CHAPTER I

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THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL

By Sir Walter Scott

A Tale Which Holdeth Children From Play & Old Men From The Chimney

Corner --Sir Philip Sidney

INTRODUCTION

But why should lordlings all our praise engross?

Rise, honest man, and sing the Man of Ross.

Pope

Having, in the tale of the Heart of Mid-Lothian, succeeded in some

degree in awakening an interest in behalf of one devoid of those

accomplishments which belong to a heroine almost by right, I was next

tempted to choose a hero upon the same unpromising plan; and as worth of

character, goodness of heart, and rectitude of principle, were necessary

to one who laid no claim to high birth, romantic sensibility, or any of

the usual accomplishments of those who strut through the pages of this

sort of composition, I made free with the name of a person who has left

the most magnificent proofs of his benevolence and charity that the

capital of Scotland has to display.

To the Scottish reader little more need be said than that the man

alluded to is George Heriot. But for those south of the Tweed, it may

be necessary to add, that the person so named was a wealthy citizen of

Edinburgh, and the King's goldsmith, who followed James to the English

capital, and was so successful in his profession, as to die, in 1624,

extremely wealthy for that period. He had no children; and after making

a full provision for such relations as might have claims upon him, he

left the residue of his fortune to establish an hospital, in which the

sons of Edinburgh freemen are gratuitously brought up and educated for

the station to which their talents may recommend them, and are finally

enabled to enter life under respectable auspices. The hospital in which

this charity is maintained is a noble quadrangle of the Gothic order,

and as ornamental to the city as a building, as the manner in which the

youths are provided for and educated, renders it useful to the community

as an institution. To the honour of those who have the management, (the

Magistrates and Clergy of Edinburgh), the funds of the Hospital have

increased so much under their care, that it now supports and educates

one hundred and thirty youths annually, many of whom have done honour to

their country in different situations.

The founder of such a charity as this may be reasonably supposed to have

walked through life with a steady pace, and an observant eye, neglecting

no opportunity of assisting those who were not possessed of the

experience necessary for their own guidance. In supposing his

efforts directed to the benefit of a young nobleman, misguided by the

aristocratic haughtiness of his own time, and the prevailing tone

of selfish luxury which seems more peculiar to ours, as well as the

seductions of pleasure which are predominant in all, some amusement,

or even some advantage, might, I thought, be derived from the manner in

which I might bring the exertions of this civic Mentor to bear in his

pupil's behalf. I am, I own, no great believer in the moral utility

to be derived from fictitious compositions; yet, if in any case a word

spoken in season may be of advantage to a young person, it must surely

be when it calls upon him to attend to the voice of principle and

self-denial, instead of that of precipitate passion. I could not,

indeed, hope or expect to represent my prudent and benevolent citizen

in a point of view so interesting as that of the peasant girl, who

nobly sacrificed her family affections to the integrity of her moral

character. Still however, something I hoped might be done not altogether

unworthy the fame which George Heriot has secured by the lasting

benefits he has bestowed on his country.

It appeared likely, that out of this simple plot I might weave something

attractive; because the reign of James I., in which George Heriot

flourished, gave unbounded scope to invention in the fable, while at the

same time it afforded greater variety and discrimination of character

than could, with historical consistency, have been introduced, if the

scene had been laid a century earlier. Lady Mary Wortley Montague has

said, with equal truth and taste, that the most romantic region of every

country is that where the mountains unite themselves with the plains or

lowlands. For similiar reasons, it may be in like manner said, that the

most picturesque period of history is that when the ancient rough and

wild manners of a barbarous age are just becoming innovated upon, and

contrasted, by the illumination of increased or revived learning, and

the instructions of renewed or reformed religion. The strong contrast

produced by the opposition of ancient manners to those which are

gradually subduing them, affords the lights and shadows necessary to

give effect to a fictitious narrative; and while such a period entitles

the author to introduce incidents of a marvellous and improbable

character, as arising out of the turbulent independence and ferocity,

belonging to old habits of violence, still influencing the manners of

a people who had been so lately in a barbarous state; yet, on the other

hand, the characters and sentiments of many of the actors may, with

the utmost probability, be described with great variety of shading and

delineation, which belongs to the newer and more improved period, of

which the world has but lately received the light.

The reign of James I. of England possessed this advantage in a peculiar

degree. Some beams of chivalry, although its planet had been for some

time set, continued to animate and gild the horizon, and although

probably no one acted precisely on its Quixotic dictates, men and women

still talked the chivalrous language of Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia; and

the ceremonial of the tilt-yard was yet exhibited, though it now only

flourished as a Place de Carrousel. Here and there a high-spirited

Knight of the Bath, witness the too scrupulous Lord Herbert of Cherbury,

was found devoted enough to the vows he had taken, to imagine himself

obliged to compel, by the sword's-point, a fellow-knight or squire

to restore the top-knot of ribbon which he had stolen from a fair

damsel;[Footnote: See Lord Herbert of Cherbury's Memoirs.] but yet,

while men were taking each other's lives on such punctilios of honour,

the hour was already arrived when Bacon was about to teach the world

that they were no longer to reason from authority to fact, but to

establish truth by advancing from fact to fact, till they fixed an

indisputable authority, not from hypothesis, but from experiment.

The state of society in the reign of James I. was also strangely

disturbed, and the license of a part of the community was perpetually

giving rise to acts of blood and violence. The bravo of the Queen's day,

of whom Shakspeare has given us so many varieties, as Bardolph, Nym,

Pistol, Peto, and the other companions of Falstaff, men who had their

humours, or their particular turn of extravaganza, had, since the

commencement of the Low Country wars, given way to a race of sworders,

who used the rapier and dagger, instead of the far less dangerous sword

and buckler; so that a historian says on this subject, "that private

quarrels were nourished, but especially between the Scots and English;

and duels in every street maintained; divers sects and peculiar titles

passed unpunished and unregarded, as the sect of the Roaring Boys,

Bonaventors, Bravadors, Quarterors, and such like, being persons

prodigal, and of great expense, who, having run themselves into debt,

were constrained to run next into factions, to defend themselves

from danger of the law. These received countenance from divers of the

nobility; and the citizens, through lasciviousness consuming their

estates, it was like that the number [of these desperadoes] would rather

increase than diminish; and under these pretences they entered into many

desperate enterprizes, and scarce any durst walk in the street after

nine at night."[Footnote: history of the First Fourteen Years of King

James's Reign. See Somers's Tracts, edited by Scott, vol. ii. p.266.]

The same authority assures us farther, that "ancient gentlemen, who had

left their inheritance whole and well furnished with goods and chattels

(having thereupon kept good houses) unto their sons, lived to see part

consumed in riot and excess, and the rest in possibility to be utterly

lost; the holy state of matrimony made but a May-game, by which divers

families had been subverted; brothel houses much frequented, and even

great persons, prostituting their bodies to the intent to satisfy their

lusts, consumed their substance in lascivious appetites. And of

all sorts, such knights and gentlemen, as either through pride or

prodigality--had consumed their substance, repairing to the city, and to

the intent to consume their virtue also, lived dissolute lives; many

of their ladies and daughters, to the intent to maintain themselves

according to their dignity, prostituting their bodies in shameful

manner. Ale-houses, dicing-houses, taverns, and places of iniquity,

beyond manner abounding in most places."

Nor is it only in the pages of a puritanical, perhaps a satirical

writer, that we find so shocking and disgusting a picture of the

coarseness of the beginning of the seventeenth century. On the contrary,

in all the comedies of the age, the principal character for gaiety and

wit is a young heir, who has totally altered the establishment of

the father to whom he has succeeded, and, to use the old simile, who

resembles a fountain, which plays off in idleness and extravagance

the wealth which its careful parents painfully had assembled in hidden

reservoirs.

And yet, while that spirit of general extravagance seemed at work over

a whole kingdom, another and very different sort of men were gradually

forming the staid and resolved characters, which afterwards displayed

themselves during the civil wars, and powerfully regulated and affected

the character of the whole English nation, until, rushing from one

extreme to another, they sunk in a gloomy fanaticism the splendid traces

of the reviving fine arts.

