“What riches give us, let us then inquire--
Meat, fire, and clothes--What more?--Meat, clothes, and fire.”
The philosophy we learn from books makes but a faint impression upon the
mind, in comparison with that which we are taught by our own experience;
and we sometimes feel surprised to find that what we have been taught as
maxims of morality prove true in real life. After having had, for many
years, the fullest opportunities of judging of the value of riches,
when I reflected upon my past life, I perceived that their power
of conferring happiness is limited, nearly as the philosophic poet
describes; that all the changes and modifications of luxury must, in
the sum of actual physical enjoyment, be reduced to a few elementary
pleasures, of which the industrious poor can obtain their share: a small
share, perhaps; but then it is enjoyed with a zest that makes it equal
in value perhaps to the largest portion offered to the sated palate of
ennui. These truths are as old as the world; but they appeared quite new
to me, when I discovered them by my own experience.
During the month which I had allowed to my foster-brother for
reflection, I had leisure to philosophize, and my understanding made
a rapid progress. I foresaw the probability of Christy’s deciding to
become Earl of Glenthorn; notwithstanding that his good sense had so
clearly demonstrated to him in theory, that, with his education and
habits, he must be happier working in his forge than he could be as lord
of Glenthorn Castle. I was not dismayed by the idea of losing my wealth
and rank; I was pleased with myself for my honest conduct, and conscious
of a degree of pleasure from my own approbation, superior to what my
riches had ever procured.
The day appointed for Christy’s final determination arrived. I knew
by the first motion of his shoulder as he came into the room, what his
decision would be.
“Well, Christy,” said I, “you will be Earl of Glenthorn, I perceive. You
are glad now that I did not take you at your word, and that I gave you a
month’s time for consideration.”
“Your honour was always considerate; but if I’d wish now to be changing
my mind,” said he, hesitating, and shifting from leg to leg, “it is not
upon my own account, any way, but upon my son Johnny’s.”
“My good friend,” said I, “no apology is necessary. I should be very
unjust if I were offended by your decision, and very mean if, after the
declarations I have made, I could, for an instant, hesitate to restore
to you that property which it is your right and your choice to reclaim.”
Christy made a low bow, and seemed much at a loss what he was to say
next.
“I hope,” continued I, “that you will be as happy when you are Earl of
Glenthorn, as you have been as Christy O’Donoghoe.”
“May be not, plase your honour; but I trust my childer will be happy
after me; and it’s them and my wife I’m thinking of, as in duty bound.
But it is hard your honour should be astray for want of the fortin
you’ve been bred to; and this weighs with me greatly on the other side.
If your honour could live on here, and share with us--But I see your
honour’s displeased at my naming _that_. It was my wife thought o’ that;
I knew it could not do. But then, what I think is, that your honour
should name what you would be pleased to keep to live upon: for, to be
sure, you have a right to live as a gentleman, that have always lived as
one, as every body knows, and none better than I. Would your honour be
so kind, then, as just to put down on a bit of paper what you’d wish to
keep; and that same, whatever it is, none shall touch but yourself; and
I would not own a child for mine that would begrudge it you. I’ll step
down and wait below while your honour writes what you plase.”
The generosity of this man touched me to the heart. I accepted from him
three hundred a year; and requested that the annuity I allowed to the
unfortunate Lady Glenthorn might be continued; that the house which I
had built for Ellinor, and the land belonging to it, might be secured
to her rent-free for life; and that all my debts should be paid. I
recommended Mr. M’Leod in the strongest manner, as an agent whose
abilities and integrity would be to him an invaluable treasure.
Christy, when I gave him the paper on which I had stated these requests,
took a pen instantly, and would have signed his name without reading it;
but to this I absolutely objected.
“Well, then,” said he, “I’ll take it home, and read it over, and take
time, as you desire, to consider. There’s no danger of my changing my
mind about this: I hope your honour can’t think there is.”
The next day, on returning it to me, he observed, that it was making
very little of him to put down only such a trifle; and he pressed me to
make the hundreds thousands:--this I refused.
