Nothing injures a man’s prospects in life more than a bad name. My
father, an honest, good man, never could rise above it, it depressed him
to his dying day. His name was Pan, and no one ever spoke to him without
some small joke, a thing which my father’s sensitiveness could not bear.
He was a gardener and sent the finest of vegetables to market, striving
to excel all others—I presume that my taste for horticulture arose from
this circumstance.
Adjoining our garden was one that belonged to a man by the name of
Patrick O’Brien; he likewise raised fruits and vegetables for sale, and
there was a constant strife between him and my father as to who should
get the pre-eminence; but it so happened that, although my father had
the greatest abundance of large and fine specimens, yet Patrick O’Brien
had the largest for the monthly exhibitions. My father was not of a
jealous nature, yet he did envy his friend’s success; and there is no
knowing whether a breach might not have been made in their long tried
friendship but for my excellent mother. She always begged my father to
try and try again; and, above all, to try for the yearly fair.
My father did persevere, and to his great joy, he got three premiums.
“I cannot tell how it has happened, wife,” said he, “I have certainly
acquired the premiums, but O’Brien’s tulips were, to my notion, far more
beautiful than mine; and you yourself saw how much larger his salad was;
and then the early strawberries—I had the greatest quantity, but his
were the largest.”
My mother certainly was glad that my father’s spirit was elated, but she
was of a timid, nervous temperament, and she could not bear excitement
of any kind. She therefore trembled very much whilst he stood talking to
her, nor was she the less agitated when Patrick O’Brien entered the
room.
“Right glad am I, neighbour Pan, that you have the three prizes this
day,” said honest Patrick, “and you must try your luck again, for
there’s to be a great prize given next year. Early peas, my boy. Arrah,
but won’t I try for them; and you have a fine warm spot for them too.
But, mistress Pan, for what are you not wishing your husband joy this
bright day, seeing he has what he so long wished for?”
“Mr. O’Brien,” said my mother, the next day, “it must not be done again;
my husband will find it out, and he will die of vexation. Pray
discourage him from making the attempt next spring, for he will not bear
a disappointment so well then as he has hitherto done. Did no one see
you put the large strawberries in his dish?”
“No, never a creature, and I’m wondering you’ll mention a thing to me
that I have almost forgotten. I was frightful, though, about the Parrot
tulip, for one of the gentlemen would keep talking about it, and I had
to keep saying, ‘It’s not a Parrot, your honour, it’s a Bijou.’”
The fact was, that this kind hearted creature could not bear to see my
father so crest-fallen, and he determined, as he had borne off so many
premiums, to let his friend share the pleasure with him. He slily put
three of his finest tulips in the bunch belonging to my father, and, one
by one, he put a dozen of his largest strawberries on the dish. He told
all this to my poor mother, for which he was very sorry, seeing that it
troubled her tender conscience; but, as her husband was not to know of
the trick, she endeavoured to forget it also. “And you, too, poor
Patrick,” said she, “you feel badly at not getting the prizes; you have
had them so long that it must be hard for you to lose them now—and
particularly when, by rights, you should have them.”
“Oh, honey, never you mind me; I care more to name your little baby,
when it comes; and if you’ll let it be called Patrick, why I have a
little matter of money which shall all be his; and we will make the boy
a great scholar. I’ll bring him up like a gentleman.”
I was born on St. Patrick’s day; a double reason, as the poor Irishman
said, for getting the name; but my mother cared little about that; all
she thought of was leaving me to the mercy of heartless strangers. She
was in very delicate health, and just lived long enough to hear me call
her mother. Her death was a severe blow to my father and my poor
godfather, for she was the peacemaker in their little disputes, and the
consoler in all their little troubles and miscarriages, of which a
gardener, you know, has many. In less than three months I lost my father
also; and thus I became entirely thrown on the care of this good and
honest Irishman.
As my father was liberal and spirited, it cannot be supposed that he
had, in a few short years, made much money; when his effects were sold,
and every thing converted into money, there only remained about five
hundred dollars. A far greater sum, as Patrick said, than he expected to
realize; but nothing at all equal to what was necessary. He was a very
sanguine creature, and always had a hope that the next year would do
wonders; so putting the money thus obtained from my father’s effects
into safe hands, he determined on providing for me himself.
Never was there a father so proud of a child as Patrick was of his
little godson; and never did a child fare better, for three years, than
I did. He dressed me in the finest clothes; and I was never without a
lap full of toys; in fact, he could not resist my entreaties for more
when we passed a toy shop. He often neglected his work to take me either
a riding or walking with him; and even when toiling in the garden, he
was uneasy unless I was running around him. But, alas, this state of
things was not to last long; he missed my father’s excellent example and
my mother’s gentle hints, so he went on as if his income was never to be
diminished, and as if he had thousands at his command.
Like all weak people, the moment his affairs became embarrassed, he gave
up all endeavours at retrieving them; he ended by neglecting every
thing; and when my nurse presented the quarterly account for my board,
poor Patrick had to sell a valuable watch to meet the demand. My little
property was in the Savings Bank, and, hitherto, untouched; but much as
it was against his inclination—and, oh, how sore a thing it was—he was
compelled to take up the year’s interest, which he fondly hoped to leave
with the principal, to pay the woman for my next quarter.
Thus it went from bad to worse, until it came to utter ruin; and Patrick
had sunk so low in public esteem, that he could not obtain even the
ordinary wages of a common gardener. He seemed to have lost his skill
with his pride, and all was aggravated by the thought of being unable to
provide for me as he once intended to do. He used to hug me to him and
weep over me, calling on my father, but most frequently on my mother, to
scorn him and hate him for breaking his promise, which was to educate
me, and give me a gentlemanly trade. He was so true to his trust,
however, that he never would touch my little patrimony; he only grieved
too much, as I observed, at having to draw upon the interest, little as
it was. But five shillings a week was not a sum sufficient to satisfy my
nurse. She had taken care of me for three years, and had been well paid
by my godfather, who likewise made her several valuable presents; but
when it came to the shillings, she at once told Patrick, who was
thunderstruck at her hardness of heart, that he must get another place
for the little spoilt boy; that she found him so troublesome she could
keep him no longer.
I shall not tell of the change that came over me, nor the resistance I
made to every new face, for I was turned over to a dozen strangers in
the course of a year. Nor shall I tell of poor Patrick’s misery at
seeing my altered looks and spirits. He rallied a little and went in a
gentleman’s service as under gardener, that he might not only be near
me, but comfort my little heart, which was breaking with ill usage and
neglect. Small as the sum was, which Patrick gave for my board, there
were miserable creatures who offered to take me for less, so that one
woman, with whom I lived, actually farmed me out, keeping two shillings
a week out of the scanty allowance. No one can have an idea how poor
little orphans are abused when there are no kind friends to interest
themselves for them.
I was a very unprepossessing child, neither good looking nor pleasant
tempered; not that I was really ill-tempered, but that ill usage had
stupified me. I never entered into play with the children of my own age,
nor did I seek the amusements that were even within my reach. I loved to
be alone, to lie under a tree near a brook, listening to the babbling
and murmuring of the waters, and fancying that I heard my mother talking
to me. Little as I was, I used to frame long conversations with her, and
they had the effect of soothing me. Her gentle spirit was for ever
present, and constantly encouraging me to bear all, and suffer in
silence, and that when I was a man I should be rewarded. I bless the
good Irishman’s memory for having so early and so constantly spoken of
my parents; particularly of my mother.
