responsible man in his own sphere, and whose personal-remuneration depends, in a great measure, on the revenue arising from the department subject to his management. Thirty years ago—but things have much improved since then—many of the employers in large establishments cared little for the employés, beyond the amount in pounds, shillings, and pence, they could get out of them. So long as the employed had the outlines of honesty, and the capability of showing a large return, with remunerating profits, the details of character, "the mind that makes the body rich," or the morals which purify it, however lax, remained unnoticed, or, if noticed, remained unreproved by employers. As men entirely of the world, they paid less attention to the morals or intellectual advancement of those by whom their trade was conducted and governed than to the annual result of that government, as shown in the balance on the credit side of the ledger. But if evidence were wanting to prove that a favorable change has taken place, the following simple fact would go far to supply it. In many of those vast wholesale houses in the vicinity of which I passed my youthful days, there are now—instead of large barren or meanly furnished sitting rooms, as heretofore—not only commodious and well-furnished apartments, but extensive libraries, supplied with everything that can tend to improve the mind and enrich the understanding. For the benefit of those in their employ, a few of our merchant princes go even beyond this, by treating their employės to weekly lectures during the winter months. I have myself been recently engaged, with other professional gentlemen, to lecture on literary and scientific subjects to audiences of nearly two hundred young warehousemen—within the very walls that once enclosed my services as an assistant.
My secession from the eminent establishment in which I had passed my early probation, and obtained a good position, originated thus:—Here were two buyers, Reckless and Venture, each having an important department, and each in his own department making a large and profitable return. Reckless and Venture had been in the house of Fountain, Pillar and Branch for many years. They had been here as junior assistants, and they were here now as important buyers with large salaries. The firm had raised them to what they were, both with regard to position and pay. But Reckless had no sooner secured the "box seat" of the coach than he wished to take the reins. He no sooner became chief of the first department in the house than he wanted to be made shareholder in the house itself. Venture had arranged to play a similar game, in the event of the success of his brother buyer; or, in the event of failure, to join him in any ulterior step. They thought the firm would concede their demand, rather than part with two such valuable servants. But they committed the fatal error—not an uncommon one in the way of the world—of overrating their own abilities, and at the same time of underrating the dignity and independence of their employers. While respectfully declining the proposed addition to their title, the firm assured their head buyer that they were ready to recognise the value of his services to the fullest extent, if the recognition had not already been made. After a little deliberation, they proposed to Reckless to increase his pay from eight hundred to a thousand a-year—probably a larger salary than was ever before paid or offered to a gentleman in a similar trade. To this offer was appended the remark—"When the time shall come for the admission of a new partner, such intimation must be made by one of the firm, not by a gentleman who desires to become so."
Each, in turn, rejected the offer of the other. Nothing but a partnership would satisfy Reckless. But the firm would not—on his own nomination—be satisfied with such a partner. Finally they agreed, but agreed on one thing only—to part.
Reckless and Venture had previously determined their line of action. They had resolved either to become shareholders in the eminent establishment they now represented, or to found and open out a concern of their own on a grand scale, and in direct opposition to "the old house." Venture had a little money. Reckless had less. But what of that? Merchants and manufacturers in those days only wanted money when their debtors had none to give them. Good-natured creditors were themselves satisfied with the presumption that men going into a large way of business were men of capital, till proof was furnished to the contrary. It was only those who started in a small way whose means and character were rigidly inquired into. Reckless and Venture had no occasion to feel uneasy on a point of which they were certain—that of obtaining credit. But as they were unable to muster enough cash even for the preliminary expenses of a large establishment, it was necessary to admit a third person as partner in their grand design. Bounce was a suitable man. Bounce was a London draper in a good way of business. But his ideas were more extensive than his trade. He knew Reckless and Venture, and knowing the vast return they had made for "the old house," he had often intimated his wish to transfer his ability and his means from the retail to the wholesale trade. Here, then, was his opportunity. This he at once embraced by the disposal of his business, and by subscribing his person and property towards the formation of the extensive wholesale establishment which was to open under the firm of "Reckless, Venture, and Bounce."