“But I hope your honour won’t object to what I am going to propose. Is
not there a house in London? and is not there another in England, in the
country? and, sure, I and mine can’t live there and here and every where
at once: if you’d just condescend to occupy one of them, you’d do me a
great pleasure, and a great sarvice too; for every thing would be
right, instead of going wrong, as it might under an agent, and me at a
distance, that does not know well how to manage such great estates. I
hope you’ll not refuse me that, if it’s only to show me I don’t lose
your honour’s good-will.”
The offer was made with so much earnestness, and even delicacy, that
I could not abruptly refuse it at the moment, though one of these
magnificent houses could be of no use tome with an income of 300_l_.
_per annum_.
“As to the annuity,” continued Christy, “that shall be paid as punctual
as the day: Mr. M’Leod will pay it; and he shall have it all settled
right, and put upon a stamp, by the lawyers, in case any thing should
happen me. Then, as to Ellinor, sure, she is my mother, for I never
can think of her any other way; and, except in that single article of
changing me at nurse, was always the best of mothers to me. And even
that same trick she played me, though very wicked, to be sure, was very
nat’ral--ay, very nat’ral--to _prefar_ her own flesh and blood if she
could: and no one could be more sorry for the wrong she did me than she
is now: there she is crying at home, ready to break her heart: but as I
tell her, there’s no use in repenting a thing when once it is done; and
as I forgive her, none can ever bring it up against her: and as to the
house and farm, she shall surely have that, and shall never want for
any thing. So I hope your honour’s mind will be asy on that matter;
and whatever else you recollect to wish, _that_ shall be done, if in my
power.”
It is with pleasure that I recollect and record all these instances
of goodness of heart in poor Christy, which, notwithstanding the odd
mixture of absurdity and sense in his language and ideas, will, I make
no doubt, please my readers, though they cannot affect them as much as
they affected me. I now prepared for my departure from Glenthorn Castle,
never more to return. To spare me from unnecessary mortification,
Christy had the wonderful self-command to keep the secret faithfully, so
that none of the people in the neighbourhood, nor even my servants,
had the slightest idea of the truth. Having long talked of returning
to England, the preparations for my journey excited no surprise. Every
thing went on as usual, except that Christy, instead of being at the
forge, was almost every day at the whiskey-shop.
I thought it proper to speak openly of my affairs to Mr. M’Leod: he was
the only person who could make out a correct list of my debts. Besides,
I wished to recommend him as agent to the future earl, to whom an honest
and able agent would be peculiarly necessary, ignorant, as he was, both
of the world and of business; and surrounded, as he must probably be,
on his accession to his estate, by a herd of vulgar and designing
flatterers.
Albeit not easily moved to surprise, Mr. M’Leod really did, for an
instant, look astonished, when I informed him that Christy O’Donoghoe
was Earl of Glenthorn. But I must resolve not to stop to describe the
astonishment that each individual showed upon this occasion, else I
shall never have finished my story.
It was settled that Mr. M’Leod should continue agent; and, for his
credit, I must observe that, after he was made acquainted with my loss
of rank and fortune, he treated me with infinitely more respect and
regard than he had ever shown me whilst he considered me only as his
employer. Our accounts were soon settled; and when this was done, and
they were all regularly signed, Mr. M’Leod came up to me, and, in a low
voice of great emotion, said, “I am not a man of professions; but when
I say I am a man’s friend, I hope I shall ever be found to be so, as far
as can be in my power: and I cannot but esteem and admire the man who
has acted so nobly as you have done.”
M’Leod wrung my hand as he spoke, and the tears stood in his eyes. I
knew that the feeling must indeed be strong, which could extort from him
even these few words of praise, and this simple profession of regard;
but I did not know, till long afterwards, the full warmth of
his affections and energy of his friendship. The very next day,
unfortunately for me, he was obliged to go to Scotland, to his mother,
who was dying: and at this time I saw no more of him.
In due legal form I now made a surrender of all claim upon the
hereditary property of the Earl of Glenthorn, and every thing was in
readiness for my journey. During this time poor Ellinor never appeared
at the castle. I went to see her, to comfort her about my going away;
but she was silent, and seemingly sullen, and would not be comforted.
“I’ve enough to grieve me,” said she: “I know what will be the end of
all; I see it as plain as if you’d told me. There’s no hiding nothing
from a mother: no, there’s no use in striving to comfort me.” Every
method which I tried to console her seemed to grieve her more.
