THE _Mortgager_ and _Mortgagee_ differ the one from the other, not more
in length of purse, than the _Jester_ and _Jestee_ do, in that of
memory. But in this the comparison between them runs, as the scholiasts
call it, upon all-four; which, by the bye, is upon one or two legs more
than some of the best of _Homer_’s can pretend to;—namely, That the one
raises a sum, and the other a laugh at your expence, and thinks no more
about it. Interest, however, still runs on in both cases;—the
periodical or accidental payments of it, just serving to keep the
memory of the affair alive; till, at length, in some evil hour, pop
comes the creditor upon each, and by demanding principal upon the spot,
together with full interest to the very day, makes them both feel the
full extent of their obligations.
As the reader (for I hate your _ifs_) has a thorough knowledge of human
nature, I need not say more to satisfy him, that my HERO could not go
on at this rate without some slight experience of these incidental
mementos. To speak the truth, he had wantonly involved himself in a
multitude of small book-debts of this stamp, which, notwithstanding
_Eugenius_’s frequent advice, he too much disregarded; thinking, that
as not one of them was contracted thro’ any malignancy;—but, on the
contrary, from an honesty of mind, and a mere jocundity of humour, they
would all of them be cross’d out in course.
_Eugenius_ would never admit this; and would often tell him, that one
day or other he would certainly be reckoned with; and he would often
add, in an accent of sorrowful apprehension,—to the uttermost mite. To
which _Yorick_, with his usual carelessness of heart, would as often
answer with a pshaw!—and if the subject was started in the fields,—with
a hop, skip, and a jump at the end of it; but if close pent up in the
social chimney-corner, where the culprit was barricado’d in, with a
table and a couple of arm-chairs, and could not so readily fly off in a
tangent,—_Eugenius_ would then go on with his lecture upon discretion
in words to this purpose, though somewhat better put together.
Trust me, dear _Yorick_, this unwary pleasantry of thine will sooner or
later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no after-wit can
extricate thee out of.——In these sallies, too oft, I see, it happens,
that a person laughed at, considers himself in the light of a person
injured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging to him; and
when thou viewest him in that light too, and reckons up his friends,
his family, his kindred and allies,——and musters up with them the many
recruits which will list under him from a sense of common danger;—’tis
no extravagant arithmetic to say, that for every ten jokes,—thou hast
got an hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm
of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou
wilt never be convinced it is so.
I cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, that there is the least
spur from spleen or malevolence of intent in these sallies—I believe
and know them to be truly honest and sportive:—But consider, my dear
lad, that fools cannot distinguish this,—and that knaves will not: and
thou knowest not what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make
merry with the other:——whenever they associate for mutual defence,
depend upon it, they will carry on the war in such a manner against
thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy
life too.
Revenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonour at
thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set
right.——The fortunes of thy house shall totter,—thy character, which
led the way to them, shall bleed on every side of it,—thy faith
questioned,—thy works belied,—thy wit forgotten,—thy learning trampled
on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, CRUELTY and COWARDICE,
twin ruffians, hired and set on by MALICE in the dark, shall strike
together at all thy infirmities and mistakes:——The best of us, my dear
lad, lie open there,——and trust me,——trust me, _Yorick, when to gratify
a private appetite, it is once resolved upon, that an innocent and an
helpless creature shall be sacrificed, ’tis an easy matter to pick up
sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a fire to
offer it up with._
_Yorick_ scarce ever heard this sad vaticination of his destiny read
over to him, but with a tear stealing from his eye, and a promissory
look attending it, that he was resolved, for the time to come, to ride
his tit with more sobriety.—But, alas, too late!—a grand confederacy
with ***** and ***** at the head of it, was formed before the first
prediction of it.—The whole plan of the attack, just as _Eugenius_ had
foreboded, was put in execution all at once,—with so little mercy on
the side of the allies,—and so little suspicion in _Yorick_, of what
was carrying on against him,—that when he thought, good easy man! full
surely preferment was o’ripening,—they had smote his root, and then he
fell, as many a worthy man had fallen before him.
_Yorick_, however, fought it out with all imaginable gallantry for some
time; till, overpowered by numbers, and worn out at length by the
calamities of the war,—but more so, by the ungenerous manner in which
it was carried on,—he threw down the sword; and though he kept up his
spirits in appearance to the last, he died, nevertheless, as was
generally thought, quite broken-hearted.
What inclined _Eugenius_ to the same opinion was as follows:
A few hours before _Yorick_ breathed his last, _Eugenius_ stept in with
an intent to take his last sight and last farewell of him. Upon his
drawing _Yorick_’s curtain, and asking how he felt himself, _Yorick_
looking up in his face took hold of his hand,—and after thanking him
for the many tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it
was their fate to meet hereafter,—he would thank him again and
again,—he told him, he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the
slip for ever.—I hope not, answered _Eugenius_, with tears trickling
down his cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke.—I
hope not, _Yorick_, said he.——_Yorick_ replied, with a look up, and a
gentle squeeze of _Eugenius_’s hand, and that was all,—but it cut
_Eugenius_ to his heart.—Come,—come, _Yorick_, quoth _Eugenius_, wiping
his eyes, and summoning up the man within him,—my dear lad, be
comforted,—let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake thee at this
crisis when thou most wants them;——who knows what resources are in
store, and what the power of God may yet do for thee!——_Yorick_ laid
his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his head;—For my part,
continued _Eugenius_, crying bitterly as he uttered the words,—I
declare I know not, _Yorick_, how to part with thee, and would gladly
flatter my hopes, added _Eugenius_, chearing up his voice, that there
is still enough left of thee to make a bishop, and that I may live to
see it.—I beseech thee, _Eugenius_, quoth _Yorick_, taking off his
night-cap as well as he could with his left hand,—his right being still
grasped close in that of _Eugenius_,—I beseech thee to take a view of
my head.—I see nothing that ails it, replied _Eugenius._ Then, alas! my
friend, said _Yorick_, let me tell you, that ’tis so bruised and
mis-shapened with the blows which ***** and *****, and some others have
so unhandsomely given me in the dark, that I might say with _Sancho
Pança_, that should I recover, and “Mitres thereupon be suffered to
rain down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them would fit
it.”——_Yorick_’s last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready
to depart as he uttered this:——yet still it was uttered with something
of a _Cervantick_ tone;——and as he spoke it, _Eugenius_ could perceive
a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes;——faint
picture of those flashes of his spirit, which (as _Shakespeare_ said of
his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar!
_Eugenius_ was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was
broke: he squeezed his hand,——and then walked softly out of the room,
weeping as he walked. _Yorick_ followed _Eugenius_ with his eyes to the
door,—he then closed them, and never opened them more.
tombstone
He lies buried in the corner of his church-yard, in the parish of ———,
under a plain marble slab, which his friend _Eugenius_, by leave of his
executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of
inscription, serving both for his epitaph and elegy.
Alas, poor YORICK!
Ten times a day has _Yorick_’s ghost the consolation to hear his
monumental inscription read over with such a variety of plaintive
tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him;——a foot-way
crossing the church-yard close by the side of his grave,—not a
passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it,—and sighing
as he walks on,
Alas, poor YORICK!