OR,
THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN.
It was in the year '39, a little before the "Dog-cart Nuisance," as it
used to be called, was abolished in London, that Ingram Wilson had some
curious thoughts as he stood looking at a very old and interesting dog,
in one of the by-streets of the Borough.--Ingram Wilson, it ought to
have been first said, was a young man who had forsaken an engagement on
a thriving newspaper in an opulent agricultural district, and had "come
up to London," partly through a slight disagreement with his former
patron, but chiefly through a vivid persuasion, that London was the only
true starting point for "a man of genius," a title to which young Ingram
laid claim. Now, this claim had never been questioned by any one in the
country, and Ingram thought every one would as readily acknowledge it in
the metropolis. How could Ingram Wilson help thinking so, when every
body had asked him, for three years, "why he did not go to London, and
make his fortune?" But, good-lack! when Ingram arrived in London, and
had stared at all the lions for three days, he began to feel himself in
a desert, even amidst thousands. He knew nobody, and nobody knew him. He
stept into two or three newspaper offices, stationers' shops, and
booksellers' little warehouses, asking questions about an engagement;
but people looked at him so suspiciously, that he grew afraid of asking
further. He looked at the Times, and the Herald, and the Chronicle every
morning, in one coffee-house or other--walked to this place and that--or
wrote letters of application, in answer to advertisements, but all was
in vain: two months fled entirely, and he had not received a single
hour's employ, or earned one farthing in London; and he was now reduced
to his last sovereign!
Feeling the necessity of an instant resort to the strictest and most
prudential economy, he quitted his lodgings, and found one, (a beggarly
bed, a chair, and broken table, in a fifth floor,) at eighteen-pence a
week. All day he was out, and sometimes dined on threepenn'orth of
boiled beef and potatoes, and sometimes he didn't: however, he contrived
to make the sovereign last one more month, for he still found no employ.
And now he was come to selling or pawning--what he had never been
driven to before, in his life. His books none of the pawn-brokers would
have: they were an article that could be turned to no account, if not
redeemed. So Ingram pawned his watch; but for so small a sum, that
though he was still more economical, he could only stretch another month
on the "lent money," as he called it, little supposing he would never
see the watch again. And then went extra articles of clothing, till he
could go no farther. And when six months were gone, part of his books
were gone likewise; but they were _sold_ at comparatively waste-paper
price at the second-hand booksellers.
It was then, at the expiration of six months' trial of London, without
having found one hour's employ, and when he had reduced his clothes till
he looked "shabby," and had not half-a-dozen books left that would fetch
him the value of another week's subsistence at the book-stalls;--it was
then that young Ingram Wilson had "some curious thoughts as he stood
looking at a very old and interesting dog, in one of the by-streets of
the Borough."
Ingram had been much disgusted with every dog-cart he had seen before;
for he was driven to moralise, almost by necessity, as he wandered about
from street to street; and he had made many a notch in his mind about
costermongers riding on the front of their dog-carts in a morning,
"four-in-hand," and all in a row, yelping as they galloped under the
lash of the whip; and how much they must resemble Esquimaux emperors
and Kamschatka princes, if there were any; and of the wicked glee of the
rascally young sweeps who would rattle down Blackfriars' Road, and St.
George's Road, and other roads of an evening, racing one against
another--"taking home" the one-dog shay of some cat's meat man or dealer
in greens, who had thus committed his chariot and animals to these sooty
Jehus, while he himself staid at some favourite resort to smoke and
tipple "heavy wet" till midnight. I say, young Ingram Wilson had made
many a notch in his mind about these, and other dog-cart phenomena; but
he had never felt so much melancholy interest in looking at a dog in a
cart, as he felt in looking at this "very old and interesting dog."
