Diggory Lawson was not fond of his baptismal name, and often wondered
what in the world had put it into his father's head to give him such a
one. But where was the use of grumbling, now the name was inevitably his
own?--was a sensible thought which often passed through the brain of Dig
(for his mother used to shorten the awkward name into that still more
awkward one of three letters), where was the use of grumbling about it?
His name could not mend him if Nature had marred him, nor could it mar
him if Nature had made him fit for any good and useful purpose of
existence.
With such thoughts, though but a very little lad, Diggory used to
ramble, when school was up, about pleasant Nottingham, where he was
born, and about its charming neighbourhood. His father was only a poor
lace-weaver; but an affectionate and almost overweening fondness for
their only child rendered his parents prompt to sacrifice any personal
comfort, in order to secure him a respectable portion of education. The
lad was, therefore, kept steadily at school. But his father mingled no
little of the eccentric in his constitution, as may be guessed from the
name he gave his child, for he had no "family reason" for it; and so it
happened, which was not at all the worse, that the lad was not left to
gather his knowledge simply from the dry and barren teaching of a
day-school. His father was a dabbler in the mathematics, in astronomy,
in dialling, in botany and floriculture, in history and antiquities; and
so Dig Lawson caught a tincture of each of these knowledges, at such
seasons as his father felt disposed to communicate what he knew of them.
Nor did the irregularity of communication in his father's fragmentary
hints prevent the lad's mind and its stores from taking a regular form.
That form was somewhat unique, perhaps, but a true philosopher would
have thought it symmetrical. The lad did not forget his humble
condition: he was never proud: but his thinkings were far more exalted
than those of the majority of the children who were, at times, his
playmates. The greater part of his leisure was spent in lonely
wanderings. And if any locality in England can tend to elevate the
sentiments of its young habitants, one would think it to be Nottingham.
Such was its effect, however, on the mind of young Dig Lawson: he became
a vehicle of noble, though somewhat romantic thinkings, while wandering
in the meadows by the beautiful Trent, and watching, alternately, the
ripple of the stream, or the unfolding of some beautiful flower that
grew on its border; or rambling over the wildernesses of the
Forest-ground, so classically English, and giving himself up, for the
nonce, to day-dreams of Robin Hood, till he half imagined he saw the
merry band tripping over the hill-side among the furze and stunted
trees, clad in their Lincoln green, and heard the real sound of bold
Robin's bugle; or climbing the rocks that project round the beautiful
park, and looking up at "Mortimer's Hole" in the castled cliff, and
picturing the chivalrous attack on the concealed traitor by the mailed
bands of the third Edward; or creeping among the strange-looking Druid
caves on the border of the silver Lene, and conjuring up in his
imagination the white-bearded priests crowned with oak, and bearing the
"mistletoe bough," and chanting the hymn to the sun or moon, while a
crowd of painted Britons struck up the chorus "Derry-down." Less florid
but more substantial thinkings often occupied him, when he watched the
last rays of the setting sun tint up the windows of the modern building
called "the Castle" (the unruly Radicals had not blackened it then,) and
remembered how, on its memorable rock, the fated Stuart first unfurled
the standard of war against his own people and parliament, and how
unweariedly the high-souled and incorruptible Hutchinson sustained the
harassments of petty faction so long on the same spot. These more
weighty thoughts, especially, visited him as his boyhood began to ripen
into youth. And as soon as his understanding began to mature, and he
became capable of combining the useful with the comely, in his delights
and preferences, he could derive almost as much pleasure from a walk
round the splendid area of the market-place of his native town, as from
a stroll in the park, or by the Trent. He was often told there was no
market-place like it in England; and he felt as proud of its superb
space and neat ornamental piazzas, as if he were a man, and owner of
half the buildings round it. Diggory Lawson, therefore, had not yet
become "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."
