M. de Fontanges then explained to Newton the order which he had received. Newton replied that he had had no right to expect otherwise on his first landing on the island; that he had incurred a heavy debt of gratitude to them for having preserved him so long from a prison; and that the remembrance of their kindness would tend to beguile the tedious hours of captivity (from which it may appear that Newton, in point of expressing himself, was half a Frenchman already). He then kissed the hand of Madame de Fontanges, tried to console the little slave girls, who were all _au desespoir_, patted Cupidon on the head, by way of farewell, and quitted the boudoir, in which he had passed so many happy hours. When he was outside, he again expressed his obligations to M. de Fontanges, who then stated his determination to call upon his brother, the governor, and try to allieviate the hardships of his lot as much as was possible. In less than an hour, Newton, in company with his host, was on the road to Basse Terre, leaving the corporal and his two file of men to walk back as fast as they could; the corporal having sufficient _savoir vivre_ not to refuse the pledge of the governor’s brother for the safe delivery of the prisoner.
It was not until late in the evening that they arrived at Basse Terre, when they immediately proceeded to the house of the governor, and were admitted to his presence.
The governor, who had been much displeased at the circumstance of Newton having remained so long on the island, was more pacified when M. de Fontanges explained to him the way in which he had been made prisoner, and the hardships which he had previously endured. M. de Fontanges accounted for his long detention at Lieu Desire by stating the real fact, viz., the pertinacity of Madame de Fontanges; which, although it might have been considered a very poor argument in England, had its due weight in a French colony.
The governor entered into conversation with Newton, who detailed to him the horrors of the shipwreck which he had undergone. The narrative appeared to affect him much. He told Newton that under such circumstances he could hardly consider him as a prisoner, and would take the first opportunity of releasing him, and would accept his parole for not quitting the island. Newton returned his thanks for so much courtesy, and withdrew in company with M. de Fontanges.
“Monsieur le Marquis has much sympathy for those who have been shipwrecked,” observed Monsieur de Fontanges, after they had quitted the room. “Poor man! he lost his wife, a beautiful young woman, and his only child, a little girl, about seven years back, when they were proceeding home in a vessel bound to Havre. The vessel has never been heard of since, and he has never recovered the loss.”
“In what year was it?” inquired Newton.
“In the autumn of the year–“
“There were many vessels wrecked on our coast during that dreadful winter,” replied Newton; “I myself, when in a coaster, picked up several articles belonging to a French vessel. I have them in my possession now;–they are of some value.”
“What did they consist of?” inquired Monsieur de Fontanges.
“A large trunk, containing the wearing apparel of a female and a child: there were also several orders of knighthood, and some jewels; but I hardly know what they were, as it is some time since I have looked at them.”
“How strange that you could find no clue to discover the names of the parties!”
“There were French letters,” replied Newton, “which I could not read; they were only signed by initials, which did not correspond with the marks on the linen belonging to the lady, although the surname might have been the same as that of the child.”
“Do you recollect the initials?”
“Perfectly well: the marks on the lady’s apparel were L.C., that on the linen of the infant J.F.”
“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” cried Monsieur de Fontanges; “then it may indeed have been the apparel of the Marquise de Fontanges. The linen must have been some marked with her maiden name, which was Louise de Colmar. The child was christened Julie de Fontanges, after her grandmother. My poor brother had intended to take his passage home in the same vessel, his successor being hourly expected; but the frigate in which the new governor had embarked was taken by an English squadron, and my brother was forced to remain here.”
“Then the property must undoubtedly belong to the marquis,” replied Newton: “I only wish I could have been able to assure him that his wife and child were equally safe; but that I am afraid is impossible, as there can be no doubt but that they were all lost. Do you mean to communicate what I have told you to the marquis?”
“By no means: it will only tear open a wound which has but partially healed. If you will send me all the particulars when you return I shall feel much obliged, not that the effects are of any consequence. The marquise and her child are undoubtedly lost; and it could be no consolation to my brother to ascertain that a trunk of their effects had been saved.”
Here the conversation dropped, and was never again renewed.
Newton was heartily welcomed again at Lieu Desire, where he remained three weeks, when a note from the governor informed him that a cartel was about to sail.
It was with mutual pain that Newton and his kind friends took their farewell of each other. In this instance M. de Fontanges did not accompany him to Basse Terre, but bade him adieu at his own door. Newton, soon after he was on the road, perceived that M. de Fontanges had acted from a motive of delicacy, that he might not receive the thanks of Newton for two valises, well furnished, which overtook Newton about a quarter of a mile from the plantation, slung on each side of a horse, under the guidance of a little negro, perched on the middle. Newton made his acknowledgments to the governor for his kind consideration, then embarked on board of the _Marie Therese_ schooner, and in three days he once more found himself on shore in an English colony; with which piece of information I conclude this chapter.
Chapter XXII
“Mercy on us! a bairn, a very pretty bairn, A boy, a child.” SHAKESPEARE.
When Newton was landed from the cartel at Jamaica, he found the advantage of not being clad in the garb of a sailor, as all those who were in such costume were immediately handed over to the admiral of the station, to celebrate their restoration to liberty on board of a man-of-war; but the clothes supplied to him by the generosity of M. de Fontanges had anything but a maritime appearance, and Newton was landed with his portmanteaus by one of the man-of-war’s boats, whose crew had little idea of his being a person so peculiarly suited to their views, possessing as he did the necessary qualifications of youth, activity, and a thorough knowledge of his profession. Newton was so anxious to return home, that after a few days’ expensive sojourn at an hotel, frequented chiefly by the officers of the man-of-war in port, he resolved to apply to the captain of a frigate ordered home with despatches, to permit him to take a passage. He had formed a slight intimacy with some of the officers, who assured him that he would experience no difficulty in obtaining his request. His application was made in person; and after his statement that he had been released in the last cartel which had come from Guadaloupe, his request was immediately granted, without any further questions being put relative to his profession, or the manner in which he had been captured. The captain very civilly gave him to understand that he might mess with the gun-room officers, if he could arrange with them, and that he expected to sail on the evening of the ensuing day. Newton immediately repaired on board of the frigate, to ascertain if the officers would receive him as a messmate; and further, whether the amount of his mess-money would be more than he could in prudence afford. At the bottom of one of the portmanteaus he had found a bag of two hundred dollars, supplied by his generous host, and in the same bag there was also deposited a small note from Madame de Fontanges, wishing him success, and enclosing (as a _souvenir_) a ring, which he had often perceived on her finger; but, adequate as was this supply to his own wants, Newton did not forget that his father was, in all probability, in great distress, and would require his assistance on his return. He was, therefore, naturally anxious not to expend more than was absolutely necessary in defraying his passage. The old first lieutenant, to whom, upon his arrival on board, he was introduced as commanding officer, received him with much urbanity; and, when Newton stated that he had obtained the captain’s permission to make the application, immediately acceded to his wishes on the part of his messmates as well as of himself, when Newton followed up his application, by requesting to know the expense which he would incur, as, in case of its being greater than his finances could meet, he would request permission to choose a less expensive mess.
“I am aware,” replied the veteran, “that those who have been shipwrecked, and in a French prison, are not likely to be very flush of cash. It is, however, a point on which I must consult my messmates. Excuse me one moment, and I will bring you an answer: I have no doubt but that it will be satisfactorily arranged; but there is nothing like settling these points at once. Mr Webster, see that the lighter shoves off the moment that she is clear,” continued the first lieutenant to one of the midshipmen as he descended the quarter-deck ladder, leaving Newton to walk the quarter-deck.
In a few minutes the first lieutenant reappeared, with one or two officers of the gun-room mess, who greeted him most cordially.
“I have seen all that are requisite,” said he to Newton. “Two I have not spoken to, the master and the purser; they are both poor men with families. If, therefore, you will not be too proud to accept it, I am requested to offer you a free passage from the other officers of the mess, as we feel convinced that your company will more than repay us. The proportion of the expense of your passage to the other two will be but one or two pounds; a trifle, indeed, but still of consequence to them; and that is the only expense which you will incur. If you can afford to pay that, any time after your arrival in England, we shall be most happy to receive you, and make the passage as comfortable and pleasant as circumstances will permit.”
To this most liberal proposition Newton most gladly acceded. The officers who had come on deck with the first lieutenant invited Newton below, where he was introduced to the remainder of the mess, who were most of them fine young men, as happy and careless as if youth was to last for ever. Having pledged each other in a glass of grog, Newton returned on shore. The next morning he made his arrangements, paid his bill at the hotel, and before twelve o’clock was again on board of the frigate, which lay with the Blue Peter hoisted, and her fore-topsail loose, waiting for her captain, who was still detained on shore while the admiral and governor made up their despatches.
When Newton had applied to the captain of the frigate for a passage home, he could hardly believe it possible that the person to whom he was introduced could be entrusted with the command of so fine a vessel. He was a slight-made, fair complexioned lad, of nineteen or twenty years at the most, without an incipient mark of manhood on his chin. He appeared lively, active, and good-natured; but what were the other qualifications he possessed, to discover such a mark of confidence, were to Newton an enigma requiring solution.
It was, however, to be explained in very few words. He was the son of the admiral of the station, and (as at that period there was no regulation with respect to age, to check the most rapid promotion), after he had served his time as midshipman, in less than two months he had been raised through the different ranks of lieutenant, commander, and post-captain. On receiving the latter step, he was at the same time appointed to the frigate in question,–one of the finest which belonged to his Majesty’s service. In order, however, that he should to a certain degree be in leading-strings, a very old and efficient officer had been selected by the admiral as his first lieutenant. Whether, in common justice, the captain and his subordinate ought not to have changed places, I leave the reader to guess; and it was the more unfair towards the worthy old first lieutenant, as, if the admiral had not entertained such a high opinion of his abilities and judgment as to confide to him the charge of his son, he would long before have been promoted himself to one of the many vacancies which so repeatedly occurred.