From the quotations which I have produced, the selfish and disgusting

conduct of Lord Dalgarno will not perhaps appear overstrained; nor will

the scenes in Whitefriars and places of similar resort seem too highly

coloured. This indeed is far from being the case. It was in James I.'s

reign that vice first appeared affecting the better classes in its

gross and undisguised depravity. The entertainments and amusements of

Elizabeth's time had an air of that decent restraint which became the

court of a maiden sovereign; and, in that earlier period, to use the

words of Burke, vice lost half its evil by being deprived of all its

grossness. In James's reign, on the contrary, the coarsest pleasures

were publicly and unlimitedly indulged, since, according to Sir John

Harrington, the men wallowed in beastly delights; and even ladies

abandoned their delicacy and rolled about in intoxication. After a

ludicrous account of a mask, in which the actors had got drunk, and

behaved themselves accordingly, he adds, "I have much marvelled at these

strange pageantries, and they do bring to my recollection what passed of

this sort in our Queen's days, in which I was sometimes an assistant and

partaker: but never did I see such lack of good order and sobriety as I

have now done. The gunpowder fright is got out of all our heads, and we

are going on hereabout as if the devil was contriving every man should

blow up himself by wild riot, excess, and devastation of time and

temperance. The great ladies do go well masqued; and indeed, it be the

only show of their modesty to conceal their countenance, but alack, they

meet with such countenance to uphold their strange doings, that I marvel

not at aught that happens."[Footnote: Harrington's Nugae Antique, vol.

ii. p. 352. For the gross debauchery of the period, too much encouraged

by the example of the monarch, who was, in other respects, neither

without talent nor a good-natured disposition, see Winwood's Memorials,

Howell's Letters, and other Memorials of the time; but particularly,

consult the Private Letters and Correspondence of Steenie, _alias_

Buckingham, with his reverend Dad and Gossip, King James, which abound

with the grossest as well as the most childish language. The learned Mr.

D'Israeli, in an attempt to vindicate the character of James, has

only succeeded in obtaining for himself the character of a skilful and

ingenious advocate, without much advantage to his royal client]

Such being the state of the court, coarse sensuality brought along with

it its ordinary companion, a brutal degree of undisguised selfishness,

destructive alike of philanthropy and good breeding; both of which, in

their several spheres, depend upon the regard paid by each individual

to the interest as well as the feelings of others. It is in such a time

that the heartless and shameless man of wealth and power may, like the

supposed Lord Dalgarno, brazen out the shame of his villainies, and

affect to triumph in their consequences, so long as they were personally

advantageous to his own pleasures or profit.

Alsatia is elsewhere explained as a cant name for Whitefriars, which,

possessing certain privileges of sanctuary, became for that reason a

nest of those mischievous characters who were generally obnoxious to the

law. These privileges were derived from its having been an establishment

of the Carmelites, or White Friars, founded says Stow, in his Survey

of London, by Sir Patrick Grey, in 1241. Edward I. gave them a plot of

ground in Fleet Street, to build their church upon. The edifice then

erected was rebuilt by Courtney, Earl of Devonshire, in the reign of

Edward. In the time of the Reformation the place retained its immunities

as a sanctuary, and James I. confirmed and added to them by a charter

in 1608. Shadwell was the first author who made some literary use of

Whitefriars, in his play of the Squire of Alsatia, which turns upon the

plot of the Adelphi of Terence.

In this old play, two men of fortune, brothers, educate two young men,

(sons to the one and nephews to the other,) each under his own separate

system of rigour and indulgence. The elder of the subjects of this

experiment, who has been very rigidly brought up, falls at once into

all the vices of the town, is debauched by the cheats and bullies of

Whitefriars, and, in a word, becomes the Squire of Alsatia. The poet

gives, as the natural and congenial inhabitants of the place, such

characters as the reader will find in the note. [Footnote: "Cheatly, a

rascal, who by reason of debts dares not stir out of Whitefriars, but

there inveigles young heirs of entail, and helps them to goods and money

upon great disadvantages, is bound for them, and shares with them till

he undoes them. A lewd, impudent, debauched fellow, very expert in the

cant about town.

"Shamwell, cousin to the Belfords, who, being ruined by Cheatly, is made

a decoy-duck for others, not daring to stir out of Alsatia, where he

lives. Is bound with Cheatly for heirs, and lives upon them a dissolute

debauched life.

"Captain Hackum, a blockheaded bully of Alsatia, a cowardly, impudent,

blustering fellow, formerly a sergeant in Flanders, who has run from his

colours, and retreated into Whitefriars for a very small debt, where by

the Alsatians he is dubb'd a captain, marries one that lets lodgings,

sells cherry-brandy, and is a bawd.

"Scrapeall a hypocritical, repeating, praying, psalm-singing, precise

fellow, pretending to great piety; a godly knave, who joins with

Cheatly, and supplies young heirs with goods, and money."--Dramatis

Personae to the Squire of Alsatia, SHADWELL'S Works, vol. iv.] The play,

as we learn from the dedication to the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, was

successful above the author's expectations, "no comedy these many years

having filled the theatre so long together. And I had the great honour,"

continues Shadwell, "to find so many friends, that the house was never

so full since it was built as upon the third day of this play, and vast

numbers went away that could not be admitted." [Footnote: Dedication to

the Squire of Alsatia, Shadwell's Works, vol. iv.] From the Squire of

Alsatia the author derived some few hints, and learned the footing

on which the bullies and thieves of the Sanctuary stood with their

neighbours, the fiery young students of the Temple, of which some

intimation is given in the dramatic piece.

Such are the materials to which the author stands indebted for the

composition of the Fortunes of Nigel, a novel, which may be perhaps one

of those that are more amusing on a second perusal, than when read a

first time for the sake of the story, the incidents of which are few and

meagre.

The Introductory Epistle is written, in Lucio's phrase, "according

to the trick," and would never have appeared had the writer meditated

making his avowal of the work. As it is the privilege of a masque or

incognito to speak in a feigned voice and assumed character, the author

attempted, while in disguise, some liberties of the same sort; and while

he continues to plead upon the various excuses which the introduction

contains, the present acknowledgment must serve as an apology for a

species of "hoity toity, whisky frisky" pertness of manner, which, in

his avowed character, the author should have considered as a departure

from the rules of civility and good taste.

ABBOTSFORD.

1st July, 1831.

INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK TO THE REVEREND DR. DRYASDUST

DEAR SIR,

I readily accept of, and reply to the civilities with which you have

been pleased to honour me in your obliging letter, and entirely agree

with your quotation, of _"Quam bonum et quam jucundum!"_ We may indeed

esteem ourselves as come of the same family, or, according to our

country proverb, as being all one man's bairns; and there needed no

apology on your part, reverend and dear sir, for demanding of me any

information which I may be able to supply respecting the subject of your

curiosity. The interview which you allude to took place in the course

of last winter, and is so deeply imprinted on my recollection, that it

requires no effort to collect all its most minute details.

You are aware that the share which I had in introducing the Romance,

called THE MONASTERY, to public notice, has given me a sort of character

in the literature of our Scottish metropolis. I no longer stand in

the outer shop of our bibliopolists, bargaining for the objects of my

curiosity with an unrespective shop-lad, hustled among boys who come to

buy Corderies and copy-books, and servant girls cheapening a pennyworth

of paper, but am cordially welcomed by the bibliopolist himself, with,

"Pray, walk into the back-shop, Captain. Boy, get a chair for Captain

Clutterbuck. There is the newspaper, Captain--to-day's paper;" or, "Here

is the last new work--there is a folder, make free with the leaves;"

or, "Put it in your pocket and carry it home;" or, "We will make a

bookseller of you, sir, and you shall have it at trade price." Or,

perhaps if it is the worthy trader's own publication, his liberality

may even extend itself to--"Never mind booking such a trifle to

_you_, sir--it is an over-copy. Pray, mention the work to your reading

friends." I say nothing of the snug well-selected literary party

arranged round a turbot, leg of five-year-old mutton, or some such gear,

or of the circulation of a quiet bottle of Robert Cockburn's choicest

black--nay, perhaps, of his new ones. All these are comforts reserved

to such as are freemen of the corporation of letters, and I have the

advantage of enjoying them in perfection. But all things change under

the sun; and it is with no ordinary feelings of regret, that, in my

annual visits to the metropolis, I now miss the social and warm-hearted

welcome of the quick-witted and kindly friend who first introduced me to

the public; who had more original wit than would have set up a dozen of

professed sayers of good things, and more racy humour than would have

made the fortune of as many more. To this great deprivation has been

added, I trust for a time only, the loss of another bibliopolical

friend, whose vigorous intellect, and liberal ideas, have not only

rendered his native country the mart of her own literature, but

established there a Court of Letters, which must command respect, even

from those most inclined to dissent from many of its canons. The effect

of these changes, operated in a great measure by the strong sense and

sagacious calculations of an individual, who knew how to avail himself,

to an unhoped-for extent, of the various kinds of talent which his

country produced, will probably appear more clearly to the generation

which shall follow the present.