Increased pay and the promise of future advantages induced three additional buyers and fifteen junior ware-housemenwarehousemen to leave the old house for the new one. In this move, my case may partially illustrate several others. In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, my position was only one step below that of an old and faithful buyer, who was not to be moved by the tempting offers of the new firm. The removal of this gentlemen, either by death or any other cause, would have insured my elevation to the head of my department, and to a salary of four or five hundred a-year. But in my present restless state it might, I thought, prove a tedious affair to wait for such promotion—even in the old and familiar house wherein I had received my commercial education, and with a firm from whom I had received much kindness and consideration. The immediate opportunity for obtaining three hundred a-year, when my salary stood only at two-thirds of that amount, displayed a rise too sudden and tempting to be resisted. The offer was readily accepted, and I at once quitted the service of the old house for that of the new one, which was now preparing to astonish the world with its wonders.
Everything ready, the curtain is about to rise on the first scene in the new house of Reckless, Venture, and Bounce. The stock to be displayed is, as truly announced in their circular, "immense!" Should it fail to bring custom to the house, it did not fail to satisfy everybody behind the scenes that English, Irish, Scotch, and French manufacturers had evinced an early and earnest desire to make good customers of the new firm. Nobody that beheld their mountainous collection of manufacturers could for a moment doubt that, if their ability to sell goods equalled their ability to buy them, Reckless, Venture, and Bounce would soon command one of the largest trades in the city of London.
Every customer of the old house—there were many thousands—received from the seceders a polite invitation to inspect the stock of the new establishment on the "opening day." This invitation was not responded to by the "great rush" anticipated by the firm. It neither required a police force to keep the entrance to the house clear for the ingress of anxious customers, nor was an extra number of assistants needed to attend to the wants of those that came.
Little disappointments at the beginning of a daring enterprise are often succeeded by greater ones as the drama proceeds. It was even so with the house of Reckless, Venture, and Bounce. The launch of their great design on the ocean of commerce created no excitement, except on the part of the originators. And the want of excitement on the occasion of a great event is not usually regarded as an omen of success. The disappointment occasioned by the absence of the anticipated "rush" on the opening day was the precursor of greater disappointments, as time more fully disclosed the weakness of the mainspring which was expected to keep the entire machinery of the concern in motion.
When, as leading men, Reckless and Venture were doing wonders for the old house, they regarded themselves as the magnates by which such important results were achieved. Great actors, they thought, could play equally well on any stage. True, they had never enacted first-rate parts elsewhere, and they omitted to consider the importance of anything but their own talents. The age and position of "the old house," the value of its properties, and the well-merited attachment of its numerous patrons were altogether overlooked by the two seceding actors. They did not for a moment suppose that they were only the well-finished instruments by which certain commercial operations were performed, and that their employers, Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, were themselves the chief operators. On the contrary, Reckless and Venture thought themselves capable of doing what others had done for them. Ignorant both of the unlimited resources of the house they represented, and the stability of its established connexion, they supposed that, without the assistance of the former, they could easily secure the latter.
In a few months the pleasing illusion was dispelled. Amid a vast and expensive stock of goods, commercial wisdom was soon found to be the most costly article that had been purchased by the new house of Reckless, Venture, and Bounce. Had the firm known, as they now knew, the extent of their own capability, they would at first have attempted but little, because they would have seen the impossibility of accomplishing much. Early knowledge of their own power might have proved the ground-work of success, while judgment to keep within the boundary would have supplied materials for building the structure. They now discovered that the connexion which had been long wedded to the old house evinced no desire to pass their favors to the new establishment, though peculiar advantages were promised for the transfer.
