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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, page 142or 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 page 143spiritual 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 page 144of 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 page 145of 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 page 146period 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, page 147my 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.

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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.

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"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. page 150estrange—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 page 151ever 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 page 152which 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 page 153the 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 page 154presence 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 page 155never 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 page 156enough 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 page 157betrayed 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 page 158had 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 page 159rest 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-page 160pered, 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."

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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 page 162immediately 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."

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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 page 164walk 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 page 165to 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."