and Joseph Addison appeared in the linen and jackets of our friend, to
which, however, this hopeless and abominable ale-house ornament managed
to impart a debauched and dissipated air. Of this Carter saw nothing.
Nor did he consider it extraordinary that the unsightly incubus should
drink his brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning, or that he should
smoke his Latakia out of his favourite pipes. All these little
familiarities he set down as being so many eccentricities of genius.
“What’s a bottle of brandy to me if it makes Joseph talk! I tell you I
have heard that man emit epigrams by the hour. He’s a little shy before
strangers. But you should hear him when we’re alone. By the lord Harry,
Rochfoucauld isn’t in it with him.”
And so Felix Carter, a man of taste, refinement, culture, and genius,
worshipped this idol of mud, this tavern sponge, this bar-soiled,
gin-soddened impostor. So Titania was enamoured of an ass.
Although it was perfectly true that Joseph Addison never ventured on any
epigrams before Carter’s friends, he committed some of them to writing,
for the benefit of posterity. These wonderful sentiments Addison’s hand
had traced with charcoal on the white-washed walls of the studio, and
Carter would point them out with genuine enthusiasm as though they were
—jewels five words long
That on the stretched forefinger of all time
Sparkle for ever.
Respect and love for Carter induced his associates to affect a great
belief in the value of these jewels of thought scrawled on the walls in
the most vulgar hand imaginable. That there may be no doubt as to the
literary and philosophical value of the gems, I will reproduce them here.
On one wall—just where Carter could see it as he painted, was inscribed
the legend—
GOD LOVES THE WORKER.
Opposite the entrance to the studio appeared in characters of greater
magnitude the intimation—
LABOUR IS PRAYER.
While above the mantel-piece, between two beautiful “studies” from the
nude, ran the inscription—
LABOR OMNIA VINCIT.
As the Latinity of this recondite quotation was impeccable, I presume
that Mr. Addison had extracted it from Bartlett’s Dictionary of
Quotations.
Had it not been for the large heart and simple faith of the artist, one
would have been inclined to see nothing in the unholy alliance but its
ludicrous side. But knowing how firm was the faith of the victim in his
new discovery, there was a dash of pathos in it which checked laughter.
Many attempts were made to expose the fraud. Secret meetings of the
admirers of Carter met in adjoining studios. All sorts of conspiracies
were set on foot. Most ingenious devices were proposed and unanimously
adopted. But they were unavailing. All were frustrated by the
unsuspicious nature of Carter, or by the low cunning of the beer-swilling
brute who was living in easy idleness on his money. It is generally
believed that at this period certain of the younger and more enthusiastic
followers of Carter had set on foot a plot for the extermination of
Addison, and that his early assassination was by some deemed feasible and
desirable.
“I will tell you what it is,” said Carter on one occasion to the most
plain-spoken of his friends, “I’ve found out why all you fellows fail to
see that Addison is a Man of Genius.”
“And what may the reason be?” asked Plain Speaker.
“You’re all jealous of his ability—that’s what it is.”
“Bah!”
“It’s all very well to say ‘Bah,’” said Carter, waxing enthusiastic as he
invariably did on this theme, “but it’s impossible to explain your
dislike on any other theory. Joseph is worth a dozen of the fellows who
make money by literature in these days. I have written books myself, and
ought to know something about it. You’ll find him out one of these
days.”
“And so will you,” was Plain Speaker’s response.
Herein Plain Speaker indulged in unconscious prophecy. That which
friendly conspirators could not bring about was contrived by the
omnipotent finger of Fate.
Felix Carter went to the Isle of Wight to execute a commission for an
invalid magnate in that pleasant settlement, and as he was anxious that a
trustworthy and gentlemanly person should take charge of his house during
his absence, he left his friend and _protégé_, Joseph Addison, in that
responsible position. The artist had been about a week at work when he
came upon the following gratifying item in one of the London papers:—
“POLICE INTELLIGENCE.
“BOW STREET. A THIEF.—_Joseph Addison_ alias _Ward_, alias _Peters_,
40, was charged before Mr. Flowers with stealing from the
waiting-room of the Charing Cross Station a black bag containing
jewellery, the property of M. Laurent of Paris. On the prisoner were
found a gold watch, an opera-glass, a silver fruit-knife, and a
valuable cigar-case. These articles bear the initials ‘F. C.’ The
prisoner was remanded for further inquiries.”