I entered the shop at the Cross, to enquire after the health of my

worthy friend, and learned with satisfaction, that his residence in the

south had abated the rigour of the symptoms of his disorder. Availing

myself, then, of the privileges to which I have alluded, I strolled

onward in that labyrinth of small dark rooms, or _crypts_, to speak our

own antiquarian language, which form the extensive back-settlements of

that celebrated publishing-house. Yet, as I proceeded from one obscure

recess to another, filled, some of them with old volumes, some with such

as, from the equality of their rank on the shelves, I suspected to be

the less saleable modern books of the concern, I could not help feeling

a holy horror creep upon me, when I thought of the risk of intruding on

some ecstatic bard giving vent to his poetical fury; or it might be,

on the yet more formidable privacy of a band of critics, in the act of

worrying the game which they had just run down. In such a supposed case,

I felt by anticipation the horrors of the Highland seers, whom their

gift of deuteroscopy compels to witness things unmeet for mortal eye;

and who, to use the expression of Collins,

----"heartless, oft, like moody madness, stare,

To see the phantom train their secret work prepare."

Still, however, the irresistible impulse of an undefined curiosity

drove me on through this succession of darksome chambers, till, like the

jeweller of Delhi in the house of the magician Bennaskar, I at length

reached a vaulted room, dedicated to secrecy and silence, and beheld,

seated by a lamp, and employed in reading a. blotted _revise_,

[Footnote: The uninitiated must be informed, that a second proof-sheet

is so called.] the person, or perhaps I should rather say the Eidolon,

or representative Vision of the AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY! You will not be

surprised at the filial instinct which enabled me at once to acknowledge

the features borne by this venerable apparition, and that I at once

bended the knee, with the classical salutation of, _Salve, magne

parens!_ The vision, however, cut me short, by pointing to a seat,

intimating at the same time, that my presence was not expected, and that

he had something to say to me.

I sat down with humble obedience, and endeavoured to note the features

of him with whom I now found myself so unexpectedly in society. But on

this point I can give your reverence no satisfaction; for, besides the

obscurity of the apartment, and the fluttered state of my own nerves, I

seemed to myself overwhelmed by a sense of filial awe, which prevented

my noting and recording what it is probable the personage before me

might most desire to have concealed. Indeed, his figure was so closely

veiled and wimpled, either with a mantle, morning-gown, or some such

loose garb, that the verses of Spenser might well have been applied--

"Yet, certes, by her face and physnomy,

Whether she man or woman only were,

That could not any creature well descry."

I must, however, go on as I have begun, to apply the masculine gender;

for, notwithstanding very ingenious reasons, and indeed something like

positive evidence, have been offered to prove the Author of Waverley to

be two ladies of talent, I must abide by the general opinion, that he is

of the rougher sex. There are in his writings too many things

"Quae maribus sola tribuuntur,"

to permit me to entertain any doubt on that subject. I will proceed, in

the manner of dialogue, to repeat as nearly as I can what passed betwixt

us, only observing, that in the course of the conversation, my timidity

imperceptibly gave way under the familiarity of his address; and that,

in the concluding part of our dialogue, I perhaps argued with fully as

much confidence as was beseeming.

_Author of Waverley._ I was willing to see you, Captain Clutterbuck,

being the person of my family whom I have most regard for, since the

death of Jedediah Cleishbotham; and I am afraid I may have done you some

wrong, in assigning to you The Monastery as a portion of my effects. I

have some thoughts of making it up to you, by naming you godfather

to this yet unborn babe--(he indicated the proof-sheet with his

finger)--But first, touching The Monastery--How says the world--you are

abroad and can learn?

_Captain Clutterbuck._ Hem! hem!--The enquiry is delicate--I have not

heard any complaints from the Publishers.

_Author._ That is the principal matter; but yet an indifferent work is

sometimes towed on by those which have left harbour before it, with the

breeze in their poop.--What say the Critics?

_Captain._ There is a general--feeling--that the White Lady is no

favourite.

_Author._ I think she is a failure myself; but rather in execution than

conception. Could I have evoked an _esprit follet_, at the same time

fantastic and interesting, capricious and kind; a sort of wildfire of

the elements, bound by no fixed laws, or motives of action; faithful and

fond, yet teazing and uncertain----

_Captain._ If you will pardon the interruption, sir, I think you are

describing a pretty woman.

_Author._ On my word, I believe I am. I must invest my elementary

spirits with a little human flesh and blood--they are too fine-drawn for

the present taste of the public.

_Captain._ They object, too, that the object of your Nixie ought to

have been more uniformly noble--Her ducking the priest was no Naiad-like

amusement.

_Author._ Ah! they ought to allow for the capriccios of what is, after

all, but a better sort of goblin. The bath into which Ariel, the most

delicate creation of Shakspeare's imagination, seduces our jolly friend

Trinculo, was not of amber or rose-water. But no one shall find me

rowing against the stream. I care not who knows it--I write for general

amusement; and, though I never will aim at popularity by what I think

unworthy means, I will not, on the other hand, be pertinacious in the

defence of my own errors against the voice of the public.

_Captain._ You abandon, then, in the present work--(looking, in my turn,

towards the proof-sheet)--the mystic, and the magical, and the whole

system of signs, wonders, and omens? There are no dreams, or presages,

or obscure allusions to future events?

_Author._ Not a Cock-lane scratch, my son--not one bounce on the drum of

Tedworth--not so much as the poor tick of a solitary death-watch in

the wainscot. All is clear and above board--a Scots metaphysician might

believe every word of it.

_Captain._ And the story is, I hope, natural and probable; commencing

strikingly, proceeding naturally, ending happily--like the course of a

famed river, which gushes from the mouth of some obscure and romantic

grotto--then gliding on, never pausing, never precipitating its course,

visiting, as it were, by natural instinct, whatever worthy subjects of

interest are presented by the country through which it passes--widening

and deepening in interest as it flows on; and at length arriving at

the final catastrophe as at some mighty haven, where ships of all kinds

strike sail and yard?

_Author._ Hey! hey! what the deuce is all this? Why,'tis Ercles' vein,

and it would require some one much more like Hercules than I, to produce

a story which should gush, and glide, and never pause, and visit, and

widen, and deepen, and all the rest on't. I should be chin-deep in the

grave, man, before I had done with my task; and, in the meanwhile, all

the quirks and quiddities which I might have devised for my reader's

amusement, would lie rotting in my gizzard, like Sancho's suppressed

witticisms, when he was under his master's displeasure.--There never was

a novel written on this plan while the world stood.

_Captain._ Pardon me--Tom Jones.

_Author._ True, and perhaps Amelia also. Fielding had high notions of

the dignity of an art which he may be considered as having founded. He

challenges a comparison between the Novel and the Epic. Smollett, Le

Sage, and others, emancipating themselves from the strictness of

the rules he has laid down, have written rather a history of the

miscellaneous adventures which befall an individual in the course of

life, than the plot of a regular and connected epopeia, where every step

brings us a point nearer to the final catastrophe. These great masters

have been satisfied if they amused the reader upon the road; though the

conclusion only arrived because the tale must have an end--just as the

traveller alights at the inn, because it is evening.

_Captain._ A very commodious mode of travelling, for the author at

least. In short, sir, you are of opinion with Bayes--"What the devil

does the plot signify, except to bring in fine things?"

_Author._ Grant that I were so, and that I should write with sense and

spirit a few scenes unlaboured and loosely put together, but which had

sufficient interest in them to amuse in one corner the pain of body; in

another, to relieve anxiety of mind; in a third place, to unwrinkle a

brow bent with the furrows of daily toil; in another, to fill the place

of bad thoughts, or to suggest better; in yet another, to induce an

idler to study the history of his country; in all, save where the

perusal interrupted the discharge of serious duties, to furnish harmless

amusement,--might not the author of such a work, however inartificially

executed, plead for his errors and negligences the excuse of the slave,

who, about to be punished for having spread the false report of a

victory, saved himself by exclaiming--"Am I to blame, O Athenians, who

have given you one happy day?"

_Captain._ Will your goodness permit me to mention an anecdote of my

excellent grandmother?

_Author._ I see little she can have to do with the subject, Captain

Clutterbuck.

_Captain._ It may come into our dialogue on Bayes's plan.--The sagacious

old lady--rest her soul!--was a good friend to the church, and could

never hear a minister maligned by evil tongues, without taking his

part warmly. There was one fixed point, however, at which she always

abandoned the cause of her reverend _protege_--it was so soon as

she learned he had preached a regular sermon against slanderers and

backbiters.

_Author._ And what is that to the purpose?

_Captain._ Only that I have heard engineers say, that one may betray the

weak point to the enemy, by too much ostentation of fortifying it.

_Author._ And, once more I pray, what is that to the purpose?

_Captain._ Nay, then, without farther metaphor, I am afraid this new

production, in which your generosity seems willing to give me some

concern, will stand much in need of apology, since you think proper to

begin your defence before the case is on trial.-The story is hastily

huddled up, I will venture a pint of claret.