Neither did Dig at all resemble such an unfortunate animal for the three
years, that is to say, from fourteen to seventeen, that he passed at his
father's humble trade. Every leisure season was spent in literature; and
he had not only read some hundreds of volumes by the time that he had
reached the age of seventeen, but he had made some attempts at original
composition that were by no means contemptible. The lad was happy
enough, and was likely to make a happy and useful man, had "Luck"--that
spirit with so questionable a name--kept out of his father's way, and
thereby prevented the father from placing himself in Dig's way.
The brilliant but evanescent "Bobbin-net" speculation sprung up, like a
forest of mushrooms--with an immense surface of promise, but very
slender stalk for continuance--in the town of Nottingham. Diggory's
father was just the man to jump into a new scheme; and he really jumped
into the bobbin-net speculation to some purpose, apparently, for he
realised a thousand pounds' profit in twelve months. Such "luck," of
course, determined him to continue in the pursuit of money, in the same
line; but he was seized, alas! with a vehement resolution to make Dig
into a gentleman!
The large admixture of whimsicality in his father's composition,
however, left Diggory's destiny in a very nondescript condition for some
time; since his ideas of the exactest, best, and fittest way of making
his lad into the thing he thought of were none of the clearest, and most
fixed. One step, and one only, could Dig's father determine upon--and
that was--that Dig should work no more! No: he could work himself, and
could make as much money as ever Dig would want as long as he lived: but
Dig shouldn't work; and his mother said, "No, _that_ he shouldn't," when
she heard her husband say so; and so Dig was compelled, as the
neighbours said, to "drop it"--and to lay aside his every-day clothes,
and put on his Sunday ones, and to consider that, from that day forth,
he had done working with his hands--to the end of his life.
Well: for a lad of seventeen, who was so fond of books and of
sentimentalising by the Trent, and in the Park, and as far as Clifton
Grove, this was, certainly, for the first week, a glorious state of
existence. But, somehow or other, the second holyday week, in Sunday
clothes every day, was not so happy as the first; and when the third
arrived--then Diggory Lawson, for the first time in his life, became
"the lad who felt like a fish out of water." The river did not look so
beautiful and silvery, nor the flowers so lovely, nor the Park so green;
in brief, Dig was tired of all he saw, and all he read, and tired even
of himself; and he told his father and mother so outright. But la! the
mother had an answer for Dig so nicely opportune that she was in
ecstacies to tell it--for she was sure it was a piece of such excellent
"luck." Mrs. Strutabout, the lace-merchant's lady (who had a large
family of unmarried daughters), had sent so politely to say that she
would be very happy to see _young_ Mister Lawson to tea that
afternoon--and they were such respectable people! Dig's father said,
"Capital! just the thing!" when he heard it; for he felt instantaneously
sure--and indeed all his convictions ran by fits and starts--that _that_
was certainly a step towards making Dig into a gentleman. An
introduction to genteel society, to "respectable" company--what could be
finer?
Diggory himself, however, hung his head, and felt shy about it, for he
had never been "out to tea" before, in his life. But his father said,
"Pshaw! you young shame-face! you must shake all that off: remember I
intend you to be as respectable a man as any of 'em!" And the mother
reminded Diggory that he would be sure to hear some music, for the young
ladies Strutabout were thumping away on the piano from morning to night;
you might hear them any hour of the day that you went by the front-room
windows. It was the last hint that enabled Diggory to master his
bashfulness; for although he knew not a note scientifically, nor could
he play on any instrument, yet his love of music amounted to a passion.
And so, at five o'clock in the afternoon, Dig knocked, with a heart
pit-a-pat, at the front-door of the merchant Strutabout, and was
immediately welcomed in, and received, in the best room, by Mrs.
Strutabout herself, so smilingly--and by the half dozen Misses
Strutabout, so sweetly--that he hardly knew where he was with the
novelty of so much genteel welcome. One of the young ladies, so gently
and winningly, took his hat, saying, "Pray let me take your hat,
_Mister_ Lawson!"--for poor Diggory, in his plainness, had brought it
into the room, and, for the life of him did not know where to put it!