“My initials!” sighed Carter.
“Our friend will now get plenty of that labour which he affects to love,”
said Plain Speaker.
XII.
_A DIGNIFIED DIPSOMANIAC_.
“A MOST remarkable man, sir,” said the Secretary of the Teetotal Union to
the President.
“But don’t he strike you as being a trifle—a trifle soiled, eh?” asked
the President, glancing down at his own immaculate shirt-cuffs.
“N—no,” replied the Secretary, hesitatingly. “He’s a most dignified
man—most dignified. An’ in his dress shoot most impressive.”
“But really, now, Mr. Bottle, I thought, d’ye know, that he rather smelt
of beer. Just a little, eh?” suggested the President.
“Beer!” echoed the Secretary, in a tone of mingled astonishment and
indignation. “Beer! Why, sir, he’s one of the most ardent spirits
engaged in the teetotal cause. He has been one of us for upwards of ten
years or more.”
“And before that, eh?”
“He was on the Press.”
“Hum!” observed the President.
“But he’s quite reformed _now_,” answered the Secretary, to the objection
implied in the President’s monosyllable.
“And you say he is really eloquent?”
“Remarkably so—_very_, remarkably so. In fact, I may say a puffick J. B.
Gough.”
“Has he written in favour of the cause?”
“Largely, sir. His tracks is well known.”
“Then send him in again.”
The subject of this conversation—which took place in the Committee Room
of the Teetotal Union, in Aldersgate Street, City—stood in an outer
chamber, gravely contemplative. All that Mr. Bottle, the Secretary, had
urged in favour of his dignified demeanour, was quite justified by his
appearance. But the reflections of Alderman Lamb, the President, were
also to a great extent borne out by what little of him was visible to the
naked eye. Indeed, the remarkable man was a trifle more than soiled. He
was very dirty. He might be described as an old-young man. He had curly
grey hair, thin and rather distinguished features, a small nervous hand,
an imperturbable solemnity of expression, and a dignity of pose worthy
the immortal Mr. Turveydrop.
At the bidding of the Secretary, he re-entered the sanctum of the
President, to whom he bowed low and impressively. He sat in the chair
offered to him, and looked at Mr. Lamb as though he would have said to
that worthy Alderman and Spectacle Maker, “Will you have your case
disposed of now, or do you wish it sent to the Assizes?”
“Our Mr. Bottle,” began the President, as Mr. Browley, the remarkable
man, bowed condescendingly to that functionary, “our Mr. Bottle suggests
that you should temporarily fill the place of one of our regular
lecturers. A lecture is announced for to-morrow night at the Temperance
Hall, New Cut. The remuneration is small—two pounds, in fact. Will you
accept the offer?”
“Sir,” replied Mr. Browley, in solemn tones, “you honour me. I accept.”
“_I_,” went on the Alderman, “will be in the chair.”
“You overwhelm me with honours,” replied Mr. Browley, with another
obeisance.
“And may I ask,” said the President, “the title of your lecture?”
“With pleasure, sir. Indeed, you have a right to know. I call it an
Oration. It is entitled, ‘The Demon Drink.’”
“Capital, capital,” said the Alderman, rubbing his hands as if relishing
the idea of being made personally acquainted with the Demon in question;
“and you won’t forget the hour—eight o’clock at the Temperance Hall.
Good-bye, Mr. Browley; glad to have made your acquaintance.”
But Mr. Browley made no motion of withdrawal. With a slight movement of
the right hand he signalled that he was about to speak.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but there is a slight preliminary. I have made it
a rule in dealing with religious and philanthropic societies always to
extort a small sum in advance as a pledge of good faith. I am not in any
want of money, nor do I doubt your ability and willingness to pay it.
But I have made it a rule, and I invariably insist on compliance with it.
If you will pay me half a sovereign—not necessarily for publication, but
as a guarantee of good faith—I will accept that amount.”
“Certainly, my dear sir. Mr. Bottle, pray let the gentleman have ten
shillings, or a sovereign if he wants it.”
“I said _half_ a sovereign,” said the lecturer, impressively.
That sum was handed to him by Mr. Bottle, who took his receipt, and Mr.
Browley appeared once more in the outer air.