The day before that which was fixed for my departure, I sent to desire
to see her. This request I had repeatedly made; but she had, from day to
day, excused herself, saying that she was unwell, and that she would
be up on the morrow. At last she came; and though but a few days had
elapsed since I had seen her, she was so changed in her appearance, that
I was shocked the moment I beheld her countenance.
“You don’t look well, Ellinor,” said I: “sit down.”
“No matter whether I sit or stand,” said she, calmly; “I’m not long for
this world: I won’t live long after you are gone, that’s one comfort.”
Her eyes were fixed and tearless; and there was a dead unnatural
tranquillity in her manner.
“They are making a wonderful great noise nailing up the boxes, and I
seen them cording the trunks as I came through the hall. I asked them,
could I be of any use: but they said I could be of none, and that’s
true; for, when I put my hand to the cord, to pull it, I had no
more strength than an infant. It was seven-and-twenty years last
Midsummer-day since I first had you an infant in my arms. I was strong
enough then, and you--was a sweet babby. Had I seen that time all that
would come to pass this day! But that’s over now. I have done a wicked
thing; but I’ll send for Father Murphy, and get absolution before I
die.”
She sighed deeply, then went on speaking more quickly.
“But I can do nothing until you go. What time will you go in the
morning, dear? It’s better go early. Is it in the coach you’ll go? I
see it in the yard. But I thought you must leave the coach, with all
the rest, to the rightful heir. But my head’s not clear about it all, I
believe--and no matter.”
Her ideas rambled from one subject to another in an unconnected manner.
I endeavoured in vain to recall her understanding by speaking of her own
immediate interests; of the house that was secured to her for life; and
of the promise that had been made me, that she should never _want for
any thing_, and that she should be treated with all possible kindness.
She seemed to listen to me; but showed that she did not comprehend what
I said, by her answers; and, at every pause I made, she repeated the
same question--
“What time will you go in the morning, dear?”
At last I touched her feelings, and she recovered her intellect, when I
suddenly asked, if she would accompany me to England the next morning.
“Ay, that I will,” cried she, “go with you through the wide world.”
She burst into tears, and wept bitterly for some time.
“Ah! now I feel right again,” said she; “this is what I wanted; but
could not cry this many a day--never since the word came to me that you
was going, and all was lost.”
I assured her that I now expected to be happier than I had ever been.
“Oh!” cried she: “and have you never been happy all this time? What a
folly it was for me, then, to do so wicked a thing! and all my comfort
was, the thinking you was happy, dear. And what will become of you now?
And is it on foot you’ll go?”
Her thoughts rambled again.
“Whatever way I go, you shall go with me,” said I. “You are my mother;
and now that your son has done what he knows to be honest and just, he
will prosper in the world, and will be truly happy; and so may you be
happy, now that you have nothing more to conceal.”
She shook her head.
“It’s too late,” said she, “quite too late. I often told Christy I would
die before you left this place, dear; and so I will, you will see. God
bless you! God bless you! and pray to him to forgive me! None that could
know what I’ve gone through would ever do the like; no, not for their
own child, was he even such as you, and that would be hard to find. God
bless you, dear; I shall never see you more! The hand of death is upon
me--God for ever bless you, dear!”
She died that night; and I lost in her the only human being who had ever
shown me warm, disinterested affection. Her death delayed for a few
days my departure from Glenthorn Castle. I stayed to see her laid in the
grave. Her funeral was followed by crowds of people: by many, from the
general habit of attending funerals; by many, who wished to pay their
court to me, in showing respect to the memory of my nurse.
When the prayers over the dead were ended, and the grave closed, just as
the crowd were about to disperse, I stood up on a monument belonging to
the Glenthorn family; and the moment it was observed that I wished to
address the multitude, the moving waves were stilled, and there was a
dead silence. Every eye was fixed upon me with eager expectation. It was
the first time in my life that I had ever spoken before numbers; but as
I was certain that I had something to say, and quite indifferent about
the manner, words came without difficulty. Amazement appeared in every
face when I declared myself to be the son of the poor woman whom we had
just interred. And when I pointed to the real Earl of Glenthorn, and
when I declared that I relinquished to him his hereditary title
and lawful property, my auditors looked alternately at me and at my
foster-brother, seeming to think it impossible that a man, with face and
hands so black as Christy’s usually were known to be, could become an
earl.