And then "the infinite deal of nothings" that the young ladies talked
for a full half hour--Mrs. Strutabout herself retiring, and saying so
politely, "She hoped Mister Lawson would excuse her a short time,"--and
poor Diggory's difficulty in framing answers about nothing! If they had
talked of anybody he knew from books, either of Socrates or Alexander,
of Cicero or Caesar, of Wat Tyler or John of Gaunt, of Hampden or Lord
Chatham, of Marlborough or Napoleon; or of anybody that was "worth
talking about," as he said to himself; or of any thing, or place, or
substance, of which any thing could be said that was sensible, Diggory
could have talked, ay, and in good, thundering, long-syllabled words,
too, as well as any man or youth in the three kingdoms. But to take up a
full half-hour in prattling about--Lord! he could not describe it when
he returned home, it was such infantile sort of stuff as he had never
supposed mortals uttered in "respectable" or any other sort of society!
Diggory Lawson was, indeed, during that half-hour, "the lad that felt
like a fish out of water."
At length, Mrs. Strutabout sailed in with her high turban cap, and her
wide-spread swelling dress, more smilingly than ever, and the tea was
brought in, and Mr. Strutabout arrived from the counting-house, and
places began to be taken, and _Mister_ Lawson was "begged" to come to
the table, "unless he chose to take a cup where he was." Diggory stared
at the addition to the invitation. And it was well for him that Mr.
Strutabout jumped up, and began to urge him to the table, for had they
handed Dig a cup of tea with cake, as he sat in the recess by the
window, he would have been in a woeful pucker, no doubt. As it was, he
was in trouble enough. Poor Diggory! he took his tea every day in a
basin at home, and held up a book before it, devouring the contents of
the volume far more eagerly than his food; and it was a cruel piece of
ambition in his mother and father to thrust him upon "respectable"
society so unthinkingly. It may seem strange to fine drawing-room
people, but with all Dig's knowledge, and as old as he was, the silver
tea-spoon bothered him so indescribably, in the cup, that he knew not
what to do; yet he durst not put it out upon the tray, because he saw,
by peeping aside with his head down, that no one else did so. The eldest
Miss Strutabout saw this, and would have liked to show him how to place
the spoon neatly under the side of his forefinger, but then, it would be
so strange a thing to tell him at table. As for the younger misses they
were much disposed to giggle at poor Dig's awkwardness, only the mother
looked gentle daggers at them, and restrained their lightness. The good
lady strove to hide Diggory's blunders, and the merchant engaged the
youth in general talk on trade and business, so as to enable him to get
through with the appearance that he was too much taken up with the
conversation to attend to table etiquette. But for all this good service
and kindly interference, Diggory Lawson, while at Mrs. Strutabout's
tea-table, was indeed, and of a truth, "the lad who felt like a fish out
of water."
The mortal agony was at last ended; and Diggory began to hope that he
would reap some little enjoyment from his stay the remainder of the
evening, since the piano was mentioned. But, lackadaisy! the young
ladies thumped and rattled, till Dig thought it was any thing but music;
and as for their singing--so unlike the simple ditties of the milkmaids,
under the cows, which he used to listen in the early summer mornings by
the "pasture Trent," with the skylark carolling overhead--so much like
the midnight melody of some stray grimalkin was the singing of the
Misses Strutabout, that it made Dig wish himself, over and over again,
five miles out of hearing of it. He must endure it, however, since he
dare not offend the family by suddenly withdrawing, they were so
"respectable:" nay, more, he was compelled to praise, for at the end of
every overture, or solo, or duet, he was asked "how he liked that?" or
"what he thought of that?" and the poor lad was compelled to torture his
tongue into the utterance of commendations on what he began actually to
loathe, until the announcement of supper gave a momentary suspension to
his discontent. And merely momentary was his ease, for the confounded
ceremoniousness of the supper plagued him worse than the etiquette of
the tea-table; and passing over the mention of all his blushes and
throbbings, under the consciousness that he knew nothing about the
niceties of this second eating process, let us come at once to the end
of the adventure, and say that when he had fairly stepped into the
street at ten o'clock, and when, after unnumbered polite adieus, the
door of the merchant Strutabout was closed behind him, Diggory Lawson
drew in a full breath of air with a feeling of thankfulness similar to
that of one who passes out of a prison after a twelvemonth's
confinement.
