supporting figures, they are, at least, pillowy, capacious, and round–here it is quite otherwise; and Sir Joshua might well call it a little Apollo, with that immense cloud above him, which is in fact too much a portrait of a cloud, too peculiar, too edgy, for any subject where the sky is not to be all in all. We do not say it is not fine and grand, and what you please; but it is not subordinate, it casts its lightning as from its own natural power, there was no need of a god’s assistance.
“Nec Deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus;”
and the action does not take place in a “prepared” landscape. There is nothing to take us back to a fabled age. Reynolds is not unjust to Wilson’s merits, for he calls it, notwithstanding this defect, “a very admirable picture;” which picture will, we suspect, in a few years lose its principal charm, if it has not lost it; the colour is sadly changing, there is now little aerial in the sky. It is said of Wilson, that he ridiculed the experiments of Sir Joshua, and spoke of using nothing but “honest linseed”–to which, however, he added varnishes and wax, as will easily be seen in those pictures of his which have so cracked–and now lose their colour. “Honest” linseed appears to have played him a sad trick, or he to have played a trick upon honest linseed. Sir Joshua, however, to his just criticism, adds the best precept, example–and instances two pictures, historical landscape, “Jacob’s Dream”–which was exhibited a year or two ago in the Institution, Pall-Mall–by Salvator Rosa, and the picture by Sebastian Bourdon, “The Return of the Ark from Captivity,” now in the National Gallery. The latter picture, as a composition, is not perhaps good–it is cut up into too many parts, and those parts are not sufficiently poetical; in its hue, it may be appropriate. The other, “Jacob’s Dream” is one of the finest by the master–there is an extraordinary boldness in the clouds, an uncommon grandeur, strongly marked, sentient of angelic visitants. This picture has been recently wretchedly engraved in mezzotinto; all that is in the picture firm and hard, is in the print soft, fuzzy, and disagreeable. Sir Joshua treats very tenderly the mistaken manner of Gainsborough in his late pictures, the “odd scratches and marks.” “This chaos, this uncouth and shapeless appearance, by a kind of magic at a certain distance, assumes form, and all their parts seem to drop into their places, so that we can hardly refuse acknowledging the full effect of diligence, under the appearance of chance and heavy negligence.” The _heavy_ negligence happily describes the fault of the manner. It is horribly manifest in that magnitude of vulgarity for landscape, the “Market Cart” in our National Gallery, and purchased at we know not what vast sum, and presented by the governors of the institution to the nation. We have a very high opinion of the genius of Gainsborough; but we do not see it in his landscapes, with very few exceptions. His portraits have an air of truth never exceeded, and that set off with great power and artistical skill; and his rustic children are admirable. He stands alone, and never has had a successful imitator. The mock sentimentality, the affected refinement, which has been added to his simple style by other artists, is disgusting in the extreme. Gainsborough certainly studied colour with great success. He is both praised and blamed for a lightness of manner and effect possessed “to an unexampled degree of excellence;” but “the sacrifice which he made, to this ornament of our art, was too great.” We confess we do not understand Sir Joshua, nor can we reconcile “the _heavy_ negligence” with this “lightness of manner.” Mr Burnet, in one of his notes, compares Wilson with Gainsborough; he appears to give the preference to Wilson–why does he not compare Gainsborough with Sir Joshua himself? the rivalry should have been in portrait. There is a long note upon Sir Joshua’s remarks upon Wilson’s “Niobe.” We are not surprised at Cunningham’s “Castigation.” He did not like Sir Joshua, and could not understand nor value his character. This is evident in his Life of the President. Cunningham must have had but an ill-educated classic eye when he asserted so grandiloquently,–“He rose at once from the tame insipidity of common scenery into natural grandeur and magnificence; his streams seem all abodes for nymphs, his hills are fit haunts for the muses, and his temples worthy of gods,”–a passage, we think, most worthy the monosyllable commonly used upon such occasions by the manly and simple-minded Mr Burchell. That Sir Joshua occasionally transgressed in his wanderings into mythology, it would be difficult to deny; nor was it his only transgression from his legitimate ground, as may be seen in his “Holy Family” in the National Gallery. But we doubt if the critique upon his “Mrs Siddons” is quite fair. The chair and the footstool may not be on the cloud, a tragic and mysterious vapour reconciling the bodily presence of the muse with the demon and fatal ministers of the drama that attend her. Though Sir Joshua’s words are here brought against him, it is without attention to their application in his critique, which condemned their form and character as not historical nor voluminous–faults that do not attach to the clouds, if clouds they must be in the picture (the finest of Sir Joshua’s works) of Mrs Siddons as the Tragic Muse. It is not our business to enter upon the supposed fact, that Sir Joshua was jealous of Wilson; the one was a polished, the other perhaps a somewhat coarse man. We have only to see if the criticism be just. In this Discourse Sir Joshua has the candour to admit, that there were at one time jealousies between him and Gainsborough; there may have been between him and Wilson, but, at all events, we cannot take a just criticism as a proof of it, or we must convict him, and all others too, of being jealous of artists and writers whose works they in any manner censure.
* * * * *
The FIFTEENTH DISCOURSE.–We come now to Sir Joshua’s last Discourse, in which the President takes leave of the Academy, reviews his “Discourses,” and concludes with recommending the study of Michael Angelo.
Having gone along with the President of the Academy in the pursuit of the principles of the art in these Discourses, and felt a portion of the enthusiasm which he felt, and knew so well how to impart to others, we come to this last Discourse, with a melancholy knowledge that it was the last; and reflect with pain upon that cloud which so soon interposed between Reynolds and at least the practical enjoyment of his art. He takes leave of the Academy affectionately, and, like a truth-loving man to the last, acknowledges the little contentions (in so softening a manner does he speak of the “rough hostility of Barry,” and “oppositions of Gainsborough”) which “ought certainly,” says he, “to be lost among ourselves in mutual esteem for talents and acquirements: every controversy ought to be–I am persuaded will be–sunk in our zeal for the perfection of our common art.” “My age, and my infirmities still more than my age, make it probable that this will be the last time I shall have the honour of addressing you from this place.” This last visit seemed to be threatened with a tragical end;–the circumstance showed the calm mind of the President; it was characteristic of the man who would die with dignity, and gracefully. A large assembly were present, of rank and importance, besides the students. The pressure was great–a beam in the floor gave way with a loud crash; a general rush was made to the door, all indiscriminately falling one over the other, except the President, who kept his seat “silent and unmoved.” The floor only sunk a little, was soon supported, and Sir Joshua recommenced his Discourse.
“Justum et tenacem propositi
Impavidum ferient ruinae.”
He compliments the Academy upon the ability of the professors, speaks with diffidence of his power as a writer, (the world has in this respect done him justice;) but that he had come not unprepared upon the subject of art, having reflected much upon his own and the opinions of others. He found in the art many precepts and rules, not reconcilable with each other. “To clear away those difficulties and reconcile those contrary opinions, it became necessary to distinguish the greater truth, as it may be called, from the lesser truth; the larger and more liberal idea of nature from the more narrow and confined: that which addresses itself to the imagination, from that which is solely addressed to the eye. In consequence of this discrimination, the different branches of our art to which those different truths were referred, were perceived to make so wide a separation, and put on so new an appearance, that they seemed scarcely to have proceeded from the same general stock. The different rules and regulations which presided over each department of art, followed of course; every mode of excellence, from the grand style of the Roman and Florentine schools down to the lowest rank of still life, had its due weight and value–fitted to some class or other; and nothing was thrown away. By this disposition of our art into classes, that perplexity and confusion, which I apprehend every artist has at some time experienced from the variety of styles, and the variety of excellence with which he is surrounded, is, I should hope, in some measure removed, and the student better enabled to judge for himself what peculiarly belongs to his own particular pursuit.” Besides the practice of art, the student must think, and speculate, and consider “upon what ground the fabric of our art is built.” An artist suffers throughout his whole life, from uncertain, confused, and erroneous opinions. We are persuaded there would be fewer fatal errors were these Discourses more in the hands of our present artists–“Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.”–An example is given of the mischief of erroneous opinions. “I was acquainted at Rome, in the early part of my life, with a student of the French Academy, who appeared to me to possess all the qualities requisite to make a great artist, if he had suffered his taste and feelings, and I may add even his prejudices, to have fair play. He saw and felt the excellences of the great works of art with which we were surrounded, but lamented that there was not to be found that nature which is so admirable in the inferior schools,–and he supposed with Felebien, Du Piles, and other theorists, that such an union of different excellences would be the perfection of art. He was not aware that the narrow idea of nature, of which he lamented the absence in the works of those great artists, would have destroyed the grandeur of the general ideas which he admired, and which was indeed the cause of his admiration. My opinions being then confused and unsettled, I was in danger of being borne down by this plausible reasoning, though I remember I then had a dawning suspicion that it was not sound doctrine; and at the same time I was unwilling obstinately to refuse assent to what I was unable to confute.” False and low views of art are now so commonly taken both in and out of the profession, that we have not hesitated to quote the above passage; the danger Sir Joshua confesses he was in, is common, and demands the warning. To make it more direct we should add, “Read his Discourses.” Again, without intending to fetter the student’s mind to a particular method of study, he urges the necessity and wisdom of previously obtaining the appropriated instruments of art, in a first correct design, and a plain manly colouring, before any thing more is attempted. He does not think it, however, of very great importance whether or not the student aim first at grace and grandeur before he has learned correctness, and adduces the example of Parmegiano, whose first public work was done when a boy, the “St Eustachius” in the Church of St Petronius, in Bologna–one of his last is the “Moses breaking the Tables,” in Parma. The former has grandeur and incorrectness, but “discovers the dawnings of future greatness.” In mature age he had corrected his defects, and the drawing of his Moses was equally admirable with the grandeur of the conception–an excellent plate is given of this figure by Mr Burnet. The fact is, the impulse of the mind is not to be too much restrained–it is better to give it its due and first play, than check it until it has acquired correctness–good sense first or last, and a love of the art, will generally insure correctness in the end; the impulses often checked, come with weakened power, and ultimately refuse to come at all; and each time that they depart unsatisfied, unemployed, take away with them as they retire a portion of the fire of genius. Parmegiano formed himself upon Michael Angelo: Michael Angelo brought the art to a “sudden maturity,” as Homer and Shakspeare did theirs. “Subordinate parts of our art, and perhaps of other arts, expand themselves by a slow and progressive growth; but those which depend on a native vigour of imagination, generally burst forth at once in fulness of beauty.” Correctness of drawing and imagination, the one of mechanical genius the other of poetic, undoubtedly work together for perfection–“a confidence in the mechanic produces a boldness in the poetic.” He expresses his surprise that the race of painters, before Michael Angelo, never thought of transferring to painting the grandeur they admired in ancient sculpture. “Raffaelle himself seemed to be going on very contentedly in the dry manner of Pietro Perugino; and if Michael Angelo had never appeared, the art might still have continued in the same style.” “On this foundation the Caracci built the truly great academical Bolognian school; of which the first stone was laid by Pellegrino Tibaldi.” The Caracci called him “nostro Michael Angelo riformato.” His figure of Polyphemus, which had been attributed to Michael Angelo in Bishop’s “Ancient Statues,” is given in a plate by Mr Burnet. The Caracci he considers sufficiently succeeded in the mechanical, not in “the divine part which addresses itself to the imagination,” as did Tibaldi and Michael Angelo. They formed, however, a school that was “most respectable,” and “calculated to please a greater number.” The Venetian school advanced “the dignity of their style, by