Captain Carrington had all the faults which, if no inherent, will naturally be acquired by those who are too early entrusted with power. He was self-sufficient, arbitrary, and passionate. His good qualities consisted in a generous disposition, a kindness of heart when not irritated, a manly courage, and a frank acknowledgment of his errors. Had he been allowed to serve a proper time in the various grades of his profession–had he been taught to obey before he had been permitted to _command_–he had within him all the materials for a good officer: as it was, he was neither officer, sailor, nor anything else, except a _spoiled boy_. He would often attempt to carry on the duty as captain, and as often fail from want of knowledge. He would commence manoeuvring the ship, but find himself unable to proceed. At these unfortunate _break downs_, he would be obliged to resign the speaking-trumpet to the first lieutenant; and if, as sometimes happened, the latter (either from accident, or perhaps from a pardonable pique at having the duty taken out of his hands), was not at his elbow to prompt him when at fault–at these times the cant phrase of the officers, taken from some farce, used to be, “_York, you’re wanted_.”
About an hour before sunset the juvenile captain made his appearance on board, rather _fresh_ from taking leave of his companions and acquaintances on shore. The frigate was got under weigh by the first lieutenant, and, before the sun had disappeared, was bounding over the foaming seas in the direction of the country which had nurtured to maturity the gnarled oak selected for her beautiful frame. Newton joined his new messmates in drinking a prosperous passage to old England; and, with a heart grateful for his improved prospects, retired to the hammock which had been prepared for him.
When Newton rose in the morning, he found that the wind had shifted contrary during the night, and that the frigate was close hauled, darting through the smooth water with her royals set. At ten o’clock the master proposed tacking the ship, and the first lieutenant went down to report his wish to the captain.
“Very well, Mr Nourse,” replied the captain; “turn the hands up.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, leaving the cabin.
“Call the boatswain, quarter-master–all hands ’bout ship.”
“All hands ’bout ship,” was now bellowed out by the boatswain, and re-echoed by his mates at the several hatchways, with a due proportion of whistling from their pipes.
“Tumble up, there–tumble up smartly, my lads.”
In a minute every man was on deck, and at his station; many of them, however, _tumbling down_ in their laudable hurry to _tumble up_.
“Silence there, fore and aft–every man to his station,” cried the first lieutenant through his speaking-trumpet. “All ready, sir,” reported the first lieutenant to the captain, who had followed him on deck. “Shall we put the helm down?”
“If you please, Mr Nourse.”
“Down with the helm.”
When the master reported it down, “The helm’s a-lee,” roared the first lieutenant.
But Captain Carrington, who thought light winds and smooth water a good opportunity for practice, interrupted him as he was walking towards the weather gangway “Mr Nourse, Mr Nourse, if you please, I’ll work the ship.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, handing him the speaking-trumpet. “Rise tacks and sheets, if you please, sir,” continued the first lieutenant (_sotto voce_), “the sails are lifting.”
“Tacks and sheets!” cried the captain.
“Gather in on the lee main-tack, my lads,” said the first lieutenant, going to the lee gangway to see the duty performed.
Now, Captain Carrington did know that “mainsail haul” was the next word of command; but as this order requires a degree of precision as to the exact time at which it is given, he looked over his shoulder for the first lieutenant, who usually prompted him in this exigence. Not seeing him there, he became disconcerted; and during the few seconds that he cast his anxious eyes about the deck, to discover where the first lieutenant was, the ship had passed head to wind.
“Mainsail haul!” at last cried the captain; but it was too late; the yards would not swing round; everything went wrong; and the ship was _in irons_.
“You hauled a little too late, sir,” observed the first lieutenant who had joined him. “You must box her off, sir, if you please.”
But Captain Carrington, although he could put the ship in irons, did not know how to take her out.
“The ship is certainly most cursedly out of trim,” observed he; “she’ll neither wear nor stay. Try her yourself, Mr Nourse,” continued the captain, “I’m sick of her!”–and with a heightened colour, he handed the speaking-trumpet over to the first lieutenant.
“York, you’re wanted,” observed the lieutenant abaft to the marine officer, dropping down the corners of his mouth.
“York, you’re wanted,” tittered the midshipmen, in whispers, as they passed each other.
“Well, I’ve won your grog, Jim,” cried one of the marines, who was standing at the forebrace; “I knew he’d never do it.”
“He’s like me,” observed another, in a low tone; “he left school too ‘arly, and lost his edication.”
Such were the results of injudicious patronage. A fine ship entrusted to a boy, ignorant of his duty; laughed at, not only by the officers, but even by the men; and the honour of the country at stake, and running no small risk of being tarnished, if the frigate met with a vigorous opponent.[1] Thank God, this is now over! Judicious regulations have put a stop to such selfish and short-sighted patronage. Selfish, because those who were guilty of it risked the honour of the nation to advance the interests of their _proteges_; short-sighted, because it is of little use making a young man a captain if you cannot make him an officer. I might here enter into a discussion which might be of some use, but it would be out of place in a work intended more for amusement than for instruction; nor would it in all probability be read. I always make it a rule myself, to skip over all those parts introduced in a light work which are of denser materials than the rest; and I cannot expect but that others will do the same. There is a time and place for all things; and like the master of Ravenswood, “I bide my time.”
[Footnote 1: It is true that an officer must now serve a certain time in the various grades before promotion, which time is supposed to be sufficient for him to acquire a knowledge of his profession; but whether that knowledge is obtained depends, as before, upon the young officer’s prospects in life. If from family interest he is sure of promotion, he is not quite so sure of being a seaman.]
The frigate dashed gallantly through the water, at one time careening to an adverse wind, at another rolling before a favouring gale: and, to judge from her rapid motion, she was not in such very bad trim as Captain Carrington had found out. Each day rapidly brought her nearer to their cherished home, as “she walked the waters like a thing of life.” I can conceive no prouder situation in this world than being captain of a fine frigate, with a well-disciplined crew; but d–n your _eight-and-twenties_!
“We had better take in the royals, if you please, sir,” said the first lieutenant, as he came, with his hat in his hand, into the cabin, where the captain was at dinner with several of the officers, the table crowded with a variety of decanters and French green bottles.
“Pho! nonsense! Mr Nourse; we’ll carry them a little longer,” replied the captain, who had been _carrying too much sail_ another way. “Sit down and take a glass of wine with us. You always cry out before you’re hurt, Nourse.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, seriously; “you will excuse me: it is time to beat to quarters.”
“Well, then, do so; I had no idea it was so late. Mr Forster, you don’t pass the bottle.”
“I have taken enough, I thank you, sir.”
The officers present also made the same statement.
“Well, then, if you won’t, gentlemen–steward, let’s have some coffee.”
The coffee appeared and disappeared; and the officers made their bows and quitted the cabin as the first lieutenant entered it to report the muster at quarters.
“All present and sober, sir. I am afraid, sir,” continued he, “the masts will be over the side if we do not clew up the royals.”
“Stop a moment, if you please, Mr Nourse, until I go up and judge for myself,” replied the captain, who was inclined to be pertinacious.
Captain Carrington went on deck. The men were still ranged round the decks at their quarters; more than one pair of eyes were raised aloft to watch the masts, which were bending like coach-whips, and complaining bitterly.
“Shall we beat a retreat, and pipe hands to shorten sail, sir? We had better take in the third reefs, sir;–it looks very squally to-night,” observed the first lieutenant.
“Really, Mr Nourse, I don’t exactly perceive the necessity–“
But at that moment the fore and main-top-gallant-masts went over the side; and the look-out man at the fore-top-gallant-mast head, who had been called down by the first lieutenant, but did not hear the injunction, was hurled into the sea to leeward.
“Helm down!” cried the master.
“Man overboard!–man overboard!” echoed round the decks; while some of the officers and men jumped into the quarter-boats, and hastily cast off the gripes and lashings.
Captain Carrington, who was immediately sobered by the catastrophe, which he felt had been occasioned by his own wilfulness, ran aft to the taffrail; and when he saw the poor sailor struggling in the waves, impelled by his really fine nature, he darted overboard to save him; but he was not by any means a powerful swimmer, and, encumbered with his apparel, it was soon evident that he could do no more than keep himself afloat.
Newton, who perceived how matters stood, with great presence of mind caught up two of the oars from the boat hanging astern, and darted over to the assistance of both. One oar he first carried to the seaman, who was exhausted and sinking. Placing it under his arms, he then swam with the other to Captain Carrington, who could not have remained above water but a few seconds more without the timely relief. He then quietly swam by the side of Captain Carrington, without any attempt at extra exertion.
The boat was soon lowered down, and in a few minutes they were all three again on board, and in safety. Captain Carrington thanked Newton for his assistance, and acknowledged his error to the first lieutenant. The officers and men looked upon Newton with respect and increased good-will; and the sailors declared that the captain was a prime little fellow, although he hadn’t had an “edication.”
Nothing worthy of remark occurred during the remainder of the passage. The ship arrived at Plymouth, and Newton took leave of his friendly shipmates, Captain Carrington requesting that Newton would command any interest that he had, if ever it should be required. It was with a throbbing heart that Newton descended from the outside of the coach which conveyed him to Liverpool, and hastened towards the obscure street in which he left his father residing. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when Newton arrived at his father’s door. To his delight, he perceived through the shop-window that his father was sitting at his bench; but his joy was checked when he perceived his haggard countenance. The old man appeared to be absorbed in deep thought, his cheek resting upon his hand, and his eyes cast down upon the little bench, to which the vice used to be fixed, but from which it was now removed.
The door was ajar, and Newton entered with his portmanteau in his hand; but whatever noise he might have made was not sufficient to rouse Nicholas, who continued in the same position.
With one glance round the shop, Newton perceived that it was bare of everything; even the glazed cases on the counter, which contained the spectacles, &c., had disappeared. All bespoke the same tale, as did the appearance of his father–misery and starvation.
“My dearest father!” cried Newton, unable to contain himself any longer.
“How!–what?” cried Nicholas, starting at the voice, but not looking round. “Pho! nonsense!–he’s dead,” continued the old man, communing with himself, as he again settled into his former position.
“My dearest father, I’m not dead!–look round–’tis Newton! alive and well.”