_Author._ A pint of port, I suppose you mean?

_Captain._ I say of claret--good claret of the Monastery. Ah, sir, would

you but take the advice of your friends, and try to deserve at least

one-half of the public favour you have met with, we might all drink

Tokay!

_Author._ I care not what I drink, so the liquor be wholesome.

_Captain._ Care for your reputation, then,--for your fame.

_Author._ My fame?--I will answer you as a very ingenious, able, and

experienced friend, being counsel for the notorious Jem MacCoul, replied

to the opposite side of the bar, when they laid weight on his client's

refusing to answer certain queries, which they said any man who had a

regard for his reputation would not hesitate to reply to. "My client,"

said he-by the way, Jem was standing behind him at the time, and a rich

scene it was-"is so unfortunate as to have no regard for his reputation;

and I should deal very uncandidly with the Court, should I say he had

any that was worth his attention."-I am, though from very different

reasons, in Jem's happy state of indifference. Let fame follow those who

have a substantial shape. A shadow-and an impersonal author is nothing

better-can cast no shade.

_Captain._ You are not now, perhaps, so impersonal as here-tofore. These

Letters to the Member for the University of Oxford--_Author._ Show the

wit, genius, and delicacy of the author, which I heartily wish to see

engaged on a subject of more importance; and show, besides, that the

preservation of my character of _incongnito_ has engaged early talent in

the discussion of a curious question of evidence. But a cause, however

ingeniously pleaded, is not therefore gained. You may remember, the

neatly-wrought chain of circumstantial evidence, so artificially brought

forward to prove Sir Philip Francis's title to the Letters of Junius,

seemed at first irrefragable; yet the influence of the reasoning has

passed away, and Junius, in the general opinion, is as much unknown as

ever. But on this subject I will not be soothed or provoked into saying

one word more. To say who I am not, would be one step towards saying

who I am; and as I desire not, any more than a certain justice of peace

mentioned by Shenstone, the noise or report such things make in the

world, I shall continue to be silent on a subject, which, in my opinion,

is very undeserving the noise that has been made about it, and still

more unworthy of the serious employment of such ingenuity as has been

displayed by the young letter-writer.

_Captain._ But allowing, my dear sir, that you care not for your

personal reputation, or for that of any literary person upon whose

shoulders your faults may be visited, allow me to say, that common

gratitude to the public, which has received you so kindly, and to the

critics, who have treated you so leniently, ought to induce you to

bestow more pains on your story.

_Author._ I do entreat you, my son, as Dr. Johnson would have said,

"free your mind from cant." For the critics, they have their business,

and I mine; as the nursery proverb goes--

"The children in Holland take pleasure in making What the children in

England take pleasure in breaking."

I am their humble jackal, too busy in providing food for them, to have

time for considering whether they swallow or reject it.--To the public,

I stand pretty nearly in the relation of the postman who leaves a packet

at the door of an individual. If it contains pleasing intelligence, a

billet from a mistress, a letter from an absent son, a remittance from

a correspondent supposed to be bankrupt,--the letter is acceptably

welcome, and read and re-read, folded up, filed, and safely deposited in

the bureau. If the contents are disagreeable, if it comes from a dun or

from a bore, the correspondent is cursed, the letter is thrown into the

fire, and the expense of postage is heartily regretted; while all the

time the bearer of the dispatches is, in either case, as little thought

on as the snow of last Christmas. The utmost extent of kindness between

the author and the public which can really exist, is, that the world are

disposed to be somewhat indulgent to the succeeding works of an original

favourite, were it but on account of the habit which the public mind has

acquired; while the author very naturally thinks well of _their_ taste,

who have so liberally applauded _his_ productions. But I deny there is

any call for gratitude, properly so called, either on one side or the

other.

_Captain._ Respect to yourself, then, ought to teach caution.

_Author._ Ay, if caution could augment the chance of my success. But,

to confess to you the truth, the works and passages in which I have

succeeded, have uniformly been written with the greatest rapidity; and

when I have seen some of these placed in opposition with others, and

commended as more highly finished, I could appeal to pen and standish,

that the parts in which I have come feebly off, were by much the more

laboured. Besides, I doubt the beneficial effect of too much delay, both

on account of the author and the public. A man should strike while the

iron is hot, and hoist sail while the wind is fair. If a successful

author keep not the stage, another instantly takes his ground. If

a writer lie by for ten years ere he produces a second work, he is

superseded by others; or, if the age is so poor of genius that this does

not happen, his own reputation becomes his greatest obstacle. The public

will expect the new work to be ten times better than its predecessor;

the author will expect it should be ten times more popular, and 'tis a

hundred to ten that both are disappointed.

_Captain_. This may justify a certain degree of rapidity in publication,

but not that which is proverbially said to be no speed. You should take

time at least to arrange your story.

_Author_. That is a sore point with me, my son. Believe me, I have not

been fool enough to neglect ordinary precautions. I have repeatedly laid

down my future work to scale, divided it into volumes and chapters,

and endeavoured to construct a story which I meant should evolve itself

gradually and strikingly, maintain suspense, and stimulate curiosity;

and which, finally, should terminate in a striking catastrophe. But I

think there is a demon who seats himself on the feather of my pen when I

begin to write, and leads it astray from the purpose. Characters expand

under my hand; incidents are multiplied; the story lingers, while the

materials increase; my regular mansion turns out a Gothic anomaly, and

the work is closed long before I have attained the point I proposed.

_Captain_. Resolution and determined forbearance might remedy that evil.

_Author_. Alas! my dear sir, you do not know the force of paternal

affection. When I light on such a character as Bailie Jarvie, or

Dalgetty, my imagination brightens, and my conception becomes clearer

at every step which I take in his company, although it leads me many

a weary mile away from the regular road, and forces me leap hedge and

ditch to get back into the route again. If I resist the temptation,

as you advise me, my thoughts become prosy, flat, and dull; I write

painfully to myself, and under a consciousness of flagging which makes

me flag still more; the sunshine with which fancy had invested the

incidents, departs from them, and leaves every thing dull and gloomy.

I am no more the same author I was in my better mood, than the dog in a

wheel, condemned to go round and round for hours, is like the same

dog merrily chasing his own tail, and gambolling in all the frolic of

unrestrained freedom. In short, sir, on such occasions, I think I am

bewitched.

_Captain_. Nay, sir, if you plead sorcery, there is no more to be

said--he must needs go whom the devil drives. And this, I suppose, sir,

is the reason why you do not make the theatrical attempt to which you

have been so often urged?

_Author_. It may pass for one good reason for not writing a play, that

I cannot form a plot. But the truth is, that the idea adopted by too

favourable judges, of my having some aptitude for that department of

poetry, has been much founded on those scraps of old plays, which,

being taken from a source inaccessible to collectors, they have hastily

considered the offspring of my mother-wit. Now, the manner in which I

became possessed of these fragments is so extraordinary, that I cannot

help telling it to you.

You must know, that, some twenty years since, I went down to visit an

old friend in Worcestershire, who had served with me in the----Dragoons.

_Captain._ Then you _have_ served, sir?

_Author._ I have--or I have not, which signifies the same thing--Captain

is a good travelling name.--I found my friend's house unexpectedly

crowded with guests, and, as usual, was condemned--the mansion being

an old one--to the _haunted apartment._ I have, as a great modern said,

seen too many ghosts to believe in them, so betook myself seriously

to my repose, lulled by the wind rustling among the lime-trees, the

branches of which chequered the moonlight which fell on the floor

through the diamonded casement, when, behold, a darker shadow interposed

itself, and I beheld visibly on the floor of the apartment--

_Captain._ The White Lady of Avenel, I suppose?--You have told the very

story before.

_Author._ No--I beheld a female form, with mob-cap, bib, and apron,

sleeves tucked up to the elbow, a dredging-box in the one hand, and in

the other a sauce-ladle. I concluded, of course, that it was my friend's

cook-maid walking in her sleep; and as I knew he had a value for Sally,

who could toss a pancake with any girl in the country, I got up

to conduct her safely to the door. But as I approached her, she

said,--"Hold, sir! I am not what you take me for;"--words which seemed

so opposite to the circumstances, that I should not have much minded

them, had it not been for the peculiarly hollow sound in which they were

uttered.--"Know, then," she said, in the same unearthly accents, "that

I am the spirit of Betty Barnes."--"Who hanged herself for love of the

stage-coachman," thought I; "this is a proper spot of work!"--"Of that

unhappy Elizabeth or Betty Barnes, long cook-maid to Mr. Warburton, the

painful collector, but ah! the too careless custodier, of the largest

collection of ancient plays ever known--of most of which the titles only

are left to gladden the Prolegomena of the Variorum Shakspeare. Yes,

stranger, it was these ill-fated hands That consigned to grease and

conflagration the scores of small quartos, which, did they now exist,

would drive the whole Roxburghe Club out of their senses--it was these

unhappy pickers and stealers that singed fat fowls and wiped dirty

trenchers with the lost works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger,

Jonson, Webster--what shall I say?--even of Shakspeare himself!"