There might be something in the way in which his attention was first
aroused to look at the dog. He had just entered this by-street, and was
so much absorbed in reflecting on his own increasingly perilous
circumstances, that he had not even noticed the name of the street
(though this was a practice he usually attended to so punctually, that
he grew quite familiar with numerous localities during the six
months):--he merely saw that it was a street of some length, with a
ground-story room to every house on the right hand, what would be termed
a cellar in the country,--fenced off by neat palisades from the flagged
pavement. His reverie was broken suddenly, by the shrill, and
peculiarly disagreeable, and well-known cry "Cat's m-e-a-t!" and the man
jumped from his vehicle, the dog stood stock still, and almost along the
whole line of the street, cats white, and black, and tabby, and
tortoiseshell, were suddenly at the palisades, of the houses, setting up
their backs and tails, and uttering a shrill "mew!" Ingram was a little
struck with this; but still more with a fine large black tom-cat, that
leaped from the palisade of the house where the cart was standing, and
ran under the old dog's head. Setting up his back and tail, he passed
under the head of the dog again and again, so coaxingly and soothingly,
and uttered so kindly sympathetic a "purr," every time that he passed
backward and forward, and the poor aged dog arched his neck, and hung
his ears forward, and bent down to receive the soft rub of the cat's
back under his chin, and looked so grateful, that Ingram stood still,
and pondered curiously on this display of sympathy between brute
creatures--a quality that he began to think scarce among human beings.
The poor old dog looked almost like a bag of leather, with a collection
of old bones in it: he was so gaunt and worn, and the hair was so much
chafed off, in sundry places with his harness; and, moreover, his back
and limbs were so crooked and bent, that Ingram felt sure the dog had
known no slight portion of slavery in his day. And, perhaps, he had a
hard master, and no one sympathised with him but this black tom-cat,
thought the poverty-stricken philosopher--but who sympathises with me?
That was his only sour thought, but it did not abide with him. The man
returned to the cart, said, "Go on!" and the dog went on; but none of
the other cats came to rub under the old dog's head. Ingram felt he was
attracting the man's frowning notice, by standing to look at the dog,
and so he walked on to think.
"The world is not _all_ misery for that poor old dog," thought Ingram,
as he walked on: "very likely, the few minutes' pleasure he receives
every morning from the gentle sympathy of the black tom-cat renders him
happily forgetful of the labour and hardness of the remaining part of
the day. And yet, the poor old dog looked as if he were poorly fed; and
what a mortification it must be to be carrying food to the cats, and
have so little himself: always in the smell of it, but never or seldom
to taste: almost as bad as Tantalus steeped to the very chin, and most
likely drenched through the skin, and yet dry as a fish! There is a
something that pleases me, however, very much, in this act of the kind,
brotherly tom-cat," said Ingram to himself, "and I'll see this sight
again."
And Ingram saw the sight again, for he took care to walk in the same
neighbourhood for the three mornings following, and felt increasing
pleasure in witnessing the black tom-cat rub his back under the poor
old dog's chin, while the dog looked each morning as richly gratified as
ever. Ingram Wilson was satisfied that if those few minutes' pleasure
did not form a compensation for the poor dog's every day's pain, they
went very far towards it.
But the circumstance of a pale, handsome young man, though rather
seedily dressed, coming through that particular street every morning,
for four mornings, at the same hour, and standing to look at that old
dog and tom-cat, was an occurrence not likely to go unnoticed in London,
where people notice every minute circumstance in a way that much
surprised Ingram Wilson, when he first began to find it out, for he had
calculated on a very different sort of feeling in that respect. Nothing,
indeed, annoyed him so much as the keen impudent stare of strangers,
full in his face, and for several seconds: for Ingram did not reflect
that he must be staring equally hard, or he would not know that other
people were staring at him. And nothing pestered him more than to
observe passengers smile and talk to their companions, as they observed
Ingram's lips move, when some thought passed through his mind earnestly;
and yet he forgot how much he had been struck with that circumstance,
above every thing, when he first walked along Cheapside, and Ludgate and
Fleet Streets, and the Strand: the very great number of people who
talked to themselves as they walked alone, and even motioned with their
hands in the most earnest manner.