For a remarkable man with a great interest in the temperance cause, it
must be admitted that his first two visits were somewhat singular in
their nature. His first visit was to a pawnbroker’s, where he redeemed a
dress suit pledged for three shillings, and his next visit was to a
public-house, where he called for a pint of bitter and Burton—in a
pewter.
“That’s both meat and drink,” he murmured, as he licked his lips. It was
evident that the remarkable man spoke from conviction, for he hardly
passed a tavern on his way from town to the remoter slums of Islington
without eating and drinking after the same fashion—with this slight
variation, that at the last half-dozen houses of call he substituted for
the beer that decoction which Mr. Eccles alludes to as “cool, refreshing
gin.”
He reeled at last into his own street, and staggered into the one room
occupied by himself and his wife. He threw the bundle of dress clothes
on the bed.
“Maggie! get me that ‘Demon Drink.’ I’m going to deliver the ‘Demon’
to-morrow. D’ye hear?”
“But, John, remember what the doctor said at the hospital. All
excitement is so bad for you.”
“Damn the doctors. Produce the ‘Demon,’ d’ye hear?”
And so alternately damning the doctors and demanding the Demon, he sank
on the bed and snored the snore of the drunk. She knelt by his side and
wept, and—God help her!—prayed. She remembered him, you see, when he
returned from College with his University honours thick upon him, and
before the Demon had got him—tight.
There was a great audience the next night at the New Cut Hall, and Mr.
Browley, in his dress clothes, looked somewhat more presentable than on
the previous day. His wife had managed to procure linen, and the worthy
Alderman in the chair was quite pleased and encouraged by the improved
appearance of the lecturer; though it is true he once whispered to Mr.
Bottle that he thought he detected a very strong smell of drink in the
room.
Mr. Browley was in due course presented to the large and highly expectant
audience. And it must be admitted that rarely had an audience the
opportunity of listening to an oration of such force and vigour. The
whole figure of the lecturer seemed to change, his face glowed, the
assumption of _hauteur_ left him as he assailed the drink Demon and
portrayed his victims. Now a torrent of applause followed some
well-aimed hit at the vendors of drink, and now some pathetic anecdote
drew tears from the eyes of his auditors. The Alderman was enchanted,
and applauded vociferously; now agreeing with his secretary, that Mr.
Browley was indeed a very remarkable man.
Presently the lecturer proceeded to deal with the awful disease which
turns the habitual drunkard into a dangerous maniac. He described the
progress and effect of _delirium tremens_. His eyes now flashed wildly
as he portrayed to the affrighted audience devils from the pit of hell;
and goblin forms and pursuing shapes of beast and reptile. His body
swayed to and fro: he spoke in gasps; his mouth seemed parched and hot.
Now his eye-balls appeared to shoot from his head, and his arms were
moved in front of him as if to ward off the creatures of his fancies.
The effect was electrical. The audience rose at him, and followed his
effort with long-continued applause.
In the middle of it all the lecturer’s face appeared to grow livid, his
eyes fixed, and his limbs stiff. He placed his left hand to his temple,
and with his stretched forefinger pointed in front of him. Then he
moaned as a wild animal moans in pain, and fell backward on the platform.
A wild shriek burst from the back of the hall as his wife rushed forward,
jumped upon the platform, and threw herself on the prostrate body.
A doctor arrived in due course.
“Drunk?” inquired Mr. Bottle, when he had examined him.
“No. Dead!” answered the physician.
XIII.
“_OLD BOOTS_.”
ABOUT five years ago, on days when the sun shone warmly, an old man might
have been observed taking the air in Kennington Park. He was one of
those seedy and aimless old gentlemen usually described as having seen
better days. He was generally supposed to have been engaged in the City
in early life, and to live upon a small pension tendered to him out of
the generosity of his old employers. He lived in humble apartments in a
street which ran off the Camberwell New Road, and he attended twice on
Sundays the conventicle of a strict sect of Dissenters, by whose minister
he was much respected, although his small means prevented his subscribing
liberally to the chapel funds.
In Kennington Park he was treated with less respect—the geniuses of that
famous resort having christened him “Old Boots,” in friendly recognition
of the very disreputable manner in which he was shod, and the fact that
his boots were never subjected to the necessary operations of the
blacking brush.
Accompanying him in his walks was his only daughter, a maiden of nineteen
or twenty years—a sparkling brunette, who, by her talent as an amateur
milliner, was enabled out of very poor materials to dress herself
becomingly and even with taste. She appeared quite devoted to the old
gentleman, and many who saw them at once admired her for her filial
affection, and also deplored the fact that a young woman so elegant and
amiable should have her chances of matrimony spoiled by the caprice of an
old man.
For, although Mr. Lowndes—that was the old gentleman’s name—attended his
religious duties with great regularity, he was shy of making
acquaintances, and reticent with a few whom chance had forced upon his
society. And this by such people of the world as vegetate in Camberwell
was put down to his selfishness. He was unwilling, they said, to give
his daughter a chance of marrying, not because his love for her was
great, but because he did not wish to lose so invaluable a nurse.
In this they did “Old Boots” a grievous wrong, for he loved Jessie better
than anything else in the world.
Among the very few whose acquaintance the Lowndes family had made was a
Mr. Evelyn Jones, a clerk in a bank in the City. This exemplary young
gentleman belonged to the same conventicle as Mr. Lowndes, was a teacher
in the Sunday-school, and bade fair to become a bright and shining light
in the City. But these circumstances would not in themselves have led to
a friendship. The fact is that he lodged in the same house as the
superannuated City man and his daughter, and was in the habit of
purchasing out of his own small means certain delicacies which the old
man was too poor to provide. Evelyn was a frank, unsuspicious youth, and
was permitted sometimes to join his fellow-lodgers for half-an-hour of an
evening, when it was quite apparent that his pleasure was contributed to
rather by the presence of Jessie than by the highly-improving
conversation of her parent.
“How much do you think a man could afford to marry on?” he asked, during
one of these visits.
“It depends,” replied Mr. Lowndes, “on the man; but more especially upon
the woman. But why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve got a rise of ten pounds to-day.”
“And what, may I ask,” went on the old man, “does that make your salary?”
“Ninety pounds a-year,” replied Evelyn, with a flush of honest pride.
The old man smiled and shook his head.
“Isn’t that enough to keep a house on—a very _small_ house, you know?”
The old man shook his head again.
“And how much _would_ be enough?” queried the youth.
“I don’t think any young couple should commence housekeeping on less than
a thousand a-year.”
Evelyn looked in blank amazement at his host.
“A thousand a-year!” he exclaimed.
“That was the amount I mentioned,” replied the old gentleman, with some
asperity.
“But I shall never make such an income,” he said, in great despondency.
“Then you should never get married,” added the philosopher, calmly.
Feeling, however, that he had been a little too harsh in his manner, he
went on,—
“But you must not despair. Much money is made in the City by honesty and
application. Be industrious, my young friend, and be honest. Heaven has
rewarded other City men for the illustration of these qualities; Heaven
may reward you. And now good evening. Jessie and I have some private
business to transact.”
Poor Jones was dreadfully cast down by this interview. Because, truth to
tell, he had fallen in love with the patient and beautiful lady who
attended so assiduously on her broken-down father. And he had thus
artfully contrived to obtain from the old gentleman a general opinion on
the subject of matrimony. The result of his investigations was that he
came to regard Mr. Lowndes as a perfect monster of selfishness.
“He guessed at what I was driving,” said Evelyn to himself, when he
gained his own room. “He suspects that I want to marry Jessie, and has
put a thousand a-year upon her as his price for making the sacrifice.”
Now, Evelyn Jones had been bred in the country, and had imbibed certain
old-fashioned notions on the matter of courtship from his parents. He
would have considered it a dishonourable act on his part to approach
Jessie with an offer of marriage without having first consulted her only
surviving parent. He inferred from a hundred little signs that she was
not indifferent to him. But his highly moral training prevented his
taking advantage of these circumstances to press his suit.
“I wish she had a mother,” he sighed; “I’d soon talk her over. And to
hear that selfish old paragon talking of a thousand pounds! I’ll be
bound he never had so much money in his whole life.”
Depressed spirits are but temporary afflictions with the young and
sanguine. What appears at first to be an overmastering despair clears
off. “Hope springs eternal” in the lover’s breast. And in a week’s time
Evelyn Jones had recovered his equanimity, and determined once more to
address “Old Boots” on the subject nearest to his heart. He purchased a
pound of grapes and a bottle of port, and having returned to the suburban
delights of his apartments off the Camberwell New Road, he watched the
door of his fellow-lodger until he saw Miss Lowndes disappear to the
lower regions to consult with her landlady.
