The hollowness of interested popularity illustrated in the example of
Mr. Norcot—The dilemma of a gamester—The last resource—The “faithful”
valet—Mr. Norcot turns Mahometan—His equivocal destiny.
Mr. Norcot was an eccentric Irish barrister, the uncertainty of whose
fate has given rise to a vast number of surmises: the last authentic
account described him as a Turk selling rhubarb and opium in the streets
of Smyrna! When the Duke of Richmond was lord lieutenant of Ireland he
was a great favourite at the Castle revels. He could drink as stoutly as
the duke himself, touch the piano as well as a lady, or gamble as deeply
as any of the gentlemen: he could jest even better than Sir Charles
Vernon, and drove all other bachelors out of the field at the vice-regal
orgies. Hence his reception was so flattering, that he discarded all
reflection, and at length found his purse empty, his resources dry, his
profession unproductive, his estate melted down, and his reputation _not
improved_. The noble duke gave him no _place_—but at his dinner-table,
while smiles and lemonade were the favours of the duchess:—the courtiers
turned their faces toward him whilst he was rich, and their backs when
he had grown poor: his best puns began to pass without notice, his
mimicry excited no laughter, and his most high-flown compliments
scarcely received a curtsey.
A fat, hearty, convivial fellow does not perceive what is termed the
half-cut near so soon as your lank, sensitive, thorough-paced goer; and
Norcot was not completely undeceived as to his own declining influence
until, one evening, having lost much more money than he had to pay, he
began to consider how to make up the deficiency. He had very little cash
left any where, and was not versed in the borrowing system: so he
thought he would wait a few days to see what Providence would be pleased
to do for him; and as he had never thought it worth his while to rely
upon her before, he did not know exactly in what way to court her
assistance. Irish gentlemen so circumstanced are very apt to suppose
that they may find _Providence_, or in other words _good luck_, at the
bottom of two or three bottles of wine, and accordingly never omit the
application thereunto. Norcot pursued the usual course, and certainly
made away with that number at least next night, with the duke. But,
alas! this kind of exorcism was unsuccessful in his instance, and he was
necessitated to return home, at three o’clock in the morning, sobered by
the very lassitude of excess, and maddened by reflection. On arriving,
he threw himself into his arm-chair, his mind became confused, his
reason wandered: he thought of resources—there were none!—but the extent
of his poverty and debts being as yet not publicly known, he thought of
borrowing: the plan, however, seemed a doubtful one; and besides, he was
deterred from trying it by his pride. He next thought of prison; this
inflamed his brain still farther, and drove him upon the fearful
alternative of suicide! Here a door of retreat seemed open, although
whither it led he knew not: but he had neither heart to bear up against
misfortune, nor religion to assuage it: he had no steady friend to
advise with, and no liberal one to relieve him.
He sank for a moment into an enviable state of insensibility. His
servant Thomas, a broad, faithful Irishman, but who never had known the
meaning of any kind of feelings (except corporeal ones), stood by
surprised at the change in his master’s manner. “Thomas!” exclaimed the
desponding Norcot, “Thomas, are my pistols charged?”
“Right well, plase your honour,” replied Thomas.
“The flints, Thomas?”
“I’m sure they’d strike fire enough to burn a barrel of gunpowder, if
your honour wanted to blow it up!”
“Bring them hither,” said Norcot.
Thomas did not approve of this order, and answered, “Sure your honour
can’t want them till day-light, any how!” But, upon Norcot’s
authoritatively waving his hand, he brought the pistols, wondering what
his master wanted with them.
“Thomas,” said the desperate man, “you were always faithful!”
“And _why should not I_?” said Thomas.
“Well, then, Thomas, I can live no longer!”
“Thunder and oons, master! why not?”
“’Tis enough to say, Thomas,” pursued the hapless barrister, taking up
one of the pistols, “that I am _determined_ to die!”
Thomas, never having seen such a catastrophe, was quite alarmed; but all
his eloquence was in vain: having wept and argued to no purpose, he ran
towards the window to shout murder, but it was fast. Norcot (who was an
unbeliever) shuddering meanwhile less at the idea of the crime he
contemplated than at that of eternal annihilation, (which his tenets
induced him to anticipate,) said, “Thomas, take one of these pistols,
and put it to my head; apply the other here, to my heart;—fire both
together, and put me out of my pain—for die I will!”
Thomas mused and bethought himself, and then answered, “I am willing to
do the best I can for so good a master, but truly I can’t shoot, and may
be I’d miss your honour! Hadn’t I better go to some gentleman of your
acquaintance that I heard you say never missed any body—and who would do
it cleverly?”
“None but you,” returned the unyielding desperado, “shall shoot me,
Thomas!”
“I never shot any body!” cried the servant: “but (taking up the pistols)
your honour says, one at your head: may I crave what part of it?”
“There,” said Norcot, pointing to his temple; “the other through my
heart!”
“And which side is your honour’s heart to-night?” inquired the dilatory
valet.
“Here!” replied Norcot: “now cock and fire!”
Thomas, who had been planning all this time how to get rid of the
business, now seemed on the sudden to recollect himself. “But, master,
dear!” said he, “when you were going to fight a duel with that Captain
O’Brien, at the Cove of Cork, your honour took out Surgeon Egan with
you, saying, that no gentleman should risk his life without a doctor:
so, if you plase, I’ll just step over first and foremost, and fetch
Surgeon Macklin here _for fear of accidents_!” Without waiting any
reply, he instantly stepped out of the room as fast as he could, taking
the pistols with him, and leaving Norcot in astonishment: he actually
went to the doctor, told him the story, and brought him over to reason
with his master, who remained in a state of perfect distraction.
However, the fit somewhat subsided; and the incident’s being thus placed
in a novel and ridiculous point of view had the most extraordinary
effect on Norcot’s mind. He recovered the use of his reason, and calm
reflection succeeded the burning frenzy. He could scarcely avoid smiling
at Thomas; and, relating the adventure himself, pretended it was only a
trick of his own to terrify his servant. But when he was left to
himself, he considered what was best to be done, and adopted it. He made
up all the means he could, and got into a place of secrecy, where he
awaited the result of the “chapter of accidents,” and the efforts of his
great friends to procure him some employment for subsistence:—nor was he
long unprovided for. He was appointed to an office, I think at Malta,
but where he soon disgraced himself in a manner which for ever excluded
him from society. Being now lost past all redemption, he fled to the
Morea, and from thence to Constantinople, where he renounced the cross
and became a Musselman. But even there he was not fortunate: he has for
some time been lost sight of, and exhibits a most edifying lesson to the
dissipated and unbelieving. After commencing the world with as plausible
prospects of success and respectability as most men of his day, Norcot,
if dead, has died a disgraced and blasphemous renegado; thus confirming
an observation of mine, throughout life, that a free-_thinker_ is ever
disposed to be also a free-_actor_, and is restrained from the
gratification of all his vices only by those laws which provide a
punishment for their commission.