Ingram had been closely observed, and the observance, on the fourth
morning, produced him an adventure. He was turning to move on, at the
end of his fourth soliloquy on the dog-and-cat spectacle, when a tall
gentlemanly person, with a cane, stepped from the house where the
tom-cat ran in, and seemed bent on walking along the street in Ingram's
company.
"A fine morning, sir," said the gentleman: "you seemed to be interested
with our fine old cat and his way of saying, 'How d'ye do?' to the old
dog, every morning."
"Yes, sir, I was," answered Ingram, somewhat pleased with the pretty
expression, as he thought it, of the gentleman, and the silvery voice in
which he spoke.
"Ay, sir, there's more kindness among dumb creatures than we think of,"
rejoined the gentleman: "much more, I'm inclined to think, than amongst
human beings."
"Do you think so, sir?" asked Ingram; for the observation awoke a vague
painfulness that he did not like, at once, to express to a stranger.
"Why, have _you_ found nothing but kindness, young man, in the world,
hitherto?" said the stranger, with a look that Ingram thought so
benevolent as to be completely melted by it. "Have you found nothing
but kindness, now, in London, permit me to ask? You are from the
country, I think?"
"Yes," answered Ingram, feeling too much at work with regret within to
say more.
"Seeking for a situation, and finding none, perhaps?" continued the
gentleman; "and--but I shall, perhaps, be obtruding where I have no
right--perhaps, beginning to feel it difficult to subsist?"
Ingram looked volumes, but could not reply: he had lived on two cups of
muddy coffee and a roll, daily, for the last month, and this was the
first and only human being who had troubled himself to ask him a
question relative to his circumstances. Ingram was next invited, very,
very kindly, to return to the stranger's house; and he could not muster
pride enough to refuse. There was one face at the window, which had been
there every one of the four mornings that Ingram had passed, although he
had not seen it; but he saw it now, and he thought it the sweetest he
had ever seen; and, indeed, it was looking very angelically just then,
when he caught the first glimpse of it. 'Twas an expression that said,
"Oh! he's come back, just as I wished!"--if Ingram could have read it.
Ingram Wilson had found a friend: not a rich one, as he speedily found,
but a human being with a heart--a _real_ heart--and Ingram could not
have found any thing more valuable had he searched the world over. After
partaking a good plain breakfast--for, although the forenoon was
advanced, the poor young fellow had not, till then, broken his
fast--Ingram composed his spirits, and, at the request of his new
friend--his first London friend--related the cause and intent of his
leaving the country. His course of suffering in London he touched upon
but slightly at first; but the gentleman gradually and winningly drew
the entire truth from him, and then proceeded, with a paternal look, to
give Ingram some little advice as to the future.
"You have only erred as hundreds have erred before you," he
said:--"hundreds! I might have said thousands; for it is not merely
through the persuasion that they shall be able to attain eminence in
literature that the young come on adventure to London. A sort of
universal romantic idea pervades the minds of most young people with
regard to the capital; and, indeed, it is the same almost all over
Europe, and, for any thing I know to the contrary, all over the world. I
am sure, however, that the feeling is equally strong, and I think
stronger in France. All young French people have an idea that Paris is
the only place wherein to attain their wishes. With the same impression,
all young people imagine, if they can only struggle up to London, they
shall make something out in the world. Alas! thousands reach this
overgrown hive, merely to starve and die in it; and they are fortunate
who can find their way back into the country without falling victims to
their own romance. Now, permit me to ask--and yet, your own account of
the little rupture of good feeling between your former patron and
yourself almost answers the question beforehand--did you bring with you
any note of introduction or recommendation to any person in London?"
Ingram answered, that the thought had presented itself before he left
the country, that a note of introduction from his patron to certain
newspaper offices might be serviceable, but pride and temporary anger
had prevented his asking the favour.
Ingram's new friend shook his head, but looked compassionately upon the
lad, and told him nothing could be done without an introduction in
London: it was what every one looked for who received an application,
and what every body must be furnished with who made one.