Very gleefully did Dig's mother salute her boy when he came home, and
his father not less proudly; but how queer they felt, when the poor lad
told them he had "felt like a fish out of water!" And when Diggory had
given them such a brief account of his treat, as his dislike would
permit, they looked at each other, and began to think, and to remember,
that "they ought to have known that the lad would meet with fine manners
that he was unused to at home." But Dig's father told him to "cheer up,"
for he would know better how to go on another time. But Diggory,
inwardly, felt indisposed to try another time; yet he did not say so,
and so the affair passed over.
Now Diggory's mother knew no more about the right way of making the lad
into a gentleman than the father; but she began to grow greatly
distressed at observing the lad's restlessness and disquietude, for the
hours and days went over Diggory's head more heavily the longer he was
idle. So she seriously took her husband to task, as they say in
Nottinghamshire, about his delay in determining how Dig was to begin to
be a gentleman. Her discourse would have rendered the poor man very
uneasy, indeed, had not "luck" extricated him from his dilemma on the
next day succeeding the curtain lecture.
In his new manufacture, Diggory Lawson's father did business with a
Londoner: this personage made his quarterly call at the very moment when
his customer was so much intent on the great problem as to display much
concern in his face. A shrewd question was put: Dig's father told his
trouble, and the cockney gave most instantaneous advice how the thing
was to be done, as soon as he had been informed of what was so much
desired. "The young man must be had out to travel," he said; "_he_ would
procure him a 'highly respectable' situation as a genteel commercial
traveller for a house in town: _that_ was the way to set him off in the
world, and make a real gentleman of him, for he would be thrown into the
very best society!"
Such was the cockney's advice; and it was sincere, too, for the pert
little man really believed there was nothing in the world more "highly
respectable" than that morsel of vanity--himself! And then his prate was
so fluent, so glib, so high sounding, he was such a walking vocabulary
of commercial phrases, that he completely enfevered Dig's father with
the persuasion of his cleverness; and the countryman yielded to the
advice of the Londoner, believing he had been shown the very best way in
the world for beginning to make his son into a gentleman. The lad was,
it is true, willing to go, he was so weary of the insipidity of his
present idleness, and besides, he wanted to see London, and other parts
of the country, never having yet quitted his native shire; but yet his
common sense was a little suspicious, that this was _not_ exactly the
way to make him a gentleman. Still this suspicion on the part of Diggory
was no impediment in the way of a trial--for the lad did not so much
wish to be a gentleman as a man--and he thought a little knowledge of
the world would not prevent his progress towards that better climax.
"Mr. Lawson, the bobbin-net manufacturer," would have had his son
fashionably clothed ere he started for town; but the cockney turned up
his nose at the very idea. "It was a thing quite out of character," he
told Mr. Lawson: "all the country tailors' fits were reckoned only
dresses for scarecrows by the best tailors in town: it wouldn't do at
all: he was against it, most decidedly!"
Young Diggory, therefore, was impursed with a handsome sum, more than
sufficient to purchase an outfit in London; for his father well knew he
could trust to his prudence, and was despatched, per mail, to town, in
company with the all-sufficient Londoner. A week, or so, was spent, in
visiting the various public exhibitions, and seeing the sights,--a
change of neat suits was purchased (for the lad was too sensible to be
fooled into the kickshaw dandy habits which the cockney recommended),--a
situation, a "highly respectable" situation, (although but at very low
remuneration, a thing of no consequence to Diggory,) was procured by the
all-sufficient gentleman; and off started the new adventurer into Kent,
to canvass for orders for a citizen and dry-salter of London.