Like every dramatic antiquary, my ardent curiosity after some play named

in the Book of the Master of Revels, had often been checked by finding

the object of my research numbered amongst the holocaust of victims

which this unhappy woman had sacrificed to the God of Good Cheer. It is

no wonder then, that, like the Hermit of Parnell,

"I broke the bands of fear, and madly cried,

'You careless jade!'--But scarce the words began,

When Betty brandish'd high her saucing-pan."

"Beware," she said, "you do not, by your ill-timed anger, cut off the

opportunity I yet have to indemnify the world for the errors of my

ignorance. In yonder coal-hole, not used for many a year, repose the few

greasy and blackened fragments of the elder Drama which were not totally

destroyed. Do thou then"--Why, what do you stare at, Captain? By my

soul, it is true; as my friend Major Longbow says, "What should I tell

you a lie for?"

_Captain._ Lie, sir! Nay, Heaven forbid I should apply the word to a

person so veracious. You are only inclined to chase your tail a little

this morning, that's all. Had you not better reserve this legend to form

an introduction to "Three Recovered Dramas," or so?

_Author._ You are quite right--habit's a strange thing, my son. I had

forgot whom I was speaking to. Yes, Plays for the closet, not for the

stage--

_Captain._ Right, and so you are sure to be acted; for the managers,

while thousands of volunteers are desirous of serving them, are

wonderfully partial to pressed men.

_Author._ I am a living witness, having been, like a second Laberius,

made a dramatist whether I would or not. I believe my muse would be

_Terry_-fied into treading the stage, even if I should write a sermon.

_Captain._ Truly, if you did, I am afraid folks might make a farce

of it; and, therefore, should you change your style, I still advise a

volume of dramas like Lord Byron's.

_Author._ No, his lordship is a cut above me--I won't run my horse

against his, if I can help myself. But there is my friend Allan has

written just such a play as I might write myself, in a very sunny day,

and with one of Bramah's extra-patent pens. I cannot make neat work

without such appurtenances.

_Captain._ Do you mean Allan Ramsay?

_Author._ No, nor Barbara Allan either. I mean Allan Cunningham, who

has just published his tragedy of Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, full of

merry-making and murdering, kissing and cutting of throats, and passages

which lead to nothing, and which are very pretty passages for all

that. Not a glimpse of probability is there about the plot, but so much

animation in particular passages, and such a vein of poetry through the

whole, as I dearly wish I could infuse into my Culinary Remains, should

I ever be tempted to publish them. With a popular impress, people would

read and admire the beauties of Allan--as it is, they may perhaps only

note his defects--or, what is worse, not note him at all.--But

never mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to Caledonia for all

that.--There are some lyrical effusions of his, too, which you would do

well to read, Captain. "It's hame, and it's hame," is equal to Burns.

_Captain._ I will take the hint. The club at Kennaquhair are turned

fastidious since Catalan! visited the Abbey. My "Poortith Cauld" has

been received both poorly and coldly, and "the Banks of Bonnie Doon"

have been positively coughed down--_Tempora mutantur._

_Author._ They cannot stand still, they will change with all of us. What

then?

"A man's a man for a' that."

But the hour of parting approaches.

_Captain._ You are determined to proceed then in your own system?

Are you aware that an unworthy motive may be assigned for this rapid

succession of publication? You will be supposed to work merely for the

lucre of gain.

_Author._ Supposing that I did permit the great advantages which must

be derived from success in literature, to join with other motives in

inducing me to come more frequently before the public,--that emolument

is the voluntary tax which the public pays for a certain species of

literary amusement--it is extorted from no one, and paid, I presume,

by those only who can afford it, and who receive gratification in

proportion to the expense. If the capital sum which these volumes have

put into circulation be a very large one, has it contributed to my

indulgences only? or can I not say to hundreds, from honest Duncan the

paper-manufacturer, to the most snivelling of the printer's devils,

"Didst thou not share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence?" I profess I think

our Modern Athens much obliged to me for having established such an

extensive manufacture; and when universal suffrage comes in fashion,

I intend to stand for a seat in the House on the interest of all the

unwashed artificers connected with literature.

_Captain._ This would be called the language of a calico-manufacturer.

_Author._ Cant again, my dear son--there is lime in this sack,

too--nothing but sophistication in this world! I do say it, in spite of

Adam Smith and his followers, that a successful author is a productive

labourer, and that his works constitute as effectual a part of the

public wealth, as that which is created by any other manufacture. If a

new commodity, having an actually intrinsic and commercial value, be

the result of the operation, why are the author's bales of books to be

esteemed a less profitable part of the public stock than the goods of

any other manufacturer? I speak with reference to the diffusion of the

wealth arising to the public, and the degree of industry which even such

a trifling work as the present must stimulate and reward, before the

volumes leave the publisher's shop. Without me it could not exist,

and to this extent I am a benefactor to the country. As for my own

emolument, it is won by my toil, and I account myself answerable to

Heaven only for the mode in which I expend it. The candid may hope it is

not all dedicated to selfish purposes; and, without much pretensions to

merit in him who disburses it, a part may "wander, heaven-directed, to

the poor."

_Captain._ Yet it is generally held base to write from the mere motives

of gain.

_Author._ It would be base to do so exclusively, or even to make it a

principal motive for literary exertion. Nay, I will venture to say,

that no work of imagination, proceeding from the mere consideration of

a certain sum of copy-money, ever did, or ever will, succeed. So the

lawyer who pleads, the soldier who fights, the physician who prescribes,

the clergyman--if such there be--who preaches, without any zeal for his

profession, or without any sense of its dignity, and merely on account

of the fee, pay, or stipend, degrade themselves to the rank of sordid

mechanics. Accordingly, in the case of two of the learned faculties

at least, their services are considered as unappreciable, and are

acknowledged, not by any exact estimate of the services rendered, but by

a _honorarium,_ or voluntary acknowledgment. But let a client or patient

make the experiment of omitting this little ceremony of the honorarium,

which is _cense_ to be a thing entirely out of consideration between

them, and mark how the learned gentleman will look upon his case. Cant

set apart, it is the same thing with literary emolument. No man of

sense, in any rank of life, is, or ought to be, above accepting a just

recompense for his time, and a reasonable share of the capital which

owes its very existence to his exertions. When Czar Peter wrought in the

trenches, he took the pay of a common soldier; and nobles, statesmen,

and divines, the most distinguished of their time, have not scorned to

square accounts with their bookseller.

_Captain. (Sings._)

"O if it were a mean thing,

The gentles would not use it;

And if it were ungodly,

The clergy would refuse it."

_Author._ You say well. But no man of honour, genius, or spirit, would

make the mere love of gain, the chief, far less the only, purpose of his

labours. For myself, I am not displeased to find the game a winning one;

yet while I pleased the public, I should probably continue it merely for

the pleasure of playing; for I have felt as strongly as most folks that

love of composition, which is perhaps the strongest of all instincts,

driving the author to the pen, the painter to the pallet, often without

either the chance of fame or the prospect of reward. Perhaps I have said

too much of this. I might, perhaps, with as much truth as most people,

exculpate myself from the charge of being either of a greedy or

mercenary disposition; but I am not, therefore, hypocrite enough to

disclaim the ordinary motives, on account of which the whole world

around me is toiling unremittingly, to the sacrifice of ease, comfort,

health, and life. I do not affect the disinterestedness of that

ingenious association of gentlemen mentioned by Goldsmith, who sold

their magazine for sixpence a-piece, merely for their own amusement.

_Captain._ I have but one thing more to hint.--The world say you will

run yourself out.

_Author._ The world say true: and what then? When they dance no longer,

I will no longer pipe; and I shall not want flappers enough to remind me

of the apoplexy.

_Captain._ And what will become of us then, your poor family? We shall

fall into contempt and oblivion.

_Author._ Like many a poor fellow, already overwhelmed with the number

of his family, I cannot help going on to increase it--"'Tis my vocation,

Hal."--Such of you as deserve oblivion--perhaps the whole of you--may be

consigned to it. At any rate, you have been read in your day, which is

more than can be said of some of your contemporaries, of less fortune

and more merit. They cannot say but that you _had_ the crown. It is

always something to have engaged the public attention for seven years.