The youth caught eagerly at the information, and said he could yet
obtain a note of introduction--and he thought more than one--from the
country:--such notes, too, as he thought must certainly be available in
procuring him an engagement on some of the leading periodicals: or,
perhaps, an offer for an independent work; and he had several tales and
romances begun.
The gentleman smiled, but soon warned Ingram, in a serious tone, not to
depend so sanguinely on what he had not tried. "I said that nothing
could be done without an introduction," he continued; "but I did not
tell you that introductions were always successful in bringing benefits
to those who presented them."
However, Ingram's constitution did not permit him to sober down without
experience, when once an idea had seized him. The gentleman quickly
perceived it; for he had partaken of the same temperament in youth,
although he had cooled down by age and disappointment. He did not use
further dissuasion, then; but permitted Ingram to retire to his lodgings
to write the letters he began to talk about, with hope beaming so
lucidly in his face, and only pressed him cordially to sup with him in
the evening. Ingram retired, shaking hands fervently and gratefully with
the gentleman and his elderly lady, and then with the daughter--and saw
nothing, mentally, all the way to his lodgings, but the sweet face of
her whose hand he had last shaken. A thousand visions succeeded during
that day as he wrote the letters--thought again and again of the
beautiful face--took the letters to the post-office--and, in the
evening, again saw the sweet face, and talked with the sensible
gentleman, and received his kind hospitality.
The gentleman ventured to give a hint that he himself had influence
enough to help Ingram to some occasional employs a copyist at the
British Museum; but Ingram had, all along, most romantically resolved to
aim at something more dignified; and, in his present sanguine mood, in
spite of his poverty, he gave no ear to the gentleman's hint. So the
gentleman did not repeat his hint; but reserved it, for an occasion
when, he feared, it would become but too acceptable to the young man.
A week passed, and Ingram breakfasted at ten, and supped at eight, every
morning and evening of the term, with the gentleman and his wife and
daughter. The week was one of immense anxiety to Ingram when he was at
his own lodgings, or wandering in the street; but it was productive of
real pleasure, in the shape of solid information and advice from the
kind gentleman; and it gave a commencement to a mutual and avowed
attachment between the youth and the gentleman's beautiful and gentle
daughter.
At the end of a week, two letters of introduction arrived: one to the
M.P. who represented the borough in which Ingram had resided, and to
whose cause he had rendered some service in his former newspaper
capacity; the other was from a baronet, Ingram had also served in a
similar mode, to a literary man of some eminence; in fact, the M.P. was
also an eminent _litterateur_, so that Ingram's hopes grew large and
fervid. The gentleman advised moderation; but Ingram _could_ not observe
it: his constitution, as yet, was master of his reason. He was smilingly
received by the literary man; but he could not help observing that the
literary man smiled more as he read the baronet's letter, than at his,
Ingram's, application. He was begged politely to call again. He _did_
call again--and again---and again--before he found the literary man once
more "at home." The event was a recommendation to wait on a small
publisher, who had commenced a small periodical, and wanted a young man
of genius, and all that, to edit it. Ingram went to work in that
quarter:--helped to bring out four weekly numbers of the
periodical--received one sovereign for his month's labour--and then the
thing was stopped, like hundreds of similar ephemera, because "it did
not sell."
The same literary man was visited again, when this engagement failed;
but Ingram left his door in wrath, and never called again; because _he
saw_ the literary man enter his own house, while he, Ingram, was but at
a dozen yards' distance from it; and yet the servant affirmed "he was
not at home."
Ingram's better and more magnificent hopes, however, were yet
undissipated. During his month's harassing and ill-paid labour on the
unsuccessful magazine, he was awaiting an important decision: at least
he believed so. The literary M.P. had also received him with
smiles--smiles that Ingram had been inured to at election seasons; but
which, as green as he was, he always _felt_ to be assumed; for it is the
heart, not the understanding, that really judges of the genuineness of a
smile. Yet, on the occasion of Ingram's first call at the town residence
of the legislator, the smile was so prolonged, that Ingram conceived it
to be more like a _real_ smile, than the evanescent and valvular-like
changes of skin and muscle that the M.P. always seemed to have at such
delightful and momentary command while "canvassing" or "returning
thanks," in the borough he represented. And then the M.P. entered, of
his own accord, on the inquiry as to _what_ Ingram had written, and
begged he would entrust a little manuscript or two, to his, the M.P.'s,
care, and _he_ would place them in the hand of _his own_ publisher, with
_his own_ recommendation, _if_ he believed they possessed merit.