A man finds he cannot make his way in the world without honesty and
industry, so that, although his father’s example may do much, he has to
depend upon his own exertions; he _must_ work, he _must_ be honest, or
he cannot attain to any enviable rank. But the tender soothings of a
mother, her sympathy, her devotedness, her forgiving temper—all this
sinks deep in a child’s heart; and let him wander ever so wide, let him
err or let him lead a life of virtue, the remembrance of all this comes
like a holy calm over his heart, and he weeps that he has offended her,
or he rejoices that he has listened to her disinterested, gentle
admonition.
When I reached the age of eight years I was taught to read, and the
eagerness with which I proceeded, mastering every difficulty, and
overcoming every impediment from cold, hunger and chilblain, might have
shown to an observer how suitable this occupation was to my character.
Poor Patrick used to boast of my acquirements to every one who would
listen; and every fresh book that I read through, gave him visions of my
future glory.
No one can tell how the poor fellow pinched himself to give me this
scanty education, but hard necessity had taught me to think; I was
compelled to make use of my judgment, young as I was; and, knowing that
he had the sum of five hundred dollars in his possession, for my use, I
tried to prevail on him to draw out a fifth part of it for the purpose
of paying a better board, and getting me a better teacher. If any one
could have seen this poor man as I saw him at that time, thin, bowed
down by poverty and neglect, ragged and with scarcely a home, they would
have wondered that his honesty could have held out as it did when he had
what might be considered as so large a sum within his power. He not only
did not touch a penny himself, but he would not take a cent of it from
the principal. He distrusted his own judgment, and he distrusted mine,
for I was such a mere child; yet his anxiety to give me an education was
still uppermost, and he wavered for a long time about adopting the only
means of accomplishing it.
He had been digging post holes, one day, for a gentleman, and when his
task was finished, he began to speak of the books which he saw lying
about—it was a printing office—and, as was most natural to him, he spoke
of me. He told the printer of his anxieties and his desire that I should
have a good education, and finally he spoke of my proposal respecting
the money. The printer told Patrick, that it was very good advice, and
he had better take it; for if his object was to educate me, there was no
other way but this of effecting it, unless he sent me to a charity
school. The blood mounted in the poor fellow’s cheeks at this
suggestion, and he told me that he had great difficulty in commanding
his temper, but his love for me conquered.
As soon as he could swallow the affront—an affront, he said, to my
father, and to my angel of a mother; for he, too, never separated my
feelings from their’s—he begged the printer to let him bring me there
and see how far I had advanced in my learning; but the man did not seem
disposed to grant this favour. Bring the boy to me one year from this,
and then I shall be better able to judge, said he; mean time, do you see
that he is placed with a good teacher; one that will keep him to his
studies.
With a heavy heart, Patrick obeyed him, and I thus obtained a knowledge
of reading, writing and arithmetic; but he seemed to be failing fast;
every time he came to see me he appeared weaker, and was still more
wretchedly clad, and I could devise no plan for his comfort. He never
complained of his poverty, but of his laziness; and his constant
exhortations were, “Patrick, my boy, be industrious; never allow of an
idle moment; give over lying under the trees, and do not saunter about
when your lessons are over—look at me; I am in rags and despised by
every body because I have been an idler.”
At the end of the year, in as good a suit of clothes as my poor
godfather could manage to procure for me, I was taken to the printer. He
cast a look at me as he stood at his desk writing, and then told us to
take a seat. His cold manner struck a chill through my heart, and I
crowded myself on Patrick’s chair that I might feel the warmth of his
kindness. There we sat, speechless, for half an hour, until the letters
were finished and despatched, and then the man turned his head again and
gave another look.
“Will you be for speaking to the boy touching his learning, your
honour?” said honest Patrick, his feelings hurt by this coldness of
manner; “or shall we come some other time?”
“I have no time to question him now,” said the printer, “but if he can
read and write—here, my boy, write your name on this leaf—Patrick Pan!
hem—Pan, is it?”
“Yes, your honour,” said the indignant Irishman, “and it was an honest
man that bore it, and gived it to him, and I trust he’ll never disgrace
it.”
“I trust so too,” said the man. “He writes legibly, and if you have
nothing better to do with him, he may have his food and clothing for the
few errands he can do.”
“And Patrick, dear,” said O’Brien, “will you be liking this employment,
sure my son it’s a good berth, though a mean one, to what I meant to
give you; but you’ll be industrious and mind what’s told you, and I’ll
still be looking after you, and you’ll have plenty of books, dear, for
they are not scarce here.”
“The boy will have but little chance of meddling with books,” said the
printer, “it will be time enough when he is older. Is he to stay now, or
do you wish him to come next week? he must be apprenticed to me, you
recollect.”
Smothering and choking was the poor fellow for a minute or two; he knew
that the hundred dollars was all gone, and that my last quarter had just
ended. He knew it was entirely out of his power to assist me any
further, so with a mighty effort he made the sacrifice—he transferred me
to another.
It was but the work of half an hour, and I became this man’s property;
for twelve years he was to rule my destiny. I looked up in his face
whilst he was speaking, and I saw nothing to cheer me; his countenance
was only expressive of care and deep thought. I cast another glance at
him when my indentures were signed, and there was no change. Poor
Patrick never thought of his looks; he was only alive to the misery of
having consigned me to another; of having no longer any power or control
over my comforts and enjoyments.
When all was over, and the printer had left us together, the poor man
burst into tears, bewailing his cruel fate that would not let him alone,
as he said, that he might perform his promise of giving me a good
education. “I wanted to be industrious,” said he, “but something always
pulled me back and pointed to a toy or a hobby-horse, or a fine suit of
clothes, or a ride, or a pleasant walk, and so all these things being
more agreeable to my nature, I left my garden for the pleasure of
pleasing you, my poor boy; and now you must work for this nigger, who
won’t let you touch one of his books even. But remember your mother,
Patrick, whatever becomes of you; be honest, and she will be looking
down upon you, my jewel; and that will encourage you; and I shall be
looking after you too, dear, for all I am—for all I am—in the
poor-house. Don’t cry, poor fellow, I did not mean to tell you; but
where’s the use of being proud now, when you can’t even get a book to
read, but must just be an errand boy and be pushed about any how, and it
all comes of my laziness.”
“Oh no, Patrick, you have done every thing for me,” said I, “and only
keep a good heart for twelve years, and then I shall have a trade, and I
can make you happy and comfortable; but you must come and see me every
day, for I shall miss you so much; and there is such a difference
between Mr. Bartlett and you. It will kill me if you don’t come every
day.”
“Well, child, it is idle to stand here making you more unhappy than you
need be; I will come as often as I can; but I shall just walk up and
down the alley, there, till you get sight of me, for I’ll not be after
knocking at the door and shaming you before your new acquaintances, and
I all in these old rags.”
So we parted with many a last look and last speech; I following him,
poor, ragged, broken down old creature as he was, as far as my eye could
see him, and then sat on the stairs in the hall and cried myself asleep;
nor did I awake till the bell rang for dinner. Mr. Bartlett pointed to a
little room, as he passed me on coming down stairs, telling me to go
there and take my seat at the table as soon as the cook told me that the
dinner was ready. The cook cast a surly glance at me, and so did the
chambermaid, muttering in audible whispers that “here was more trouble;
and wondering what could possess Mr. Bartlett to bring such a mere child
in the house, one not big enough to fetch a pail of water.”
