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Chapter xvii. Another Stage in Life.

Home. How delightful a thing it is to return home after a long absence—especially if that home be a happy one. At this period I was the welcomed tenant, not only tenant but master of such a home.

Those readers who have followed me through the previous stages of my career, and to whom the leading incidents—one excepted—of that career have been communicated, may now be surprised to learn that I have a wife and three children! But why has the revelation of so important an event in one's life been so long withheld, or when thus withheld, why now disclosed? Why burke the entire history of what to the public is usually so interesting—first love, poetical epistles, clandestine meetings and the final victory under the sacred bond of matrimony? Was the wooing less pregnant with romance or the wedding with interest than other wooings and weddings with which countless periodicals have been, and still are, filled for the edification of countless readers? Perhaps so, or perhaps not. Yet, beyond that brief reference to the domestic circle which is necessitated by the presentation of a landed gift to my only daughter, I should still have remained silent on the subject of my own family, only that such silence might now be misconstrued. Therefore, in a page 287single sentence I will simply say, that my union was a happy one, and that in my own family circle I have ever derived, as I still derive, my greatest earthly happiness. This book originated with a higher object than that of publishing a mere rigmarole of private affairs, however interesting such matters might be to those immediately concerned. True, our own children may be—at least in the eyes of their parents—very superior to the children of other people, but will other people, or other people's children believe anything of the sort? If so, I am taking incorrect sketches both of our own way and of the way of the world. Therefore, though Miss J—'s accomplishments, Master H—'s industry, or young B—'s love be great or little, the subject is one of greater interest to themselves and to their parents than to anybody else.

After placing before my little family circle a brief résumé of the many perils and few pleasures in my antipodal adventure, and after putting my daughter in possession of the deed by which she became the owner of ten acres of land—to the giver of which reference will be made in a future chapter—I proceeded to that friend who had unfortunately entrusted to my care goods to the amount of £400, for which I had nothing but an account of their loss to return. Yet, except the swindlers in Australia who had obtained possession of these goods, the original owner was the only person who treated their loss with levity. As he cordially shook me by the hand, he declared, "my only trouble in the matter has arisen from the knowledge that I have given you so much trouble on my account." For once I felt I had not been mistaken in my estimate of a man whom I had long regarded as a friend. The reader may determine by one or two incidents in a future chapter whether such estimate was a correct one.

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Having thus returned from my antipodal mission with a full heart and an empty purse, and having sent to press a bundle of notes from which my future literary work was to be composed, and having, moreover, like the renowned Mother Hubbard, discovered that our family "cupboard was bare," I began, with anxious eye, to look around for some ready source from which to furnish an indispensable domestic store. Though a few lectures at various literary institutions served as the means for the partial supply of an immediate necessity, the revenue arising from this kind of occupation—unless such engagements were extended to each night in the week—proved but a beggarly pittance, after all, a something that barely exceeded, if it equalled, the pay of a skilled mechanic. But if "necessity is the mother of invention," it likewise not unfrequently becomes the parent of adoption or imitation. If, like a General Tom Thumb, the adopted child should give early promise of fame and fortune, hundreds of ready-made guardians will be found both ready and willing to father the "public pet."

It was just at this period that, at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, my friend Albert Smith was making a more profitable and less arduous ascent of a gigantic mountain than was ever before made by traveller for the benefit of himself and the amusement of his patrons. He was not only drawing nightly crowds of admiring spectators to witness his graceful and easy "Ascent of Mont Blanc," but by his lecture and pictorial illustrations of the same he was also drawing large sums of money from his visitors' pockets into his own. Now, did anybody ever make a "great hit" in the English metropolis, either in the shape of an entertainment or any other enterprise, without being almost immediately followed by a whole host of imitators? No page 289sooner is birth given to an original idea than countless outsiders are ready and anxious to make capital out of borrowed stock, by placing before the public what often proves to be the mere effigy of another's offspring. Was there ever a successful originator without a large company of unsuccessful imitators? Never—at least not within range of my memory. Although the actual ascent of the real, mountain by Mr. Smith prevented an imitation of his descriptive "Ascent of Mont Blanc" by those who had never journeyed fifty miles from home, nevertheless, the success of his single-handed entertainment gave rise to exhibitions and exhibitors without number, and, it may be truly said, without vitality, as a vast majority of the same had but a very brief existence. Though every town in the kingdom was soon inundated with drawing-room entertainments and entertainers, every town in the kingdom soon allowed the novelties to die a natural death. Mine might possibly have shared a similar fate; but, as will presently be seen, it came to a premature end from other causes.

I will not attempt to conceal the fact that in the success of "Mont Blanc" originated my own desire to enter the public arena as a professional lecturer, sanguine—like others—as I then was, of reaping a rich reward for my labors. But while hoping to derive benefit by the adoption of my friend's plan of a single-handed entertainment, I, at the same time, resolved that in all other respects novelty should prevail, and that the exhibition, whatever its merits or demerits, should at least bear evidence of originality. From an early period I had not only been partial to, but had frequently taken an active part in private theatricals.