“Newton!” replied the old man, rising from his stool, and tottering to the counter, which was between them, on which he laid both his hands to support himself, as he looked into his son’s face. “‘Tis Newton, sure enough! My dear, dear boy!–then you an’t dead?”
“No, indeed, father; I am alive and well, thank God!”
“Thank God, too!” said Nicholas, dropping his face on the counter, and bursting into tears.
Newton sprang over to the side where his father was, and embraced him. For some time they were locked in each other’s arms; when Nicholas, who had recovered his composure, looked at Newton, and said, “Are you hungry, my dear boy?”
“Yes, indeed I am,” replied Newton, smiling, as the tears coursed down his cheeks; “for I have had nothing since breakfast.”
“And I have had nothing for these two days,” replied Nicholas, leaning back to the wall in evident exhaustion.
“Good God! you don’t say so?” cried Newton; “where can I buy something ready cooked?”
“At the shop round the corner: there’s a nice piece of boiled beef there; I saw it yesterday. I offered my improvement on the duplex for a slice; but he would not trust me, even for that.”
Newton ran out, and in a few minutes reappeared with the beef in question, some bread, and a pot of porter, with two plates and knives and forks, which the people had lent him, upon his putting down a deposit. He had laid them on the counter before his father, who, without saying a word, commenced his repast: the beef disappeared–the bread vanished–the porter-pot was raised to his mouth, and in a moment it was dry!
“Never made a better dinner, Newton,” observed Nicholas: “but I wish there had been a little more of it.”
Newton, who had only been a spectator, immediately went out for another supply; and on his return assisted his father in its demolition.
“Newton,” said Nicholas, who for a few minutes had relinquished his task, “I’ve been thinking–that–I should like another slice of that beef! and Newton, as I said before–I’ll trouble you for the porter!”
Chapter XXIII
“ORLANDO–Then forbear your food a little while, While, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, And give it food. There is a poor old man Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger.” SHAKESPEARE.
Reader, were you ever really hungry? I do not mean the common hunger arising from health and exercise, and which you have the means of appeasing at the moment, when it may be considered a source of pleasure rather than of pain:–I refer to the gnawing of starvation; because, if you have not been, you can form no conception of the agony of the suffering. Fortunately, but very few of my readers can have any knowledge of it; the general sympathy which it creates is from an ideal, not a practical knowledge. It has been my lot during the vicissitudes of a maritime life to have suffered hunger to extremity; and although impossible to express the corporeal agony, yet some notion of it may be conceived from the effect it had upon my mind. I felt that I hated the whole world, kin or no kin; that theft was a virtue, murder excusable, and cannibalism anything but disgusting; from which the inference may be safely drawn, viz., that I was devilish hungry.
I mention this, because Nicholas Forster, although he had been two days without food, and had disposed of every article which was saleable, was endued with so much strength of principle as not to have thought (or if he _had_ thought of it, immediately to have dismissed the thought) of vending the property found in the trunk by his son, and which had remained so long in their possession. That few would have been so scrupulous, I will acknowledge: whether Nicholas was over-scrupulous, is a question I leave to be debated by those who are fond of argument. I only state the fact.
Until the arrival of the ship brought home by Mr Berecroft, the allotment of Newton’s wages had been regularly paid to his father; but when the owner discovered that the brig had parted company with the convoy, and had not since been heard of, the chance of capture was considered so great that the owner refused to advance any more on Newton’s account. Nicholas was thus thrown upon his own resources, which were as small as they well could be. The crew of the brig, who quitted her in the boat, were picked up by a homeward-bound vessel, and brought what was considered the certain intelligence of Jackson and Newton having perished on the wreck. Nicholas, who had frequently called at the owner’s since his allowance had been stopped, to obtain tidings of his son, was overwhelmed with the intelligence of his death. He returned to his own house, and never called there again. Mr Berecroft, who wished to find him out and relieve him, could not ascertain in what quarter of the town he resided, and shortly after was obliged to proceed upon another voyage. Thus was the poor optician left to his fate; and it is probable that, but for the fortunate return of Newton, it would soon have been miserably decided.
Newton was much pleased when he learnt from his father that he had not disposed of the property which he had picked up at sea, for he now felt assured that he had discovered the owner at Guadaloupe, and intended to transmit it to M. de Fontanges as soon as he could find a safe conveyance; but this at present was not practicable. As soon as his father had been re-established in his several necessities and comforts, Newton, aware that his purse would not last for ever, applied to the owner of the brig for employment; but he was decidedly refused. The loss of the vessel had soured his temper against anyone who had belonged to her. He replied that he considered Newton to be an unlucky person, and must decline his sailing in any of his vessels, even if a vacancy should occur.
To every other application made elsewhere, Newton met with the same ill fortune. Mr Berecroft was not there to recommend or to assist him, and months passed away in anxious expectation of his patron’s return, when the intelligence was brought home that he had been carried off by yellow-fever, which that year had been particularly malignant and fatal. The loss of his only protector was a heavy blow to poor Newton; but he bore up against his fortune and redoubled his exertions. As before, he could always obtain employment before the mast; but this he refused, knowing that if again impressed, however well he might be off himself, and however fortunate in prize-money, his father would be left destitute, and in all probability be starved before he could return. The recollection of the situation in which he had found him on his return from the West Indies made Newton resolve not to leave his father without some surety of his being provided with the means of subsistence. He was not without some employment, and earned sufficient for their mutual maintenance by working as a rigger on board of the ships fitting for sea; and he adhered to this means of livelihood until something better should present itself. Had Newton been alone in the world, or his father able to support himself, he would have immediately applied to Captain Carrington to receive him in some capacity on board of his frigate, or have entered on board of some other man-of-war. Newton’s heart was too generous, and his mind too truly English, not to bound when he read or heard of the gallant encounters between the vessels of the rival nations, and he longed to be one of the many thousands so diligently employed in twining the wreath of laurel round their country’s brow.
Nearly one year of constant fatigue, constant expectation, and constant disappointment was thus passed away; affairs grew daily worse, employment scarce, money scarcer. Newton, who had been put off from receiving his wages until the ensuing day, which, as they had no credit, was in fact putting off their dinner also to the morrow, went home, and dropped on a chair in a despondent mood, at the table where Nicholas was already seated.
“Well, Newton, what’s for dinner?” said Nicholas, drawing his chair close to the table in preparation.
“I have not been paid the money due to me,” replied Newton; “and, father, I’m afraid there’s nothing.”
Nicholas backed his chair from the table again, with an air of resignation, as Newton continued:
“Indeed, father, I think we must try our fortune elsewhere. What’s the use of staying where we cannot get employment? Everything is now gone, except our wearing apparel. We might raise some money upon mine, it is true; but had we not better, before we spend it, try if fortune will be more favourable to us in some other place?”
“Why, yes, Newton, I’ve been thinking that if we were to go to London, my improvement on the duplex–“
“Is that our only chance there, sir?” replied Newton, half smiling.
“Why no; now I think of it, I’ve a brother there, John Forster, or Jack, as we used to call him. It’s near thirty years since I heard of him; but somebody told me, when you were in the West Indies, that he had become a great lawyer, and was making a large fortune. I quite forgot the circumstance till just now.”
Newton had before heard his father mention that he had two brothers, but whether dead or alive he could not tell. The present intelligence appeared to hold out some prospect of relief, for Newton could not for a moment doubt that if his uncle was in such flourishing circumstances, he would not refuse assistance to his brother. He therefore resolved not to wait until their means were totally exhausted: the next day he disposed of all his clothes except one suit, and found himself richer than he had imagined. Having paid his landlord the trifle due for rent, without any other incumbrance than the packet of articles picked up in the trunk at sea, three pounds sterling in his pocket, and the ring of Madame de Fontanges on his little finger, Newton, with his father, set off on foot for the metropolis.
Chapter XXIV
“I labour to diffuse the important good Till this great truth by all be understood, That all the pious duty which we owe
Our parents, friends, our country, and our God, The seeds of every virtue here below,
From discipline and early culture grow.” WEST.
The different chapters of a novel remind me of a convoy of vessels. The incidents and _dramatis personae_ are so many respective freights, all under the charge of the inventor, who, like a man-of-war, must see them all safely, and together, into port. And as the commanding officer, when towing one vessel which has lagged behind up to the rest, finds that in the meantime another has dropped nearly out of sight, and is obliged to cast off the one in tow, to perform the same necessary duty towards the sternmost, so am I necessitated for the present to quit Nicholas and Newton, while I run down to Edward Forster and his _protegee_.
It must be recollected that, during our narrative, “Time has rolled his ceaseless course,” and season has succeeded season, until the infant, in its utter helplessness to lift its little hands for succour, has sprung up into a fair blue-eyed little maiden of nearly eight years old, light as a fairy in her proportions, bounding as a fawn in her gait; her eyes beaming with joy, and her cheeks suffused with the blush of health, when tripping over the sea-girt hills; meek and attentive when listening to the precepts of her fond and adopted parent.
“Faithful,” the Newfoundland dog, is no more, but his portrait hangs over the mantel-piece in the little parlour. Mrs Beazely, the housekeeper, has become inert and querulous from rheumatism and the burden of added years. A little girl, daughter of Robertson, the fisherman, has been called in to perform her duties, while she basks in the summer’s sun or hangs over the winter’s fire. Edward Forster’s whole employment and whole delight has long been centred in his darling child, whose beauty of person, quickness of intellect, generous disposition, and affectionate heart, amply repay him for his kind protection.
Of all chapters which can be ventured upon, one upon education is perhaps the most tiresome. Most willingly would I pass it over, not only for the reader’s sake, but for mine own; for his–because it cannot well be otherwise than dry and uninteresting; for mine–because I do not exactly know how to write it.
But this cannot be. Amber was not brought up according to the prescribed maxims of Mesdames Appleton and Hamilton; and as effects cannot be satisfactorily comprehended without the causes are made known, so it becomes necessary, not only that the chapter should be written, but, what is still more vexatious, absolutely necessary that it should be read.