In the afternoon I was allowed to lounge about the room, no one taking
the least notice of me, till the foreman said, “Here is a little errand
boy, one of the elder apprentices must take him out when he goes with
books and papers, that he may learn to find his way.” Then they all cast
a look at me, and seeing my tiny size, and how awkward and poorly clad I
was, they made themselves very merry at my expense. But small and
contemptible as I appeared, they did not think me too small nor too mean
for their services. I was made to toil from morning till night, scarcely
sitting down to my impoverished meals; for I always had to wait till the
elder boys had finished, and I was scarcely seated before I was wanted.
By degrees I lost all pride about my outward appearance. From my infancy
I was particularly careful to keep my face and hands clean; but now that
I was driven about from place to place I had no time. All I could do was
to dip my hands and face hastily in a basin, or a pail, or more
commonly, under the pump, and either let the water dry off, or else use
a pocket-handkerchief. My master never looked after me, nor inquired
about me, that I ever heard, so that I was as much neglected as if I was
among wild beasts—is not this the case with the most of apprentices?
It was a week, and more, before I had a room to sleep in; and I was
forced to lie about on floors, or on benches, wherever my mattress was
to be found. At length, by the removal of a young man, I was put up in a
small garret room, and in this hole I slept for twelve years. There was
one thing, however, which made it endurable; and this was, that the
branches of a large buttonwood tree reached up to the window and
sheltered it from the afternoon sun; but for this I should have suffered
from the heat. Many and many an evening have I been soothed by the
gentle rustling of the leaves, as the mild breeze passed over them. It
seemed as if the spirit of my mother was there, and I would listen and
fancy that I heard her whispering to me, and then I would shut my eyes
and let the cool soft air fall on my cheek, and say to myself, Perhaps
it is the breath of my mother. To this day, now that I am a man, I still
seem to hear that ever-to-beloved voice in the silence of the night,
when the summer wind murmurs through the foliage. I used, at that
forlorn period of my existence, to give myself up to these delusions
till my heart has fairly throbbed with emotion.
I looked around for something to love, but no one ever dreamed of me,
all were engaged in their business, or when the day closed, in their own
amusement; all that I could draw to me was a poor singed cat, which I
coaxed into my garret-room, and domesticated there. I rescued her from
the gripe of the cook’s son, a hard-hearted little tyrant, who took
great pleasure in tormenting animals.
But my unfortunate name—that, too, added to my miseries. I told you it
was Pan. I was called Pat from the first; but when they found out my
father’s name, it was an easy thing to call me Patty Pan; and by this
name I went for years. Oh, how hard it was to my sensitive spirit to
hear my father’s—my mother’s name turned into ridicule by these
inconsiderate and callous people.
Every Sunday poor Patrick met me in one of the public squares, and there
we would talk together, and he would tell me anecdote after anecdote of
my parents and their family, always making them out grandees at home.
Both my father and mother were from Scotland, and I learned that my
mother had displeased her only brother by her marriage, and that his
ill-natured conduct towards her caused them to come to America.
“You are come of a good stock, Patrick, dear,” said he to me, when I was
about fourteen years old, “barring that your uncle was such a nigger. I
have written twice to him, my jewel, and its never an answer I’ve got,
so I’ll trouble him no more, only I’ll just be for telling Mr. Bartlett
who you are; and in case your uncle should ever deign to inquire about
you, he can answer for you. I’ve kept all safe, honey; here in this old
tobacco-box is the certificates of your parents’ marriage, and of your
birth, and, oh, wo’s me, of their death too; and here is an account of
your money in the savings bank, and not a penny has been touched since
you began your trade, so that the five hundred dollars are all whole
again, and something over.”
It was in vain that I entreated the poor fellow to take the interest and
spend it on himself; he would not do it; and from seeing his self-denial
I found it impossible to make use of it myself, although I was sadly in
want of comforts. Often and often would the old man question me as to my
usage at the printing office; but I could not bear to tell him how
utterly neglected I was; it would have killed him. Every time I saw him
he appeared weaker and weaker, and at length his eye-sight failed, and
it was with great difficulty that he could grope his way to our
accustomed haunts. He never would allow me to come to the alms-house,
not so much as to meet him at the door or near it; but I bribed a poor
man to lead him to the place and call for him again; this I was enabled
to do from the few shillings that I received from Mr. Bartlett on the
new year’s day and the fourth of July.
My master called me to him, one morning, with some little show of
sympathy; he said that Patrick O’Brien was very ill, and that it was
doubtful whether he would live till night; that he had been to the
alms-house and was satisfied that the poor man was properly treated. I
begged to go to him, but Mr. Bartlett said that Patrick had desired that
I should not, and that I should not follow him to the grave; but, added
he, on seeing my grief, if you really desire to go, I will send you
there or go with you myself.
I was so astonished at this unexpected kindness, that my tears dried up
in an instant, and I blessed and blessed him over and over again—not by
speech, for I was unfit for it, but mentally. My master told me to go to
my room and remain there till he sent for me, bidding me say nothing to
any one either respecting my poor godfather or what had recently
occurred. He need not have enjoined this on me; no one had ever thought
it worth while to inquire whence I came, or to whom I belonged. The
general opinion was, that I was a poor, spiritless, melancholy creature.
The last link was broken; I followed my only friend to the grave, my
master having the humanity to take me in a carriage to the funeral; and
I need not tell you that one of the first acts of my life, when I had
the power to do it, was to put a stone at the head of poor O’Brien’s
grave.
But heaven opened one source of pleasure to the poor orphan’s heart. If
the living denied me their sympathy, the dead did not; I became fond of
reading; and all at once, as it were, a flood of light and knowledge
entered my whole soul. To indulge myself in this newly found pleasure
was scarcely possible, for my labours seemed to increase as I grew
older. Indeed there were greater difficulties in the way now than there
would have been at first, for then I was a mere cipher, and was only
used as a convenience. But there were certain things going on which made
it necessary that there should be no spies or tell-tales about; and as I
would not join the young men in their irregularities, they thought I
meant to ingratiate myself with Mr. Bartlett by exposing them. As the
follies they committed were not injurious to our master’s interest, I
had no intention of exposing them, for he was a hard man and showed them
but few favours. My companions, however, became shy of me, and I found
that they even preferred to do without my assistance than to have me
near them; but I held fast by my integrity; and I have the satisfaction
of knowing that I was true to my employer’s interests, never injuring
them myself nor suffering others to do it.
My only chance of reading was after supper; I then went to my room, and
there I sat, devouring book after book, night after night, by the light
of my little lamp, with my old cat, either on my lap or on my bed, the
only living thing that claimed any companionship with me. When I had
exhausted the books in the house, I hired others at the libraries; and
thus I went on, my appetite increasing as I proceeded; and my eighteenth
year found me exactly in the same round of duty, but with a mind that
seemed almost bursting its bounds with the knowledge that I had thus
crammed into it.
Just at this period, my uncle, that cruel man, of whom poor O’Brien had
so often to speak, wrote to Mr. Bartlett concerning me. He said that, if
I would take the name of Parr he would make over to me a tract of land
which he owned in Virginia, and that if money were necessary, towards
procuring this change of name, I might draw on a certain firm in New
York to the amount of two hundred dollars. I was very indignant at
first, but Mr. Bartlett seemed resolute in accomplishing the thing, and
I at length reluctantly consented to give up the name. In the course of
a year, the whole was arranged. I adopted the name of Parr, and Mr.
Bartlett, thinking it better to sell the land at a moderate price than
to let it lie unproductive, found a purchaser for it, and the
money—twelve hundred dollars—was judiciously placed out at good
interest.