Had I only written Waverley, I should have long since been, according to

the established phrase, "the ingenious author of a novel much admired

at the time." I believe, on my soul, that the reputation of Waverley

is sustained very much by the praises of those, who may be inclined to

prefer that tale to its successors.

_Captain._ You are willing, then, to barter future reputation for

present popularity?

_Author. Meliora spero._ Horace himself expected not to survive in all

his works--I may hope to live in some of mine;--_non omnis moriar._ It

is some consolation to reflect, that the best authors in all countries

have been the most voluminous; and it has often happened, that those

who have been best received in their own time, have also continued to

be acceptable to posterity. I do not think so ill of the present

generation, as to suppose that its present favour necessarily infers

future condemnation.

_Captain._ Were all to act on such principles, the public would be

inundated.

_Author_ Once more, my dear son, beware of cant. You speak as if the

public were obliged to read books merely because they are printed--your

friends the booksellers would thank you to make the proposition good.

The most serious grievance attending such inundations as you talk of,

is, that they make rags dear. The multiplicity of publications does the

present age no harm, and may greatly advantage that which is to succeed

us.

_Captain._ I do not see how that is to happen.

_Author._ The complaints in the time of Elizabeth and James, of

the alarming fertility of the press, were as loud as they are at

present--yet look at the shore over which the inundation of that age

flowed, and it resembles now the Rich Strand of the Faery Queen--

----"Besrrew'd all with rich array,

Of pearl and precious stones of great assay;

And all the gravel mix'd with golden ore."

Believe me, that even in the most neglected works of the present age,

the next may discover treasures.

_Captain._ Some books will defy all alchemy.

_Author._ They will be but few in number; since, as for the writers, who

are possessed of no merit at all, unless indeed they publish their

works at their own expense, like Sir Richard Blackmore, their power of

annoying the public will be soon limited by the difficulty of finding

undertaking booksellers.

_Captain._ You are incorrigible. Are there no bounds to your audacity?

_Author._ There are the sacred and eternal boundaries of honour and

virtue. My course is like the enchanted chamber of Britomart--

"Where as she look'd about, she did behold

How over that same door was likewise writ,

_Be Bold--Be Bold,_ and everywhere _Be Bold._

Whereat she mused, and could not construe it;

At last she spied at that room's upper end

Another iron door, on which was writ--

BE NOT TOO BOLD."

_Captain._ Well, you must take the risk of proceeding on your own

principles.

_Author._ Do you act on yours, and take care you do not stay idling here

till the dinner hour is over.--I will add this work to your patrimony,

_valeat quantum._

Here our dialogue terminated; for a little sooty-faced Apollyon from

the Canongate came to demand the proof-sheet on the part of Mr.

M'Corkindale; and I heard Mr. C. rebuking Mr. F. in another compartment

of the same labyrinth I have described, for suffering any one to

penetrate so far into the _penetralia_ of their temple.

I leave it to you to form your own opinion concerning the import of this

dialogue, and I cannot but believe I shall meet the wishes of our common

parent in prefixing this letter to the work which it concerns.

I am, reverend and dear Sir,

Very sincerely and affectionately

Yours,

THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL

_Knifegrinder._ Story? Lord bless you! I have none to tell, sir.

_Poetry of the Antijacobin._

CHAPTER I

Now Scot and English are agreed,

And Saunders hastes to cross the Tweed,

Where, such the splendours that attend him,

His very mother scarce had kend him.

His metamorphosis behold,

From Glasgow frieze to cloth of gold;

His back-sword, with the iron hilt,

To rapier, fairly hatch'd and gilt;

Was ever seen a gallant braver!

His very bonnet's grown a beaver.

_The Reformation._

The long-continued hostilities which had for centuries separated the

south and the north divisions of the Island of Britain, had been happily

terminated by the succession of the pacific James I. to the English

Crown. But although the united crown of England and Scotland was worn

by the same individual, it required a long lapse of time, and the

succession of more than one generation, ere the inveterate national

prejudices which had so long existed betwixt the sister kingdoms were

removed, and the subjects of either side of the Tweed brought to regard

those upon the opposite bank as friends and as brethren.

These prejudices were, of course, most inveterate during the reign of

King James. The English subjects accused him of partiality to those of

his ancient kingdom; while the Scots, with equal injustice, charged

him with having forgotten the land of his nativity, and with neglecting

those early friends to whose allegiance he had been so much indebted.

The temper of the king, peaceable even to timidity, inclined him

perpetually to interfere as mediator between the contending factions,

whose brawls disturbed the Court. But, notwithstanding all his

precautions, historians have recorded many instances, where the mutual

hatred of two nations, who, after being enemies for a thousand years,

had been so very recently united, broke forth with a fury which menaced

a general convulsion; and, spreading from the highest to the lowest

classes, as it occasioned debates in council and parliament, factions in

the court, and duels among the gentry, was no less productive of riots

and brawls amongst the lower orders.

While these heart-burnings were at the highest, there flourished in the

city of London an ingenious but whimsical and self opinioned mechanic,

much devoted to abstract studies, David Ramsay by name, who, whether

recommended by his great skill in his profession, as the courtiers

alleged, or, as was murmured among the neighbours, by his birthplace, in

the good town of Dalkeith, near Edinburgh, held in James's household the

post of maker of watches and horologes to his Majesty. He scorned

not, however, to keep open shop within Temple Bar, a few yards to the

eastward of Saint Dunstan's Church.

The shop of a London tradesman at that time, as it may be supposed, was

something very different from those we now see in the same locality. The

goods were exposed to sale in cases, only defended from the weather by

a covering of canvass, and the whole resembled the stalls and booths now

erected for the temporary accommodation of dealers at a country fair,

rather than the established emporium of a respectable citizen. But most

of the shopkeepers of note, and David Ramsay amongst others, had their

booth connected with a small apartment which opened backward from it,

and bore the same resemblance to the front shop that Robinson Crusoe's

cavern did to the tent which he erected before it.

To this Master Ramsay was often accustomed to retreat to the labour of

his abstruse calculations; for he aimed at improvements and discoveries

in his own art, and sometimes pushed his researches, like Napier, and

other mathematicians of the period, into abstract science. When thus

engaged, he left the outer posts of his commercial establishment to be

maintained by two stout-bodied and strong-voiced apprentices, who kept

up the cry of, "What d'ye lack? what d'ye lack?" accompanied with the

appropriate recommendations of the articles in which they dealt.

This direct and personal application for custom to those who chanced to

pass by, is now, we believe, limited to Monmouth Street, (if it

still exists even in that repository of ancient garments,) under the

guardianship of the scattered remnant of Israel. But at the time we

are speaking of, it was practised alike by Jew and Gentile, and served,

instead of all our present newspaper puffs and advertisements, to

solicit the attention of the public in general, and of friends in

particular, to the unrivalled excellence of the goods, which they

offered to sale upon such easy terms, that it might fairly appear that

the venders had rather a view to the general service of the public, than

to their own particular advantage.

The verbal proclaimers of the excellence of their commodities, had this

advantage over those who, in the present day, use the public papers for

the same purpose, that they could in many cases adapt their address to

the peculiar appearance and apparent taste of the passengers. [This, as

we have said, was also the case in Monmouth Street in our remembrance.

We have ourselves been reminded of the deficiencies of our femoral

habiliments, and exhorted upon that score to fit ourselves more

beseemingly; but this is a digression.] This direct and personal mode of

invitation to customers became, however, a dangerous temptation to the

young wags who were employed in the task of solicitation during

the absence of the principal person interested in the traffic; and,

confiding in their numbers and civic union, the 'prentices of London

were often seduced into taking liberties with the passengers, and

exercising their wit at the expense of those whom they had no hopes of

converting into customers by their eloquence. If this were resented by

any act of violence, the inmates of each shop were ready to pour forth

in succour; and in the words of an old song which Dr. Johnson was used

to hum,--

"Up then rose the 'prentices all,

Living in London, both proper and tall."

Desperate riots often arose on such occasions, especially when the

Templars, or other youths connected with the aristocracy, were insulted,

or conceived themselves to be so. Upon such occasions, bare steel was

frequently opposed to the clubs of the citizens, and death sometimes

ensued on both sides. The tardy and inefficient police of the time

had no other resource than by the Alderman of the ward calling out the

householders, and putting a stop to the strife by overpowering numbers,

as the Capulets and Montagues are separated upon the stage.

At the period when such was the universal custom of the most

respectable, as well as the most inconsiderable, shopkeepers in London,

David Ramsay, on the evening to which we solicit the attention of

the reader, retiring to more abstruse and private labours, left

the administration of his outer shop, or booth, to the aforesaid

sharp-witted, active, able-bodied, and well-voiced apprentices, namely,

Jenkin Vincent and Frank Tunstall.