Before I enter upon this most unpleasant theme–unpleasant to all parties, for no one likes to teach, and no one likes to learn,–I cannot help remarking how excessively _au fait_ we find most elderly maiden ladies upon every point connected with the rearing of our unprofitable species. They are erudite upon every point _ab ovo_, and it would appear that their peculiar knowledge of the _theory_ can but arise from their attentions having never been diverted by the _practice_.
Let it be the teeming mother or the new-born babe–the teething infant or the fractious child–the dirty, pinafored urchin or sampler-spoiling girl–school-boy lout or sapling Miss–voice-broken, self-admiring hobby-de-hoy, or expanding conscious and blushing maiden, the whole arcana of nature and of art has been revealed to them alone.
Let it be the scarlet fever or a fit of passion, the measles or a shocking fib–whooping-cough or apple-stealing–learning too slow or eating too fast–slapping a sister or clawing a brother–let the disease be bodily or mental, they alone possess the panacea; and blooming matrons, spreading out in their pride, like the anxious clucking hen, over their numerous encircling offspring, who have borne them with a mother’s throes, watched over them with a mother’s anxious mind, and reared them with a mother’s ardent love, are considered to be wholly incompetent, in the opinion of these dessicated and barren branches of Nature’s stupendous, ever-bearing tree.
Mrs Beazely, who had lost her husband soon after marriage, was not fond of children, as they interfered with her habits of extreme neatness. As far as Amber’s education was concerned, all we can say is, that if the old housekeeper did no good, she certainly did her no harm. As Amber increased in years and intelligence, so did her thirst for knowledge on topics upon which Mrs Beazely was unable to give her any correct information. Under these circumstances, when applied to, Mrs Beazely, who was too conscientious to mislead the child, was accustomed to place her hand upon her back, and complain of the rheumatiz–“Such a stitch, my dear love, can’t talk now–ask your pa when he comes home.”
Edward Forster had maturely weighed the difficulties of the charge imposed upon him, that of educating a female. The peculiarity of her situation, without a friend in the wide world except himself; and his days, in all probability, numbered to that period at which she would most require an adviser–that period, when the heart rebels against the head and too often overthrows the legitimate dynasty of reason, determined him to give a masculine character to her education, as most likely to prove the surest safeguard through a deceitful world.
Aware that more knowledge is to be imparted to a child by conversation than by any other means (for by this system education is divested of its drudgery), during the first six years of her life Amber knew little more than the letters of the alphabet. It was not until her desire of information was excited to such a degree as to render her anxious to obtain her own means of acquiring it that Amber was taught to read; and then it was at her own request. Edward Forster was aware that a child of six years old, willing to learn, would soon pass by another who had been drilled to it at an earlier age and against its will, and whose mind had been checked in its expansive powers by the weight which constantly oppressed its infant memory. Until the above age, the mind of Amber had been permitted to run as unconfined through its own little regions of fancy, as her active body had been allowed to spring up the adjacent hills–and both were equally beautified and strengthened by the healthy exercise.
Religion was deeply impressed upon her grateful heart; but it was simplified almost to unity, that it might be clearly understood. It was conveyed to her through the glorious channel of nature, and God was loved and feared from the contemplation and admiration of His works.
Did Amber fix her eyes upon the distant ocean, or watch the rolling of the surf; did they wander over the verdant hills, or settle on the beetling cliff; did she raise her cherub-face to the heavens, and wonder at the studded firmament of stars, or the moon sailing in her cold beauty, or the sun blinding her in his warmth and splendour;–she knew that it was God who made them all. Did she ponder over the variety of the leaf; did she admire the painting of the flower, or watch the motions of the minute insect, which, but for her casual observation, might have lived and died unseen;–she felt, she knew that all was made for man’s advantage or enjoyment, and that God was great and good. Her orisons were short, but they were sincere; unlike the child who, night and morning, stammers through a “Belief” which it cannot comprehend, and whose ideas of religion are, from injudicious treatment, too soon connected with feelings of impatience and disgust.
Curiosity has been much abused. From a habit we have contracted in this world of not calling things by their right names, it has been decried as a vice, whereas it ought to have been classed as a virtue. Had Adam first discovered the forbidden fruit he would have tasted it, without, like Eve, requiring the suggestions of the devil to urge him on to disobedience. But if by curiosity was occasioned the fall of man, it is the same passion by which he is spurred to rise again, and reappear only inferior to the Deity. The curiosity of little minds may be impertinent; but the curiosity of great minds is the thirst for knowledge–the daring of our immortal powers–the enterprise of the soul, to raise itself again to its original high estate. It was curiosity which stimulated the great Newton to search into the laws of heaven, and enabled his master-mind to translate the vast mysterious page of Nature, ever before our eyes since the creation of the world, but never, till he appeared, to be read by mortal man. It is this passion which must be nurtured in our childhood, for upon its healthy growth and vigour depends the future expansion of the mind.
How little money need be expended to teach a child, and yet what a quantity of books we have to pay for! Amber had hardly ever looked into a book, and yet she knew more, that is, had more general useful knowledge than others who were twice her age. How small was Edward Forster’s little parlour–how humble the furniture it contained!–a carpet, a table, a few chairs, a small China vase, as an ornament, on the mantel-piece. How few were the objects brought to Amber’s view in their small secluded home! The plates and knives for dinner, a silver spoon or two, and their articles of wearing apparel. Yet how endless, how inexhaustible was the amusement and instruction derived from these trifling sources!–for these were Forster’s books.
The carpet–its hempen ground carried them to the north, from whence the material came, the inhabitants of the frozen world, their manners and their customs, the climate and their cities, their productions and their sources of wealth. Its woollen surface, with its various dyes–each dye containing an episode of an island or a state, a point of natural history, or of art and manufacture.
The mahogany table, like some magic vehicle, transported them in a second to the torrid zone, where the various tropical flowers and fruit, the towering cocoa-nut, the spreading palm, the broad-leaved banana, the fragrant pine–all that was indigenous to the country, all that was peculiar in the scenery and the clime, were pictured to the imagination of the delighted Amber.
The little vase upon the mantel-piece swelled into a splendid atlas of eastern geography, an inexhaustible folio describing Indian customs, the Asiatic splendour of costume, the gorgeous thrones of the descendants of the Prophet, the history of the Prophet himself, the superior instinct and stupendous body of the elephant; all that Edward Forster had collected of nature or of art, through these extensive regions, were successively displayed, until they returned to China, from whence they had commenced their travels. Thus did the little vase, like the vessel taken up by the fisherman in the “Arabian Nights,” contain a giant confined by the seal of Solomon–Knowledge.
The knife and spoon brought food unto the mind as well as to the body. The mines were entered, the countries pointed out in which they were to be found, the various metals, their value, and the uses to which they were applied. The dress again led them abroad; the cotton hung in pods upon the tree, the silkworm spun its yellow tomb, all the process of manufacture was explained. The loom again was worked by fancy, until the article in comment was again produced.
Thus was Amber instructed and amused: and thus, with nature for his hornbook, and art for his primer, did the little parlour of Edward Forster expand into the “universe.”
Chapter XXV
“—-they boast
Their noble birth: conduct us to the tombs Of their forefathers, and from age to age Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race.” COWPER.
Devoted as he was to the instruction of his adopted child, Edward Forster was nevertheless aware that more was required in the education of a female than he was competent to fulfil. Many and melancholy were his reveries on the forlorn prospects of the little girl (considering his own precarious life and the little chance that appeared of restoring her to her friends and relations), still he resolved that all that could should be done; the issue he left to Providence. That she might not be cast wholly unknown upon the world, in case of his death, he had often taken Amber to a neighbouring mansion, with the owner of which, Lord Aveleyn, he had long been on friendly terms; although, until latterly, he had declined mixing with the society which was there collected. Many years before, the possessor had entered the naval service, and had, during the few months that he had served in the capacity of midshipman, been intrusted to the charge of Edward Forster.
It is a curious fact, although little commented upon, how much society in general is affected by the entailment of property in aristocratical families upon the male heir; we may add, how much it is demoralised. The eldest son, accustomed from his earliest days to the flattery and adulation of dependents, is impressed with but one single idea, namely, that he is the fortunate person deputed by chance to spend so many thousands per annum, and that his brothers and sisters, with equal claims upon their parent, are to be almost dependent upon him for support. Of this, the latter are but too soon made conscious, by the difference of treatment which they experience from those around them; and feelings of envy and ill-will towards their eldest brother are but too often the result of such inequality. Thus, one of the greatest charms of life, unity between brethren, is destroyed.
The possessor of the title and the estates is at last borne to his long home, there to lie until summoned before that Presence where he, and those who were kings, and those who were clowns, will stand trembling as erring men, awaiting the fiat of eternal justice. In his turn, the young lord revels in his youth.
Then how much more trying is the situation of the younger brothers. During their father’s lifetime they had a home, and were brought up in scenes and with ideas commensurate with the fortune which had been entailed. Now, they find themselves thrown upon the world, without the means of support, even adequate to their wants. Like the steward in the parable, “They cannot dig, to beg they are ashamed;” and, like him, they too often resort to unworthy means to supply their exigencies.
Should the young heir prove sickly, what speculations on his demise! The worldly stake is so enormous that the ties of nature are dissolved, and a brother rejoices at a brother’s death! One generation is not sufficient to remove these feelings; the barrenness of his marriage-bed, or the weakly state of his children, are successively speculated upon by the presumptive heir. Let it not be supposed that I would infer this always to be the fact. I have put the extreme case, to point out what must ensue, according to the feelings of our nature, if care is not taken to prevent its occurrence. There is a cruelty, a more than cruelty, in parents bringing up their children with ideas which seldom can be realised, and rendering their future lives a pilgrimage of misery and discontent, if not of depravity.