adding to their fascinating powers of colouring something of the strength of Michael Angelo.” Here Sir Joshua seems to contradict his former assertion; but as he is here abridging, as it were, his whole Discourses, he cannot avoid his own observations. It was a point, however, upon which he was still doubtful; for he immediately adds–“At the same time it may still be a doubt, how far their ornamental elegance would be an advantageous addition to his grandeur. But if there is any manner of painting, which may be said to unite kindly with his (Michael Angelo’s) style, it is that of Titian. His handling, the manner in which his colours are left on the canvass, appears to proceed (as far as that goes) from congenial mind, equally disdainful of vulgar criticism. He is reminded of a remark of Johnson’s, that Pope’s Homer, had it not been clothed with graces and elegances not in Homer, would have had fewer readers, thus justifying by example and authority of Johnson, the graces of the Venetian school. Some Flemish painters at “the great era of our art” took to their country “as much of this grandeur as they could carry.” It did not thrive, but “perhaps they contributed to prepare the way for that free, unconstrained, and liberal outline, which was afterwards introduced by Rubens, through the medium of the Venetian painters.” The grandeur of style first discovered by Michael Angelo passed through Europe, and totally “changed the whole character and style of design. His works excite the same sensation as the Epic of Homer. The Sybils, the statue of Moses, “come nearer to a comparison with his Jupiter, his demigods, and heroes; those Sybils and prophets being a kind of intermediate beings between men and angels. Though instances may be produced in the works of other painters, which may justly stand in competition with those I have mentioned, such as the ‘Isaiah,’ and ‘Vision of Ezekiel,’ by Raffaelle, the ‘St Mark’ of Frate Bartolomeo, and many others; yet these, it must be allowed, are inventions so much in Michael Angelo’s manner of thinking, that they may be truly considered as so many rays which discover manifestly the centre from whence they emanated.” The style of Michael Angelo is so highly artificial that the mind must be cultivated to receive it; having once received it, the mind is improved by it, and cannot go very far back. Hence the hold this great style has had upon all who are most learned in art, and upon nearly all painters in the best time of art. As art multiplies, false tastes will arise, the early painters had not so much to unlearn as modern artists. Where Michael Angelo is not felt, there is a lost taste to recover. Sir Joshua recommends young artists to follow Michael Angelo as he did the ancient sculptors. “He began, when a child, a copy of a mutilated Satyr’s head, and finished in his model what was wanting in the original.” So would he recommend the student to take his figures from Michael Angelo, and to change, and alter, and add other figures till he has caught the manner. Change the purpose, and retain the attitude, as did Titian. By habit of seeing with this eye of grandeur, he will select from nature all that corresponds with this taste. Sir Joshua is aware that he is laying himself open to sarcasm by his advice, but asserts the courage becoming a teacher addressing students: “they both must equally dare, and bid defiance to narrow criticism and vulgar opinion.” It is the conceited who think that art is nothing but inspiration; and such appropriate it in their own estimation; but it is to be learned,–if so, the right direction to it is of vast importance; and once in the right direction, labour and study will accomplish the better aspirations of the artist. Michael Angelo said of Raffaelle, that he possessed not his art by nature but by long study. “Che Raffaelle non ebbe quest’ arte da natura, ma per longo studio.” Raffaelle and Michael Angelo were rivals, but ever spoke of each other with the respect and veneration they felt, and the true meaning of the passage was to the praise of Raffaelle; those were not the days when men were ashamed of being laborious,–and Raffaelle himself “thanked God that he was born in the same age with that painter.”–“I feel a self-congratulation,” adds Sir Joshua, “in knowing myself capable of such sensations as he intended to excite. I reflect, not without vanity, that these Discourses bear testimony of my admiration of that truly divine man; and I should desire that the last words which I should pronounce in this Academy, and from this place, might be the name of Michael Angelo.” They were his last words from the academical chair. He died about fourteen months after the delivery of this Discourse. Mr Burnet has given five excellent plates to this Discourse–one from Parmegiano, one from Tibaldi, one from Titian, one from Raffaelle, and one from Michael Angelo. Mr Burnet’s first note repeats what we have again and again elsewhere urged, the advantage of establishing at our universities, Oxford and Cambridge, Professorships of Painting–infinite would be the advantage to art, and to the public. We do not despair. Mr Burnet seems to fear incorrect drawing will arise from some passages, which he supposes encourages it, in these Discourses; and fearing it, very properly endeavours to correct the error in a note. We had intended to conclude this paper with some few remarks upon Sir Joshua, his style, and influence upon art, but we have not space. Perhaps we may fulfil this part of our intention in another number of Maga.
* * * * *
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD.
Grief hath been known to turn the young head grey– To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o’erpast: as in the fearful time Of Gallia’s madness, that discrowned head Serene, that on the accursed altar bled Miscall’d of Liberty. Oh! martyr’d Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been– _That one_–that sprinkled thy fair tresses o’er With time’s untimely snow! But now no more Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee– I have to tell an humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth, (If any) will be sad and simple truth.
“Mother,” quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame– So oft our peasant’s use his wife to name, “Father” and “Master” to himself applied, As life’s grave duties matronize the bride– “Mother,” quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north, With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labour, from the cottage door– “I’m thinking that, to-night, if not before, There’ll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[12] roar? It’s brewing up down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by th’ ford’s a nasty bit of way– Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.”
“Do, mother, do!” the quick-ear’d urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father’s side Close clinging, as they look’d from him, to spy The answering language of the mother’s eye. _There_ was denial, and she shook her head: “Nay, nay–no harm will come to them,” she said, “The mistress lets them off these short dark days An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, May quite be trusted–and I know ’tis true– To take care of herself and Jenny too. And so she ought–she’s seven come first of May– Two years the oldest: and they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day.”
The mother’s will was law, (alas for her That hapless day, poor soul!) _She_ could not err, Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-hair’d Jane (Her namesake) to his heart he hugg’d again, When each had had her turn; she clinging so As if that day she could not let him go. But Labour’s sons must snatch a hasty bliss In nature’s tend’rest mood. One last fond kiss, “God bless my little maids!” the father said, And cheerly went his way to win their bread. Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, What looks demure the sister pair put on– Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, Or questioning the love that could deny; But simply, as their simple training taught, In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought, (Submissively resign’d the hope of play,) Towards the serious business of the day.
To me there’s something touching, I confess, In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, Seen often in some little childish face Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) The unnatural sufferings of the factory child, But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, Sense of life’s cares, without its miseries.
So to the mother’s charge, with thoughtful brow, The docile Lizzy stood attentive now; Proud of her years and of imputed sense, And prudence justifying confidence– And little Jenny, more _demurely_ still, Beside her waited the maternal will. So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain Gainsb’rough ne’er painted: no–nor he of Spain, Glorious Murillo!–and by contrast shown More beautiful. The younger little one, With large blue eyes, and silken ringlets fair, By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, Sable and glossy as the raven’s wing, And lustrous eyes as dark.
“Now, mind and bring
Jenny safe home,” the mother said–“don’t stay To pull a bough or berry by the way: And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister’s hand, till you’re quite past– That plank’s so crazy, and so slippery (If not o’erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. But you’re good children–steady as old folk, I’d trust ye any where.” Then Lizzy’s cloak, A good grey duffle, lovingly she tied, And amply little Jenny’s lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. “Be sure,” said she, “To wrap it round and knot it carefully (Like this) when you come home; just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away– Good will to school, and then good right to play.”
Was there no sinking at the mother’s heart, When all equipt, they turn’d them to depart? When down the lane, she watch’d them as they went Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: Such warnings _have been sent_, we know full well, And must believe–believing that they are– In mercy then–to rouse–restrain–prepare.
And, now I mind me, something of the kind Did surely haunt that day the mother’s mind, Making it irksome to bide all alone
By her own quiet hearth. Tho’ never known For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,
Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay At home with her own thoughts, but took her way To her next neighbour’s, half a loaf to borrow– Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow. –And with the loan obtain’d, she linger’d still– Said she–“My master, if he’d had his will, Would have kept back our little ones from school This dreadful morning; and I’m such a fool, Since they’ve been gone, I’ve wish’d them back. But then It won’t do in such things to humour men– Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He’d spoil those wenches. But it’s coming on, That storm he said was brewing, sure enough– Well! what of that?–To think what idle stuff Will come into one’s head! and here with you I stop, as if I’d nothing else to do– And they’ll come home drown’d rats. I must be gone To get dry things, and set the kettle on.”
His day’s work done, three mortal miles and more Lay between Ambrose and his cottage door. A weary way, God wot! for weary wight! But yet far off, the curling smoke in sight From his own chimney, and his heart felt light. How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, Down the green lane by sheltering Shirley Wood! How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, How grateful the cool covert to regain Of his own _avenue_–that shady lane, With the white cottage, in a slanting glow Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, And jasmine porch, his rustic portico!
With what a thankful gladness in his face, (Silent heart-homage–plant of special grace!) At the lane’s entrance, slackening oft his pace, Would Ambrose send a loving look before; Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door, The very blackbird, strain’d its little throat In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; And honest Tinker! dog of doubtful breed, All bristle, back, and tail, but “good at need,” Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear; But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear, The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, Of his two little ones. How fondly swells The father’s heart, as, dancing up the lane, Each clasps a hand in her small hand again; And each must tell her tale, and “say her say,” Impeding as she leads, with sweet delay, (Childhood’s blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way.
And when the winter day closed in so fast, Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last; And in all weathers–driving sleet and snow– Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go, Darkling and lonely. Oh! the blessed sight (His pole-star) of that little twinkling light From one small window, thro’ the leafless trees, Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour, Streaming to meet him from the open door. Then, tho’ the blackbird’s welcome was unheard– Silenced by winter–note of summer bird Still hail’d him from no mortal fowl alive, But from the cuckoo-clock just striking five– And Tinker’s ear and Tinker’s nose were keen– Off started he, and then a form was seen Dark’ning the doorway; and a smaller sprite, And then another, peer’d into the night, Ready to follow free on Tinker’s track, But for the mother’s hand that held her back; And yet a moment–a few steps–and there, Pull’d o’er the threshold by that eager pair, He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair; Tinker takes post beside, with eyes that say, “Master! we’ve done our business for the day.” The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purs, The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs; The door’s made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn; How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on. How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he? Safe housed, and warm beneath his own roof-tree, With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.