Private theatricals! Those of my readers who have never witnessed the odd characters and strange scenes which occasionally make up entertainments of this kind page 290have but a faint notion either of the performances, or of the irresistible merriment created thereby. The mirth of the audience usually increases with the seriousness of the play and the gravity of the players. The frequent oral mistakes made by a novice in some tragic part are often mere trifles to the novelty of the action. When he points to the sky in addressing the boundless ocean, or to the lower region in addressing the sun, it becomes painfully, or rather amusingly apparent to the spectators, that the particular part of Hamlet's address to the players, in which he exhorts them to "suit the action to the word and the word to the action" is entirely neglected by the amateur before them. Sheridan's amusing play of "The Critic; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed," was surely founded on amateur performances. Be this as it may, such performances served as a foundation and furnished a portion of the materials for my new entertainment of "Amateur Authors and Actors; or, an Evening at Home." In writing the speeches, composing the songs, and arranging the parts of this intended exhibition, in which many of the most ludicrous scenes in amateur acting and singing were introduced, I worked almost night and day for nearly four months.

I verily believe that where one public character dies a natural death, five at least kill themselves by excitement—that is, that five out of every six whose means of living depend on exciting or artificial action either become prematurely old, or die before reaching an advanced age. Let our physical laborers work as hard as they may, our intellectual slaves work still harder, while the wear and tear of the brain-driver greatly exceed that of the mechanic How many promising intellects, like worm-eaten fruit, have kissed their mother earth before reaching maturity? I have marked the untimely fall of a large number. I can page 291count many late acquaintances who, in early manhood, worked themselves to death. My friend Albert Smith might be named as one among a host of others. He was usually the lion of an evening party. His genial disposition and affable manners made him as popular in private as in public society. But the excitement arising from that popularity was the bane of the noble spirit it had reared. The man was unable to live without excitement, Yet excitement proved fatal to his existence. Temperate in all things else, he had no moderation in one thing—an exuberant fancy. With the effervescence of this fancy he was ever intoxicated—an intoxication not less injurious to the body than the more debasing one arising from strong drinks. The last time I met him was at a large party. Here he was all grace and gaiety till an advanced hour in the morning, though he was announced to give his popular lecture twice on the same day. This induced a gentleman at the soir ée to remark, "Smith will surely kill himself." The truth of the prophecy is unfortunately too well known.

Well. Did anything I had seen of danger, as affecting others, deter me from entering on a dangerous course? Nothing of the sort. I had tasted public applause and liked it. The business in hand was not only agreeable to the taste, but promised to be remunerative. Though the bodily frame betrayed unmistakable symptoms of weakness, it was supported by the hope of pleasure and profit. Launched on the silvery stream of gain, who would dream of danger—even though a buoyant spirit should all the while be nearing the rapids of destruction? My new entertainment had already been tried on one of the side channels to public favor. The trial took place at the Royal Polytechnic Institution. The lecture theatre was full on the occasion, and the exhibition was successful. Like the incipient stage page 292of an incurable malady, that success proved the first step to my final downfall. But, while I saw fortune smile before me, I did not for a moment suppose that her elder sister, mis -fortune, was close at my heels. Therefore extensive preparations were at once made both for a London season and a provincial tour, and the Queen's Concert Room, Hanover Square, was engaged as the grand starting point. To an eminent artist I paid ten guineas each for drawings (on stone) of the leading characters in my entertainment. Posters, hand-bills, and programmes were struck off by thousands, and everything was done and everybody, from bill-stickers to money-takers, engaged to carry into effect the most beautiful arrangements that were ever completed for making a rapid and handsome independence.

As the time for making my first appearance in Hanover Square drew near my bodily strength had diminished rather than increased. On the day preceding the entertainment I was so unwell that, by the advice of friends, I prepared for press the draft of an advertisement in which the postponement of the exhibition was to have been announced. But on the following and all eventful morning I felt or thought I felt better. The circular was not issued, and I resolved to proceed to business at the appointed hour, and thus, to the best of my ability, fulfil my engagement with the public. Everything but good health favored the opening night. The weather was good, my spirits were good, the audience was good, and—I simply record what was stated by the press—the entertainment elicited from others the like designation. But that verdict was not obtained without a desperate and almost fatal effort on the part of the performer. While the audience appeared to derive pleasure from what was going on, they were altogether ignorant of the bodily pain of the poor sufferer who, with page 293forced smiles and simulated vigor, catered for their amusement.

The race was over just in time. When won—I immediately broke down. I could not have entered on another scene without having at once betrayed the weakness I had so successfully managed to conceal. On the following day I was too unwell for anything, except to recline on the sofa, read the opinions of the press on the entertainment which gave birth to my illness, reflect awhile on the seeming futility of my beautiful arrangements for making a rapid and handsome fortune, and send for the medical gentleman whose advice—"to abstain from all excitement"—I had previously disregarded.

"The country and your native air may do something for you. At present I can do nothing."

Such was the soothing balm of my medical comforter! Having before solicited his advice and followed my own, I found him on this occasion honest enough to administer a dose which proved at least irresistible, if not efficacious. To the country and my native air I at once repaired. But country and native air failed to arrest the approaching malady. In a few days I was confined to bed by malignant fever. When, at the expiration of six weeks, that fever had sufficiently subsided to permit of my removal to London, another and more lasting disease followed—one from which I have never recovered, and shall probably never recover. To this, the heaviest blow yet greatest blessing of my life, I will briefly refer in the next chapter.