But the major part of our aristocracy are neither deficient in talent nor in worth. They set a bright example to the nobles of other countries, and very frequently even to the less demoralised society of our own. Trammelled by the deeds of their forefathers, they employ every means in their power to remedy the evil; and a large proportion of their younger branches find useful and honourable employment in the army, the navy, or the church. But their numbers cannot all be provided for by these channels; and it is the country at large which is taxed to supply the means of sustenance to the younger scions of nobility–taxed directly in the shape of place and sinecure, indirectly in various ways; but in no way so heavily as by the monopoly of the East India Company, which has so long been permitted to oppress the nation, that these _detrimentals_ (as they have named themselves), may be provided for. It is a well-known fact, that there is hardly a peer in the Upper House, or many representatives of the people in the lower, who are not, or who anticipate to be, under some obligation to this Company, by their relations or connections being provided for in those distant climes; and it is this bribery (for bribery it is, in whatever guise it may appear) that upholds one of the most glaring, the most oppressive of all monopolies, in the face of common sense, common justice, and common decency. Other taxes are principally felt by the higher and middling classes; but this most odious, this most galling tax, is felt even in the cottage of the labourer, who cannot return to refresh himself after his day of toil with his favourite beverage, without paying twice its value out of his hard-earned pittance, to swell the dividend of the Company, and support these _pruriencies_ of noble blood.
And yet, deprecating the evils arising from the system of entail, I must acknowledge that there are no other means by which (in a monarchical government) the desirable end of upholding rank is to be obtained. I remember once, when conversing with an American, I inquired after one or two of his countrymen, who, but a few years before, were of great wealth and influence. To one of my remarks he answered, “In our country, all the wealth and power at the time attached to it does not prevent a name from sinking into insignificance, or from being forgotten soon after its possessor is dead, for we do not entail property. The distribution scatters the amassed heap, by which the world around him had been attracted; and although the distribution tends to the general fertilisation of the country, yet with the disappearance, the influence of the possessor, and even his name, are soon forgotten.”
These remarks, as will appear in the sequel, are apposite to the parties whom I am about to introduce to the readers. As, however, they are people of some consequence, it may appear to be a want of due respect on my part, if I were to introduce them at the fag-end of a chapter.
Chapter XXVI
“‘Twas his the vast and trackless deep to rove. Alternate change of climates has he known, And felt the fierce extremes of either zone, Where polar skies congeal th’ eternal snow, Or equinoctial suns for ever glow;
Smote by the freezing or the scorching blast, A ship-boy on the high and giddy mast.” FALCONER.
The father of the present Lord Aveleyn had three sons, and, in conformity with the usages commented upon in the preceding chapter, the two youngest were condemned to the army and navy; the second, who had priority of choice, being dismissed to gather laurels in a red coat, while the third was recommended to do the same, if he could, in a suit of blue. Fairly embarked in their several professions, a sum of fifty pounds per annum was placed in the hands of their respective agents, and no more was thought about a pair of “detrimentals.”
Lord Aveleyn’s father, who had married late in life, was summoned away when the eldest brother of the present Lord Aveleyn, the heir, was yet a minor, about two years after he had embarked in the ship to which Edward Forster belonged. Now it was the will of Providence that, about six months after the old nobleman’s decease, the young lord and his second brother, who had obtained a short furlough, should most unadvisedly embark in a small sailing boat on the lake close to the mansion, and that, owing to some mismanagement of the sail, the boat upset, and they were both drowned.
As soon as the melancholy intelligence was made known to the trustees, a letter was despatched to Captain L—-, who commanded the ship in which young Aveleyn was serving his time, acquainting him with the catastrophe, and requesting the immediate discharge of the young midshipman. The captain repaired on board; when he arrived on the quarter-deck, he desired the first lieutenant to send down for young Aveleyn.
“He is at the mast-head, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, “for neglect of duty.”
“Really, Mr W—-,” replied the captain, who had witnessed the boy’s _ascent_ at least a hundred times before with perfect indifference, and had often sent him up himself, “you appear to be very sharp upon that poor lad; you make no allowance for youth–boys will be boys.”
“He’s the most troublesome young monkey in the ship, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, surprised at this unusual interference.
“He has always appeared to me to be a well-disposed, intelligent lad, Mr W—-; and I wish you to understand that I do not approve of this system of eternal mast-heading. However, he will not trouble you any more, as his discharge is to be immediately made out. He is now,” continued the captain, pausing to give more effect to his communication, “Lord Aveleyn.”
“Whew! now the murder’s out,” mentally exclaimed the first lieutenant.
“Call him down immediately, Mr W—-, if you please–and recollect that I disapprove of the system.”
“Certainly, sir; but really, Captain L—-, I don’t know what I shall do if you restrict my power of punishing the young gentlemen; they are so extremely unruly. There’s Mr Malcolm,” continued the first lieutenant, pointing to a youngster who was walking on the other side of the deck, with his hands in his pockets, “it was but yesterday that he chopped off at least four inches from the tail of your dog ‘Ponto’ at the beef-block, and pretends it was an accident.”
“What! my setter’s tail?”
“Yes, sir, he did, I can assure you.”
“Mr Malcolm,” cried the captain, in great wrath, “how came you to cut off my dog’s tail?”
Before I went to sea I had always considered a London cock-sparrow to be the truest emblem of consummate impudence; but I have since discovered that he is quite modest compared to a midshipman.
“Me, sir?” replied the youngster, demurely. “I didn’t cut off his tail, sir; he _cut it off himself!_”
“What, sir?” roared the captain.
“If you please, sir, I was chopping a piece of beef, and the dog, who was standing by, turned short round, and put his tail under the chopper.”
“Put his tail under the chopper, you little scamp!” replied Captain L—-, in a fury. “Now just put your head above the maintop-gallant cross-trees, and stay there until you are called down. Mr W—-, you’ll keep him up till sunset.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, with a satisfactory smile at the description of punishment inflicted.
When I was a midshipman, it was extremely difficult to avoid the mast-head. Out of six years served in that capacity, I once made a calculation that two of them were passed away perched upon the cross-trees, looking down with calm philosophy upon the microcosm below. Yet, although I _never_ deserved it, I derived much future advantage from my repeated punishments. The mast-head, for want of something _worse_ to do, became my study; and during the time spent there, I in a manner finished my education. Volumes after volumes were perused to while away the tedious hours; and I conscientiously believe it is to this mode of punishment adopted by my rigid superiors that the world is indebted for all the pretty books which I am writing.
I was generally exalted either for _thinking_ or _not thinking;_ and as I am not aware of any medium between the active and passive state of our minds (except dreaming, which is still more unpardonable), the reader may suppose that there is no exaggeration in my previous calculation of one-third of my midshipman existence having been passed away upon “the high and giddy mast.”
“Mr M—-,” would the first lieutenant cry out, “why did you stay so long on shore with the jolly-boat?”
“I went to the post-office for the officers’ letters, sir.”
“And pray, sir, who ordered you?”
“No one, sir; but I _thought_–“
“You _thought_, sir! How dare _you think_?–go up to the mast-head, sir.”
So much for _thinking_.
“Mr M—-,” would he say at another time, when I came on board, “did you call at the admiral’s office?”
“No, sir; I had no orders. I didn’t _think_–“
“Then why _didn’t you think_, sir? Up to the mast-head, and stay there till I call you down.”
So much for _not thinking_. Like the fable of the wolf and the lamb, it was all the same; bleat as I pleased, my defence was useless, and I could not avert my barbarous doom.
To proceed: Captain L—- went over the side; the last pipe had been given, and the boatswain had returned his call into his jacket-pocket and walked forward, when the first lieutenant, in pursuance of his orders, looked up aloft, intending to have hailed the new lord, and have requested the pleasure of his company on deck; but the youngster, feeling a slight degree of appetite, after enjoying the fresh air for seven hours without any breakfast, had just ventured down the topmast rigging, that he might obtain possession of a bottle of tea and some biscuit, which one of his messmates had carried up for him, and stowed away in the bunt of the maintopsail. Young Aveleyn, who thought that the departure of the captain would occupy the attention of the first lieutenant, had just descended to, and was placing his foot on the topsail yard, when Mr W—- looked up, and witnessed this act of disobedience. As this was a fresh offence committed, he thought himself warranted in not complying with the captain’s mandate, and the boy was ordered up again, to remain till sunset. “I would have called him down,” muttered Mr W—-, whose temper had been soured from long disappointment; “but since he’s a lord, he shall have a good spell of it before he quits the service; and then we shall not have his recommendation to others in his own rank to come into it and interfere with our promotion.”
Now, it happened that Mr W—-, who had an eye like a hawk, when he cast his eyes aloft, observed that the bunt of the maintopsail was not exactly so well stowed as it ought to be on board of a man-of-war; which is not to be wondered at, when it is recollected that the midshipmen had been very busy enlarging it to make a pantry. He therefore turned the hands up, “mend sails,” and took his station amidship on the booms, to see that this, the most delinquent sail, was properly furled.–“Trice up–lay out–All ready forward?”–“All ready, sir.”–“All ready abaft?”–“All ready, sir.”–“Let fall.”–Down came the sails from the yards, and down also came the bottle of tea and biscuit upon the face of the first lieutenant, who was looking up; the former knocking out three of his front teeth, besides splitting open both his lips and chin.
Young Aveleyn, who witnessed the catastrophe, was delighted; the other midshipmen on deck crowded round their superior, to offer their condolements, winking and making faces at each other in by-play, until the first lieutenant descended to his cabin, when they no longer restrained their mirth.
About an hour afterwards, Mr W—- reappeared, with his face bound up, and summoned all the young gentlemen on deck, insisting upon being informed who it was who had stowed away the bottle in the bunt of the sail; but midshipmen have most treacherous memories, and not one of them knew anything about it. As a last resource, young Aveleyn was called down from the mast-head.
“Now, sir,” said Mr W—-, “either inform me directly who it was who stowed away the bottle aloft, or I pledge you my word you shall be discharged from his Majesty’s service to-morrow morning. Don’t pretend to say that you don’t know–for you must.”
“I do know,” replied the youngster, boldly; “but I never will tell.”
“Then either you or I shall leave the service. Man the first cutter;” and when the boat was manned, the first lieutenant sent some papers on shore, which he had been desired to do by the captain.