Such was the hour–hour sacred and apart– Warm’d in expectancy the poor man’s heart. Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, To him and his the literal doom applied, Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet So earn’d, for such dear mouths. The weary feet Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way; So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray That time I tell of. He had work’d all day At a great clearing: vig’rous stroke on stroke Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seem’d broke, And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What of that? There was a treasure hidden in his hat– A plaything for the young ones. He had found A dormouse nest; the living ball coil’d round For its long winter sleep; and all his thought As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of nought But the glad wonderment in Jenny’s eyes, And graver Lizzy’s quieter surprize, When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
‘Twas a wild evening–wild and rough. “I knew,” Thought Ambrose, “those unlucky gulls spoke true– And Gaffer Chewton never growls for nought– I should be mortal ‘mazed now, if I thought My little maids were not safe housed before That blinding hail-storm–ay, this hour and more– Unless, by that old crazy bit of board, They’ve not passed dry-foot over Shallow-ford, That I’ll be bound for–swollen as it must be … Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me …” But, checking the half-thought as heresy, He look’d out for the Home-Star. There it shone, And with a gladden’d heart he hasten’d on.
He’s in the lane again–and there below, Streams from the open doorway that red glow, Which warms him but to look at. For his prize Cautious he feels–all safe and snug it lies– “Down Tinker!–down, old boy!–not quite so free– The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.– But what’s the meaning?–no look-out to-night! No living soul a-stir!–Pray God, all’s right! Who’s flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? Mother!” you might have fell’d him with a feather When the short answer to his loud–“Hillo!” And hurried question–“Are they come?”–was–“No.”
To throw his tools down–hastily unhook The old crack’d lantern from its dusty nook, And while he lit it, speak a cheering word, That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, Was but a moment’s act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. Passing a neighbour’s cottage in his way– Mark Fenton’s–him he took with short delay To bear him company–for who could say What need might be? They struck into the track The children should have taken coming back From school that day; and many a call and shout Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, And, by the lantern light, peer’d all about, In every road-side thicket, hole, and nook, Till suddenly–as nearing now the brook– Something brush’d past them. That was Tinker’s bark– Unheeded, he had follow’d in the dark, Close at his master’s heels, but, swift as light, Darted before them now. “Be sure he’s right– He’s on the track,” cried Ambrose. “Hold the light Low down–he’s making for the water. Hark! I know that whine–the old dog’s found them, Mark.” So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. “Yet there’s life somewhere–more than Tinker’s whine– That’s sure,” said Mark. “So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There’s the dog–and, hark!”
“Oh dear!”
And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mock’d by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something–a dark huddled heap– Half in the water, where ’twas scarce knee-deep, For a tall man; and half above it, propp’d By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt Endways the broken plank, when it gave way With the two little ones that luckless day! “My babes!–my lambkins!” was the father’s cry. _One little voice_ made answer–“Here am I!” ‘Twas Lizzy’s. There she crouch’d, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light, Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Wash’d by the turbid water, fix’d like stone– One arm and hand stretch’d out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe–Jenny’s frock. There she lay drown’d. Could he sustain that shock, The doating father? Where’s the unriven rock Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part As that soft sentient thing–the human heart?
They lifted her from out her wat’ry bed– Its covering gone, the lonely little head Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside– And one small hand. The mother’s shawl was tied, Leaving _that_ free, about the child’s small form, As was her last injunction–“_fast_ and warm”– Too well obeyed–too fast! A fatal hold Affording to the scrag by a thick fold That caught and pinn’d her in the river’s bed, While through the reckless water overhead Her life-breath bubbled up.
“She might have lived Struggling like Lizzy,” was the thought that rived The wretched mother’s heart when she knew all. “But for my foolishness about that shawl– And Master would have kept them back the day; But I was wilful–driving them away
In such wild weather!”
Thus the tortured heart, Unnaturally against itself takes part, Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe Too deep already. They had raised her now, And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, The father glued his warm ones, ere they roll’d Once more the fatal shawl–her winding-sheet– About the precious clay. One heart still beat, Warm’d by _his heart’s_ blood. To his _only child_ He turn’d him, but her piteous moaning mild Pierced him afresh–and now she knew him not.– “Mother!”–she murmur’d–“who says I forgot? Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close–she can’t be cold– But she won’t move–we slipt–I don’t know how– But I held on–and I’m so weary now– And it’s so dark and cold! oh dear! oh dear!– And she won’t move–if daddy was but here!”
* * * * *
Poor lamb–she wander’d in her mind, ’twas clear– But soon the piteous murmur died away, And quiet in her father’s arms she lay– They their dead burthen had resign’d, to take The living so near lost. For her dear sake, And one at home, he arm’d himself to bear His misery like a man–with tender care, Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold– (His neighbour bearing _that_ which felt no cold,) He clasp’d her close–and so, with little said, Homeward they bore the living and the dead.
From Ambrose Gray’s poor cottage, all that night, Shone fitfully a little shifting light, Above–below:–for all were watchers there, Save one sound sleeper.–_Her_, parental care, Parental watchfulness, avail’d not now. But in the young survivor’s throbbing brow, And wandering eyes, delirious fever burn’d; And all night long from side to side she turn’d, Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, With now and then the murmur–“She won’t move”– And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight– That young head’s raven hair was streak’d with white! No idle fiction this. Such things have been We know. And _now I tell what I have seen_.
Life struggled long with death in that small frame, But it was strong, and conquer’d. All became As it had been with the poor family– All–saving that which never more might be– There was an empty place–they were but three.
C.
[12] A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea called Chewton Bunny.
* * * * *
IMAGINARY CONVERSATION. BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
OLIVER CROMWELL AND SIR OLIVER CROMWELL.
_Sir Oliver_.–How many saints and Sions dost carry under thy cloak, lad? Ay, what dost groan at? What art about to be delivered of? Troth, it must be a vast and oddly-shapen piece of roguery which findeth no issue at such capacious quarters. I never thought to see thy face again. Prythee what, in God’s name, hath brought thee to Ramsey, fair Master Oliver?
_Oliver_.–In His name verily I come, and upon His errand; and the love and duty I bear unto my godfather and uncle have added wings, in a sort, unto my zeal.
_Sir Oliver_.–Take ’em off thy zeal and dust thy conscience with ’em. I have heard an account of a saint, one Phil Neri, who in the midst of his devotions was lifted up several yards from the ground. Now I do suspect, Nol, thou wilt finish by being a saint of his order; and nobody will promise or wish thee the luck to come down on thy feet again, as he did. So! because a rabble of fanatics at Huntingdon have equipped thee as their representative in Parliament, thou art free of all men’s houses, forsooth! I would have thee to understand, sirrah, that thou art fitter for the house they have chaired thee unto than for mine. Yet I do not question but thou wilt be as troublesome and unruly there as here. Did I not turn thee out of Hinchinbrook when thou wert scarcely half the rogue thou art latterly grown up to? And yet wert thou immeasurably too big a one for it to hold.
_Oliver_.–It repenteth me, O mine uncle! that in my boyhood and youth the Lord had not touched me.
_Sir Oliver_.–Touch thee! thou wast too dirty a dog by half.
_Oliver_.–Yea, sorely doth it vex and harrow me that I was then of ill conditions, and that my name–even your godson’s–stank in your nostrils.
_Sir Oliver_.–Ha! polecat! it was not thy name, although bad enough, that stank first; in my house, at least.[13] But perhaps there are worse maggots in stauncher mummeries.
_Oliver_.–Whereas in the bowels of your charity you then vouchsafed me forgiveness, so the more confidently may I crave it now in this my urgency.
_Sir Oliver_.–More confidently! What! hast got more confidence? Where didst find it? I never thought the wide circle of the world had within it another jot for thee. Well, Nol, I see no reason why thou shouldst stand before me with thy hat off, in the courtyard and in the sun, counting the stones of the pavement. Thou hast some knavery in thy head, I warrant thee. Come, put on thy beaver.
_Oliver_.–Uncle Sir Oliver! I know my duty too well to stand covered in the presence of so worshipful a kinsman, who, moreover, hath answered at baptism for my good behaviour.
_Sir Oliver_.–God forgive me for playing the fool before Him so presumptuously and unprofitably! Nobody shall ever take me in again to do such an absurd and wicked thing. But thou hast some left-hand business in the neighbourhood, no doubt, or thou wouldst never more have come under my archway.
_Oliver_.–These are hard times for them that seek peace. We are clay in the hand of the potter.
_Sir Oliver_.–I wish your potters sought nothing costlier, and dug in their own grounds for it. Most of us, as thou sayest, have been upon the wheel of these artificers; and little was left but rags when we got off. Sanctified folks are the cleverest skinners in all Christendom, and their Jordan tans and constringes us to the averdupoise of mummies.
_Oliver_.–The Lord hath chosen his own vessels.
_Sir Oliver_.–I wish heartily He would pack them off, and send them anywhere on ass-back or cart, (cart preferably,) to rid our country of ’em. But now again to the point: for if we fall among the potsherds we shall hobble on but lamely. Since thou art raised unto a high command in the army, and hast a dragoon to hold yonder thy solid and stately piece of horse-flesh, I cannot but take it into my fancy that thou hast some commission of array or disarray to execute hereabout.
_Oliver_.–With a sad sinking of spirit, to the pitch well-nigh of swounding, and with a sight of bitter tears, which will not be put back nor staid in anywise, as you bear testimony unto me, uncle Oliver.
_Sir Oliver_.–No tears, Master Nol, I beseech thee! Thou never art more pery than when it rains with thee. Wet days, among those of thy kidney, portend the letting of blood. What dost whimper at?
_Oliver_.–That I, that I, of all men living, should be put upon this work!
_Sir Oliver_.–What work, prythee?
_Oliver_.–I am sent hither by them who (the Lord in his loving-kindness having pity and mercy upon these poor realms) do, under his right hand, administer unto our necessities and righteously command us, _by the aforesaid as aforesaid_ (thus runs the commission) hither am I deputed (woe is me!) to levy certain fines in this county, or shire, on such as the Parliament in its wisdom doth style malignants.
_Sir Oliver_.–If there is anything left about the house, never be over nice: dismiss thy modesty and lay hands upon it. In this county or shire, we let go the civet-bag to save the weazon.
_Oliver_.–O mine uncle and godfather! be witness for me.
_Sir Oliver_.–Witness for thee! not I indeed. But I would rather be witness than surety, lad, where thou art docketed.
_Oliver_.–From the most despised doth the Lord ever choose his servants.
_Sir Oliver_.–Then, faith! thou art his first butler.
_Oliver_.–Serving Him with humility, I may peradventure be found worthy of advancement.
_Sir Oliver_.–Ha! now if any devil speaks from within thee, it is thy own: he does not sniffle: to my ears he speaks plain English. Worthy or unworthy of advancement, thou wilt attain it. Come in; at least for an hour’s rest. Formerly thou knewest the means of setting the heaviest heart afloat, let it be sticking in what mud-bank it might: and my wet-dock at Ramsey is pretty near as commodious as that over-yonder at Hinchinbrook was erewhile. Times are changed, and places too! yet the cellar holds good.
_Oliver_.–Many and great thanks! But there are certain men on the other side of the gate, who might take it ill if I turn away and neglect them.
_Sir Oliver_.–Let them enter also, or eat their victuals where they are.
_Oliver_.–They have proud stomachs: they are recusants.
_Sir Oliver_.–Recusants of what? of beef and ale? We have claret, I trust, for the squeamish, if they are above the condition of tradespeople. But of course you leave no person of higher quality in the outer court.
_Oliver_.–Vain are they and worldly, although such wickedness is the most abominable in their cases. Idle folks are fond of sitting in the sun: I would not forbid them this indulgence.
_Sir Oliver_.–But who are they?
_Oliver_.–The Lord knows. May-be priests, deacons, and such like.
_Sir Oliver_.–Then, sir, they are gentlemen. And the commission you bear from the parliamentary thieves, to sack and pillage my mansion-house, is far less vexatious and insulting to me, than your behaviour in keeping them so long at my stable-door. With your permission, or without it, I shall take the liberty to invite them to partake of my poor hospitality.
_Oliver_.–But, uncle Sir Oliver! there are rules and ordinances whereby it must be manifested that they lie under displeasure–not mine–not mine–but my milk must not flow for them.
_Sir Oliver_.–You may enter the house or remain where you are at your option; I make my visit to these gentlemen immediately, for I am tired of standing. If thou ever reachest my age,[14] Oliver! (but God will not surely let this be,) thou wilt know that the legs become at last of doubtful fidelity in the service of the body.
_Oliver_.–Uncle Sir Oliver! now that, as it seemeth, you have been taking a survey of the courtyard and its contents, am I indiscreet in asking your worship whether I acted not prudently in keeping the _men-at-belly_ under the custody of the _men-at-arms_? This pestilence, like unto one I remember to have read about in some poetry of Master Chapman’s,[15] began with the dogs and the mules, and afterwards crope up into the breasts of men.
_Sir Oliver_.–I call such treatment barbarous; their troopers will not let the gentlemen come with me into the house, but insist on sitting down to dinner with them. And yet, having brought them out of their colleges, these brutal half-soldiers must know that they are fellows.
_Oliver_.–Yea, of a truth are they, and fellows well met. Out of their superfluities they give nothing to the Lord or his Saints; no, not even stirrup or girth, wherewith we may mount our horses and go forth against those who thirst for our blood. Their eyes are fat, and they raise not up their voices to cry for our deliverance.
_Sir Oliver_.–Art mad? What stirrups and girths are hung up in college halls and libraries? For what are these gentlemen brought hither?
_Oliver_.–They have elected me, with somewhat short of unanimity, not indeed to be one of themselves, for of that distinction I acknowledge and deplore my unworthiness, nor indeed to be a poor scholar, to which, unless it be a very poor one, I have almost as small pretension, but simply to undertake awhile the heavier office of burser for them, to cast up their accounts; to overlook the scouring of their plate; and to lay a list thereof, with a few specimens, before those who fight the fight of the Lord, that his Saints, seeing the abasement of the proud and the chastisement of worldlymindedness, may rejoice.
_Sir Oliver_.–I am grown accustomed to such saints and such rejoicings. But, little could I have thought, threescore years ago, that the hearty and jovial people of England would ever join in so filching and stabbing a jocularity. Even the petticoated torch-bearers from rotten Rome, who lighted the faggots in Smithfield some years before, if more blustering and cocksy, were less bitter and vulturine. They were all intolerant, but they were not all hypocritical; they had not always “_the Lord_” in their mouths.
_Oliver_.–According to their own notions, they might have had at an outlay of a farthing.
_Sir Oliver_.–Art facetious, Nol? for it is as hard to find that out as any thing else in thee, only it makes thee look, at times, a little the grimmer and sourer.
But, regarding these gentlemen from Cambridge. Not being such as, by their habits and professions, could have opposed you in the field, I hold it unmilitary and unmanly to put them under any restraint, and so lead them away from their peaceful and useful occupations.
_Oliver_.–I alway bow submissively before the judgment of mine elders; and the more reverentially when I know them to be endowed with greater wisdom, and guided by surer experience than myself. Alas! those collegians not only are strong men, as you may readily see if you measure them round the waistband, but boisterous and pertinacious challengers. When we, who live in the fear of God, exhorted them earnestly unto peace and brotherly love, they held us in derision. Thus far indeed it might be an advantage to us, teaching us forbearance and self-seeking, but we cannot countenance the evil spirit moving them thereunto. Their occupations, as you remark most wisely, might have been useful and peaceful, and had formerly been so. Why then did they gird the sword of strife about their loins against the children of Israel? By their own declaration, not only are they our enemies, but enemies the most spiteful and untractable. When I came quietly, lawfully, and in the name of the Lord, for their plate, what did they? Instead of surrendering it like honest and conscientious men, they attacked me and my people on horseback, with syllogisms and centhymemes, and the Lord knows with what other such gimcracks, such venemous and rankling old weapons as those who have the fear of God before their eyes are fain to lay aside. Learning should not make folks mockers–should not make folks malignants–should not harden their hearts. We came with bowels for them.
_Sir Oliver_.–That ye did! and bowels which would have stowed within them all the plate on board of a galloon. Tankards and wassil-bowls had stuck between your teeth, you would not have felt them.
_Oliver_.–We did feel them; some at least: perhaps we missed too many.
_Sir Oliver_.–How can these learned societies raise the money you exact from them, beside plate? dost think they can create and coin it?
_Oliver_.–In Cambridge, uncle Sir Oliver, and more especially in that college named in honour (as they profanely call it) of the blessed Trinity, there are great conjurors or chemists. Now the said conjurors or chemists not only do possess the faculty of making the precious metals out of old books and parchments, but out of the skulls of young lordlings and gentlefolks, which verily promise less. And this they bring about by certain gold wires fastened at the top of certain caps. Of said metals, thus devilishly converted, do they make a vain and sumptuous use; so that, finally, they are afraid of cutting their lips with glass. But indeed it is high time to call them.
_Sir Oliver_.–Well–at last thou hast some mercy.
_Oliver_ (_aloud_.)–Cuffsatan Ramsbottom! Sadsoul Kiteclan! advance! Let every gown, together with the belly that is therein, mount up behind you and your comrades in good fellowship. And forasmuch as you at the country-places look to bit and bridle, it seemeth fair and equitable that ye should leave unto them, in full propriety, the mancipular office of discharging the account. If there be any spare beds at the inns, allow the doctors and dons to occupy the same–they being used to lie softly; and be not urgent that more than three lie in each–they being mostly corpulent. Let pass quietly and unreproved any light bubble of pride or impetuosity, seeing that they have not alway been accustomed to the service of guards and ushers. The Lord be with ye!–Slow trot! And now, uncle Sir Oliver, I can resist no longer your loving-kindness. I kiss you, my godfather, in heart’s and soul’s duty; and most humbly and gratefully do I accept of your invitation to dine and lodge with you, albeit the least worthy of your family and kinsfolk. After the refreshment of needful food, more needful prayer, and that sleep which descendeth on the innocent like the dew of Hermon, to-morrow at daybreak I proceed on my journey Londonward.
_Sir Oliver_ (_aloud_.)–Ho, there! (_To a servant_.)–Let dinner be prepared in the great diningroom; let every servant be in waiting, each in full livery; let every delicacy the house affords be placed upon the table in due courses; arrange all the plate upon the side-board: a gentleman by descent–a stranger, has claimed my hospitality. (_Servant goes_.)
Sir! you are now master. Grant me dispensation, I entreat you, from a further attendance on you.
[13] See Forster’s Life of Cromwell.
[14] Sir Oliver, who died in 1655, aged ninety-three, might, by possibility, have seen all the men of great genius, excepting Chaucer and Roger Bacon, whom England has produced from its first discovery down to our own times. Francis Bacon, Shakspeare, Milton, Newton, and the prodigious shoal that attended these leviathans through the intellectual deep. Newton was but in his thirteenth year at Sir Oliver’s death. Raleigh, Spenser, Hooker, Elliot, Selden, Taylor, Hobbes, Sidney, Shaftesbury, and Locke, were existing in his lifetime; and several more, who may be compared with the smaller of these.
[15] Chapman’s _Homer_, first book.
* * * * *
CALEB STUKELY.
PART XI.
SAINTS AND SINNERS.
The history of my youth is the history of my life. My contemporaries were setting out on their journey when my pilgrimage was at an end. I had drained the cup of experience before other men had placed it to their lips. The vicissitudes of all seasons occurred in one, and, before my spring had closed, I had felt the winter’s gloominess and cold. The scattered and separated experiences that diversify and mark the passage of the “threescore years and ten,” were collected and thrust into the narrow period of my nonage. Within that boundary, existence was condensed. It was the time of action and of suffering. I have passed from youth to maturity and decline gently and passively; and now, in the cool and quiet sunset, I repose, connected with the past only by the adhering memories that will not be excluded from my solitude. I have gathered upon my head the enduring snow of age; but it has settled there in its natural course, with no accompaniment of storm and tempest. I look back to the land over which I have journeyed, and through which I have been conveyed to my present humble resting-place, and I behold a broad extent of plain, spreading from my very feet, into the hazy distance, where all is cloud, mountain, tumult, and agitation. Heaven be praised, I can look back with gratitude, chastened and informed!
Amongst all the startling and stirring events that crowded into the small division of time to which I refer, none had so confounded, perplexed, alarmed, and grieved me, as the discovery of Mr Clayton’s criminality and falsehood. There are mental and moral concussions, which, like physical shocks, stun and stupify with their suddenness and violence. This was one of them. Months after I had been satisfied of his obliquity, it was difficult to _realize_ the conviction that truth and justice authoritatively demanded. When I thought of the minister–when his form presented itself to my mind’s eye, as it did, day after day, and hour after hour, it was impossible to contemplate it with the aversion and distaste which were the natural productions of his own base conduct. I could see nothing but the figure and the lineaments of him, whose eloquence had charmed, whose benevolent hand had nourished and maintained me. There are likewise, in this mysterious state of life, paroxysms and intervals of disordered consciousness, which memory refuses to acknowledge or record; the epileptic’s waking dream is one–an unreal reality. And similar to this was my impression of the late events. They lacked substantiality. Memory took no account of them, discarded them, and would connect the present only with the bright experience she had treasured up, prior to the dark distempered season. I could not hate my benefactor. I could not efface the image, which months of apparent love had engraven on my heart.
Thrust from Mr Clayton’s chapel, and unable to obtain admission elsewhere, I felt how insecure was my tenure of office. I prepared myself for dismissal, and hoped that, when the hour arrived, I should submit without repining. In the meanwhile, I was careful in the performance of every duty, and studious to give no cause, not the remotest, for complaint or dissatisfaction. It was not long, however, before signs of an altered state of things presented themselves to view. A straw tells which way the wind blows, and wisps began to fly in all directions. I found at length that I could do nothing right. To-day I was too indolent; to-morrow, too officious:–now I was too much of a gentlemen; and now not half gentlemanly enough. The hardest infliction to bear was the treatment of my new friend and colleague–of him who had given me kind warning and advice, when mischief was only threatening, but who, on the first appearance of trouble, took alarm, and deserted my side. The moment that he perceived my inevitable fate, he decided upon leaving me alone to fight my hard battle. At first he spoke to me with shyness and reserve; afterwards coolly, and soon, he said nothing at all. Sometimes, perhaps, if we were quite alone, and there was no chance whatever of discovery, he would venture half a word or so upon the convenient subject of the weather; but these occasions were very rare. If a superior were present, hurricanes would not draw a syllable from his careful lips; and, under the eye of the stout and influential Mr Bombasty, it was well for me if frowns and sneers were the only exhibitions of rudeness on the part of my worldly and far-seeing friend. Ah, Jacob Whining! With all your policy and sagacious selfishness, you found it difficult to protract your own official existence a few months longer. He had hardly congratulated himself upon the dexterity which had kept him from being involved in my misfortunes, before _he_ fell under the ban of _his_ church, like me was persecuted, and driven into the world a branded and excommunicated outcast. Mr Whining, however, who had learnt much in the world, and more in his _connexion_, was a cleverer and more fortunate man than this friend and coadjutor. He retired with his experience into Yorkshire, drew a small brotherhood about him, and in a short time became the revered and beloved founder of the numerous and far-spread sect of _Whiningtonians_!
It was just a fortnight after my expulsion from the _Church_, that matters were brought to a crisis as far as I was concerned, by the determined tone and conduct of the gentleman at the head of our society. Mr Bombasty arrived one morning at the office, in a perturbed and anxious state, and requested my attendance in his private room. I waited upon him. Perspiration hung about his fleshy face–he wiped it off, and then began:
“Young man,” said he, “this won’t do at all.”
“What, sir?” I asked.
“Come, don’t be impudent. You are done for, I can tell you.”
“How, sir?” I enquired. “What have I done?”
“Where are the subscriptions that were due last Saturday?”
“Not yet collected, sir.”
“What money have you belonging to the society?”
“Not a sixpence, sir.”
“Young man,” continued the lusty president in a solemn voice, “you are in a woeful state; you are living in the world without _a security_.”
“What is the matter, sir.”
“Matter!” echoed the gentleman.–“Matter with a man that has lost his security! Are you positive you have got no funds about you? Just look into your pocket, my friend, and make sure.”
“I have nothing, sir. Pray, tell me what I have done?”
“Young man, holding the office that I hold, feeling as I feel, and knowing what I know, it would be perfect madness in me to have any thing to do with a man who has been given over by his security. Don’t you understand me? Isn’t that very good English? Mr Clayton will have nothing more to say to you. The society gives you warning.”
“May I not be informed, sir, why I am so summarily dismissed?”
“Why, my good fellow, what is the matter with you? You seem remarkably stupid this morning. I can’t beat about the bush with you. You must go.”
“Without having committed a fault?” I added, mournfully.
“Sir,” said the distinguished president, looking libraries at me, “when one mortal has become security for another mortal, and suddenly annuls and stultifies his bond, to say that the other mortal has committed a _fault_ is just to call brandy–_water_. Sir,” continued Mr Bombasty, adjusting his India cravat, “that man has perpetrated a crime–a crime _primy facey–exy fishio_.”
I saw that my time was come, and I said nothing.
“If,” said Mr Bombasty, “you had lost your intellect, I am a voluntary contributor, and could have got you chains and a keeper in Bedlam. If you had broken a limb, I am a life-governor, and it would have been a pleasure to me to send you to the hospital. But you may as well ask me to put life into a dead man, as to be of service to a creature who has lost his security. You had better die at once. It would be a happy release. I speak as a friend.”
“Thank you, sir,” said I.
“I hear complaints against you, but I don’t listen to them. Every thing is swallowed up in one remarkable fact. Your security has let you down. You must go about your business. I speak as the president of this Christian society, and not, I hope, without the feelings of a man. The treasurer will pay your salary immediately, and we dispense with your services.”
“What am I to do?” I asked, half aloud.
“Just the best you can,” answered the gentleman. “The audience is at an end.”
Mr Bombasty said no more, but drew from his coat pocket a snuff-box of enormous dimensions. From it he grasped between his thumb and finger a moderate handful of stable-smelling dust. His nose and India handkerchief partook of it in equal shares, and then he rang his bell with presidential dignity, and ordered up his customary lunch of chops and porter. A few hours afterwards I was again upon the world, ready to begin the fight of life anew, and armed with fifteen guineas for the coming struggle. Mr Clayton had kept his word with me, and did not desert me until I was once more fairly on the road to ruin.
One of the first consequences of my unlooked-for meeting with the faithful Thompson, was the repayment of the five shillings which he had so generously spared me when I was about to leave him for Birmingham, without as many pence in my scrip. During my absence, however, fortune had placed my honest friend in a new relation to a sum of this value. Five shillings were not to him, as before, sixty pence. The proprietor of the house in which he lived, and which he had found it so difficult to let out to his satisfaction, had died suddenly, and had thought proper to bequeath to his tenant the bulk of his property, amounting, perhaps, to five thousand pounds. Thompson, who was an upholsterer by trade, left the workshop in which he was employed as journeyman immediately, and began to work upon his own account. He was a prosperous and a thriving man when I rejoined him. His manner was, as the reader has seen, kind and straightforward as ever, and the only change that his wealth had wrought in him, was that which gold may be supposed to work a heart alive to its duties, simple and honest in its intentions, and lacking only the means to make known its strong desire of usefulness. His generosity had kept pace with his success, his good wishes outstripped both. His home was finer, yet scarcely more sightly and happier than the one large room, which, with its complement of ten children, sire and dame, had still a nook for the needy and friendless stranger. The old house had been made over for a twelvemonth to the various tenants, free of all charge. At the end of that period it was the intention of Thompson to pull it down, and build a better in its place. A young widow, with her three orphans, lodged on the attic floor, and the grateful prayers of the four went far to establish the buoyancy of the landlord’s spirit, and to maintain the smile that seldom departed from his manly cheek. Well might the poor creature, whom I once visited in her happy lodging, talk of the sin of destroying so comfortable a residence, and feel assured, that “let them build a palace, they would never equal the present house, or make a sleeping-room where a body might rest so peacefully and well.” Thompson’s mode of life had scarcely varied. He was not idle amongst his men. When labour was suspended, he was with his children; another had been added to the number, and there were now eleven to relieve him of the superabundant profits created in the manufactory. Mrs Thompson was still a noble housewife, worthy of her husband. All was care, cleanliness, and economy at home. Griping stint would never have been tolerated by the hospitable master, and virtuous plenty only was admitted by the prudent wife. Had there been a oneness in the religious views of this good couple, _Paradise_ would have been a word fit to write beneath the board that made known to men John Thompson’s occupation; but this, alas! was wanting to complete a scene that otherwise looked rather like perfection. The great enemy of man seeks in many ways to defeat the benevolent aims of Providence. Thompson had remained at home one Sunday afternoon to smoke a friendly pipe with an old acquaintance, when he should have gone to church. His wife set out alone. Satan took advantage of her husband’s absence, drew her to chapel, and made her–a _dissenter_. This was Thompson’s statement of the case, and severer punishment, he insisted, had never been inflicted on a man for Sabbath-breaking.
When I was dismissed by Mr Bombasty, it was a natural step to walk towards the abode of the upholsterer. I knew his hour for supper, and his long hour after that for ale, and pipe, and recreation. I was not in doubt as to my welcome. Mrs Thompson had given me a general invitation to supper, “because,” she said, “it did Thompson good to chat after a hard day’s work;” and the respected Thompson himself had especially invited me to the long hour afterwards, “because,” he added, “it did the ale and ‘baccy good, who liked it so much better to go out of this here wicked world in company.” About seven o’clock in the evening I found myself under their hospitable roof, seated in the room devoted to the general purposes of the house. It was large, and comfortably furnished. The walls were of wainscot, painted white, and were graced with two paintings. One, a family group, consisting of Thompson, wife, and eight children, most wretchedly executed, was the production of a slowly rising artist, a former lodger of my friend’s, who had contrived to compound with his easy landlord for two years and three quarters’ rent, with this striking display of his ability. Thompson was prouder of this picture than of the originals themselves, if that were possible. The design had been his own, and had cost him, as he was ready and even anxious to acknowledge, more time and trouble than he had ever given before, or meant to give again, to any luxury in life. The artist, as I was informed, had endeavoured to reduce to form some fifty different schemes that had arisen in poor Thompson’s brain, but had failed in every one, so difficult he found it to introduce the thousand and one effects that the landlord deemed essential to the subject. His first idea had been to bring upon the canvass every feature of his life from boyhood upwards. This being impracticable, he wished to bargain for at least the workshop and the private residence. The lodgers, he thought, might come into the background well, and the tools, peeping from a basket in the corner, would look so much like life and nature. The upshot of his plans was the existing work of art, which Thompson considered matchless, and pronounced “dirt cheap, if he had even given the fellow a seven years’ lease of the entire premises.” The situations were striking certainly. In the centre of the picture were two high chairs, on which were seated, as grave as judges, the heads of the establishment. They sat there, drawn to their full height, too dignified to look at one another, and yet displaying a fond attachment, by a joining of the hands. The youngest child had clambered to the father’s knee, and, with a chisel, was digging at his nose, wonderful to say, without disturbing the stoic equanimity that had settled on the father’s face. This was the favourite son. Another, with a plane larger than himself, was menacing the mother’s knee. The remaining six had each a tool, and served in various ways to effect most artfully the beloved purpose of the vain upholsterer’s heart–viz. the introduction of the entire workshop. The second painting in the centre of the opposite wall, represented Mr Clayton. The likeness was a failure, and the colours were coarse and glaring; but there needed no instruction to know that the carefully framed production attempted to portray the unenviable man, who, in spite of his immorality and shameless life, was still revered and idolized by the blind disciples who had taken him for their guide. This portrait was Mrs Thompson’s peculiar property. There were no other articles of _virtu_ in the spacious apartment; but cleanliness and decorum bestowed upon it a grace, the absence of which no idle decoration could supply. Early as the hour was, a saucepan was on the fire, whose bubbling water was busy with the supper that at half-past eight must meet the assault of many knives and forks. John Thompson and two sons–the eldest–were working in the shop. They had been there with little intermission since six that morning. The honest man was fond of work; so was he of his children–yes, dearly fond of _them_, and they must share with him the evening meal; and he must have them all about him; and he must help them all, and see them eat, and look with manly joy and pride upon the noisy youngsters, for whom his lusty arm had earned the bread that came like manna to him–so wholesome and so sweet! Three girls, humbly but neatly dressed, the three first steps of this great human ladder, were seated at a table administering to the necessities of sundry shirts and stockings that had suffered sensibly in their last week’s struggle through the world. _They_ were indeed a picture worth the looking at. You grew a better man in gazing on their innocence and industry. What a lesson stole from their quiet and contented looks, their patient perseverance, their sweet unity! How shining smooth the faces, how healthy, and how round, and how impossible it seemed for wrinkles ever to disturb the fine and glossy surface! Modesty never should forsake the humble; the bosom of the lowly born should be her home. Here she had enshrined herself, and given to simplicity all her dignity and truth. They worked and worked on; who should tell which was the most assiduous–which the fairest–which the most eager and successful to increase the happiness of all! And turn to Billy there, that half-tamed urchin! that likeness in little of his sire, rocking not so much against his will, as against conviction, the last of all the Thompsons–a six months’ infant in the wicker cradle. How, obedient to his mother’s wish, like a little man at first, he rocks with all his might, and then irregularly, and at long intervals–by fits and starts–and ceases altogether very soon, bobbing his curly head, and falling gently into a deep mesmeric sleep. The older lads are making wooden boats, and two, still older, stand on either side their mother. A book is in the hands of each, full of instruction and fine learning. It was the source of all their knowledge, the cause of all their earliest woes. Good Mrs Thompson had been neglected as a child, and was enthusiastic in the cause of early education. Sometimes they looked into the book, but oftener still they cast attentive eyes upon the fire, as if “the book of knowledge fair” was there displayed, and not a noisy saucepan, almost unable to contain itself for joy of the cod’s head and shoulders, that must be ready by John Thompson’s supper time. The whole family were my friends–with the boys I was on terms of warmest intimacy, and smiles and nods, and shouts and cheers, welcomed me amongst them.
“Now, close your book, Bob,” said the mother, soon after I was seated, “and, Alec, give me yours. Put your hands down, turn from the fire, and look up at me, dears. What is the capital of Russia?”
“The Birman empire,” said Alec, with unhesitating confidence.
“The Baltic sea,” cried Bob, emulous and ardent.
“Wait–not so fast; let me see, my dears, which of you is right.”
Mrs Thompson appealed immediately to her book, after a long and private communication with which, she emphatically pronounced both wrong.
“Give us a chance, mother,” said Bob in a wheedling tone, (Bob knew his mother’s weaknesses.) “Them’s such hard words. I don’t know how it is, but I never can remember ’em. Just tell us the first syllable–oh, do now–please.”
“Oh, I know now!” cried Alec. “It’s something with a G in it.”
“Think of the apostles, dears. What are the names of the apostles?”
“Why, there’s Moses,” began Bob, counting on his fingers, “and there’s Sammywell, and there’s Aaron, and Noah’s ark”—-
“Stop, my dear,” said Mrs Thompson, who was very busy with her manual, and contriving a method of rendering a solution of her question easy. “Just begin again. I said–who was Peter–no, not that–who was an apostle?”
“Oh, I know now!” cried Alec again, (Alec was the sharp boy of the family.) “It’s Peter. Peter’s the capital of Russia.”
“No, not quite my dear. You are very warm–very warm indeed, but not quite hot. Try again.”
“Paul,” half murmured Robert, with a reckless hope of proving right.
“No, Peter’s right; but there’s something else. What has your father been taking down the beds for?”
There was a solemn silence, and the three industrious sisters blushed the faintest blush that could be raised upon a maiden’s cheek.
“To rub that stuff upon the walls,” said the ready Alec.
“Yes, but what was it to kill?” continued the instructress.
“The fleas,” said Bob.
“Worse than that, my dear.”
“Oh, I know now,” shrieked Alec, for the third time. “_Petersbug’s_ the capital of Russia.”
Mrs Thompson looked at me with pardonable vanity and triumph, and I bestowed upon the successful students a few comfits which I had purchased on my road for my numerous and comfit-loving friends. The mere sight of this sweet “reward of merit” immediately inspired the two boys at work upon the boats with a desire for knowledge, and especially for learning the capitals of countries, that was most agreeable to contemplate. The lesson was continued, more to my amusement, I fear, than the edification of the pupils. The boys were unable to answer a single question until they had had so many _chances_, and had become so very _hot_, that not to have answered at length would have bordered on the miraculous. The persevering governess was not displeased at this, for she would not have lost the opportunity of displaying her own skill in metaphorical illustration, for a great deal, I am very sure. The clock struck eight; there was a general movement. The three sisters folded their work, and lodged it carefully in separate drawers. The eldest then produced the table-cloth, knives, forks, and spoons. The second exhibited bibs and pinafores; and the third brought from their hiding-places a dozen modest chairs, and placed them round the table. Bob assured the company “he was _so_ hungry;” Alec said, “so was he;” and the boatmen, in an under tone, settled what should be done with the great cod’s eyes, which, they contended, were the best parts of the fish, and “shouldn’t they be glad if father would give ’em one a-piece.” The good woman must enquire, of course, how nearly the much-relished dainty had reached the critical and interesting state when it became most palatable to John Thompson; for John Thompson was an epicure, “and must have his little bits of things done to a charm, or not at all.” Half-past eight had struck. The family were bibbed and pinafored; the easy coat and slippers were at the fire, and warmed through and through–it was a season of intenseness. “Here’s father!” shouted Alec, and all the bibs and pinafores rushed like a torrent to the door. Which shall the father catch into his ready arms, which kiss, which hug, which answer?–all are upon him; they know their playmate, their companion, and best friend; they have hoarded up, since the preceding night, a hundred things to say, and now they have got their loving and attentive listener. “Look what I have done, father,” says the chief boatman, “Tom and I together.” “Well done, boys!” says the father–and Tom and he are kissed. “I have been _l_ocking baby,” lisps little Billy, who, in return, gets rocked himself. “Father, what’s the capital of Russia?” shrieks Alec, tugging at his coat. “What do you mean, you dog?” is the reply, accompanied by a hearty shake of his long flaxen hair. “Petersburg,” cry Tom and Alec both, following him to the hearth, each one endeavouring to relieve him of his boots as soon as he is seated there. The family circle is completed. The flaky fish is ready, and presented for inspection. The father has served them all, even to little Billy–their plates are full and smoking. “Mother” is called upon to ask a blessing. She rises, and assumes the looks of Jabez Buster–twenty blessings might be asked and granted in half the time she takes–so think and look Bob, Alec, and the boatmen; but at length she pauses–the word is given, and further ceremony is dispensed with. In childhood, supper is a thing to look forward to, and to _last_ when it arrives; but not in childhood, any more than in old age, can sublunary joys endure for ever. The meal is finished. A short half-hour flies, like lightning, by. The children gather round their father; and in the name of all, upon his knees, he thanks his God for all the mercies of the day. Thompson is no orator. His heart is warm; his words are few and simple. The three attendant graces take charge of their brethren, detach them from their father’s side, and conduct them to their beds. Happy father! happy children! May Providence be merciful, and keep the grim enemy away from your fireside! Let him not come now in the blooming beauty and the freshness of your loves! Let him not darken and embitter for ever the life that is still bright, beautiful, and glorious in the power of elevating and sustaining thought that leads beyond it. Let him wait the matured and not unexpected hour, when the shock comes, not to crush, to overwhelm, and to annihilate, but to warn, to teach, and to encourage; not to alarm and stagger the untaught spirit, but to bring to the subdued and long-tried soul its last lesson on the vanity and evanescence of its early dreams!
It is half-past nine o’clock. Thompson, his wife, and two eldest boys are present, and, for the first time, I have an opportunity to make known the object of my visit.
“And so they have turned you off,” said Thompson, when I had finished. “And who’s surprised at that? Not I, for one. Missus,” continued he, turning to his wife, “why haven’t you got a curtain yet for that ere pictur? I can’t abear the sight of it.”
Mrs Thompson looked plaintively towards the painting, and heaved a sigh.
“Ah, dear good man! He has got his enemies,” said she.
“Mrs Thompson!” exclaimed her husband, “I have done with that good man from this day for’ards; and I do hope, old ‘ooman, that you’ll go next Sunday to church with me, as we used to do afore you got that pictur painted.”
“It’s no good talking, Thompson,” answered the lady, positively and firmly. “I can’t sit under a cold man, and there’s an end of it.”
“There, that’s the way you talk, missus.”
“Why, you know, Thompson, every thing in the church is cold.”
“No, not now, my dear–they’ve put up a large stove. You’ll recollect you haven’t been lately.”
“Besides, do you think I can sit in a place of worship, and hear a man say, ‘_Let us pray_,’ in the middle of the service, making a fool of one, as if we hadn’t been praying all the time? As that dear and persecuted saint says, (turning to the picture,) it’s a common assault to our understandings.”
“Now, Polly, that’s just always how you go off. If you’d only listen to reason, that could all be made out right in no time. The clergyman doesn’t mean to say, _let us pray_, because he hasn’t been praying afore;–what he means is–we have been praying all this time, and so we’ll go on praying again–no, not again exactly–but don’t leave off. That isn’t what I mean either. Let me see, _let us pray_. Oh, yes! Why–stay. Where is it he does say, _let us pray_? There, I say, Stukely, you know it all much better than I do. Just make it right to the missus.”
“It is not difficult,” said I.
“Oh no, Mr Stukely, I daresay not!” added Mrs Thompson, interrupting me. “Mr Clayton says, Satan has got his janysarries abroad, and has a reason for every thing. It is very proper to say, too, I suppose, that it is an _imposition_ when the bishops ordain the ministers? What a word to make use of. It’s truly frightful!”
“Well, I’m blessed,” exclaimed Thompson, “if I don’t think you had better hold your tongue, old girl, about impositions; for sich oudacious robbers as your precious brothers is, I never come across, since I was stopped that ere night, as we were courting, on Shooter’s Hill. It’s a system of imposition from beginning to end.”
“Look to your Bible, Thompson; what does that say? Does that tell ministers to read their sermons? There can’t be no truth and right feeling when a man puts down what he’s going to say; the vital warmth is wanting, I’m sure. And then to read the same prayers Sunday after Sunday, till a body gets quite tired at hearing them over and over again, and finding nothing new! How can you improve an occasion if you are tied down in this sort of way.”
“Did you ever see one of the brothers eat, Stukely?” asked Thompson, avoiding the main subject. “Don’t you ask one of them to dinner–that’s all. That nice boy Buster ought to eat for a wager. I had the pleasure of his company to dinner one fine afternoon. I don’t mean to send him another invitation just yet, at all events.”
“Yes,” proceeded the fair, but stanch nonconformist; “what does the Bible say, indeed! ‘Take no thought of what you should say.’ Why, in the church, I am told they are doing nothing else from Monday morning to Saturday night but writing the sermon they are going to read on the Sabbath. To _read_ a sermon! What would the apostles say to that?”
“Why, didn’t you tell me, my dear, that the gentleman as set for that pictur got all his sermons by heart before he preached ’em?”