My fellow-apprentices only laughed amongst themselves when Mr. Bartlett
told them that in future I was to be called by another name; but it soon
passed out of their thoughts, and I was again left to my own solitude
and insignificance.
But the same objections did not exist with respect to the income I
derived from my uncle’s bounty. I felt a sort of pleasure in spending
it; and the first things I purchased was a looking-glass and other
little comforts for my forlorn garret-room. Oh, the luxury of a large
wash basin, a white towel and pleasant soap; and the infinitely greater
luxury of giving a few shillings to the poor objects who solicited
charity. The pride of my childhood returned, and I once more took care
of my dress and my outward appearance. I no longer went slouching and
careless along, inattentive to what was passing, but stopped to let my
eye rest on the shop windows; suffering myself to take pleasure in the
beauty and brightness that was spread out around me—such a difference is
there between the penny-less and crushed spirit and the one who has
wealth at command.
But there was still a craving at the heart, which money could not
satisfy—I wanted a home, kind fellowship, a brother, a sister, something
near and dear, that I could call my own. In my Sunday walks I used to
look at the cheerful and happy young people that passed me, selecting
first one and then the other as a companion, and held mental
conversation with them, trying in this way to cheat myself into the
belief that I was of consequence to some one being. Oh, if any one could
have guessed at the deep feeling which lay hidden under my cold manner;
if they could but have known whence arose the nervous tremblings which
assailed me when I performed any little friendly office for strangers!
As to Mr. Bartlett, he never varied his treatment of the work-people;
they were all kept at the same distance; he paid them their wages and
exacted obedience in return; and when the rules were neglected, or when
his commands were disobeyed, he dismissed the offender at once, without
remark or dispute. Of all that came and went, I was the only one that
served out my apprenticeship. Out of fourteen men and boys, when I left
him, there was not one that had been with him four years. But this gave
me no advantages. I was no nearer his confidence than I was when I
entered his service. I was advanced in the regular way, from step to
step, until I had arrived at the highest point; and I did not consider
myself as master of the trade until my time was expired. He could not
prevent me from feeling gratitude towards him, for I recollected his
kindness in going with me to poor O’Brien’s grave, and in his care and
attention to my interests respecting the change of name and the
investment of the money for the Virginia land; but he did not require
sympathy, and he never gave it to others.
My last act of duty was to correct the proofs of a very valuable work,
requiring a knowledge of the subject matter, almost equal to that of the
author. Several had undertaken it, but made so many blunders that the
poor author was in despair. Mr. Bartlett was very much mortified, and
determined to put back the work until he could procure a competent
person to read the proofs. Having been fond of that particular branch of
study—Vegetable Physiology—I knew that I could accomplish the task; so I
stepped into the office and told Mr. Bartlett that if he had no
objection I would read the proofs, for having always had access to works
of the kind, the terms made use of were quite familiar. He looked at me
with astonishment, having, like the rest of the house, always considered
me as a mere automaton; a faithful drudge, who did every thing
mechanically. He put the work into my hands, and I laboured at it with
care and diligence, so that the work came out without a single erratum.
Mr. Bartlett said, “This is well done, Mr. Parr, excellent, and you
deserve all our thanks; the author has sent you _his_ grateful thanks
and this little box; it contains a compound microscope. I have the
pleasure, likewise, of giving you a copy of the work.”
But praise from him, respect from my fellow labourers, came too late to
satisfy me; the time was approaching when I should be _free_, when I
could at intervals relieve both mind and body from this unnatural
monotony, and roam about in the country unrestrained. I hoped likewise
to meet with some congenial mind to whom I could pour out my feelings
and thoughts; for to this one point all my wishes turned; my whole soul
was so swallowed up with this one sentiment that every other
passion—wealth, fame, and all, were but things seen at a vast distance.
I was born with tender and strong feelings, and a friend was the bounds
of my ambition.
At length the day came, St. Patrick’s day, blessed be his name, it gave
me freedom. My agitation had kept me awake the whole night before, for I
had a sort of fear that something would occur to hinder me from leaving
the office. As to where I was to go, that never troubled me—green
fields, the river, running brooks, trees, birds, and the animals of the
country, were all before me, and to me they would speak volumes. If man
denied me his sympathy, they would not refuse it; and to the haunts of
my childhood, to the very spot where I drew my breath, there I meant to
direct my steps. I knew I had not neglected a single duty, nor disobeyed
a single command. God had blessed me with health, so that I never had to
keep my room for one day even. To be sure, there were times when I had
severe headaches, and wretched coughs, and great weakness from night
sweats; but I never complained, determined that, when my day of service
expired, there should be nothing exacted of me for lost time. I did not
know that my master would make me remain, to work out the days that were
lost by sickness, but it had been put in my head by some of the
apprentices, and I never forgot it.
On this happy, memorable morning, dressed in a full suit of mourning,
even to the crape on my new hat, with a valise well filled with good
linen, handkerchiefs, and stockings, I entered Mr. Bartlett’s private
office for the last time. He looked at me with an inquiring eye, as I
stood covered with confusion and agitation. “What is the meaning of
this, Mr. Parr?” said he, “you seem equipped for a journey.”
“I was twenty-one years of age at six o’clock this morning,” said I, my
face flushed as I could feel by the tingling in my ears.
“Well, what if you were,” said he, looking as much surprised as if an
apprentice never was to leave his master. “I thought your time was
nearly out—this is St. Patrick’s day, is it? but you are going to
return. You shall have good wages, and I shall take care that you have a
good berth.”
“No, sir,” said I, almost breathless with fear that I should be spell
bound,—“no, sir, I intend to travel about in the country this summer; I
am going to put head stones to the graves of my father and mother: that
is my first purpose, now that I have money and am free. I hope and trust
that you think I have served a faithful and honest apprenticeship, and
that if I want a situation in a printing office I can ask you for a good
character.”
“Yes, most assuredly you can; but you need not apply elsewhere. I know
your worth, young man, and I have both the power and inclination to
serve you. Serve me for five years as well as you have done, and I will
make you a partner in the concern.”
I thanked him warmly for this gratifying mark of esteem, but I could not
accept of his offer, my very heart turned sick at the thought of staying
another day even. He was evidently disconcerted, and made several
pauses, as if to consider whether he might not propose something more
acceptable, but I fortified myself against all that he might urge, and I
am sure that an offer to make me his full partner immediately would not
have induced me to remain.
I asked for my indentures. “Well,” said he, “Mr. Parr, you are not to be
moved, I see; but that shall not hinder me from doing you justice; you
have served me well, and it is but fair that I should look to your
interest. He turned from me and wrote a letter of recommendation to two
publishers, one in New York and the other in Boston, and taking his
check book from the shelf, he drew a check, which I found was for two
hundred dollars. He gave me the three papers, and then proceeded to look
for the indenture; he handed it to me, endorsed properly, and after
thanking him for his former and present kindness, I asked him if he
would allow me to beg one more favour of him, which was that he would
still keep for me the certificates of my parents’ marriage and my birth,
and allow me to draw on him, as usual, for the interest of the mortgage
which he held for me. He had previously to this put me in possession of
it, and of the money in the savings bank, he having held it in trust for
me. He readily promised me this favour, begging me to use the money
prudently as hitherto, and in case of any difficulty to apply to him. We
shook hands, and I was in the act of picking up my valise to depart when
the crape on my hat caught his eye.
“You are in mourning, I perceive,” said he, “there is crape on your hat
and your clothes are black; I did not know that you had a single
relation here.”