The vitality of the new house was of short duration, as it suddenly expired at the not very advanced age of eighteen months. The final exit of the firm from the stage of commerce may be recorded in a few words. The majority of our great houses commenced their career at the bottom of a long hill, gradually working their way to the top. Here the workers may, if they please, enjoy their rest. But when, as in the present case, the driver or drivers of a new commercial establishment begin at the wrong end, and start their machine from the top instead of the bottom of the hill, the concern soon reaches its final resting-place. Reckless, Venture, and Bounce were only eighteen months in driving their great establishment from the top of Prospect Hill down the entire decline of their commercial existence, which terminated in a well-known Court in Basinghall Street. Beyond the outside of this Court their old and faithful servant, the present recorder, has no desire to follow them.
The foregoing is a true account of the life and death of the great commercial house of Reckless, Venture, and Bounce.
As a short distance only divides commercial from family mistakes, I may briefly refer to the affair in which I was concerned—not legally—in the case of
Gentility and Poor Fare, VersusIndependence and Plenty.
Before I close the present chapter, let me turn for a few moments from a commercial to a social picture—from a hastily drawn sketch on the busy mart of commerce to the rough but not less truthful outline of a scene in the domestic drama of life. The incident I am now about to relate originated through my connexion with the house, the life and death of which have just been recorded. It is not, however, on this account the subject is deemed worthy of note, but because the story itself is illustrative not only of what has long been, and still continues to be, a social evil,—or at least a family error—but that it at the same time suggests a remedy for the thing complained of.
During my connexion with the eminent house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, I was lodged and boarded in the establishment. But my engagement with the opposition house, and consequent elevation in pay and position(?) made it incumbent on me to provide apartments and partial board on my own account. An advertisement expressive of these wants was within two days responded to by offers so numerous that a division of the advertiser into two hundred parts would not have allowed a fractional allotment of the individual to each and all of the "desirable homes" to which one mortal body had been invited. The style and composition of a letter often denote something of the character of the writer. Such, at least, was my belief, when out of a large bundle of epistolary addresses I selected that of Mrs. Maria Mental, whose offer of the "advantages of a well-educated circle" was deemed worthy of consideration. An interview with the lady settled the question, agreeably with the favorable opinion created by her letter. An engagement to "board and lodge" with Mr. and Mrs. Mental was the result.
Poor Mental! But let me begin with the lady, to whose lofty notions of gentility must be ascribed those innumerable little troubles and trials which pressed heavily on the otherwise cheerful and sweetly-tempered members of her own family. Mrs. Mental had a touch of the lady in every accomplishment but one—the income. Her daughters had been trained to a similar style, and with the same cheering prospect. They had left school, and were now at home, taking of their mamma lessons in their last and most difficult study—"how to make both ends meet."
Mr. Mental was one of the most amiable of men, an affectionate husband, and a kind and indulgent parent. He studied every want of his accomplished partner, and appeared to satisfy every want but one. But that happened to be an important one—the want of money. His occasional inability to satisfy this want was probably one of the greatest troubles of a long and anxious career. Yet he derived from his greatest care his greatest happiness. The very mainspring of his existence was so completely wound up in the welfare of his children, and so inseparably linked by the potent chain of parental affection, that his whole life appeared like one long, romantic, but unsubstantial dream; for, in his kindred spirit, some active agent moved, unseen, the never-failing hand of time, and minutes, hours, and years seemed passed and passing away in one continued and unfruitful course. For a man of education, refined taste, but limited means, to provide even for a young and numerous family is not always an easy task. But how to provide for, or agreeably dispose of, a grown-up family, the youngest at the age of fourteen, was a question that defied all Mr. Mental's affectionate and anxious efforts to solve. His early life had been interwoven with, and illumined by hope. But now it contained every feature but the brightest. The patron who had obtained for him his situation in a government office was dead. He had lost his interest at headquarters, and with it, his chance of promotion. Except with the holders of a few overdue bills, he had now no interest with anybody. He was one of those fortunate or unfortunate beings whom Fate with one hand supplied with many of the living branches of fortune, while with the other hand she withheld the fruit. Two sons, five daughters, an accomplished wife, and one hundred and fifty pounds a-year comprised Mr. Mental's family and family resources.