“Of course I did–but that’s a very different thing. Doesn’t it all pour from him as natural as if it had come to him that minute? He doesn’t fumble over a book like a schoolboy. His beautiful eyes, I warrant you, ain’t looking down all the time, as if he was ashamed to hold ’em up. Isn’t it a privilege to see his blessed eyes rolling all sorts of ways; and don’t they speak wolumes to the poor benighted sinner? Besides, don’t tell me, Thompson; we had better turn Catholics at once, if we are to have the minister dressing up like the Pope of Rome, and all the rest of it.”
“You are the gal of my heart,” exclaimed the uxorious Thompson; “but I must say you have got some of the disgracefulest notions out of that ere chapel as ever I heard on. Why, it’s only common decency to wear a dress in the pulpit; and I believe in my mind, that that’s come down to us from time immemorable, like every thing else in human natur. What’s your opinion, Stukely?”
“Yes; and what’s your opinion, Mr Stukely,” added the lady immediately, “about calling a minister of the gospel–a _priest_? Is that Paperistical or not?”
“That isn’t the pint, Polly,” proceeded John. “We are talking about the silk dress now. Let’s have that out first.”
“And then the absolution”—-
“No, Poll. Stick to the silk dress.”
“Ah, Thompson, it’s always the way!” continued the mistress of the house, growing red and wroth, and heedless of the presence of the eager-listening children; “it’s always the way. Satan is ruining of you. You’ll laugh at the elect, and you’ll not find your mistake out till it’s too late to alter. Mr Clayton says, that the Establishment is the hothouse of devils; and the more I see of its ways, the more I feel he is right. Thompson, you are in the sink of iniquity.”
“Come, I can’t stand no more of this!” exclaimed Thompson, growing uneasy in his chair, but without a spark of ill-humour. “Let’s change the topic, old ‘ooman; I’m sure it can’t do the young un’s any good to hear this idle talk. Let’s teach ’em nothing at all, if we can’t larn ’em something better than wrangling about religion. Now, Jack,” he continued, turning to his eldest boy, “what is the matter with you? What are you sitting there for with your mouth wide open?”
“What’s the meaning of Paperist, father?” asked the boy, who had been long waiting to propose the question.
“What’s that to you, you rascal?” was the reply; “mind your own business, my good fellow, and leave the Paperist to mind his’n; that’s your father’s maxim, who got it from his father before him. You’ll learn to find fault with other people fast enough without my teaching you. I tell you what, Jack, if you look well after yourself, you’ll find little time left to bother about others. If your hands are ever idle–recollect you have ten brothers and sisters about you. Look about you–you are the oldest boy–and see what you can do for them. Do you mind that?”
“Yes, father.”
“Very well, old chap. Then just get out the bottle, and give your father something to coax the cod down. Poll, that fish won’t settle.”
The long hour was beginning. That bottle was the signal. A gin and water nightcap, on this occasion, officiated for the ale. Jack and his brother received a special invitation to a sip or two, which they at once unhesitatingly accepted. The sturdy fellows shook their father and fellow-labourer’s hand, and were not loth to go to rest. Their mother was their attendant. The ruffle had departed from her face. It was as pleasant as before. She was but half a dissenter. So Thompson thought when he called her back again, and bade his “old ‘ooman give her hobby one of her good old-fashioned busses, and think no more about it.”
Thompson and I were left together.
“And what do you mean to do, sir, now?” was his first question.
“I hardly know.” I answered.
“Of course, you’ll cut the gang entirely–that’s a nat’ral consequence.”
“No, Thompson, not at present. I must not seem so fickle and inconstant. I must not seem so to myself. I joined this sect not altogether without deliberation. I must have further proof of the unsoundness of its principles. A few of its professors have been faithless even to their own position. Of what religious profession may not the same be said? I will be patient, and examine further.”
“I was a-thinking,” said Thompson, musingly, “I was a-thinking, ’till you’ve got something else to do—-but no, never mind, you won’t like that.”
“What is it?”
“Why, I was thinking about the young un’s. They’re shocking back’ard in their eddication, and, between you and me, the missus makes them back’arder. I don’t understand the way she has got of larning ’em at all. I don’t want to make scholards of ’em. Nobody would but a fool. Bless ’em, they’ll have enough to do to get their bread with sweating and toiling, without addling their brains about things they can’t understand. But it is a cruelty, mind you, for a parent to hinder his child from reading his Bible on a Sunday afternoon, and to make him stand ashamed of himself before his fellow workman when he grows up, and finds that he can’t put _paid_ to a bill on a Saturday night. The boys should all know how to read and write, and keep accounts, and a little summut of human nature. This is what I wants to give ’em, and nobody should I like better to put it into ’em than you, my old friend, if you’d just take the trouble ’till you’ve got something better to do.”
“Thompson,” I answered instantly, “I will do it with pleasure. I ought to have made the offer. It did not occur to me. I shall rejoice to repay you, in this trifling way, for all your good feeling and kindness.”
“Oh no!” answered my friend, “none of that. We must have an understanding. Don’t you think I should have asked the question, if I meant to sneak out in that dirty sort of way. No, that won’t do. It’s very kind of you, but we must make all that right. We sha’n’t quarrel, I dare say. If you mean you’ll do it, I have only just a word or two to say before you begin.”
“I shall be proud to serve you, Thompson, and on any terms you please.”
“Well, it is a serving me–I don’t deny it–but, mind you, only till you have dropped into something worth your while. What I wish to say is as this: As soon as ever my missus hears of what you are going to do, I know as well what she’ll be at as I know what I am talking of now. She’ll just be breaking my heart to have the boys larned French. Now, I’d just as soon bind ’em apprentice to that ere Clayton. I’ve seen too much of that ere sort of thing in my time. I’m as positive as I sit here, that when a chap begins to talk French he loses all his English spirit, and feels all over him as like a mounseer as possible. I’m sure he does. I’ve seen it a hundred times, and that I couldn’t a-bear. Besides, I’ve been told that French is the language the thieves talk, and I solemnly believe it. That’s one thing. Now, here’s another. You’ll excuse me, my dear fellow. In course you know more than I do, but I must say that you have got sometimes a very roundabout way of coming to the pint. I mean no offence, and I don’t blame you. It’s all along of the company you have kept. You are–it’s the only fault you have got–you are oudaciously fond of hard words. Don’t let the young uns larn ’em. That’s all I have to say, and we’ll talk of the pay some other time.”
At this turn of the conversation, Thompson insisted upon my lighting a pipe and joining him in the gin and water. We smoked for many minutes in silence. My friend had unbuttoned his waistcoat, and had drawn the table nearer to his warm and hospitable fire. A log of wood was burning slowly and steadily away, and a small, bright–very bright–copper kettle overlooked it from the hob. My host had fixed his feet upon the fender–the unemployed hand was in his corduroys. His eyes were three parts closed, enjoying what from its origin may be called–a pure tobacco-born soliloquy. The smoke arose in thin white curls from the clay cup, and at regular periods stole blandly from the corner of his lips. The silent man was blessed. He had been happy at his work; he had grown happier as the sun went down; his happiness was ripening at the supper table; _now_, half-asleep and half-awake–half conscious and half dreaming–wholly free from care, and yet not free from pregnant thought–the labourer had reached the summit of felicity, and was at peace–intensely.
A few evenings only had elapsed after this interesting meeting, before I was again spending a delicious hour or two with the simple-hearted and generous upholsterer. There was something very winning in these moments snatched and secured from the hurricane of life, and passed in thorough and undisturbed enjoyment. My friend, notwithstanding that he had engaged my services, and was pleased to express his satisfaction at the mode in which I rendered them, was yet alive to my interests, and too apprehensive of injuring them by keeping me away from loftier employment. He did not like my being _thrown out_ of the chapel, especially after he had heard my determination not to forsake immediately the sect to which I had attached myself. He was indifferent to his own fate. His worldly prospects could not be injured by his expulsion; on the contrary, he slyly assured me that “his neighbours would begin to think better of him, and give him credit for having become an honester and more trustworthy man.” But with regard to myself it was a different thing. I should require “a character” at some time or another, and there was a body of men primed and ready to vilify and crush me. He advised me, whilst he acknowledged it was a hard thing to say, and “it went agin him to do it,” to apply once more respectfully for my dismission. “It won’t do,” he pertinently said, “to bite your nose off to be revenged on your tongue.” I was certainly in a mess, and must get out of it in the best way that I could. Buster and Tomkins had great power in _the Church_, and if I represented my case to either or both of them, he did hope they might be brought to consent not to injure me, or stand in the way of my getting bread. “In a quarrel,” he said, in conclusion, “some one must give in. I was a young man, and had my way to make, and though he should despise his-self if he recommended me to do any thing mean and dirty in the business, yet, he thought, as the father of a numerous family, he ought to advise me to be civil, and to do the best for myself in this unfortunate dilemmy.”