“Nor have I,” said I. “I put on this mourning dress as a mark of
affectionate gratitude to my poor godfather, Patrick O’Brien. I had it
not in my power to do it before, but as his goodness lives still fresh
and green in my memory, why should I omit doing that which I know would
gratify his spirit if it should be permitted him to know it?”
“I wish for your sake that he had lived to see this day,” said Mr.
Bartlett, “but I will not detain you longer; I wish you well from the
bottom of my heart.”
“There is but one thing more, sir,” said I, turning back from the door.
“There are several articles belonging to me in my bed room; I have given
them to the youngest apprentice, and I wish he may have your sanction to
retain them; here is a list of them.” He took the list: I left the room,
walked hastily through the hall, and shut the street door as I went
out—I shut out the whole twelve years from my memory.
It was a clear, cold, bright day; the frost had been out of the ground
for some time, so that the roads were dry and the walking pleasant, but
the sense of freedom was exquisite. “What,” said I, “no calls upon my
time, no hurry, no driving? can I call this blessed day my own? is that
_my_ sun? that glorious sun which goes careering through the sky, and
shedding its brightness all around, filling my eyes with the beautiful
pictures which it illuminates?” And thus I went on, step by step,
rejoicing, my enraptured soul drinking in new cause for exultation at
every turn.
In the whole twelve years I had never eaten a meal out of Mr. Bartlett’s
house, nor had I ever been within the walls of any other house than his,
so strictly did I keep within the limits of my duty. I was exceedingly
shy, therefore, of entering a public house, although my hunger was
beginning to make itself felt. But I conquered my timidity, and entering
a house of entertainment I called for dinner. I was ushered into a neat
room, and in the course of half an hour was served with what appeared to
me then an excellent dinner. I was covered with confusion because the
host would wait on me, and I was equally embarrassed with the services
of a good-natured waiter, who bowed low when I paid for the dinner, and
still lower when I refused to take the half dollar change.
I was now completely in the country, and in the neighbourhood of the
place that gave me birth. Having a faint recollection of the house in
which my parents lived, I determined, if I ever was rich enough, that I
would purchase it; for visions of a beautiful river, and a waterfall,
and every variety of romantic scenery, were constantly floating before
me; and then there was the inspiration of my mother to heighten the
picture. I reached the spot at nightfall, and engaged lodgings at the
inn—not the one that you now see at the head of the briery lane, but
further on; it was destroyed by fire about four years ago; you must all
recollect it. Here I remained three weeks, going over the haunts of my
early childhood—infancy, I might say—and reviving the almost faded
images, by being amongst the same scenes. The willow and the aspen tree,
near my spring house, O’Brien helped me to plant when I was about six
years old, and under the large elm I used to lie when I first began to
read. You need not be surprised that I purchased this little estate as
soon as I had the means of doing so; I contemplated it from the moment I
entered Mr. Bartlett’s employment, and it was a project that never
ceased to occupy my thoughts. The house was small, but substantially
built; it is the one on the edge of the common, in which Martha’s
brother lives; and I keep it in neat repair, as I also do the garden in
which my father worked; these fine apple trees are of his planting. I
made several attempts to purchase the little property which once
belonged to my poor godfather, but it belonged to an old man by the name
of Banks; he added it to the Oak Valley farm, which I do not regret now,
as it has fallen into the hands of our excellent neighbours, Mr. and
Mrs. Webb.
I knew the precise spot where my parents were buried, for poor Patrick
had described it accurately, making a drawing of it upon a piece of
paper which I shall preserve to the day of my death; I therefore placed
a tomb stone to each grave, with an inscription that satisfied my ardent
feelings, but which I have since replaced with others more suited to
their humble merits and my more mature judgment. Patrick’s grave was
about a mile from the city, and, with Mr. Bartlett’s assent, I had
caused a neat stone to be put over it, as many as six years before this
period.
My hard hearted old nurse was then and is still living; that fine,
promising boy that was lost at sea, and in whom you all took such an
interest, was her only child; for his sake I allow her a small yearly
sum, but she has no idea that I am the one that she so cruelly gave up
to the ill usage of the poor creatures around her. Poor Patrick, how he
hated her; she even taunted him when she afterwards saw him with me,
pretending to wonder why he did not dress me in such fine clothes as
formerly. He had, in his days of wealth, bought me a hobby horse, the
skeleton of which I found about three years ago in an old barn, and
which I knew immediately, for the initials of my name were carved
underneath by him; it is in complete order again. How it would gratify
the poor, kind old man, were he living, for he would know the motives
which influenced me in this trifling act.
What a tumult of mind I was in during these three weeks! The country had
not the tranquillizing effect that I expected, for I was striving to
recall far-gone images and thoughts; I went to every old tree, to the
brook, to the river, to the church, and to the pew in which my parents
sat, for of this too I had inquired of Patrick. I thought my all of
happiness was centred in this one place, and that, though human sympathy
was denied me, I might here pass the remainder of my days in peace and
quiet, worshipping my Maker, and in doing good to the poor creatures
around me. But the money was to be made to purchase these blessings, for
I had but eighteen hundred dollars, and it required as many thousands to
accomplish this desirable object, and Patrick’s last injunction for ever
rung in my ears—“never be idle.”
I tore myself away from this cherished spot, and walked back again to
the city just in time to get in one of the cars for New York, where I
arrived the same afternoon. After I had looked at the curiosities which
were, to me, so thickly scattered about, I thought it quite time to
commence work in earnest. I therefore called on a printer by the name of
Blagge and offered my services. He happened, luckily, to be in want of a
proof reader, and without entering into any definite agreement, I
commenced the work, he having meanwhile written to Mr. Bartlett, that he
might be sure of the genuineness of the letter of recommendation. Mr.
Blagge was quite pleased with my care and industry, as well as with my
knowledge of the subject matter of the work; he said that he could now
bring out a book which he had long wished to publish, but that his proof
readers were, in general, so profoundly ignorant of science, that he was
unwilling to undertake it. I begged him to defer it until the ensuing
spring, that I intended to improve myself by attending the lectures, and
that I should then be better able to take charge of the work. Meantime
he gave me four hundred dollars a year, with a promise of presenting me
with tickets to such of the lectures as I chose to attend.
My companions in the office were civil, nay, respectful; for I came
amongst them under favourable circumstances, and Mr. Blagge’s kind
manner towards me had a great effect on them. But they were not suited
to me; I looked from one to the other in vain for one of congenial mind;
they were all industrious, and some ambitious; but their minds were a
blank, and their pursuits, when disengaged from their business, were of
a low order. Not one could I find that loved to walk out in the country
for the sake of breathing pure air, and of enjoying the soft, tender
scenes of nature; their pleasures lay in eating cellars where the best
suppers could be had for their limited means, and in playing at some low
pastime night after night, such as Domino, All-fours, Vingtun, and other
games of chance; and on Sundays to take a sail, or something, in fact,
which tended to demoralize rather than improve.
Mr. Blagge was, as I observed, respectful and kind, but he was full of
cares and anxieties, having a very large family to support, and with but
slender means; in fact, he had been very much embarrassed, and was just
recovering from it. It was not to be supposed that he could interest
himself in the feelings of a young man with whom he had so slight an
acquaintance—one, likewise, who did not ask for his sympathy. I
therefore moved on in silence, occupying myself at leisure hours in
learning the French and Latin languages, which, with the help of good
teachers and books I was enabled to do in the course of a few months.