Appearances are often deceptive. It is not always a serene or sunny exterior, either in person or place, that denotes a corresponding calm or warmth within. The gentility of a fair form does not, in itself, prove that the figure has recently been supplied with a substantial meal. Neither is the neatness of a detached cottage a sure sign that its inmates, during an inclement season, are kept warm by good fires and the like. Mrs. and the Misses Mental were themselves the very pictures, or rather the very realities of neatness and gentility. Their habitation was in keeping with its inmates, or at least with the female portion thereof. Each was typical of the other, while all gave evidence of the pervading spirit that turned everything to the best advantage—whether the renovating power had been applied to a time-worn table cover, curtain, or carpet, or to a reversible apron, a cloak, a cashmere, or cap-ribbon. But a few of the personal inconveniences that arose from the constant endeavour of a family to keep up "appearances" beyond their means may be gathered by what follows.
In her well-written and equally well-indited reply to my advertisement, Mrs. Mental had modestly intimated that "an agreeable addition to her family circle would not be objected to." This was one of the reasons assigned for an offer to open the door of her private establishment to a stranger. But a brief residence in my new abode led to the discovery that a personal extension of the family circle was not the only "agreeable addition" to the domestic hearth. It was the sum of thirty shillings, payable weekly for partial board and lodging, that made the new comer "an agreeable addition." The only pain created by its payment was the knowledge of how much the small stipend was needed by the head of a large family of recipients. Poor Mental! He never received a quarter's salary that it was not immediately dispensed in small portions to clamorous little tradesmen to whom larger sums were due. Yet the debtor was honest, and I pitied him from my heart. With one hundred and fifty pounds a-year he could not, of course, satisfy claims to the amount of two hundred a-year. But why, with a fixed salary, was his expenditure in excess of his income? A word or two with his accomplished wife may furnish the question with an answer.
Mrs. Mental was the only surviving child of a deceased officer, whose good name happened to be her sole inheritances—save and except a disciplined taste for gentility, the standard of which she faithfully carried to the last. In the true spirit of many a poor yet deserving soldier, the soldier's daughter was ever dreaming of promotion that never came. When the sprightly Charles Mental was first appointed to a government situation his young bride believed that, like an ensign who in time becomes a general, her devoted Charles would gradually rise from the post of junior clerk to that of prime minister. Even when he had lost his interest at "head quarters," and, with it, all chance of promotion, his fair partner, both in habit and costume, still maintained her position above the rank and file of society. She could not or would not accommodate herself to circumstances. When a batch of young officers (male and female) had made their appearance, the style of the parent-general was kept up as before. Though the juvenile staff had often to muster on "short commons," their dear mamma had always the newest style of costume both for parade and review. She could bear the loss of a good dinner rather than lose the outward forms of fashion. This was the severe and artificial school of discipline in which the branches were trained.
But Clara, the youngest daughter, had a spirit of her own, with less false pride and more real independence than any other member of the family. She had no wish to continue at home, dependent on those whose means were so circum-scribed; But she dreaded still more the worse than menial situation of a poor governess. She had no desire to follow in the path of two senior sisters, who passed half their time in situations they could no longer keep, and the other half with parents who could no longer keep them. She sighed for a more independent position, even though it should be one of less refinement and gentility. As her spirit continued to sigh for independence, I on one occasion put the question—"Would a respectable business situation be ac-ceptable?" The enquiry struck terror to every one of the family, except that one whom it chiefly concerned. The bare idea of anything connected with the "shop" for a member of the Mental family—especially a female member—was in itself something dreadful. It was like an electric shock on every nerve of gentility.
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Mental, "a situation in a shop? I hope I may never behold a child of mine in so degrading a position. I shudder at the contemplation of such a sight. What!—to see one's own daughter behind the counter? Pray, Mr. Foster, don't inflame Clara's romantic spirit with anything of that sort."
But Clara's independent spirit was already on fire. Like that of a lucifer match the ignitable matter had only waited a sharp twitch to force it into a blaze. The touch had been given. A flame was kindled which would either continue through life or (if quenched) leave the frame a spiritless mass. Again and again, this young and vigorous heart solicited me to procure for her a situation in a house of business. Again and again the mother made the daughter's solicitude of no avail. Time passed. The steadiness and brilliancy of the child's resolve tended to moderate the parent's opposition. A situation in a first-class house of business—not far from Regent Street—was at length submitted for approval. After a sharp contest in her own mind between gentility and expendiency, Mrs. Mental reluctantly consented to the disgrace of her family, by allowing her daughter to accept what her daughter had already resolved to embrace—a position in a "shop," or, as an indignant mamma ironically observed, "to play in public the distinguished part of female counter-jumper."
Poor Clara! Great as was the parent's antipathy to business, that of the other female members of the family was greater. During the first few months of her business probation, she was treated by her sisters in a manner the very opposite to that of sisterly kindness and affection. It was probably the presence of the lodger, or his thirty shillings a week, that prevented these well-trained young ladies from prosecuting with still greater rigour that independent spirit which they declared had "disgraced them by becoming a shop girl."
This exhibition of empty pride on the one hand and proud independence on the other proved of benefit even to the lodger, who was thus made familiar with a few of the shams and realities of life. For some time previously, my ideas of refinement and gentility had somewhat outgrown the strength of my position. A taste for literature and the fine arts had not only made more glaring the coarse habits of those commercial brothers who were exclusively devoted to money-making, but had almost caused me to look with contempt on my own kin, and to forget the fount from whence my importance sprung. But a residence with the Mental family, together with an introduction to a large circle of their acquaintances who were as accomplished, as poor, and as proud as themselves, soon disclosed the secrets of the artificial "make up" of that genteel society which I subsequently discovered comprised rather an extensive class in the world. Here I beheld accomplished young ladies pass more than half their time in tuning their sweet voices and strumming away on a hired piano; young ladies who carried their wardrobes on their backs, yet would rather forego a Sunday dinner than omit—even at the cost of their last shilling—to trim those wardrobes with some trifling emblem of the newest fashion. When I saw these things and heard the pretty damsels declare that they were in every way superior to "shop girls" who were well fed, well paid, well clothed, and well conducted, I began to contrast external show with internal comforts, and to exclaim—"give me sensible shop girl sisters before highly-glazed gingerbread dolls."
The house of—never gave an immediate salary to a young lady totally unacquainted with business. Being, however, favorably impressed with the manner and general appearance of the new candidate for commercial honors, the firm promised to reward Clara Mental at the earliest period at which her services might be found of value. She had not long to wait for the fulfilment of the promise. I cannot state the exact period at which her salary began, having omitted to enter it in my diary. It was not, I believe, more than six months after the young lady had entered on the duties of business. I have it recorded that at the expiration of two years from the time of her novitiate she was in the receipt of a salary of sixty pounds a-year, and that she expressed herself as being "very comfortable, equally independent, and perfectly happy!" Not bad, either in position or pay, for a young lady at the age of nineteen!
Success in anything, or in any sphere of life, is the prime minister of conciliation. Had Clara, in her noble struggle for independence, failed in the attempt—failed either through a natural inaptitude for business or from any other unblameable cause—her effort would have been pronounced as silly as herself, if not as mad as the lodger who gave the cue to her folly and opened a course for its indulgence. But as Clara did not fail, indignant foes were soon changed to sympathizing friends. The romantic spirit of that child, who in the "distinguished character of female counter-jumper" had threatened the fall of social gentility, was now regarded as a family star of the first magnitude. Parents no longer despised the position of the daughter by whom—contrary to expectation—they had not been disgraced. Even senior sisters condescended to acknowledge the talent, if not to commend the taste, of the enterprising "shop girl" whom they at first disowned and persecuted.