I accepted his advice, and determined to wait upon the dapper deacon. I was physically afraid to encounter Buster, not so much on account of what I had seen of his spiritual pretension, as of what I had heard of his domestic behaviour. It was not a very difficult task to obtain from Mrs Thompson the secret history of many of her highly privileged acquaintances and brethren. She enjoyed, in a powerful degree, the peculiar virtue of her amiable sex, and to communicate secrets, delivered to her in strictest confidence, and imparted by her again with equal caution and provisory care, was the choicest recreation of her well employed and useful life. It was through this lady that I was favoured with a glance into the natural heart of Mr Buster; or into what he would himself have called, with a most unfilial disgust, “HIS OLD MAN.” It appeared that, like most great _actors_, he was a very different personage before and behind the curtain. Kings, who are miserable and gloomy through the five acts of a dismal tragedy, and who must needs die at the end of it, are your merriest knaves over a tankard at the Shakspeare’s Head. Your stage fool shall be the dullest dog that ever spoiled mirth with sour and discontented looks. Jabez Buster, his employment being over at Mr Clayton’s theatre, his dress thrown aside, his mask put by, was not to be recognised by his nearest friend. This is the perfection of art. A greater tyrant on a small scale, with limited means, never existed than the saintly Buster when his character was done, and he found himself again in the bosom of his family. Unhappy bosom was it, and a sad flustration did his presence, nine times out of ten, produce there. He had four sons, and a delicate creature for a wife, born to be crushed. The sons were remarkable chiefly for their hypocrisy, which promised, in the fulness of time, to throw their highly-gifted parent’s far into the shade; and, secondarily, for their persecution of their helpless and indulgent mother. They witnessed and approved so much the success of Jabez in this particular, that during his absence they cultivated the affectionate habit until it became a kind of second nature, infinitely more racy and agreeable than the primary. In proportion to their deliberate oppression of their mother was their natural dread and terror of their father. Mrs Thompson pronounced it “the shockingest thing in this world to be present when the young blue-beards were worryting their mother’s soul out with saying, ‘_I sha’n’t_’ and ‘_I won’t_’ to every thing, and swearing ‘_they’d tell their father this_,’ ‘_and put him up to that, and then wouldn’t he make a jolly row about it_,’ with hollering out for nothing at all, only to frighten the poor timid cretur, and then making a holabaloo with the chairs, or perhaps falling down, roaring and kicking, just to drive the poor thing clean out of her wits, on purpose to laugh at her for being so taken in. Well, but it was a great treat, too,” she added, “to hear, in the midst of all this, Buster’s heavy foot in the passage, and to see what a scrimmage there was at once amongst all the young hypocrites. How they all run in different directions–one to the fire–one to the table–one out at the back-door–one any where he could–all of ’em as silent as mice, and afeard of the very eye of the blacksmith, who knew, good man, how to keep every man Jack of ’em in order, and, if a word didn’t do, wasn’t by no means behind hand with blows. Buster,” she continued, “had his faults like other men, but he was a saint if ever there was one. To be sure he did like to have his own way at home, and wasn’t it natural? And if he was rather overbearing and cruel to his wife, wasn’t that, she should like to know, Satan warring with the new man, and sometimes getting the better of it? And if he was, as Thompson had hinted, rayther partial to the creature, and liked good living, what was this to the purpose? it was an infirmity that might happen to the best Christian living. Nobody could say that he wasn’t a renewed man, and a chosen vessel, and faithful to his call. A man isn’t a backslider because he’s carnally weak, and a man isn’t a saint because he’s moral and well-behaved. ‘Good works,’ Mr Clayton said, ‘was filthy rags,’ and so they were. To be sure, between themselves, there were one or two things said about Buster that she couldn’t approve of. For instance, she had been told–but _this_ was quite in confidence, and really must _not_ go further–that he was–that–that, in fact, he was overtaken now and then with liquor, and then the house could hardly hold him, he got so furious, and, they did say, used such horrid language. But, after all, what was this? If a man’s elected, he is not so much the worse. Besides, if one listened to people, one might never leave off. She had actually heard, she wouldn’t say from whom, that Buster very often kept out late at night–sometimes didn’t come home at all, and sometimes did at two o’clock in the morning, very hungry and ill-tempered, and then forced his poor wife out of bed, and made the delicate and shivering creature light a fire, cook beefsteaks, go into the yard for beer, and wait upon him till he had even eat every morsel up. She for one would never believe all this, though Mrs Buster herself had told her every word with tears in her eyes, and in the greatest confidence; so she trusted I wouldn’t repeat it, as it wouldn’t look well in her to be found out telling other people’s secrets.” Singular, perhaps, to say, the tale did not go further. I kept the lady’s secret, and at the same time declined to approach Mr Jabez Buster in the character of a suppliant. If his advocate and panegyrist had nothing more to say for him, it could not be uncharitable to conclude that the pretended saint was as bold a sinner as ever paid infamous courtship to religion, and as such was studiously to be avoided. I turned my attention from him to Tomkins. There was no grossness about him, no brutality, no abominable vice. In the hour of my defeat and desertion, he had extended to me his sympathy, and, more in sorrow than in anger, I am convinced he voted for my expulsion from the church when he found that his vote, and twenty added to it, would not have been sufficient to protect me. He could not act in opposition to the wishes of his friend and patron, Mr Clayton, but very glad would he have been, as every word and look assured me, to meet the wishes of us both, had that been practicable. If the great desire of Jehu Tomkins’ heart could have been gratified, he never would have been at enmity with a single soul on earth. He was a soft, good-natured, easy man; most desirous to be let alone, and not uneasily envious or distressed to see his neighbours jogging on, so long as he could do his own good stroke of business, and keep a little way before them. Jehu was a Liberal too–in politics and in religion–in every thing, in fact, but the one small article of _money_, and here, I must confess, the good dissenter dissented little from the best of us. He was a stanch Conservative in matters connected with the _till_. For his private life it was exemplary–at least it looked so to the world, and the world is satisfied with what it sees. Jehu was attentive to his business–yes, very–and a business life is not monotonous and dull, if it be relieved, as it was in this case, by dexterous arts, that give an interest and flavour to the commonest pursuits. Sometimes a customer would die–a natural state of things, but a great event for Jehu. First, he would “improve the occasion” to the surviving relatives–condole and pray with them. Afterwards he would _improve_ it to himself, in his own little room, at night, when all the children were asleep, and no one was awake but Mrs Tomkins and himself. Then he would get down his ledger, and turn to the deceased’s account–
“—-How _long_ it is thou see’st,
And he would gaze ’till it became _much longer_;”
“For who could tell whether six shirts or twelve were bought in July last, and what could be the harm of making those eight handkerchiefs a dozen? He was a strange old gentleman; lived by himself–and the books might be referred to, and speak boldly for themselves.” Yes, cunning Jehu, so they might, with those interpolations and erasures that would confound and overcome a lawyer. When customers did not die, it was pastime to be dallying with the living. In adding up a bill with haste, how many times will four and four make _nine_? They generally did with Jehu. The best are liable to errors. It cost a smirk or smile; Jehu had hundreds at command, and the accident was amended. How easy is it sometimes to give no bill at all! How very easy to apply, a few months afterwards, for second payment; how much more easy still to pocket it without a word; or, if discovered and convicted, to apologize without a blush for the _mistake_! No, Jehu Tomkins, let me do you justice–this is not so easy–it requires all your zeal and holy intrepidity to reach this pitch of human frailty and corruption. With regard to the domestic position of my interesting friend, it is painful to add, that the less that is said about it the better. In vain was his name in full, painted in large yellow letters, over the shop front. In vain was _Bot. of Jehu Tomkins_ engraven on satin paper, with flourishes innumerable beneath the royal arms; he was no more the master of his house than was the small boy of the establishment, who did the dirty work of the place for nothing a-week and the broken victuals. If Jehu was deacon abroad, he was taught to acknowledge an _arch_deacon at home–one to whom he was indebted for his success in life, and for reminding him of that agreeable fact about four times during every day of his existence. I was aware of this delicate circumstance when I ventured to the linen-draper’s shop on my almost hopeless mission; but, although I had never spoken to Mrs Tomkins, I had often seen her in the chapel, and I relied much on the feeling and natural tenderness of the female heart. The respectable shop of Mr Tomkins was in Fleet Street. The establishment consisted of Mrs Tomkins, _premiere_; Jehu, under-secretary; and four sickly-looking young ladies behind the counter. It is to be said, to the honour of Mrs Tomkins, that she admitted no young woman into her service whose character was not _decided_, and whose views were not very clear. Accordingly, the four young ladies were members of the chapel. It is pleasing to reflect, that, in this well-ordered house of business, the ladies took their turns to attend the weekly prayer meetings of the church. Would that I might add, that they were _not_ severally met on these occasions by their young men at the corner of Chancery Lane, and invariably escorted by them some two or three miles in a totally opposite direction. Had Mrs Tomkins been born a man, it is difficult to decide what situation she would have adorned the most. She would have made a good man of business–an acute lawyer–a fine casuist–a great divine. Her attainments were immense; her self-confidence unbounded. She was a woman of middle height, and masculine bearing. She was not prepossessing, notwithstanding her white teeth and large mouth, and the intolerable grin that a customer to the amount of a halfpenny and upwards could bring upon her face under any circumstances, and at any hour of the day. Her complexion might have been good originally. Red blotches scattered over her cheek had destroyed its beauty. She wore a modest and becoming cap, and a gold eyeglass round her neck. She was devoted to money-making–heart and soul devoted to it during business hours. What time she was not in the shop, she passed amongst dissenting ministers, spiritual brethren, and deluded sinners. It remains to state the fact, that, whilst a customer never approached the lady without being repelled by the offensive smirk that she assumed, no dependent ever ventured near her without the fear of the scowl that sat naturally (and fearfully, when she pleased) upon her dark and inauspicious brow. What wonder that little Jehu was crushed into nothingness, behind his own counter, under the eye of his own wife!
* * * * *
THE WORLD OF LONDON. SECOND SERIES.
PART II.
In our last, we had occasion to speak sharply of that class of our aristocratic youth known by the name of fast fellows, and it may be thought that we characterized their foibles rather pointedly, and tinctured our animadversions with somewhat of undue asperity. This charge, however, can be made with no ground of reason or justice: the fact is, we only lashed the follies for which that class of men are pre-eminent, but left their vices in the shade, in the hope that the _raw_ we have already established, will shame the fast fellows into a sense of the proprieties of conduct due to themselves and their station.
The misfortune is, that these fast fellows forget, in the pursuit of their favourite follies, that the mischief to society begins only with themselves: that man is naturally a servile, imitative animal; and that he follows in the track of a great name, as vulgar muttons run at the heels of a belwether. The poison of fashionable folly runs comparatively innocuous while it circulates in fashionable veins; but when vulgar fellows are innoculated with the virus, it becomes a plague, a moral small-pox, distorting, disfiguring the man’s mind, pockpitting his small modicum of brains, and blinding his mind’s eye to the supreme contempt his awkward vagaries inspire.
The fast fellows rejoice exceedingly in the spread of their servile imitation of fashionable folly, this gentlemanly profligacy at second-hand; and perhaps this is the worst trait in their character, for it is at once malicious and unwise: malicious, because the contemplation of humanity, degraded by bad example in high station, should rather be a source of secret shame than of devilish gratification: unwise, because their example is a discredit to their order, and a danger. To posses birth, fashion, station, wealth, power, is title enough to envy, and handle sufficient for scandal. How much stronger becomes that title–how much longer that handle–when men, enjoying this pre-eminence, enjoy it, not using, but abusing their good fortune!
We should not have troubled our heads with the fast fellows at all, if it were not absolutely essential to the full consideration of our subject, widely to sever the prominent classes of fashionable life, and to have no excuse for continuing in future to confound them. We have now done with the fast fellows, and shall like them the more the less we hear of them.
CONCERNING SLOW FELLOWS.
The SLOW SCHOOL of fashionable or aristocratic life, comprises those who think that, in the nineteenth century, other means must be taken to preserve their order in its high and responsible position than those which, in dark ages, conferred honour upon the tallest or the bravest. They think, and think wisely, that the only method of keeping above the masses, in this active-minded age, is by soaring higher and further into the boundless realms of intellect; or at the least forgetting, in a fair neck-and-neck race with men of meaner birth, their purer blood, and urging the generous contest for fame, regardless of the allurements of pleasure, or the superior advantages of fortune. In truth, we might ask, what would become of our aristocratic classes ere long, if they came, as a body, to be identified with their gambling lords, their black-leg baronets, their insolvent honourables, and the seedy set of Chevaliers Diddlerowski and Counts Scaramouchi, who caper on the platform outside for their living? The populace would pelt these harlequin horse-jockeys of fashionable life off their stage, if there was nothing better to be seen inside; but it fortunately happens that there is better.
We can boast among our nobles and aristocratic families, a few men of original, commanding, and powerful intellect; many respectable in most departments of intellectual rivalry; many more laborious, hard-working men; and about the same proportion of dull, stupid, fat-headed, crabbed, conceited, ignorant, insolent men, that you may find among the same given number of those commonly called the educated classes. We refer you to the aristocracies of other countries, and we think we may safely say, that we have more men of that class, in this country, who devote