When the boat returned, the clerk was sent for, and desired by Mr W—- to make out Mr Aveleyn’s discharge, as the officers and midshipmen thought (for Mr W—- had kept his secret), for his disobedient conduct. The poor boy, who thought all his prospects blighted, was sent on shore, the tears running down his cheeks, as much from the applause and kind farewells of his shipmates, as from the idea of the degradation which he underwent. Now, the real culprit was young Malcolm, who, to oblige the captain, had taken his station at the foretop-gallant mast-head, because the dog “Ponto” thought proper to cut off his own tail. The first lieutenant, in his own woe, forgot that of others; and it was not until past nine o’clock at night that Malcolm, who thought that he had stayed up quite long enough, ventured below, when he was informed of what had taken place.
The youngster immediately penned a letter to the captain, acknowledging that he was the offender, and requesting that Mr Aveleyn might not be discharged from the service; he also ventured to add a postscript, begging that the same lenity might be extended towards himself; which letter was sent on shore by the captain’s gig, when it left the ship the next morning, and was received by Captain L—- at the very same time that young Aveleyn, who had not been sent on shore till late in the evening, called upon the captain to request a reprieve from his hard sentence.
The boy sent up his name and was immediately admitted.
“I presume you know why you are discharged from the service?” said Captain L—-, smiling benignantly.
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, holding his head down submissively, “because of that accident–I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Of course you must, and ought to be. Such heavy blows are not common, and hard to bear. I presume you go immediately to Buckhurst?”
“I suppose I must, sir; but I hope, Captain L—-, that you’ll look over it.”
“I shall have very great pleasure in so doing,” replied Captain L—-; “I hear that it is–“
“Thanky, sir, thanky,” replied the youngster, interrupting the captain. “Then may I go on board again and tell the first lieutenant?”
“Tell the first lieutenant what?” cried Captain L—-, perceiving some mistake. “Why, has not Mr W—-told you?”
“Yes, sir, he told me it was your orders that I should be dismissed his Majesty’s service.”
“Discharged–not dismissed. And I presume he told you why: because your two elder brothers are dead, and you are now Lord Aveleyn.”
“No, sir!” cried the youngster with astonishment; “because his three front teeth are knocked out with a bottle of _scaldchops,_ and I would not peach who stowed it away in the bunt of the sail.”
“This is excessively strange!” replied Captain L—-. “Do me the favour to sit down, my lord; the letters from the ship will probably explain the affair.”
There was, however, no explanation, except from young Malcolm. The captain read his letter, and put it into the hands of Lord Aveleyn, who entered into a detail of the whole.
Captain L—- produced the letter from the trustees, and, desiring his lordship to command him as to any funds he might require, requested the pleasure of his company to dinner. The boy, whose head wheeled with the sudden change in his prospects, was glad to retire, having first obtained permission to return on board with young Malcolm’s pardon, which had been most graciously acceded to. To the astonishment of everybody on board, young Aveleyn came alongside in the captain’s own gig, when the scene in the midshipmen’s berth and the discomfiture of the first lieutenant may be imagined.
“You don’t belong to the service, Frank,” said the old master’s mate; “and, as peer of the realm, coming on board to visit the ship, you are entitled to a salute. Send up and say you expect one, and then W—- must have the guard up, and pay you proper respect. I’ll be hanged if I don’t take the message, if you consent to it.”
But Lord Aveleyn had come on board to pay a debt of gratitude, not to inflict mortification. He soon quitted the ship, promising never to forget Malcolm; and, unlike the promises of most great men, it was fulfilled, and Malcolm rose to be a captain from his own merit, backed by the exertions of his youthful patron.
For the next week the three mast-heads were so loaded with midshipmen, that the boatswain proposed a preventer backstay, that the top-masts might not go over the side; but shortly after, Captain L—-, who was not pleased at the falsehood which Mr W—- had circulated, and who had many other reasons for parting with him, succeeded in having him appointed to another ship; after which the midshipmen walked up and down the quarter-deck with their hands in their pockets, as before.
Chapter XXVII
“But Adeline determined Juan’s wedding In her own mind, and that’s enough for woman; But then with whom? There was the sage Miss Redding, Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman and Miss Knowman, And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. She deem’d his merits something more than common. All these were unobjectionable matches, And might go on, it well wound up, like watches.” BYRON.
The young Lord Aveleyn returned to the hall of his ancestors, exchanging the gloomy cockpit for the gay saloon, the ship’s allowance for sumptuous fare, the tyranny of his messmates and the harshness of his superiors for adulation and respect. Was he happier? No. In this world, whether in boyhood or riper years, the happiest state of existence is when under control. Although contrary to received opinion, this is a fact; but I cannot now stop to demonstrate the truth of the assertion.
Life may be compared to a gamut of music: there are seven notes from our birth to our marriage; and thus may we run up the first octave–milk, sugar-plums, apples, cricket, cravat, gun, horse; then comes the wife, a _da capo_ to a new existence, which is to continue until the whole diapason is gone through. Lord Aveleyn ran up his scale like others before him.
“Why do you not marry, my dear Frank?” said the dowager Lady Aveleyn, one day, when a thick fog debarred her son of his usual pastime.
“Why, mother, I have no objection to marry; and I suppose I must, one of these days, as a matter of duty: but I really am very difficult to please; and if I were to make a bad choice, you know a wife is not like this gun, which will _go off_ when I please.”
“But still, my dear Frank, there are many very eligible matches to be made just now.”
“I do not doubt it, madam, but pray who are they?”
“Why, Miss Riddlesworth–“
“A very pretty girl, and I am told a large fortune. But let me hear the others first.”
“Clara Beauchamp, well connected, and a very sweet girl.”
“Granted also, for anything I know to the contrary. Have you more on your list?”
“Certainly. Emily Riddlesdale; not much fortune, but very highly connected indeed. Her brother, Lord Riddlesdale, is a man of great influence.”
“Her want of money is no object, my dear mother, and the influence of her brother no inducement; I covet neither. I grant you that she is a very nice girl. Proceed.”
“Why, Frank, one would think that you were a sultan with his handkerchief. There is Lady Selina Armstrong.”
“Well, she is a very fine girl, and talks well.”
“There is Harriet Butler, who has just come out.”
“I saw her at the last ball we were at–a very pretty creature.”
“Lady Jemima Calthorpe.”
“Not very good-looking, but clever and agreeable.”
“There is Louisa Manners, who is very much admired.”
“I admire her very much myself.”
“Well, Frank, you have exhausted my catalogue. There is not one I have mentioned who is not unexceptionable, and whom I would gladly embrace as a daughter-in-law. You are now turned of forty, my dear son, and must make up your mind to have heirs to the title and estates. I am, however, afraid that your admiration is so general, that you will be puzzled in your choice.”
“I will confess to you, my dearest mother, that I have many years thought of the necessity of taking to myself a wife, but have never yet had courage to decide. I admit that if all the young women you have mentioned were what they appear to be, a man need not long hesitate in his choice; but the great difficulty is, that their real tempers and dispositions are not to be ascertained until it is too late. Allow that I should attempt to discover the peculiar disposition of every one of them, what would be the consequence?–that my attentions would be perceived. I do not exactly mean to accuse them of deceit; but a woman is naturally flattered by perceiving herself an object of attraction; and when flattered, is pleased. It is not likely, therefore, that the infirmities of her temper (if she have any) should be discovered by a man whose presence is a source of gratification. If artful, she will conceal her faults; if not so, there will be no occasion to bring them to light. And even if, after a long courtship, something wrong should be discovered, either you have proceeded too far in honour to retract, or are so blinded by your own feelings as to extenuate it. Now, it is only the parents and near relations of a young woman who can be witnesses to her real character, unless it be, indeed, her own maid, whom one could not condescend to interrogate.”
“That is all very true, Frank; but recollect the same observations apply to your sex as well as ours. Lovers and husbands are very different beings. It is quite a lottery on both sides.”
“I agree with you, my dear mother; and, as marry I must, so shall it be a lottery with me–I will leave it to chance, and not to myself: then, if I am unfortunate, I will blame my stars, and not have to accuse myself of a want of proper discrimination.” Lord Aveleyn took up a sheet of paper, and, dividing it into small slips, wrote upon them the names of the different young ladies proposed by his mother. Folding them up, he threw them on the table before her, and requested that she would select any one of the papers.
The dowager took up one.
“I thank you, madam,” said Lord Aveleyn, taking the paper from her hand, and opening it–“‘Louisa Manners.’ Well, then, Louisa Manners it shall be; always provided that she does not refuse me. I will make my first advances this very afternoon–that is, if it does not clear up, and I can take out the pointers.”
“You surely are joking, Frank?”
“Never was more serious. I have my mother’s recommendation, backed by fate. Marry I must, but choose I will not. I feel myself desperately in love with the fair Louisa already. I will report my progress to you, my dear madam, in less than a fortnight.”
Lord Aveleyn adhered to his singular resolution, courted, and was accepted. He never had reason to repent his choice; who proved to be as amiable as her countenance would have indicated. The fruits of his marriage was one son, who was watched over with mingled pride and anxiety, and who had now arrived at the age of fifteen years.
Such was the history of Lord Avelyn, who continued to extend his friendship to Edward Forster, and, if he had required it, would gladly have proffered his assistance, in return for the kindness which Forster had shown towards him when he was a midshipman. The circumstances connected with the history of the little Amber were known to Lord Aveleyn and his lady; and the wish of Forster, that his little charge should derive the advantage of mixing in good female society, was gladly acceded to, both on his account and on her own. Amber would often remain for days at the mansion, and was a general favourite, as well as an object of sympathy.
But the growth of their son, too rapid for his years, and which brought with it symptoms of pulmonary disease, alarmed Lord and Lady Aveleyn; and, by the advice of the physicians, they broke up their establishment, and hastened with him to Madeira, to re-establish his health. Their departure was deeply felt both by Forster and his charge; and before they could recover from the loss, another severe trial awaited them in the death of Mrs Beazely, who, full of years and rheumatism, was gathered to her fathers. Forster, habituated as he was to the old lady, felt her loss severely: he was now with Amber, quite alone; and it so happened that in the following winter his wound broke out, and confined him to his bed until the spring.