This was his opportunity. He knocked at the door of Mr. Lowndes, and was
bidden in short and querulous tones to enter. He presented his gifts to
the old man, who, under the circumstances, could not do less than request
him to remain. The port was opened—and so was the conversation. At
first it meandered lightly among generalities. But eventually the young
man “plucked up a spirit,” as the phrase hath it.
“D’you remember, Mr. Lowndes, my talking to you on the subject of
matrimony?”
“I do,” answered the other, curtly.
“Well, _I_ am in love. _I_ want to marry.”
“And I say again, that on ninety pounds a-year it would be idiotcy.”
“But,” persisted the ardent Jones, “she is so good, such a clever
housekeeper that I think she could make ninety pounds a-year go very far
indeed.”
“And who, may I ask, is this paragon?”
“Oh! Mr. Lowndes, forgive me—pity me. I love your daughter.”
Mr. Jones, in all the scenes which his lively imagination had conjured up
as likely to follow his proposal, did not imagine that which really
occurred. Lowndes jumped from his chair; he became erect, his eyes
flashed as he cried,—
“You scoundrel! You fool! Have you breathed word of this to her?”
“Not a word, upon my soul.”
“Old Boots” sank back into his chair, apparently much relieved.
“Then don’t,” he said, menacingly. “Tomorrow I will leave this. Do not
attempt to follow us. The consequences be on your own head if you do.”
At that moment the door of the sitting-room opened, and two men entered,
followed by Jessie, pale and alarmed.
One of the men spoke,—
“Mr. Morton,” he observed, quietly, “we have tracked you at last. You
are arrested for the robbery of ten thousand pounds from the British
Bullion Bank.”
“Old Boots” stood before them erect and even dignified. Jessie flew to
him, and throwing her arms round his neck, wept bitterly.
“I am ready,” said Mr. Morton, the peccant secretary of the Bullion Bank.
“May I request you to show some consideration for this innocent lady.”
Evelyn Jones stood forward.
“I, sir, do not shrink from knowing you in your—your misfortune. I will
take care of your daughter.”
“You brainless puppy!” shrieked the prisoner. “_She is my wife_.”
And so indeed she was.
XIV.
_A MISSING HEIRESS_.
A RECENT case of a Missing Heiress—how recent does not matter—attracted a
large amount of public attention. Stimulating paragraphs first suggested
that an heiress _was_ missing. And eventually still more stimulating
paragraphs announced that she had been found—and found under
circumstances the most romantic in the world. If the mothers of Missing
Heiresses deposit their little charges on strange doorsteps and at an
early age, it is no reasonable matter of surprise that difficulty should
arise in satisfactorily tracing them. And the heroine of the case under
consideration will have the satisfaction of knowing that had it not been
for the untiring and disinterested efforts of the heir-at-law, she must
have continued to perform menial duties to the end of time. The Missing
Heiress having been suddenly transformed into a Discovered Heroine, did
not thereupon cease to be an object of public interest. Indeed the
interest increased. Editors of penny dreadfuls set their young men to
“work up” exciting fictions on the basis of facts, and a sensational
evening paper discussed the circumstances in a leading article full of
that learning, good taste, and common sense, for which the organ in
question has been for so long and so justly celebrated. The righteous
example of the sensational broadsheet has been followed with more or less
success by the editors of the provincial papers, and the story of the
Missing Heiress has become as familiar in our mouths as “household
words.” But while Society and its organs have been discussing the
romantic history of the Heiress from the area, neither Society nor its
journals have so much as heard of the story of Mrs. Stubbs, the wife of
the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester. And there is nothing
more certain in the world than this: that had there been no Missing
Heiress there would have been no story to tell of the wife of the
umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester.
When the good fairy of that romance of real life to which we have alluded
determined to assure himself of the existence of the Missing Heiress, he
went to considerable expense in advertising, in consulting lawyers, in
having conferences with detectives, and the like. And it was quite
surprising to find how many Missing Heiresses turned up to tell the story
of how they had been left upon a certain night on a certain doorstep.
Stubbs first heard of the affair from the landlady of the “Six Bells,”
and he immediately came to the conclusion that Mrs. Stubbs was the lady
in question. Mrs. Stubbs was a foundling. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on
a doorstep. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep in the very
identical town where the Missing Heiress had been deposited.
“It tuk my brothe away,” said Stubbs, in afterwards describing his
sensations.