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Number One; or, The Way of the World

Chapter iv. Honest John.—Frank in London

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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 page 20a 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 page 21inanimate 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 page 22father, 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 page 23mind 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."

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"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. page 25After 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."

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"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.

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"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 page 28little 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?"

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"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 page 30than 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 page 31to 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.