This was a delightful occupation to me, and I soon overcame all the
difficulties, excepting the pronunciation, which I was unable to
accomplish, as I had no one with whom I could converse. I learned the
Latin that I might more fully comprehend the meaning of the technical
terms made use of in all the works of science, and which I considered it
absolutely necessary to do, as I was so soon to take charge of the
reputation of the great forthcoming work.
Here was, therefore, another pleasure, for I now became passionately
fond of works of this nature, and my greedy mind devoured all that came
within reach. I had nothing to interfere with my plan of study, living
entirely alone, and having no associates; I hired a room in which I
slept and studied, and I took my breakfast, dinner, and supper, at a
cheap ordinary near the office. As I stipulated to labour only between
sunrise and sunset, I had as much time as I wanted for exercise and
reading, and my practice was to walk from the hour I left the office
until it was dark, eat my supper, and then retire to my room. Being an
early riser, there was time, therefore, to attend to my dress, for I had
again become fastidiously clean. It now appears to me that I hurried
from one thing to another, and engaged in every thing so vigorously, to
keep off the ever-intruding feeling of loneliness. I wonder if any other
human being suffered so acutely on this subject as I did; it seemed as
if I would have given all I was worth in the world for one friend.
But heaven at length took pity on my desolate situation, and I was about
to be rewarded for all that I had suffered; it came in a way, too, in
which a man should be blest—in the form of love.
I was always a regular attendant at divine worship, excepting during the
latter part of poor O’Brien’s life, being then compelled to walk out
with him and talk to him; but after his death I used to go twice every
Sunday to church, going to every one that would admit me. Now that I was
my own master, and had the means to do it, I hired a seat in a church
about three miles out of town, where I could worship God without the
fear of having my attention distracted by the restlessness and frivolity
of a fashionable city congregation. I gained another object, too; I had
a pleasant walk, and the exercise was necessary to my health.
Directly in front of the pew that I occupied sat two ladies and a
gentleman, regular attendants likewise; the elderly lady was very lame,
and required assistance both in getting in and out of the carriage, and
the gentleman, I thought, seemed rather indifferent about her comfort,
for he was not as tender and delicate in his attentions as he should
have been. Almost the whole trouble of assisting her fell on the young
lady, who, I presumed, was her daughter. I had a very great desire to
offer my services, but my shyness of strangers prevented me, although
every succeeding week I saw that the poor invalid was less and less able
to help herself. Standing very near them one day, I found that it was
utterly impossible for the young lady to get her aged relative in the
carriage without help, so I stepped hastily forward just as the old lady
was falling from the step, and in time to catch her in my arms. I lifted
her gently in the carriage, seated her comfortably in it, sprung out
again, and offered my hand to the young lady. It was the impulse of a
moment. The door closed, and the carriage was soon out of sight.
But what a tumult and confusion I was in; what strange feelings
overpowered me. There had been magic in the touch of the hand. There had
been magic in the glance of her eye, as she turned to thank me. A dreamy
softness came over me, and diffused itself through my very soul. I could
not imagine why it was that so slight an incident should have affected
me so deeply; but I thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing, but the
touch of that hand and the glance of that beautiful eye. It was in vain
that I took up my pen or my book, in the evening; in a few seconds, my
hand dropped and my eye rested on vacancy.
With more than usual care I attended to my dress on the following
Sunday, and I was there at the church door sooner than necessary,
waiting for the carriage. It did not arrive, and I was compelled to
enter and take my seat, as the clergyman had commenced the service. You
may imagine my feelings when I saw the lady sitting quietly in her pew,
by the side of the old gentleman: they had walked to church, having left
the invalid at home; and they had passed me while I was gazing up the
road for the carriage. When leaving the church I inquired whether the
lady had been prevented from coming to church from indisposition; and a
voice, the sweetest and the gentlest that ever fell on human ear,
answered my question. I was so startled, both by my own temerity, in
thus venturing to address her, and by the uncommon softness of her
voice, that I did not hear the import of the words; but the loveliness
of the tones remained imprinted on my memory for ever. No music, since,
has ever made the like impression.
Sunday was now a day of exquisite enjoyment; for, added to strong
devotional feelings, I was breathing the same atmosphere with a being
that I considered as all perfection. She appeared to be that for which I
had so long sought—a friend, a sister—and I hoped the time was not far
distant when I could approach her and again hear that musical voice. In
this blissful state the summer passed, unclouded, save that the lady was
once absent from church—it was owing to the death of the elderly person
who, I discovered, was not her mother, but a distant connexion, who had
resided with them for many years; and that the gentleman I supposed to
be her father was her uncle. She was an orphan, and her destiny seemed
for ever linked with mine, from this circumstance.
Toward the close of the summer, the young lady sometimes came to church
alone; and fearing that, when the cold weather set in, I should lose
sight of her, perhaps for ever, I determined to make one attempt to
interest her in my favour. I had superintended the getting up of a
beautiful prayer-book, the type, paper, plates and execution were
perfect, and I had one copy exquisitely bound. I even ventured to write
the name of this fair being in the first page, and intended to present
it to her; but it was a month before I gained courage to make the
attempt. At one time I thought to lay it on the ledge of her pew, in
silence; but I could not bear that her devotions should be interrupted
by what might be considered as an act of levity on my part, so I
forbore. I ventured, at last, to address her on coming out of church;
and to my surprise, I found myself walking forward with her. She always
carried her prayer-book, and I asked permission to look at it; she
smiled and gave it to me, and I then took the one intended for her from
my pocket, and presented it to her, making my bow suddenly, and
hastening with the speed of lightning from her sight—I need not say that
the little worn out prayer-book is still a treasure to me.
How she received the book I could not tell, nor had I an opportunity of
knowing, on the following Sunday, for it stormed so violently that none
but a devoted lover, like myself, would have ventured out. She was not
there, nor did I expect to see her; but I had an exquisite pleasure in
being in a spot where I had so frequently been near her. On the Saturday
following the lectures commenced; I was to attend three, Astronomy,
Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, but fearing that my mind was in too
unsettled a state to attend to them all, I only entered my name for
two—Chemistry and Astronomy.
The lecture room was in a narrow street, badly lighted; and, there being
a basement, it became necessary to have a number of steps to the porch.
It was November, and there had been a little sleet in the afternoon, so
that the steps were slippery, and I could not avoid the reflection that
it would be exceedingly unsafe for ladies to pass up and down. It being
an introductory lecture, the room was crowded, as it always is, and I
therefore stood near the door, not caring to disturb any one by making
an attempt to look for a seat. A lady and gentleman sat near to the
corner where I stood, and on his getting up, she turned her head. You
may judge of my amazement and rapture when I saw it was the lady who was
ever present to my mind.
She smiled, and in a moment I was at her side—she spoke, for I could
not; I again heard that musical, that charming voice, and the lecturer
and the crowd were forgotten. I think she said something pleasing of the
book, but my heart beat so violently that I could not tell what it was.
She saw my agitation, but thought it proceeded from mere bashfulness,
and she therefore talked on, of the lecture and of the crowd. I said
yes, no, any thing—but I soon recovered, for of one thing I was now
certain—my book was not to be returned; she had spoken graciously of it,
and I was the happiest of mortals. My tongue seemed loosened from its
long iron bondage, and I poured out my thoughts in a strain that now
astonishes me. She listened whilst I explained to her the advantages and
pleasures of science, particularly that branch of it which now occupied
the attention of the audience. I was the lecturer, and the voice of the
one now speaking, which was falling on the ears of all in the room, was
like a far distant sound—we heard it not.