Vincent had been educated at the excellent foundation of Christ's Church

Hospital, and was bred, therefore, as well as born, a Londoner, with

all the acuteness, address, and audacity which belong peculiarly to

the youth of a metropolis. He was now about twenty years old, short in

stature, but remarkably strong made, eminent for his feats upon holidays

at foot-ball, and other gymnastic exercises; scarce rivalled in

the broad-sword play, though hitherto only exercised in the form of

single-stick. He knew every lane, blind alley, and sequestered court of

the ward, better than his catechism; was alike active in his master's

affairs, and in his own adventures of fun and mischief; and so managed

matters, that the credit he acquired by the former bore him out, or at

least served for his apology, when the latter propensity led him into

scrapes, of which, however, it is but fair to state, that they had

hitherto inferred nothing mean or discreditable. Some aberrations there

were, which David Ramsay, his master, endeavoured to reduce to regular

order when he discovered them, and others which he winked at--supposing

them to answer the purpose of the escapement of a watch, which disposes

of a certain quantity of the extra power of that mechanical impulse

which puts the whole in motion.

The physiognomy of Jin Vin--by which abbreviation he was familiarly

known through the ward--corresponded with the sketch we have given

of his character. His head, upon which his 'prentice's flat cap was

generally flung in a careless and oblique fashion, was closely covered

with thick hair of raven black, which curled naturally and closely, and

would have grown to great length, but for the modest custom enjoined by

his state in life and strictly enforced by his master, which compelled

him to keep it short-cropped,--not unreluctantly, as he looked with

envy on the flowing ringlets, in which the courtiers, and aristocratic

students of the neighbouring Temple, began to indulge themselves, as

marks of superiority and of gentility.

Vincent's eyes were deep set in his head, of a strong vivid black, full

of fire, roguery, and intelligence, and conveying a humorous expression,

even while he was uttering the usual small-talk of his trade, as if

he ridiculed those who were disposed to give any weight to his

commonplaces. He had address enough, however, to add little touches of

his own, which gave a turn of drollery even to this ordinary routine of

the booth; and the alacrity of his manner--his ready and obvious wish

to oblige--his intelligence and civility, when he thought civility

necessary, made him a universal favourite with his master's customers.

His features were far from regular, for his nose was flattish, his mouth

tending to the larger size, and his complexion inclining to be more dark

than was then thought consistent with masculine beauty. But, in despite

of his having always breathed the air of a crowded city, his complexion

had the ruddy and manly expression of redundant health; his turned-up

nose gave an air of spirit and raillery to what he said, and seconded

the laugh of his eyes; and his wide mouth was garnished with a pair of

well-formed and well-coloured lips, which, when he laughed, disclosed a

range of teeth strong and well set, and as white as the very pearl. Such

was the elder apprentice of David Ramsay, Memory's Monitor, watchmaker,

and constructor of horologes, to his Most Sacred Majesty James I.

Jenkin's companion was the younger apprentice, though, perhaps, he might

be the elder of the two in years. At any rate, he was of a much more

staid and composed temper. Francis Tunstall was of that ancient and

proud descent who claimed the style of the "unstained;" because, amid

the various chances of the long and bloody wars of the Roses, they had,

with undeviating faith, followed the House of Lancaster, to which they

had originally attached themselves. The meanest sprig of such a tree

attached importance to the root from which it derived itself; and

Tunstall was supposed to nourish in secret a proportion of that family

pride, which had exhorted tears from his widowed and almost indigent

mother, when she saw herself obliged to consign him to a line of

life inferior, as her prejudices suggested, to the course held by his

progenitors. Yet, with all this aristocratic prejudice, his master found

the well-born youth more docile, regular, and strictly attentive to

his duty, than his far more active and alert comrade. Tunstall also

gratified his master by the particular attention which he seemed

disposed to bestow on the abstract principles of science connected with

the trade which he was bound to study, the limits of which were daily

enlarged with the increase of mathematical science.

Vincent beat his companion beyond the distance-post, in every thing like

the practical adaptation of thorough practice, in the dexterity of

hand necessary to execute the mechanical branches of the art, and

doubled-distanced him in all respecting the commercial affairs of the

shop. Still David Ramsay was wont to say, that if Vincent knew how to do

a thing the better of the two, Tunstall was much better acquainted with

the principles on which it ought to be done; and he sometimes objected

to the latter, that he knew critical excellence too well ever to be

satisfied with practical mediocrity.

The disposition of Tunstall was shy, as well as studious; and, though

perfectly civil and obliging, he never seemed to feel himself in his

place while he went through the duties of the shop. He was tall

and handsome, with fair hair, and well-formed limbs, good features,

well-opened light-blue eyes, a straight Grecian nose, and a countenance

which expressed both good-humour and intelligence, but qualified by a

gravity unsuitable to his years, and which almost amounted to dejection.

He lived on the best of terms with his companion, and readily stood by

him whenever he was engaged in any of the frequent skirmishes, which, as

we have already observed, often disturbed the city of London about this

period. But though Tunstall was allowed to understand quarter-staff (the

weapon of the North country) in a superior degree, and though he was

naturally both strong and active, his interference in such affrays

seemed always matter of necessity; and, as he never voluntarily joined

either their brawls or their sports, he held a far lower place in the

opinion of the youth of the ward than his hearty and active friend Jin

Vin. Nay, had it not been for the interest made for his comrade, by the

intercession of Vincent, Tunstall would have stood some chance of being

altogether excluded from the society of his contemporaries of the same

condition, who called him, in scorn, the Cavaliero Cuddy, and the Gentle

Tunstall.

On the other hand, the lad himself, deprived of the fresh air in which

he had been brought up, and foregoing the exercise to which he had

formerly been accustomed, while the inhabitant of his native mansion,

lost gradually the freshness of his complexion, and, without showing any

formal symptoms of disease, grew more thin and pale as he grew older,

and at length exhibited the appearance of indifferent health, without

any thing of the habits and complaints of an invalid, excepting a

disposition to avoid society, and to spend his leisure time in private

study, rather than mingle in the sports of his companions, or even

resort to the theatres, then the general rendezvous of his class; where,

according to high authority, they fought for half-bitten apples, cracked

nuts, and filled the upper gallery with their clamours.

Such were the two youths who called David Ramsay master; and with both

of whom he used to fret from morning till night, as their peculiarities

interfered with his own, or with the quiet and beneficial course of his

traffic.

Upon the whole, however, the youths were attached to their master, and

he, a good-natured, though an absent and whimsical man, was scarce

less so to them; and when a little warmed with wine at an occasional

junketing, he used to boast, in his northern dialect, of his "twa bonnie

lads, and the looks that the court ladies threw at them, when visiting

his shop in their caroches, when on a frolic into the city." But David

Ramsay never failed, at the same time, to draw up his own tall,

thin, lathy skeleton, extend his lean jaws into an alarming grin, and

indicate, by a nod of his yard-long visage, and a twinkle of his little

grey eye, that there might be more faces in Fleet Street worth looking

at than those of Frank and Jenkin. His old neighbour, Widow Simmons, the

sempstress, who had served, in her day, the very tip-top revellers of

the Temple, with ruffs, cuffs, and bands, distinguished more deeply

the sort of attention paid by the females of quality, who so regularly

visited David Ramsay's shop, to its inmates. "The boy Frank," she

admitted, "used to attract the attention of the young ladies, as having

something gentle and downcast in his looks; but then he could not better

himself, for the poor youth had not a word to throw at a dog. Now Jin

Vin was so full of his jibes and jeers, and so willing, and so ready,

and so serviceable, and so mannerly all the while, with a step that

sprung like a buck's in Epping Forest, and his eye that twinkled as

black as a gipsy's, that no woman who knew the world would make a

comparison betwixt the lads. As for poor neighbour Ramsay himself, the

man," she said, "was a civil neighbour, and a learned man, doubtless,

and might be a rich man if he had common sense to back his learning; and

doubtless, for a Scot, neighbour Ramsay was nothing of a bad man, but

he was so constantly grimed with smoke, gilded with brass filings,

and smeared with lamp-black and oil, that Dame Simmons judged it would

require his whole shopful of watches to induce any feasible woman to

touch the said neighbour Ramsay with any thing save a pair of tongs."

A still higher authority, Dame Ursula, wife to Benjamin Suddlechop, the

barber, was of exactly the same opinion.