Without dwelling on all the subsequent features in this truthful story, the sequal may be briefly given. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Mental lived to see the final position and reward of the successful "shop girl." Clara had accomplishments superior to the majority of young ladies engaged in business. But her accomplishments did not prove a barrier either to commercial or social advancement. Because this young lady—behind the counter—not only played her part well in business, but could, if required, play well and sing well out of business, nobody took a dislike to her on that account. The close of her commercial career would justify the opposite conclusion. At the age of twenty-three—after five years self-support and independence—Clara Mental became the wife of one of the first merchants in the city of London.
Wealth is power. Now, then, the rich merchant's wife had an opportunity for avenging past insults—for teaching contemptuous sisters and unfeeling friends that tokens of unkindness can be returned to the dealers in their own coin. On attaining an exalted and powerful position, a despotic spirit is wont to reflect the frown of every former foe. But who can change a noble heart into a despotic and revengeful one? Not even its owner. Like the root of a tree, its natural character is retained to the last. The once despised but forgiving "shop girl" who received the scorns and the rebukes of others without retaliation, did not now from her lofty station resent insult with injury. The lady of substantial means did not from her temple of fortune embitter the position of would-be ladies without means, when she had an opportunity of returning good for evil. No. But let one patent fact supply the moral and close the story. At this moment not only are two unmarried sisters supported by the good Mrs.——, late Clara Mental—but also two of the children of another sister, whose taste for refinement and gentility induced her to accept for a husband, from a respectable profession, a gentleman without practice.
The story is ended. I have no desire to follow the modern custom of pinning to a little drama, when the drama is over, a long and prosy "tag." But the preceding sketch of an incident in real life is suggestive of one or two queries. These are respectfully submitted—unanswered—for the consideration of the large number of mothers and daughters of gentility whom such queries may concern. I will not go into the important question—whether men of from ten to fifteen stone in weight are, or are not, "out of place" behind the counter of a lace or fancy establishment; or whether in that effeminate assumption of manner and address necessary to the successful display of ladies' collars, capes, and night caps, the actors do not sacrifice all that is manly—save and except the figures of men? This question chiefly concerns themselves, yet not themselves alone; for in the total absence of their sex from such places, such places would necessarily have to be filled by the opposite sex.
But as this legitimate field for female action is not in the sole or undisputed possession of male officers, let me put the questions of which I have given notice. I ask yourselves, the youthful thousands—who shall say how many?—of ill-fed, thinly-clad, yet highly-accomplished spinsters at present located in the United Kingdom, whether the love of gentility is strong enough, if not to keep you, at least to induce you to keep as you are? Or whether, like the heroine just named, you are ready to doff your notions of false pride and enter on a noble struggle for self-support and independence? In a great commercial country, there is plenty of room even for novices under the age of twenty, whilst there is room enough, and to spare, for efficient hands at almost any age. Depend on it, young ladies, your accomplishments would not prove a barrier to commercial success, if ability and industry only enable you to pursue the course for its attainment. You must not all expect, nor would all desire, to meet with rich husbands on your journey. Some of you, like the heroine's senior sister, would, no doubt, rather marry a teacher of music, and afterwards meet with a kind relative to teach the children everything else. I am convinced that the duties as well as the hardships of a junior governess, dependent on her own exertions for support, are as great, if not greater, than those of any member of any class in the great family of mankind. On the other hand, I am satisfied, from personal knowledge, that a junior assistant in a respectable commercial establishment has greater comfort, greater liberty, and less real cause for anxiety and care than almost any other working member of any class in the kingdom—not excepting the employers whom she may serve.
With no object beyond a desire for your own welfare, I entreat you, my numerous young sisters of refinement and accomplished country cousins, who, like pretty captives in a cage, are now singing and hopping about for a bare and anything but natural existence, to weigh well the questions herein submitted for your consideration.
Turning for a moment from a social to a political subject, let me briefly refer to
A Political Squib.
Just at this period—10th of April, 1848—other than either social or commercial affairs broke in on the peace of the metropolis. One of those fiery monsters, which once in an age rise up to disturb the quiet of the political horizon, was going either to explode the British constitution or be itself exploded. It was now when a huge rocket, that many dirty hands had for many years been filling wi