The _if_ shook Ingram a little; but he, next day, took his best
manuscript, and left it at the M.P.'s house, for _he_ was "_not_ at
home," like the other literary man, although Ingram really thought he
heard his voice, when the servant took in the name of the caller; but
the valet said, "Not at home, sir," when he returned, and so Ingram left
the manuscript, and called again next day. To make the story as short as
possible, he called fifteen times during the four weeks, but had only
one more interview with the literary M.P. during that term; and this was
the product of it: the M.P. assured Ingram that his manuscript possessed
merit, much merit; that he had left it with his own publisher; and
begged Ingram would call again in a few more days, and he would tell him
whether the publisher received it.
This seemed to Ingram Wilson a very solid foundation for most
magnificent hopes. How could a publisher refuse a manuscript which was
so highly recommended? and how could the M.P. fail, very highly, to
recommend what he himself said "possessed merit, much merit?" Such were
Ingram's questions; and he was a little shocked to see his friend, the
kind gentleman, shake his head and give a silent look, when they were
proposed in the gentleman's hearing.
Another month passed, and the dream was dissipated! Ingram was always
answered, "Not at home," when he called at the M.P.'s: his friend, the
kind gentleman, called at the publisher's, and learned, most
unequivocally, that the publisher had never had such a manuscript
presented to him, either by the M.P. or any other person: Ingram wrote to
the M.P., and received his manuscript by a messenger, for an answer; and
was only prevented from writing back to tell the M.P. he was a rascal,
by the advice, or, rather, _authority_, for it amounted to that, of his
friend, the kind gentleman.
And now, Ingram, spirit-broken and humbled with what he conceived to be
his sanguine and foundationless folly, vowed to his friend that he would
never believe promises in future, and would copy at the Museum, or "do
any thing" as a means of obtaining a mere livelihood, till he could
finish one of his works entirely, and try a publisher by his own
application, and solely on the merits of his production. The gentleman
cheered the youth, as well as he was able, but Ingram drooped from that
time.
A winter of heartache, inward grief, mortified pride, colds and coughs,
and, eventually, consumption, succeeded. And then the sweet face of his
beloved faded; and when the spring returned, it did not bring back the
roses to her cheek.
A summer of toil for little pecuniary reward succeeded that winter, and
Ingram received, at length, the appalling information from his friend,
the kind gentleman, that he had embarrassed himself by entertaining him,
for the gentleman was merely a retired half-pay naval officer. A look,
depicturing such agony as Ingram never saw before, in the face of man,
accompanied this declaration on the part of his friend, and Ingram never
felt so truly miserable, since he was born, as he felt while witnessing
it.
There was no room for hesitation: Ingram never tasted food in the kind
gentleman's house after that avowal. Yet he called every day to exchange
words of grateful friendship with the gentleman, words and looks of love
with the beautiful being that was fast journeying to the tomb. In
mid-winter she died: her delicate constitution, her sensitive fears and
griefs for Ingram's fate, combined, were too much for her endurance.
Ingram drooped, and became a dependent on charity, in an hospital for
six weeks; and then the kind gentleman and his wife followed his corpse
to the grave, which was dug beside that of their daughter--the beloved
of the unfortunate young man of genius!
Will the story prevent or check romance and adventure in others? Ah! no:
more Chattertons will perish, more Otways be choked with a crust, unless
human nature becomes unlike its former and present self; ay, and more
Shakespeares will prosper, in the ages to come, or, otherwise, the true
glory and vigour of the human mind have all gone by, and the future must
feed on its dregs!