The young man who came with her was standing up near us and taking
notes; he had come regularly provided with a book and pencil, and seemed
more intent on getting information than on the comfort of his charge. He
now and then cast a look towards us, and it appeared to me that I had
seen him somewhere, but I was too happy to let the subject take hold of
my mind. What did I care for him, or all the world, whilst I was drawing
in new life at every breath.
Our conversation was carried on in the lowest whispers, so as not to be
overheard; but we were far removed from the centre, and there were
others talking in louder tones near to us; for of the number who came to
listen there were but few who had a real desire to learn. As it
afterwards proved, the class was very small, there not being more than
fifty of the audience now present. I was overjoyed to hear that the
young lady intended to come every night; that she was to remain at a
friend’s in town, on purpose to attend the lectures; and this gentleman
was to be her escort. I learned that he was her uncle’s grandson, and
that he had a passion for study, particularly chemistry. I exerted all
my eloquence to prevail on her to attend the astronomical lectures
likewise; but she said, much as she desired it, she feared it was out of
her power, but that she would write to her uncle for permission.
The minutes flew, and the audience were making a move to retire before I
awakened from this blissful trance. The young man came to us at last,
and asked the lady how she was pleased with the lecture. She smiled, and
said, very much, and then the crowd pressed on and separated us. I got
out as quickly as possible, to have the pleasure of handing her down the
slippery steps; and, as if expecting it, her precious hand was ready as
soon as I offered mine.
Oh, what visions of happiness floated through my brain that eventful
night. Even my dreams were filled with the sweet silvery tones of her
voice. It seemed as if angels were hovering round my bed, to sooth and
tranquilize my troubled spirit; and not one discordant thought or sound
mingled with it. Oh, if man would but give up his whole soul to pure
love. If he would let it mix up with his worldly occupations. If he
would allow it to be for ever present, how exalted would his nature
become; how free from all grossness and immoral thoughts and actions.
For my part, it had such an effect upon me that my whole nature was
changed. I was, to be sure, free from all vicious tendencies; and I was
active in benevolence towards the poor; but my heart was frozen up, and
I looked on the world, and those immediately around me, with a cold,
averted eye. Now, my full heart seemed bursting to communicate its
happiness to others; and I became sensible that it was in my power to
impart pleasure although I might receive neither thanks nor sympathy in
return.
I was attentive, therefore, to what was passing around me; moving my
desk a few feet farther, to give more light to one man, and nailing a
cleat between the tall legs of a stool, to give ease to the feet of
another. I bought a pot of pomatum, and made one of the young
apprentices rub it on his poor cracked and chopped hands, buying him a
stout pair of gloves, to protect them from the cold. I helped the
book-keeper through an intricate account, begging him not to speak of it
to others; a thing which he did not intend to do, being only too fearful
that I might mention it myself. My thawed heart expanded to all around
me; and, as it acquired warmth, it diffused its sympathies to every
thing within its reach. Oh, holy love, when in thy true shape, how
benign is thy influence!
The lady’s uncle was gracious, and allowed her to attend the
astronomical lectures likewise; and I need not say how regular I was in
my attendance and devotion; for as the young man was not particularly
interested in this study, he sometimes brought the young lady in the
room and left her, calling for her either before or after the lecture
was over. This he did not scruple to do, as the lady with whom she
lived, at present, always accompanied her to this lecture. I brought her
note-books and pencils, and assisted her in taking notes, contriving
that she should have the most comfortable seat in the room; and all
these attentions she received in the kindest manner—she received them as
a sister would from a brother, and I was satisfied.
Thus the winter wore away, and the month of February had nearly closed,
before the lectures were over. There was still one more evening for
each, and then this delightful intercourse was to cease; for I could not
devise any plan by which I could gain access to the presence of the
young lady; more particularly as the young man had been more than
usually vigilant and careful of her, and seemed desirous of preventing
her from receiving so much of my attention. Her companion, too, scarcely
condescended, of late, to notice me; all of which I saw was painful to
the only being for whom I cared. I went, as usual, to the astronomical
lecture—it was, as I observed, the last; and she was there also with the
same lady, who cast a scornful glance at me as I approached their seat.
I could not imagine what had produced such a change in this lady’s
manner towards me, unless she had been told of my humble occupation, and
that it had mortified her vanity to receive attention from one who might
be considered as a journeyman. From the first evening of my meeting the
fair creature to whom I had so unresistingly yielded up my heart, I made
her acquainted with my actual situation, my prospects and my hopes. It
seemed necessarily interwoven in the theme that I was discussing; for I
spoke of the difficulties I had to encounter, in consequence of which
knowledge came to me slowly; contrasting it with the facilities which
were now in my power. Neither she nor I dreamed that high birth or
fortune were at all necessary to an intercourse so simple, so unexacting
as ours. She redoubled the kindness of her usual manner on seeing that I
was a little hurt by her friend’s coolness; but she little knew the pain
I suffered on hearing that she was not to be at the last chemical
lecture—her uncle was in town, and they were to return home on that day.
It came like a death knell to my heart. What, was she to go and not be
informed of the tender and enduring love I bore her! Was I never to see
her; to hear that voice again! Was this to be the last interview! I
could not bear it. I took her note book, tremblingly, from her hand, and
wrote as follows—
“You have pierced my heart with grief. You are to leave the city, and I
am to see you no more. My whole soul is absorbed in one feeling; and
that is, love for you; and now that you are going from me, existence
will be a burden. I ask you not to love me in return; that seems
impossible. I can never hope to create a passion such as I now feel for
you; such as I felt from the moment I first heard your voice. But deign
to think of me—no, I cannot give up the thought of calling you mine—at
some future day, when fortune has been propitious; or should some evil
overtake you, remember me. I must hasten from your presence, for I am
unfit to remain here; but if, on reading this, you can feel compassion
for my hopeless love, let these few lines remain; but if you have no
pity to offer me, tear them out and put them in my hand as you leave the
house. I shall be there to receive my doom; but be merciful.”
After having written this, in great agony of mind, I turned to her, and
our eyes met. She saw that I was uncommonly agitated, and her concern
for me prevented her speaking. I bent close to her ear and said, read
this immediately—pointing to the page—and remember that my life depends
on what you do. I hurried from her, and walked up and down the narrow
street until the lecture was over; which, to my fevered apprehensions,
seemed never to have an end.
At length the door opened, and I saw one, and another, and then groups,
descend the steps; the young lady appearing amongst the last, moving
slowly, so as to give me time to see and approach her. When at the
bottom of the flight she stopped, for a moment, and as I came near her
she said, in a low tone, “Here are the notes, and I have added a few
lines to them; good night.” It was well she said this, as the giving me
the paper, as I requested, would have plunged me into despair. I need
not say that I hastened to my lodgings, that I might read the precious
contents; for I could not but augur favourably of them from the manner
of her giving the paper to me. Under my own impassioned scrawl were
these lines.
“Notwithstanding the fear of giving you pain, I must return the leaf;
for I should not like to leave it in the book. My whole manner must be a
convincing proof that I have a high esteem for your character, and that
I feel a strong interest in your welfare; more than this I dare not say.
I am entirely dependent on my uncle; and it has been his wish, for many
years, to see me the wife of his grandson—the person who has always
accompanied me to the lectures. You need not fear that this event will
ever take place, as my disinclination to it has long been known to the
young man; and neither he nor my uncle have any power to compel me. In
saying thus much I do not wish to encourage you, as my uncle is
obstinate and unyielding, and would never consent to the addresses of
any other man. I hope you may forget me and be as happy as you deserve.