Such were, in natural qualities and public estimation, the two youths,

who, in a fine April day, having first rendered their dutiful service

and attendance on the table of their master and his daughter, at their

dinner at one o'clock,--Such, O ye lads of London, was the severe

discipline undergone by your predecessors!--and having regaled

themselves upon the fragments, in company with two female domestics, one

a cook, and maid of all work, the other called Mistress Margaret's maid,

now relieved their master in the duty of the outward shop; and agreeably

to the established custom, were soliciting, by their entreaties and

recommendations of their master's manufacture, the attention and

encouragement of the passengers.

In this species of service it may be easily supposed that Jenkin Vincent

left his more reserved and bashful comrade far in the background. The

latter could only articulate with difficulty, and as an act of duty

which he was rather ashamed of discharging, the established words

of form--"What d'ye lack?--What d'ye lack?--Clocks--watches--barnacles?

--What d'ye lack?--Watches--clocks--barnacles?--What d'ye lack, sir? What

d'ye lack, madam?--Barnacles--watches--clocks?"

But this dull and dry iteration, however varied by diversity of verbal

arrangement, sounded flat when mingled with the rich and recommendatory

oratory of the bold-faced, deep-mouthed, and ready-witted Jenkin

Vincent.--"What d'ye lack, noble sir?--What d'ye lack, beauteous madam?"

he said, in a tone at once bold and soothing, which often was so applied

as both to gratify the persons addressed, and to excite a smile from

other hearers.--"God bless your reverence," to a beneficed clergyman;

"the Greek and Hebrew have harmed your reverence's eyes--Buy a pair of

David Ramsay's barnacles. The King--God bless his Sacred Majesty!--never

reads Hebrew or Greek without them."

"Are you well avised of that?" said a fat parson from the Vale of

Evesham. "Nay, if the Head of the Church wears them,--God bless his

Sacred Majesty!--I will try what they can do for me; for I have not

been able to distinguish one Hebrew letter from another, since--I cannot

remember the time--when I had a bad fever. Choose me a pair of his

most Sacred Majesty's own wearing, my good youth."

"This is a pair, and please your reverence," said Jenkin, producing a

pair of spectacles which he touched with an air of great deference and

respect, "which his most blessed Majesty placed this day three weeks on

his own blessed nose; and would have kept them for his own sacred use,

but that the setting being, as your reverence sees, of the purest jet,

was, as his Sacred Majesty was pleased to say, fitter for a bishop than

for a secular prince."

"His Sacred Majesty the King," said the worthy divine, "was ever a very

Daniel in his judgment. Give me the barnacles, my good youth, and who

can say what nose they may bestride in two years hence?--our reverend

brother of Gloucester waxes in years." He then pulled out his purse,

paid for the spectacles, and left the shop with even a more important

step than that which had paused to enter it.

"For shame," said Tunstall to his companion; "these glasses will never

suit one of his years."

"You are a fool, Frank," said Vincent, in reply; "had the good doctor

wished glasses to read with, he would have tried them before buying.

He does not want to look through them himself, and these will serve

the purpose of being looked at by other folks, as well as the best

magnifiers in the shop.--What d'ye lack?" he cried, resuming his

solicitations. "Mirrors for your toilette, my pretty madam; your

head-gear is something awry--pity, since it is so well fancied." The

woman stopped and bought a mirror.--"What d'ye lack?--a watch, Master

Sergeant--a watch that will go as long as a lawsuit, as steady and true

as your own eloquence?"

"Hold your peace, sir," answered the Knight of the Coif, who was

disturbed by Vin's address whilst in deep consultation with an eminent

attorney; "hold your peace! You are the loudest-tongued varlet betwixt

the Devil's Tavern and Guildhall."

"A watch," reiterated the undaunted Jenkin, "that shall not lose

thirteen minutes in a thirteen years' lawsuit.--He's out of hearing--A

watch with four wheels and a bar-movement--a watch that shall tell you,

Master Poet, how long the patience of the audience will endure your next

piece at the Black Bull." The bard laughed, and fumbled in the pocket of

his slops till he chased into a corner, and fairly caught, a small piece

of coin.

"Here is a tester to cherish thy wit, good boy," he said.

"Gramercy," said Vin; "at the next play of yours I will bring down a

set of roaring boys, that shall make all the critics in the pit, and the

gallants on the stage, civil, or else the curtain shall smoke for it."

"Now, that I call mean," said Tunstall, "to take the poor rhymer's

money, who has so little left behind."

"You are an owl, once again," said Vincent; "if he has nothing left to

buy cheese and radishes, he will only dine a day the sooner with some

patron or some player, for that is his fate five days out of the seven.

It is unnatural that a poet should pay for his own pot of beer; I will

drink his tester for him, to save him from such shame; and when his

third night comes round, he shall have penniworths for his coin, I

promise you.--But here comes another-guess customer. Look at that

strange fellow--see how he gapes at every shop, as if he would swallow

the wares.--O! Saint Dunstan has caught his eye; pray God he swallow not

the images. See how he stands astonished, as old Adam and Eve ply

their ding-dong! Come, Frank, thou art a scholar; construe me that same

fellow, with his blue cap with a cock's feather in it, to show he's of

gentle blood, God wot--his grey eyes, his yellow hair, his sword with a

ton of iron in the handle--his grey thread-bare cloak--his step like a

Frenchman--his look like a Spaniard--a book at his girdle, and a broad

dudgeon-dagger on the other side, to show him half-pedant, half-bully.

How call you that pageant, Frank?"

"A raw Scotsman," said Tunstall; "just come up, I suppose, to help the

rest of his countrymen to gnaw old England's bones; a palmerworm, I

reckon, to devour what the locust has spared."

"Even so, Frank," answered Vincent; "just as the poet sings sweetly,--

'In Scotland he was born and bred,

And, though a beggar, must be fed.'"

"Hush!" said Tunstall, "remember our master."

"Pshaw!" answered his mercurial companion; "he knows on which side

his bread is buttered, and I warrant you has not lived so long among

Englishmen, and by Englishmen, to quarrel with us for bearing an English

mind. But see, our Scot has done gazing at St. Dunstan's, and comes our

way. By this light, a proper lad and a sturdy, in spite of freckles and

sun-burning.--He comes nearer still, I will have at him."

"And, if you do," said his comrade, "you may get a broken head--he looks

not as if he would carry coals."

"A fig for your threat," said Vincent, and instantly addressed the

stranger. "Buy a watch, most noble northern Thane--buy a watch, to count

the hours of plenty since the blessed moment you left Berwick behind

you.--Buy barnacles, to see the English gold lies ready for your

gripe.--Buy what you will, you shall have credit for three days; for,

were your pockets as bare as Father Fergus's, you are a Scot in London,

and you will be stocked in that time." The stranger looked sternly

at the waggish apprentice, and seemed to grasp his cudgel in rather a

menacing fashion. "Buy physic," said the undaunted Vincent, "if you will

buy neither time nor light--physic for a proud stomach, sir;--there is a

'pothecary's shop on the other side of the way."

Here the probationary disciple of Galen, who stood at his master's door

in his flat cap and canvass sleeves, with a large wooden pestle in his

hand, took up the ball which was flung to him by Jenkin, with, "What

d'ye lack, sir?--Buy a choice Caledonian salve, _Flos sulphvr. cum

butyro quant. suff._"

"To be taken after a gentle rubbing-down with an English oaken towel,"

said Vincent.

The bonny Scot had given full scope to the play of this small artillery

of city wit, by halting his stately pace, and viewing grimly, first the

one assailant, and then the other, as if menacing either repartee or

more violent revenge. But phlegm or prudence got the better of his

indignation, and tossing his head as one who valued not the raillery to

which he had been exposed, he walked down Fleet Street, pursued by the

horse-laugh of his tormentors.

"The Scot will not fight till he see his own blood," said Tunstall, whom

his north of England extraction had made familiar with all manner of

proverbs against those who lay yet farther north than himself.

"Faith, I know not," said Jenkin; "he looks dangerous, that

fellow--he will hit some one over the noddle before he goes

far.--Hark!--hark!--they are rising."

Accordingly, the well-known cry of,

"'Prentices--'prentices--Clubs--clubs!" now rang along Fleet Street; and

Jenkin, snatching up his weapon, which lay beneath the counter ready

at the slightest notice, and calling to Tunstall to take his bat and

follow, leaped over the hatch-door which protected the outer-shop, and

ran as fast as he could towards the affray, echoing the cry as he ran,

and elbowing, or shoving aside, whoever stood in his way. His comrade,

first calling to his master to give an eye to the shop, followed

Jenkin's example, and ran after him as fast as he could, but with more

attention to the safety and convenience of others; while old David

Ramsay, with hands and eyes uplifted, a green apron before him, and a

glass which he had been polishing thrust into his bosom, came forth

to look after the safety of his goods and chattels, knowing, by old

experience, that, when the cry of "Clubs" once arose, he would have

little aid on the part of his apprentices.