When I concluded my narrative, and paused, the silence still continued;
all seemed held in mute astonishment.
“And now, my good friends,” continued I, “let me bid you farewell;
probably you will never see or hear of me more; but, whether he be rich
or poor, or high or low-born, every honest man must wish to leave behind
him a fair character. Therefore, when I am gone, and, as it were, dead
to you, speak of me, not as of an impostor, who long assumed a name and
enjoyed a fortune that was not his own; but remember that I was bred to
believe myself heir to a great estate, and that, after having lived till
the age of seven-and-twenty, in every kind of luxury, I voluntarily gave
up the fortune I enjoyed, the moment I discovered that it was not justly
mine.”
“_That_ you did, indeed,” interrupted Christy; “and of that I am ready
to bear witness for you in this world and in the next. God bless and
prosper you wherever you go! and sure enough he will, for he cannot do
other than prosper one that deserves it so well. I never should
have known a sentence of the secret,” continued he, addressing his
neighbours, “if it had not been for _his_ generosity to tell it me; and
even had I found it out by any _maracle_, where would have been the gain
of that to me? for you know he could, had he been so inclined, have kept
me out of all by the law--ay, baffled me on till my heart was sick, and
till my little substance was wasted, and my bones rotten in the ground;
but, God’s blessing be upon him! he’s an honest man, and _done_
that which many a lord in his place would not have done; but a good
conscience is a kingdom in itself, and _that_ he cannot but have,
wherever he goes--and all which grieves me is that he is going away from
us. If he’d be prevailed with by me, he’d stay where he is, and we’d
share and share alike; but he’s too proud for that--and no wonder--he
has a right to be proud; for no matter who was his mother, he’ll live
and die a gentleman, every inch of him. Any man, you see, may be made
a lord; but a gentleman, a man must make himself. And yourselves can
witness, has not he reigned over us like a gentleman, and a _raal_
gentleman; and shown mercy to the poor, and done justice to all, as well
as to me? and did not he take me by the hand when I was persecuted, and
none else in the wide world to _befrind_ me; and did not he stand up for
me against the tyrants that had the sway then; ay, and did not he
put himself to trouble, day and night, go riding here and there, and
_spaking_ and writing for me? Well, as they say, he loves his ease, and
that’s the worse can be said of him; he took all this pains for a poor
man, and had like to have lost his life by it. And now, wherever he is
and whatever, can I help loving and praying for him? or could you? And
since you will go,” added he, turning to me with tears in his eyes,
“take with you the blessings of the poor, which, they say, carry a man
straight to heaven, if any thing can.”
The surrounding crowd joined with one voice in applauding this speech:
“It is he that has said what we all think,” cried they, following me
with acclamations to the castle. When they saw the chaise at the door
which was to carry me away, their acclamations suddenly ceased--“But is
he going?--But can’t he stay?--And is he going this minute? troth it’s a
pity, and a great pity!”
Again and again these honest people insisted upon taking leave of me,
and I could not force myself away without difficulty. They walked
on beside my carriage, Christy at their head; and in this species
of triumph, melancholy indeed, but grateful to my heart, I quitted
Glenthorn Castle, passed through that park which was no longer mine,
and at the verge of the county shook hands for the last time with these
affectionate and generous people. I then bid my postilion drive on fast;
and I never looked back, never once cast a lingering look at all I left
behind. I felt proud of having executed my purpose, and conscious I had
not the insignificant, inefficient character that had formerly disgraced
me. As to the future, I had not distinctly arranged my plans, nor was
my mind during the remainder of the day sufficiently tranquil for
reflection. I felt like one in a dream, and could scarcely persuade
myself of the reality of the events, that had succeeded each other with
such astonishing rapidity. At night I stopped at an inn where I was
not known; and having no attendants or equipage to command respect from
hostlers, waiters, and inn-keepers, I was made immediately sensible
of the reality, at least of the change in my fortune; but I was
not mortified--I felt only as if I were travelling incognito. And I
contrived to go to bed without a valet-de-chambre, and slept soundly,
for I had earned a sound sleep by exertion both of body and mind.