The merchant, his employer, had had but one interview with him, having
engaged him chiefly through a quick impression of his solid
intelligence, rather than from the cockney's florid recommendation; but
the cockney gave him a regular "drill," as it might be called in his new
profession, before he started out; and, although the tradesmen upon whom
he called perceived that he was a "new beginner," yet his good sense
prevented his experiencing any insurmountable difficulty in making his
way as a commercial traveller. In fact, Diggory had a much larger stock
of theoretical knowledge to enable him to eke out his deficiencies in
what was practical, than most young fellows who go out, for the first
time, on similar engagements; and, therefore, it was not as a
"greenhorn" among tradesmen, that he was likely to feel "like a fish out
of water:" that was not the sort of uneasiness that newly awaited
Diggory Lawson.
What was it then?--Nothing less than the old pest in a new
form:--etiquette. He had been most cogently admonished by the cockney to
take up his quarters at the very best commercial inns in his prescribed
route,--or it would let down his employer, disgust customers, and injure
his patron's business; nor had he been less earnestly warned to avoid
deporting himself in any way contrary to the rules and customs of
gentlemen he would meet with, who were "on the road" like himself, and
who had their "highly respectable" established usages. Diggory, like an
obedient son, followed his father's monitions, and strove to conduct
himself exactly as the Londoner advised and directed. At the first-rate
commercial inn in each town he stopped, hasted to canvass the tradesmen,
and punctually returned to the inn at the hour when he was told dinner
would be on the table in the "Commercial Room." Diggory, too, being a
sharp lad, as the reader knows by this time, bought a book on
"Etiquette" and all that sort of thing, while in London: but though he
imagined he would be a match for his new compeers "of the road," he
found himself sorely mistaken, in the very outset, at Maidstone.
At four, exactly, returned Diggory to his inn, having despatched
considerable business for a mere beginner, and entered the "Commercial
Room." A buzz and a general whisper went round, as he entered, and no
one returned his courteous movement (for he followed his book) when he
performed it! The company was large, well-dressed, and from the
"bang-up" appearance of the numerous leather portmanteaus under the
side-tables in the room, and the dashing whips and proud cloaks on the
hooks, Diggory was sure they were, indeed, what the cockney would call
"highly respectable" commercial gentlemen, or "gentlemen on the road."
It was strange, he thought, that they should be so uncourteous. Yet,
Diggory observed, that every new comer was received in the same way; and
so he set it down in his memory that it was the wrong time of the day
for bows of courtesy among "commercial gentlemen;"--and that was not a
bad idea, either, for so green an observer,--especially as the gentlemen
had not dined.
Dinner was brought in, and a tolerably sumptuous affair it was.
"Commercial gentlemen," even at the "first-rate commercial inns," don't
"cut it quite so fat" (for so vulgar a phrase may be allowed since it
will apply to the dinners) now-a-days, as they did then,--since we are
speaking of something more than twenty years bygone; and the last twenty
years, with their wonderful innovations of railway travelling and
increased competition, have made woeful alterations among your princely
commercial travellers: they were the innkeeper's grandees then: the case
is altered now. Diggory, with all his intellectuality and sentimentalism
and so forth, was pleased to see the goodly provisions of the table,
for he was very hungry; and he began to muster up his recollections of
"the book of etiquette."
But, behold!--a single moment threw all his calculations out of order.
He was the youngest in the room; and by the rules of the road, he must,
therefore, take the post of vice-president at the dinner! Diggory's book
said nothing about this; for it was not written expressly for
"commercial gentlemen," but for "good society" generally. Poor Dig took
the post, however, but felt in a strange perturbation as the gentleman
at his right hand intimated a wish for a little mutton, and looked at
him, "the Vice!" The chairman was already helping his end of the table
to slices of a sirloin, and so Diggory drew the piece of hot mutton near
him, and was beginning to cut, but did it so awkwardly that the
gentleman at his right-hand, who was somewhat of a gourmand, cried out,
"Oh dear, sir! not that way!" Diggory stopped,--stared,--blushed: but
the chairman, an elderly and fatherly-looking man, put on an encouraging
smile, and said, "Lengthwise, sir, if you please; not across: the other
way keeps in the gravy best." Diggory's heart cleaved to the man who
told him this so kindly and handsomely, and he thanked the chairman,
adding, in his simplicity, that he was unused to carving mutton,
especially a shoulder, he added, looking at it, and thinking it could
not be a leg.