I do violence to my feelings in bidding you farewell; but prudence and a
regard to your interests dictate it.”
Prudence, indeed! What were the prudential reasons? My inability to
support her? Surely if she loved me, there were means enough to be
comfortable, and I would move mountains to place her in affluence. She
has an esteem for me, and she does violence to her feelings in bidding
me farewell. I have hopes, therefore, that, as her heart is disengaged,
I may, in time, aspire to her love.
In thoughts like these I passed the night; nor did I recover my
equanimity for several days; every thing, every thought, that did not
relate to her, was irksome and distasteful, and my labours at the office
were conducted mechanically. The commencement of the great work was now
contemplated. I was told to get ready for it; and, as there was a
translation of a very popular French work wanted, Mr. Blagge pressed me
to undertake it. Perhaps it was well for me that I was thus suddenly
compelled to exertion, for with this depression of spirits I might have
sunk into apathy incurable. I likewise owed much to Mr. Blagge’s
kindness; and being of a grateful nature, determined not to disappoint
him.
To work, therefore, I went, reading proofs and attending to the types
during the day, and translating at night. Proceeding in this way for six
weeks, not allowing myself any exercise but a short walk, between
churches, on Sunday. Mr. Blagge was delighted, both with the execution
and diligence, and he promised to raise my salary the ensuing year, to
six hundred dollars. The French translation was likewise commended; and
I felt an honest pride in sending all the papers which spoke of the
merits of my performances to the only one whose applause I desired. For
this translation I received two hundred dollars; so that my little
fortune had increased to two thousand dollars. I saw it with a pleasure
that cannot be expressed, for I had now an object in view; and instead,
as heretofore, of spending all my income, I began a rigid system of
economy, amounting almost to meanness—but thank heaven, my heart was not
so exclusively selfish as to forget the poor.
As soon as these two important works were through the press, I went to
my accustomed seat in the church, on Sunday; which, as I before
mentioned, was three miles out of town; but my disappointment was very
great in not seeing the young lady. On inquiry of the sexton, I learned
that the family had removed to a country seat, about thirty miles
distant; and that they had given up their pew. He could not tell the
name of the place to which they had gone; but he promised to inquire,
and let me know on the following Sunday. It is impossible to describe my
uneasiness at this intelligence. I fancied that what was so desirable a
blessing to me would be equally coveted by others; and that her uncle
and cousin had removed her from the world that their plans might be the
more readily executed. I was fearful that her tender nature might be
subdued by importunities; and that she would yield to their wishes,
rather than incur their displeasure. I did not flatter myself that her
love for me was strong enough to enable her to brave persecution; and
how could she be assured of the strength and continuance of mine?
Four long weeks passed and I could gain no further intelligence, than
that Mr. Bewcastle, the young lady’s uncle, had purchased a farm on the
island, three miles from the river and about thirty from the city; that
he was devoted to the cultivation of it, and was making preparations for
building a large house. My worst fears were realized: these improvements
were no doubt in the expectation of his niece’s marriage, and I once
more abandoned myself to despair. This state of mind, added to the
severe labour I had gone through, had so perceptible an effect on my
health that Mr. Blagge became concerned. He entreated me to relax a
little in my attention to business, but I persevered until the first of
August, when fearing that I should really be unable to continue in the
office I determined on making an excursion in the country.
I need not say in which direction I bent my steps. In fact, my intention
was to explore the whole of the neighbourhood until I heard where Mr.
Bewcastle lived, and then to take up my residence near him. I was very
fortunate indeed, for the man in whose house I rested the first night,
knew the family, and he promised to take me to a friend of his who lived
about half a mile from them. It was about ten o’clock the next morning
when I reached the house, and as I liked the place and the appearance of
the people, I was induced to remain with them, paying them a moderate
board. I had a bed-room and parlour entirely to myself, and their
kindness soon made me feel myself at home. They saw I was the very sort
of lodger they wanted, and they exerted themselves to the utmost to make
me comfortable. When I tell you that the landlord of the little inn was
old uncle Porter, now living in the small stone house, and that his
sister was our kind aunt Martha, you will think how fortunate I was in
becoming an inmate of their house.
As I did not then know their worth, I was cautious in my inquiries about
the young lady, and it has amused both Martha and myself to recollect
how guarded, and with what apparent unconcern I talked and asked
questions about the family. I gathered that Mr. Bewcastle was a harsh
and obstinate man, loving his own ways and his own money better than any
thing in the world excepting his grandson, Mr. Anglesea, who could
prevail on him to do almost any thing. That it was talked of amongst the
neighbours that he wanted to marry his cousin, or rather second cousin,
but that she could not bear him.
I asked if they knew the young lady personally, and they said that she
often walked their way and sometimes stopped to speak to Martha, who had
when young lived with her parents. That she had called there on her way
to church on Sunday last, and they were sorry to see her look so thin
and unhappy.
I had to turn away suddenly from the good people to hide my emotion, nor
did I dare to resume the conversation for some time, lest they might
suspect my designs. I had, of course, no settled plan of proceeding; my
first object was to see the young lady and learn the state of her
affections; if they were favourable to my hopes I then intended to offer
my hand; my love had been hers from the first hour I saw her. I
projected a number of schemes either to see her, or get a letter
conveyed to her, but I became nervously timid when I attempted to put
any one of them in execution. At that time if I could have been sure of
our good Martha, I should have been spared two days of great distress,
for she, kind soul, would have assisted me immediately. I knew of no
better plan, at last, than to get her to take a note to Mr. Bewcastle’s,
and contrive to give it to the dear lady unobserved by the family, but
my hatred of deception was so great I was exceedingly reluctant to
practise this little artifice.
Towards the close of the second day, which was passed in wandering
through the fields and along the lanes, I made a desperate effort to
speak once more on the subject nearest my heart. Aunt Martha came in the
little parlour up stairs, and seated herself near to me looking
anxiously in my face, it was a motherly tender look, and I felt the
tears starting to my eyes. You are quite indisposed, said she, at
length, and I told my brother that I would make so bold as to ask you if
you had any trouble that we could relieve, and to say if you are short
of money that you can stay here a fortnight or longer, and never mind
paying us till you can afford it.
I was truly grateful for this kindness, and of course showed her my
pocket book full of notes. “What then ails you,” said she, “for it is
something more than ill health. May I guess?” I told her, smiling, that
she might guess, and if she came near the truth, and could assist me, I
should be eternally grateful.
“Well, then, I am sure it is connected with Mr. Bewcastle’s niece, and
if you are the gentleman that I have heard people talk about—are you a
printer?”
“Yes,” said I, “and I am determined to trust you—my name is Parr; now
tell me what you have heard.”
“Why, I have heard that one cause of the young lady’s aversion to this
Mr. Anglesea, is her love for a young printer by the name of Parr.”
My face was like scarlet; to hear this talked of publicly—to hear that
from others which I would give kingdoms to know was truth, rendered me
almost incapable of listening any further.
“Well, you need not answer,” said the kind-hearted woman, “I was pretty
sure last evening, that you were the very one, and now what can I do to
serve you. We both love the young lady, and should be very sorry to see
her married to a man she dislikes, particularly as she loves another.”
“Oh, do not say that,” said I, “there is no reason to say that, I have
not the slightest hope that she has any other sentiment for me than
friendship.”
“No matter, no matter, you are right,” said she, “not to expect too
much, but if you give me leave I will just let the young lady know that
you are here, and then you can see her yourself; perhaps you had better
write a few lines.”