As he lay in a precarious state, the thought naturally occurred to him, “What will become of this poor child if I am called away? There is not the slightest provision for her: she has no friends, and I have not even made it known to any of my own that there is such a person in existence.” Edward Forster thought of his brother, the lawyer, whom he knew still to be flourishing, although he had never corresponded with him; and resolved that, as soon as he was able to undertake the journey, he would go to town, and secure his interest for the little Amber, in case of any accident happening to himself.
The spring and summer passed away before he found himself strong enough to undertake the journey. It was late in the autumn that Edward Forster and Amber took their places in a heavy coach for the metropolis, and arrived without accident on the day or two subsequent to that on which Nicholas and Newton had entered it on foot.
Chapter XXVIII
“Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion, Here taverns wooing to a pint of ‘purl,’ There mails fast flying off, like a delusion.
“Through this, and much, and more, is the approach Of travellers to mighty Babylon;
Whether they come by horse, or chair, or coach, With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one.” BYRON.
When Newton Forster and his father arrived at London, they put up at an obscure inn in the Borough. The next day, Newton set off to discover the residence of his uncle. The people of the inn had recommended him to apply to some stationer or bookseller, who would allow him to look over a red-book; and, in compliance with these instructions, Newton stopped at a shop in Fleet-street, on the doors of which was written in large gilt letters–“Law Bookseller.” The young men in the shop were very civil and obliging, and, without referring to the “Guide,” immediately told him the residence of a man so well known as his uncle, and Newton hastened in the direction pointed out.
It was one of those melancholy days in which London wears the appearance of a huge scavenger’s cart. A lurid fog and mizzling rain, which had been incessant for the previous twenty-four hours; sloppy pavements, and kennels down which the muddy torrents hastened to precipitate themselves into the sewers below; armies of umbrellas, as far as the eye could reach, now rising, now lowering, to avoid collision; hackney-coaches in active sloth, their miserable cattle plodding along with their backs arched and heads and tails drooping like barndoor fowls crouching under the cataract of a gutter; clacking of pattens and pestering of sweepers; not a smile upon the countenance of one individual of the multitude which passed him;–all appeared anxiety, bustle, and selfishness. Newton was not sorry when he turned down the narrow court which had been indicated to him, and, disengaged from the throng of men, commenced a more rapid course. In two minutes he was at the door of his uncle’s chambers, which, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, stood wide open, as if there should be no obstacle in a man’s way, or a single moment for reflection allowed him, if he wished to entangle himself in the expenses and difficulties of the law. Newton furled his weeping umbrella; and, first looking with astonishment at the mud which had accumulated above the calves of his legs, raised his eyes to the jambs on each side, where in large letters he read at the head of a long list of occupants, “Mr Forster, Ground Floor.” A door with Mr Forster’s name on it, within a few feet of him, next caught his eye. He knocked, and was admitted by the clerk, who stated that his master was at a consultation, but was expected back in half-an-hour, if he could wait so long. Newton assented, and was ushered into the parlour, where the clerk presented the newspaper of the day to amuse him until the arrival of his uncle.
As soon as the door was closed, Newton’s curiosity as to the character of his uncle induced him to scrutinise the apartment and its contents. In the centre of the room, which might have been about fourteen feet square, stood a table, with a shadow lamp placed before the only part of it which was left vacant for the use of the pen. The remainder of the space was loaded with parchment upon parchment, deed upon deed, paper upon paper. Some, especially those underneath, had become dark and discoloured by time; the ink had changed to a dull red, and the imprint of many a thumb inferred how many years they had been in existence, and how long they had lain there as sad mementos of the law’s delay. Others were fresh and clean, the japanned ink in strong contrast with the glossy parchment,–new cases of litigation, fresh as the hopes of those who had been persuaded by flattering assurances to enter into a labyrinth of vexation, from which, perhaps, not to be extricated until these documents should assume the hue of the others, which silently indicated the blighted hopes of protracted litigation. Two massive iron chests occupied the walls on each side of the fireplace; and round the whole area of the room were piled one upon another large tin boxes, on which, in legible Roman characters, were written the names of the parties whose property was thus immured. There they stood like so many sepulchres of happiness, mausoleums raised over departed competence; while the names of the parties inscribed appeared as so many registers of the folly and contention of man.
But from all this Newton could draw no other conclusion than that his uncle had plenty of business. The fire in the grate was on so small a scale, that, although he shivered with the wet and cold, Newton was afraid to stir it, lest it should go out altogether. From this circumstance he drew a hasty and unsatisfactory conclusion that his uncle was not very partial to spending his money.
But he hardly had time to draw these inferences and then take up the newspaper, when the door opened, and another party was ushered into the room by the clerk, who informed him, as he handed a chair, that Mr Forster would return in a few minutes.
The personage thus introduced was a short young man, with a round face, bushy eyebrows, and dogged countenance, implying wilfulness without ill-nature. As soon as he entered, he proceeded to divest his throat of a large shawl, which he hung over the back of a chair; then doffing his great coat, which was placed in a similar position, he rubbed his hands, and walked up to the fire, into which he insinuated the poker, and immediately destroyed the small symptoms of combustion which remained, reducing the whole to one chaos of smoke.
“Better have left it alone, I believe,” observed he, reinserting the poker, and again stirring up the black mass, for the fire was now virtually defunct.
“You’re not cold, I hope, sir?” said the party, turning to Newton.
“No, sir, not very,” replied Newton, good humouredly.
“I thought so; clients never are: nothing like law for _keeping you warm,_ sir. Always bring on your cause in the winter months. I do, if I can; for it’s positive suffocation in the dog-days!”
“I really never was _at law,_” replied Newton, laughing; “but if ever I have the misfortune, I shall recollect your advice.”
“Never was at law! I was going to say, what the devil brings you here? but that would have been an impertinent question. Well, sir, do you know, there was a time at which I never knew what law was,” continued the young man, seating himself in a chair opposite to Newton. “It was many years ago, when I was a younger brother, and had no property: no one took the trouble to go to law with me; for if they gained their cause, there were no effects. Within the last six years I have inherited considerable property, and am always in hot water. I heard that the lawyers say, ’causes produce effects.’ I am sure I can say that ‘effects have produced causes!'”
“I am sorry that your good fortune should be coupled with such a drawback.”
“Oh, it’s nothing! It’s just to a man what a clog is to a horse in a field–you know pretty well where to find him. I’m so used to it–indeed so much so, that I should feel rather uncomfortable if I had nothing on my hands: just keeps me from being idle. I’ve been into every court in the metropolis, and have no fault to find with one of them, except the Court of R——ts.”
“And pray, sir, what is that court, and the objection you have to it?”
“Why, as to the court, it’s the most confounded ras——; but I must be careful how I speak before strangers: you’ll excuse me, sir; not that I suspect you, but I know what may be considered as a libel. I shall, therefore, just state that it is a court at which no gentleman can appear; and if he does, it’s of no use, for he’ll never get a verdict in his favour.”
“What, then it is not a court of justice?”
“Court of justice! no, it’s a court for the recovery of small debts; but I’ll just tell you, sir, exactly what took place with me in that court, and then you will be able to judge for yourself. I had a dog, sir; it was just after I came into my property; his name was Caesar, and a very good dog he was. Well, sir, riding out one day about four miles from town, a rabbit put his nose out of a cellar, where they retailed potatoes. Caesar pounced upon him, and the rabbit was dead in a moment. The man who owned the rabbit and the potatoes, came up to me and asked my name, which I told him; at the same time I expressed my sorrow at the accident, and advised him in future to keep his rabbits in hutches. He said he would, and demanded three shillings and sixpence for the one which the dog had killed. Now, although he was welcome to advice, money was quite another thing; so he went one way muttering something about law, and I another, with Caesar at my heels, taking no notice of his threat. Well, sir, in a few days my servant came up to say that somebody wished to see me upon _particular_ business, and I ordered him to be shown up. It was a blackguard-looking fellow, who put a piece of dirty paper in my hand; summoned me to appear at some dog-hole or another, I forget where. Not understanding the business, I enclosed it to a legal friend, who returned an answer, that it was a summons to the Court of R—-ts; that no gentleman could go there; and that I had better let the thing take its course. I had forgotten all about it, when, in a few days, a piece of paper was brought to me, by which I found that the court adjudged me to pay L1 2s. 6d., for damages and costs. I asked who brought it, and was told it was the son of the potato-merchant, accompanied by a tipstaff. I requested the pleasure of their company, and asked the legal gentleman what it was for.
“‘Eighteen shillings for ten rabbits destroyed by your dog, and 4s. 6d. for costs of court.’
“‘Ten rabbits!’ exclaimed I; ‘why, he only killed one.’
“‘Yes, sir,’ squeaked out the young potato-merchant; ‘but it was a doe rabbit in the family way; we counted nine young ones, all killed too!’
“‘Shameful!’ replied I. ‘Pray, sir, did your father tell the court that the rabbits were not born?’
“‘No, sir; father only said there was one doe rabbit and nine little ones killed. He asked 4s. 6d. for the old one, but only 1s. 6d. a-piece for the young ones.’
“‘You should have been there yourself, sir,’ observed the tipstaff.
“‘I wish Caesar had left the rabbit alone. So it appears,’ replied I, ‘he only asked 3s. 6d. at first; but by this _Caesarean operation_, I am nineteen shillings out of pocket.’–Now, sir, what do you think of that?”
“I think that you should exclaim against the dishonesty of the potato-merchant, rather than the judgment of the court. Had you defended your own cause, you might have had justice.”
“I don’t know that. A man makes a claim against another, and takes his oath to it; you must then either disprove it, or pay the sum; your own oath is of no avail against his. I called upon my legal friend, and told him how I had been treated, and he then narrated the following circumstance, which will explain what I mean:–
“He told me that he never knew of but one instance in which a respectable person had gained his cause, and in which, he was ashamed to say, that he was a party implicated. The means resorted to were as follows:–A Jew upholsterer sent in a bill to a relation of his for a chest of drawers, which had never been purchased or received. Refusing to pay, he was summoned to the Court of R—-ts. Not knowing how to act, he applied to my informant, who, being under some obligations to his relative, did not like to refuse.
“‘I am afraid that you will have to pay,’ said the attorney to his relation, when he heard the story.