"A shoulder!" exclaimed the gentleman on his right hand, staring like
one who was horror-struck; "why, God bless me, 'tis a saddle!"
Diggory blushed worse than before, for there was a perceptible laugh
round the table; but he made no reply, and tried to proceed with his
work of carving. Trembling as he did, there was no wonder that he
spattered the right-hand gentleman with gravy until the gentleman grew
angry. And then Diggory apologised; but the gentleman, still more
indignantly, besought him to go on, and not keep the company
waiting,--meaning himself. How glad was the lad when he had succeeded in
filling the man's plate, and silencing him! The rest whom he had to
accommodate were of less irritable natures; but no one offered to
relieve him, until each had despatched their first plate, and _then_
Diggory's appetite was gone, for he had not been able to eat a mouthful
up to that time, through the throng of his new and difficult employment.
The next course increased poor Diggory's trouble: he knew no more about
carving a fowl than conducting a ship to China; and when he had cut off
a blundering slice at a venture, and put it on the right-hand
gentleman's plate, the irritable gourmand stared ferociously in his
face, shovelled the clumsy slice off the plate into the dish, cried
aloud, "Mangling done here!" and to Diggory's consternation seized the
carving-knife and fork, to cut for himself.
And now the chairman interfered. "He trusted he should be supported by
the company, sitting there as he did: if the young gentleman was an
improficient in the duties of the table, perhaps he might be allowed to
say that they all knew what it was to be young at one time in their
lives, and he _did_ think--though he was the last man in the world to
wish to give the slightest offence--that the gentleman to the right of
the vice-president of that table had not acted so courteously as he
might have done." And then there was a pretty general "Hear, hear!" But
quickly uprose the irritable gentleman, and rejected the admonition of
the president with scorn, and thumped the table during his delivery of a
most energetic oration of half a minute, until he shook the glasses so
that they rang changes against each other.
The irritable gentleman no sooner sat down than another arose, and
another, and another, each demanding that he should apologise to the
president for his want of courtesy, and the irritable gentleman yielded
to apologise--though it was far more from eagerness to eat, than a
return of good-nature.--Diggory was "assisted" in cutting up the fowl by
one on his left, who began to be warmed with sympathy for the youth, now
the sympathiser's stomach was allayed in some small degree by sundry
hearty slices of mutton. To the drawing of the cloth Diggory experienced
no further mortification: but the past was enough, in any conscience;
and during the season in which that company of "highly respectable
gentlemen" were masticating their viands, poor Diggory, who did not eat
three mouthfuls, might most aptly be styled "the lad who felt like a
fish out of water."
And now the wine was pushed about; and whether it was the little "tiff"
which had taken place during the dinner, or whatever might be the cause,
considerable difficulty was felt, for some time, by all the company, in
attaining that sense of freedom, that warm hilariousness, which an
Englishman always looks for, over the bottle, and by the charm of which,
and not by the animal gust for the liquor, drinking usages have become
so widely established. This uneasy feeling, however, was dissipated by
degrees; and then, by the natural reaction of the human spirits, the
zest for good-fellowship grew unbounded. And yet this over-heated,
steamy sort of boon companionship manifested itself exactly as might be
expected among "highly respectable commercial gentlemen," though poor
Diggory was too ignorant of the genus to make the proper calculation.
They neither called each other by familiar names, nor sang, nor shouted,
nor huzzaed, nor laughed, till they hiccupped. Compliments, that
out-heroded Herod in their gorgeousness of dress and brilliancy of
colouring,--good-wishes,--mighty, vast, profound, coming from the
"bottom of their hearts,"--for the prosperity of each other in their
undertakings,--testimonies to each other's "respectability" (_always_
first), honour, candour, probity, (take the first catalogue of the
virtues you find, and supply all the rest,)--flowed out of the smiling,
bubbling, fountain of their wine-warmed hearts, and wreathed itself so
fantastically into the vaporous shapes of words (if that be nonsense,
take it for a specimen of their speeches),--that Diggory Lawson was
puzzled to determine whether they were more lunatic or tipsy.
Luckily, he found a little relief, both corporeally and mentally in
nibbling at the remnant of the dessert, which the whole company forgot
for wine and speechifying. Yet he had but a torturous time of it, and
was still "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."
It should scarcely be omitted, that by the natural way of ascending from
the mediocre to the sublime, so genial to the minds of "highly
respectable commercial gentlemen," the last hour of the speechifying was
entirely occupied by that grand problem,--that question of
questions,--that important and absorbing interrogation of "_the_
commercial room,"--"Is it not time to smoke?"
Now the president insisted, that eight o'clock being the established
hour for "permitting to smoke" in _that_ room, he, as president of
_that_ company, sitting there as he did, could not grant permission to
smoke, since it was but just seven. And then arose the irritable little
gentleman who talked so politely about "mangling" when Diggory spoilt
the fowl. He really felt that he _must_ claim the indulgence of the
company: but he would appeal to every gentleman in the room, and he,
most conscientiously, felt that he _could_ safely and confidently appeal
to them, and he was sure they would bear testimony that no one was more
observant than himself of the rules of _that_ room, (and then there was
a general "Hear, hear!" though Diggory, in spite of his timidity, could
not forbear saying "Hem!")--and he would feel it beneath him to infringe
on the necessary regulations for the preservation of comfort in good
society; but yet,--but yet, on the present occasion,--feeling as they
all did, that warmth of esteem, and union of sentiment and feeling,
and--(we omit a page here)--he thought the president of that company
might take it upon him to dispense with the peculiar rule relative to
smoking on _that_ occasion.
_Pro_ and _con_--the arguments were equally laborious, equally long, and
equally senseless; and the president, being one of the oldest "gentlemen
on the road," and though very bland in his nature, yet a stickler for
custom, stuck to his point to the last, and was only worsted by the
clock. Truly, Diggory Lawson, during the smoke discussion, was "the lad
who felt like a fish out of water." Much more did he resemble the said
unlucky fish when the smoking began, insomuch that he was compelled to
seize an early opportunity of retiring to bed.
Diggory Lawson completed his journey, but returned to London with a
complete mental nausea of the cockney's plan for making him into a
gentleman. Torn entirely from his beloved books, he was infinitely more
miserable than when their only companionship subjected him to weariness.
His mind hurried with anxiety, dissipated by the unintellectual nature
of his engagement, annoyed and disgusted with the manners of those he
was compelled to regard as the proper associates of his leisure, he
wrote home to his father entreating permission to return. One paragraph
will show the character of his letter:--
"Not a single thought or habit of my short life has prepared me for such
an engagement as that procured me by your friend. It was misery enough
to listen to the prattle of 'unidea'd girls,' as Dr. Johnson expressed
himself on a similar occasion; but of all the tortures in the world,
deliver me from the company of empty, conceit-blown mortals, who have
such large notions of their own importance as these 'highly respectable
commercial gentlemen.' I entreat your permission to return home, for I
am 'like a fish out of water.'"
The boon was readily granted,--for Diggory's mother, having never been
separated from her child before, had wept every day since she parted
with him. The very next month, Dig's father gave up the notion of
making him into a gentleman,--for the bobbin-net speculation waned,--and
there was an end to making an immense fortune in a twinkling. He
embarked the little capital he had gained in the more staple manufacture
of the town, took Diggory into the trade, and associating with plain,
sensible men, and cultivating knowledge in his leisure hours, Diggory
Lawson was happier every day, and was no longer "the lad who felt like a
fish out of water."