“‘But I never had them, I can swear to it.’
“‘That’s of no consequence; he will bring men to swear to the delivery. There are hundreds about the court who are ready to take any oath, at half a crown a-head; and that will be sufficient. But, to oblige you, I will see what I can do.’
“They parted, and, in a day or two my legal acquaintance called upon his relation, and told him that he had gained his cause. ‘Rather at the expense of my conscience, I must acknowledge,’ continued he; ‘but one must fight these scoundrels with their own weapons.’
“‘Well, and how was it?’ inquired the other.
“‘Why, as I prophesied, he brought three men forward, who swore to the delivery of the goods. Aware that this would be the case, I had provided three others, who swore to their having been witness to the _payment of the bill_! This he was not prepared for; and the verdict was given in your favour.'”
“Is it possible,” exclaimed Newton, “that such a court of Belial can exist in England?”
“Even so; and as there is no appeal, pray keep out of it. For my–“
But here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr John Forster, who had returned from his consultation.
We have already described Mr John Forster’s character; we have now only to introduce his person. Mr John Forster was about the middle height, rather inclined to corpulency, but with great show of muscular strength. His black nether garments and silk stockings fitted a leg which might have been envied by a porter, and his breadth of shoulder was extreme. He had a slouch, probably contracted by long poring over the desk; and his address was as abrupt as his appearance was unpolished. His forehead was large and bald, eye small and brilliant, and his cheeks had dropped down so as to increase the width of his lower jaw. Deep, yet not harsh, lines were imprinted on the whole of his countenance, which indicated inflexibility and self-possession.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said he, as he entered the room; “I hope you have not been waiting long. May I request the pleasure of knowing who came first? ‘First come, first served,’ is an old motto.”
“I _believe_ this gentleman came first,” replied the young man.
“Don’t you _know_, sir? Is it only a _believe_?”
“I did arrive first, sir,” said Newton; “but as I am not here upon legal business, I had rather wait until this gentleman has spoken to you.”
“Not upon legal business–humph!” replied Mr Forster, eyeing Newton. “Well, then, if that is the case, do me the favour to sit down in the office until I have communicated with this gentleman.”
Newton, taking up his hat, walked out of the door, which was opened by Mr Forster, and sat down in the next room until he should be summoned. Although the door between them was closed, it was easy to hear the sound of the voices within. For some minutes they fell upon Newton’s ears; that of the young man like the loud yelping of a cur; that of his uncle like the surly growl of some ferocious beast. At last the door opened:
“But, sir,” cried the young man, _in alto_.
“_Pay_, sir, _pay_! I tell you, _pay_!” answered the lawyer, in a stentorian voice.
“But he has cheated me, sir!”
“Never mind–pay!”
“Charged twice their value, sir!”
“I tell you, pay!”
“But, sir, such imposition!”
“I have told you twenty times, sir, and now tell you again–and for the last time–_pay_!”
“Won’t you take up my cause, sir, then?”
“No, sir! I have given you advice, and will not pick your pocket!–Good morning, sir:” and Mr Forster, who had backed his client out of the room, shut the door in his face, to prevent further discussion.
The young man looked a moment at the door after it was closed, and then turned round to Newton.
“If yours is really law business, take my advice, don’t stay to see him; I’ll take you to a man who _is_ a lawyer. Here you’ll get no law at all.”
“Thankye,” replied Newton, laughing; “but mine really is not law business.”
The noise of the handle of the door indicated that Mr Forster was about to re-open it to summon Newton; and the young man, with a hasty good morning, brushed by Newton and hastened into the street.
Chapter XXIX
“HAMLET.–Is not parchment made of sheepskin?
HORATIO.–Ay, my lord, and of calves’ skins too.
HAMLET.–They are sheep and calves which Seek out their assurance in that.”
SHAKESPEARE.
The door opened as intimated at the end of our last chapter, and Newton obeyed the injunction from the lawyer’s eye to follow him into the room.
“Now, sir, your pleasure?” said Mr Forster.
“I must introduce myself,” replied Newton: “I am your nephew, Newton Forster.”
“Humph! where’s your documents in proof of your assertion?”
“I did not consider that anything further than my word was necessary. I am the son of your brother, Nicholas Forster, who resided many years at Overton.”
“I never heard of Overton: Nicholas I recollect to have been the name of my third brother; but it is upwards of thirty years since I have seen or heard of him. I did not know whether he was alive or dead. Well, for the sake of argument, we’ll allow that you are my nephew;–what then?”
Newton coloured up at this peculiar reception. “What then, uncle?–why I did hope that you would have been glad to have seen me; but as you appear to be otherwise, I will wish you good morning;”–and Newton moved towards the door.
“Stop, young man; I presume that you did not come for nothing! Before you go, tell me what you came for.”
“To tell you the truth,” replied Newton with emotion, “it was to ask your assistance, and your advice; but–“
“But jumping up in a huff is not the way to obtain either. Sit down on that chair, and tell me what you came for.”
“To request you would interest yourself in behalf of my father and myself; we are both out of employ, and require your assistance.”
“Or probably I never should have seen you!”
“Most probably: we knew that you were in good circumstances, and thriving in the world; and as long as we could support ourselves honestly, should not have thrust ourselves upon you. All we wish now is that you will, by your interest and recommendation, put us in the way of being again independent by our own exertions; which we did not consider too much to ask from a brother and an uncle.”
“Humph!–so first you keep aloof from me because you knew that I was able to assist you, and now you come to me for the same reason!”
“Had we received the least intimation from you that our presence would have been welcome, you would have seen us before.”
“Perhaps so; but I did not know whether I had any relations alive.”
“Had I been in your circumstances, uncle, I should have inquired.”
“Humph!–Well, young man, as I find that I have relations, I should like to hear a little about them;–so now tell me all about your father and yourself.”
Newton entered into a detail of the circumstances, with which the reader is already acquainted. When he had finished, his uncle, who had listened with profound attention, his eye fixed upon that of Newton, as if to read his inmost thoughts, said, “It appears, then, that your father wishes to prosecute his business as optician. I am afraid that I cannot help him. I wear spectacles certainly when I read; but this pair has lasted me eleven years, and probably will as many more. You wish me to procure you a situation in an East Indiaman as third or fourth mate. I know nothing about the sea; I never saw it in my life; nor am I aware that I have a sailor in my acquaintance.”
“Then, uncle, I will take my leave.”
“Not so fast, young man; you said that you wanted my _assistance_ and my _advice_. My assistance I cannot promise you for the reasons I have stated; but my advice is at your service. Is it a legal point?”
“Not exactly, sir,” replied Newton, who was mortified almost to tears; “still I must acknowledge that I now more than ever wish that the articles were in safe keeping, and out of my hands.” Newton then entered into a detail of the trunk being picked up at sea; and stated his having brought with him the most valuable of the property, that it might be deposited in safe hands.
“Humph!” observed his uncle, when he had finished. “You say that the articles are of value.”
“Those who are judges consider the diamonds and the other articles to be worth nearly one hundred pounds; I cannot pretend to say what their real value is.”
“And you have had these things in your possession these seven years?”
“I have, sir.”
“Did it never occur to you, since you have been in distress, that the sale of these articles would have assisted you?”
“It often has occurred to me, when I have found that the little I could earn was not sufficient for my father’s support; but we had already decided that the property was not _legally mine_, and I dismissed the idea as soon as I could from my thoughts. Since then I have ascertained to whom the property belongs, and of course it has become more sacred.”
“You said a minute ago that you now more than ever wished the property in sate keeping. Why so?”
“Because, disappointed in the hopes I had entertained of receiving your assistance, I foresaw that we should have more difficulties than ever to struggle against, and wished not to be in the way of temptation.”
“You were right. Well, then, bring me those articles to-morrow, by one o’clock precisely; I will take charge of them, and give you a receipt. Good morning, nephew; very happy to have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Remember me kindly to my brother, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at one, precisely.”
“Good morning, sir,” replied Newton, with a faltering voice, as he hurried away to conceal the disappointment and indignation which he felt at this cool reception and dismissal.
“Not _legally_ mine–humph! I like that boy,” muttered the old lawyer to himself when Newton had disappeared.–“Scratton!”
“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk, opening the door.
“Fill up a cheque for five hundred pounds, self or bearer, and bring it to me to sign.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it this evening or to-morrow, that I attend the arbitration meeting?”
“This evening, seven o’clock.”
“What is the name of the party by whom I am employed?”
“Bosanquet, sir.”
“East India director, is he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph!–that will do.”
The clerk brought in the draft, which was put into his pocket-book without being signed; his coat was then buttoned up, and Mr John Forster repaired to the chop-house, at which for twenty-five years he had seldom failed to make his appearance at the hour of three or four at the latest.
It was with a heavy heart that Newton returned to the inn in the Borough, at which he had left his father, whom he found looking out of window, precisely in the same seat and position where he had left him.
“Well, Newton, my boy, did you see my brother?”
“Yes, sir; but I am sorry to say that I have little hope of his being of service to us.”
Newton then entered into a narration of what had passed.
“Why really, Newton,” said his father, in his single-heartedness, “I do not see such cause of despair. If he did doubt your being his nephew, how could he tell that you were? and if he had no interest with naval people, why it’s not his fault. As for my expecting him to break his spectacles on purpose to buy new ones of me, that’s too much, and it would be foolish on his part. He said that he was very happy to have made your acquaintance, and that he should be glad to see me. I really don’t know what more you could expect. I will call upon him to-morrow, since he wishes it. At five o’clock precisely, don’t you say?”
“No, sir, at one.”
“Well, then, at one; those who have nothing to do must suit their hours to those who are full of business. Recollect now, two o’clock precisely.”
“One o’clock, sir.”
“Ay, very true, one o’clock I meant; now let’s go to dinner.”
Nicholas Forster appeared in excellent spirits: and Newton, who did not like to undeceive him, was glad to retire at an early hour, that he might be left to his own reflections, and form some plan as to their proceedings in consequence of this unexpected disappointment.
Chapter XXX
“Now, by two-headed Janus.
Nature hath named strange fellows in her time; Some that will ever more peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper;