William Sim was the son of a feuar in the southern part of
Dumfriesshire, who, by dint of frugality, had hoarded together from
three to four hundred pounds. This sum he was resolved to employ in
setting up his son in business; and, in pursuance of this resolution, at
the age of fourteen William was bound as an apprentice to a wealthy old
grocer in Carlisle; and it was his fortune in a few months to ingratiate
himself into the favour and confidence of his master. The grocer had a
daughter, who, though not remarkable for the beauty of her face or the
elegance of her person, had nevertheless an agreeable countenance, and
ten thousand independent charms to render it more agreeable. She was
some eighteen months older than William; and when he first came to be an
apprentice with her father, and a boarder in his house, she looked upon
him as quite a boy, while she considered herself to be a full-grown
woman. He was, indeed, a mere boy--and a clownish-looking boy too. He
wore a black leathern cap, edged and corded with red, which his mother
called a _bendy_; a coarse grey jacket; a waistcoat of the same; and his
trousers were of a brownish-green cord, termed _thickset_. His shoes
were of the double-soled description, which ought more properly to be
called brogues; and into them, on the evening previous to his departure,
his father had driven tackets and sparables innumerable, until they
became like a plate of iron or a piece of warlike workmanship,
resembling the scaled cuirass of a mailed knight in the olden time;
"for," said he, "the callant will hae runnin' about on the causeway and
plainstanes o' Carlisle sufficient to drive a' the shoon in the world
aff his feet." When, therefore, William Sim made his debut behind the
counter of Mr. Carnaby, the rich grocer of Carlisle, and as he ran on a
message through the streets, with his bendy cap, grey jacket, thickset
trousers, and ironed shoes, striking fire behind him as he ran, and
making a noise like a troop of cavalry, the sprucer youngsters of the
city said he was "new caught." But William Sim had not been two years in
Carlisle when he began to show his shirt collar; his clattering brogues
gave place to silent pumps, his leathern bendy to a fashionable hat, and
his coarse grey jacket to a coat with tails. Moreover, he began to bow
and smile to the ladies when they entered the shop; he also became quite
a connoisseur in teas and confections; he recommended them to them, and
he bowed and smiled again as they left. Such was the work of less than
two years; and before three went round, there was not a smarter or a
better dressed youth in all Carlisle than William Sim. He became a
favourite subject of conversation amongst the young belles; and there
was not one of them who, if disengaged, would have said to him, "Get
thee behind me." Miss Carnaby heard the conversation of her young
companions, and she gradually became conscious that William was not a
boy; in fact, she began to wonder how she had ever thought so, for he,
as she said unto herself, was "certainly a very interesting _young
man_." Within other four years, and before the period of his
apprenticeship had expired, William began to repeat poetry--some said to
write it, but that was not the fact; he only twisted or altered a few
words now and then, to suit the occasion; and almost every line ended
with words of such soft sounds as bliss, kiss--love, dove--joy, cloy,
and others equally sweet, the delightful meanings of which are only to
be met with in the sentimental glossary. He now gave Miss Carnaby his
arm to church; and, on leaving it in the afternoons, they often walked
into the fields together. On such occasions,
"Talk of various kinds deceived the road;"
and even when they were silent, their silence had an eloquence of its
own. One day they had wandered farther than their wont, and they stood
on the little bridge where the two kingdoms meet, about half a mile
below Gretna. I know not what soft persuasion he employed, but she
accompanied him up the hill which leadeth through the village of
Springfield, and they went towards the far-famed Green together. In less
than an hour, Miss Carnaby that was, returned towards Carlisle as Mrs.
Sim, leaning affectionately on her husband's arm.
When the old grocer heard of what had taken place, he was exceedingly
wroth; and although, as has been said, William stood high in his favour,
he thus addressed him--
"Ay, ay, sir!--fine doings! This comes of your Sunday walking! And I
suppose you say that my daughter is yours--that she is your wife; and
_she_ may be _yours_--but I'll let you know, sir, my _money_ is _mine_;
and I'll cut you both off. You shan't have a sixpence. I'll rather build
a church, sir; I'll give it towards paying off the national debt, you
rascal. You would steal my daughter--eh!"
Thus spoke Mr. Carnaby in his wrath; but when the effervescence of his
indignation had subsided, he extended to both the hand of forgiveness,
and resigned his business in favour of his son-in-law.
Mr. William Sim, therefore, began the world under the most favourable
circumstances. He found a fortune prepared to his hands; he had only to
improve it. In a few years the old grocer died; and he bequeathed to
them the gains of half a century. For twenty years Mr. Sim continued in
business, and he had nearly doubled the fortune which he obtained with
his wife. Mrs. Sim was a kind-hearted woman; but by nature, or through
education, she had also a considerable portion of vanity, and she began
to think that it was the duty of her opulent husband to retire from
business, and assume the character of an independent gentleman; or
rather, I ought to say, of a country gentleman--a squire. She professed
to be the more anxious that he should do this on account of the health
of her daughter--the sole survivor of five children--and who was then
entering upon womanhood. Maria Sim (for such was their daughter's name)
was a delicate and accomplished girl of seventeen. The lovely hue that
dwelt upon her cheeks, like the blush of a rainbow, was an emblem of
beauty, not of health. At the solicitations of her mother, her father
gave up his business, and purchased a neat villa, and a few acres that
surrounded it, in the neighbourhood of Windermere. The house lay in the
bosom of poetry; and the winds that shouted like a triumphant army
through the mountain glens, or in gentle zephyrs sighed upon the lake,
and gambolled with the ripples, made music around it.
The change, the beauty, I had almost said the deliciousness of their
place of abode, had effected a wondrous improvement in the health of
Maria; yet her mother was not happy. She was not treated by her
neighbours with the obsequious reverence which she believed to be due to
persons possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The fashionable ladies in
the neighbourhood, also, called her "a mean person"--"a nobody"--"an
upstart of yesterday." In truth, there were not a few who so spoke,
because they envied the wealth of the Sims, and were resolved to humble
them.
An opportunity for them to do so soon occurred. A subscription ball or
assembly, patronized by all the fashionables in the district, was to
take place at Keswick. Mrs. Sim, in some measure from a desire of
display, and also, as she said, to bring out Maria, put down her
husband's name, her own, and their daughter's, on the list. Many of the
personages above referred to, on seeing the names of the Sim family on
the subscription paper, turned upon their heel, and exclaimed--"Shocking!"
But the important evening arrived. Mrs. Sim had ordered a superb dress
from London expressly for the occasion. A duchess might have worn it at
a drawing-room. The dress of Maria was simplicity typified, and
consisted of a frock of the finest and the whitest muslin; while her
slender waist was girdled with a lavender ribbon, her raven hair
descended down her snowy neck in ringlets, and around her head she wore
a wreath of roses.
When Mr. Sim, with his wife and daughter, entered the room, there was a
stare of wonderment amongst the company. No one spoke to them, no one
bowed to them. The spirit of dumbness seemed to have smitten the
assembly. But a general whispering, like the hissing of a congregation
of adders, succeeded the silence. Then, at the head of the room, the
voices of women rose sharp, angry, and loud. Six or eight, who appeared
as the representatives of the company, were in earnest and excited
conversation with the stewards; and the words--"low people!"--"vulgar!"
--"not to be borne!"--"cheese! faugh!"--"impertinence!"--"must be humbled!"
--became audible throughout the room. One of the stewards, a Mr. Morris of
Morris House, approached Mr. Sim, and said--
"You, sir, are Mr. Sim, I believe, late grocer and cheesemonger in
Carlisle?"
"I suppose, sir," replied the other, "you know that without me telling
you; if you do not, you have some right to know me."
"Well, sir," continued the steward of the assembly, "I come to inform
you that you have made a mistake. This is not a _social dance_ amongst
_tradesmen_, but an _assembly_ of _ladies_ and _gentlemen_; therefore,
sir, your presence cannot be allowed here."
Poor Maria became blind, the hundred different head-dresses seemed to
float around her. She clung to her father's arm for support. Her mother
was in an agony of indignation.
"Sir," said Mr. Sim, "I don't know what you call _gentlemen_; but if it
be not _genteel_ to have sold teas and groceries, it is at least more
_honourable_ than to use them and never pay for them. You will remember,
sir, there is a considerable sum standing against you in my books; and
if the money be not paid to me tonight, you shall have less space to
dance in before morning."
"Insolent barbarian!" exclaimed Squire Morris, stamping his foot upon
the floor.
Mrs. Sim screamed; Maria's head fell upon her father's shoulder. A dozen
gentlemen approached to the support of the steward; and one of them,
waving his hand and addressing Mr. Sim, said, "Away, sir!"
The retired merchant bowed and withdrew, not in confusion, but with a
smile of malignant triumph. He strove to soothe his wife--for his
daughter, when relieved from the presence of the disdainful eyes that
gazed on her, bore the insult that had been offered them meekly--and,
after remaining an hour in Keswick, they returned to their villa in the
same chaise in which they had arrived.
In the assembly room the dance began, and fairy forms glided through the
floor, lightly, silently, as a falling blossom embraceth the earth. Mr.
Morris was leading down a dance, when a noise was heard at the door.
Some person insisted on being admitted, and the door-keepers resisted
him. But the intruder carried with him a small staff, on the one end of
which was a brass crown, and on its side the letters G. R. It was a
talisman potent as the wand of a magician; the doorkeepers became
powerless before it. The intruder entered the room--he passed through
the mazes of the whirling dance--he approached Mr. Morris--he touched
him on the shoulder--he put a piece of paper in his hand--he whispered
in his ear--
"You are my prisoner!--come with me!"
His lady and his daughters were present, and they felt most bitterly the
indignity which a low tradesman had offered them. Confusion paralyzed
them; they stood still in the middle of the dance, and one of the young
ladies swooned away and fell upon the ground. The time, the place, the
manner of arrest, all bespoke malignant and premeditated insult.
Mr. Morris gnashed his teeth together, but, without speaking,
accompanied the officer that had arrested him in the room. He remained
in custody in an adjoining inn throughout the night; on the following
day, was released on bail; and, within a week, his solicitor paid the
debt, by augmenting the mortgage on Morris House estate.
It is hardly necessary to say--for such is human nature--that, after
this incident, the hatred between Mr. Sim and Squire Morris became
inveterate; and the wives of both, and the daughters of the latter,
partook in the relentless animosity. Two years passed, and every day the
mutual hatred and contempt in which they held each other increased. At
that period, a younger son of Squire Morris, who was a lieutenant in the
service of the East India Company, obtained leave to visit England and
his friends. It was early in June; the swallows chased each other in
sport, twittering as they flew over the blue bosom of Windermere; every
bush, every tree--yea, it seemed as if every branch sent forth the music
of singing birds, and the very air was redolent with melody, from the
bold songs of the thrush and the lark to the love-note of the
wood-pigeon; and even the earth rejoiced in the chirp of the
grasshopper, its tiny but pleasant musician. The fields and the leaves
were in the loveliness and freshness of youth, luxuriating in the
sunbeams, in the depth of their summer green; and the butterfly sported,
and the bee pursued its errand from flower to flower. The mighty
mountains circled the scene, and threw their dun shadow on the lake,
where, a hundred fathoms deep, they seemed a bronzed and inverted world.
At this time, Maria Sim was sailing upon the lake in a small boat that
her father had purchased for her, and which was guided by a boy.
A sudden, but not what could be called a strong, breeze came away. The
boy had little strength and less skill, and, from his awkwardness in
shifting the sail, he caused the boat to upset. Maria was immersed in
the lake. The boy clung to the boat, but terror deprived him of ability
to render her assistance. She struggled with the waters, and her
garments bore her partially up for a time. A boat, in which was a young
gentleman, had been sailing to and fro, and, at the time the accident
occurred, was within three hundred yards of her. On hearing her sudden
cry, and the continued screams of the boy, he drew in his sail, and,
taking the oars, at his utmost strength pulled to her assistance. Almost
at every third stroke he turned round his head to see the progress he
had made, or if he had yet reached her. Twice he beheld her disappear
beneath the water--a third time she rose to the surface--he was within a
few yards of her. He sprang from his boat. She was again sinking. He
dived after her, he raised her beneath his arm, and succeeded in placing
her in his boat. He also rescued the boy, and conveyed them both to
land.
Maria, though for a time speechless, was speedily, through the exertions
of her deliverer, restored to consciousness. Even before she was capable
of thanking him or of speaking to him--yea, before her eyes had opened
to meet his--he had gazed with admiration on her beautiful features,
which were lovely, though the shadow of death was then over them, almost
its hand upon them. In truth, he had never gazed upon a fairer face, and
when she spoke, he had never listened to a sweeter or a gentler voice.
He had been beneath an Indian sun, where the impulses of the heart are
fervid as the clime, and where, when the sun is gazed upon, its
influence is acknowledged. But, had she been less beautiful than she
was, and her features less lovely to look upon, there was a strong
something in the very manner and accident of their being brought into
each other's society, which appealed more powerfully to the heart than
beauty could. It at least begot an interest in the fate of each other;
and an interest so called is never very widely separated from affection.
The individual who had saved Maria's life was Lieutenant Morris.
He conveyed her first to a peasant's cottage, and afterwards to her
father's villa. He knew nothing of the feeling of hatred that existed
between their families; and when Mr. Sim heard his name, though for a
moment it caused a glow to pass over his face, every other emotion was
speedily swallowed up in gratitude towards the deliverer of his child;
and when Maria was sufficiently recovered to thank him, though she knew
him to be the son of her father's enemy, it was with tears too deep for
words--tears that told what eloquence would have failed to express. Even
Mrs. Sim, for the time, forgot her hatred of the parents in her
obligations to the son.
When, however, the young lieutenant returned to Morris House, and made
mention of the adventure in which he had been engaged, and spoke at the
same time, in the ardour of youthful admiration, of the beauty and
gentleness of the fair being he had rescued from untimely death, the
cheeks of his sisters became pale, their eyeballs distended as if with
horror. The word "wretch!" escaped from his mother's lips, and she
seemed struggling with smothered rage. He turned towards his father for
an explanation of the change that had so suddenly come over the
behaviour of his mother and sisters.
"Son," said the squire, "I had rather thou hadst perished than that a
son of mine should have put forth his hand to assist a dog of the man
whose daughter thou hast saved!"
On being made acquainted with the cause of the detestation that existed
between the two families, Lieutenant Morris, in some degree, yielded to
the whisperings of wounded pride, and began to regret that he had
entered the house of a man who had offered an indignity to his father
that was not to be forgiven. But he thought also of the beauty of Maria,
of the sweetness of her smile, and of the tears of voiceless gratitude
which he had seen bedimming the lustre of her bright eyes.
He had promised to call again at her father's on the day after the
accident; and with an ardent kindliness, Mr. Sim had welcomed him to do
so. But he went forth, he wandered by the side of the lake, he
approached within sight of the house, there was a contention of strange
feelings in his breast, and he returned without paying his promised
visit. Nevertheless, thoughts of Maria haunted him, and her image
mingled with all his fancies. She became as a spirit in his memory that
he could not expel, and that he would not if he could.
Three weeks passed on--it was evening--the sun was sinking behind the
mountains, and Lieutenant Morris was wandering through a wooded vale,
towards Mr. Sim's mansion; for though he entered it not, he nightly drew
towards it, as if instinctively, wandering around it, and gazing on its
windows as he did so, marvelling as he gazed. He was absorbed in one of
those dreamy reveries in which men saunter, speak, and muse
unconsciously, when, in following the windings of a footpath which led
through a thicket, he suddenly found himself in the presence of a young
lady, who was walking slowly across the wood with a book in her hand.
Their eyes met--they startled--the book dropped by her side--it was
Maria.
I must not, however, dwell longer on this part of the subject; for the
story of the twin brothers is yet to begin. Let it be sufficient to say
that William, or, as I have hitherto called him, Lieutenant Morris, and
Maria whom he saved, became attached to each other. Their dispositions
were similar; they seemed formed for each other. Affection took deep
root in their hearts; and to root up that affection in the breast of
either, was to destroy the heart itself. He made known his attachment
towards Maria to his father; and galled pride and hatred to those who
had injured him being stronger in the breast of the old squire than the
small still voice of affection, he spurned his son from him, and ordered
him to leave his house for ever.
The parents of Maria, notwithstanding their first feelings of gratitude
towards the saviour of their daughter, were equally averse to a union
between them; but with Maria the impulse of the heart and the lover's
passionate prayer prevailed over her parents' frowns. They were wed,
they became all to each other, and were disowned by those who gave them
birth.
When Lieutenant Morris left India, he obtained permission to remain in
England for three years; and it was about twelve months after his
arrival that the marriage between him and Maria took place. He had still
two years to spend in his native land, and he hired a secluded and neat
cottage on the banks of the Annan for that period, for the residence of
himself and his young and beautiful wife.
Twelve months after their marriage, Maria became the mother of
twins--the twin brothers of our tale. But three months had not passed,
nor had her infants raised their first smile towards their mother's
face, when the sterile hand of death touched the bosom that supplied
them with life. The young husband wept by the bed of death, with the
hand of her he loved in his.
"William!" said the gentle Maria--and they were her dying words, for she
spoke not again--"my eyes will not behold another sun! I must leave you,
love! Oh my husband! I must leave our poor, our helpless infants! It is
hard to die thus! But when I am gone, dearest--when my babes have no
mother--oh, go to _my mother_, and tell her--tell her, William--that it
was the dying request of her Maria, that she would be as a mother to
them. Farewell, love!--farewell! If"--
Emotion and the strugglings of death overpowered her--her speech
failed--her eyes became fixed--her soul passed away, and the husband sat
in stupefaction and in agony, holding the hand of his dead wife to his
breast. He became conscious that she stirred not--that she breathed
not--oh! that she was not! and the wail of the distracted widower rang
suddenly and wildly through the cottage, startling his infants from
their slumber, and, as some who stood round the bed said, causing even
the features of the dead to move, as though the departed spirit had
lingered, casting a farewell glance upon the body, and passed over it
again, as the voice it had loved to hear rose loud in agony.
The father of Maria came and attended her body to its last, long
resting-place. But he did no more; and he left the churchyard without
acknowledging that he perceived his grief-stricken son-in-law.
In a few months it was necessary for Lieutenant Morris to return to
India, and he could not take his motherless and tender infants thither.
He wrote to the parents of his departed Maria; he told them of her last
request, breathed by her last words; he implored them, as they had once
loved her, during his absence to protect his children.
But the hatred between Mr. Sim and Squire Morris had in no degree
abated. The former would have listened to his daughter's prayer, and
taken her twins and the nurse into his house; but his wife was less
susceptible to the influence of natural feeling, and even, while at
intervals she wept for poor Maria, she said--
"Take both of them, indeed! No, no! I loved our poor, thoughtless,
disobedient Maria, Mr. Sim, as well as you did, but I will not submit to
the Morrises. They have nothing to give the children; we have. But they
have the same, they have a greater right to provide for them than we
have. They shall take one of them, or none of them come into this
house." And again she broke into lamentations over the memory of Maria,
and, in the midst of her mourning, exclaimed--"But the child that we
take shall never be called Morris."
Mr. Sim wrote an answer to his son-in-law, as cold and formal as if it
had been a note added to an invoice; colder indeed, for it had no
equivalent to the poor, hackneyed phrase in all such, of "_esteemed
favours_." In it he stated that he would "bring up" one of the children,
provided that Squire Morris would undertake the charge of the other. The
unhappy father clasped his hands together on perusing the letter, and
exclaimed--
"Must my poor babes be parted?--shall they be brought up to hate each
other? Oh Maria! would that I had died with you, and our children also!"
To take them to India with him, where a war was threatened, was
impossible, and his heart revolted from the thought of leaving them in
this country with strangers. At times he was seen, with an infant son on
each arm, sitting over the stone upon the grave of their mother which he
had reared to her memory, kissing their cheeks and weeping over them,
while they smiled in his face unconsciously, and offered to him, in
those smiles, affection's first innocent tribute. On such occasions
their nurse stood gazing on the scene, wondering at her master's grief.
Morris, of Morris House, reluctantly consented to take one of his
grandchildren under his care; but at the same time he refused to see his
son previous to his departure.
The widowed father wept over his twin sons, and invoking a blessing on
them, saw their little arms sundered, and each conveyed to the houses of
those who had undertaken to be their protectors, while he again
proceeded towards India. The names of the twin sons were George and
Charles: the former was committed to the care of Mr. Morris, the other
to Mr. Sim. Yet it seemed as if these innocent pledges of a family
union, instead of destroying, strengthened the deep-rooted animosity
that existed between them. Not a month passed that they did not, in some
way, manifest their hatred of and their persecution towards each other.
The squire exhibited a proof of his vindictiveness, in not permitting
the child of his son to remain beneath his roof. He had a small property
in Devonshire, which was rented by an individual who, with his wife, had
been servants under his father. To them George Morris, one of the infant
sons of poor Maria, before he was yet twelve months old, was sent, with
an injunction that he should be brought up as their own son, that he
should be taught to consider himself as such, and bear their name.
The boy Charles, whose lot it was to be placed under the protection of
his mother's parents, was more fortunate. The love they had borne
towards their Maria they now lavished upon him. They called him by their
own name--they spoke of him as their heir, as their _sole_ heir, and
they inquired not after his brother. That brother became included in the
hatred which Mrs. Sim, at least, bore to his father's family. As he grew
up, his father's name was not mentioned in his presence. He was taught
to call his grandfather--father, and his grandmother--mother; and
withal, his mother so called instilled into his earliest thoughts an
abhorrence of the inmates of Morris House. At times his grandfather
whispered to her on such occasions, "Do not do the like of that, dear;
we know not how it may end." But she regarded not his admonitions, and
she strove that her grandchild should hold the very name of Morris in
hatred.
The peasants to whose keeping George was confided, occupied, as has been
stated, a small farm under his grandfather, which lay on the banks of
the Dart, a few miles from Totnes. Their name was Prescot: they were
cold-hearted and ignorant people; they had no children of their own, nor
affection for those of others; neither had they received instructions to
show any to him whom they were to adopt as a son; and if they had been
arraigned for not doing so, they were of a character to have said with
Shylock--"It is not in the bond." When he grew up, there was then no
school in that part of Devonshire to which they could have sent him, had
they been inclined; but they were not inclined; though, if they had had
the power to educate him, they could have referred again to their bond,
and said that no injunction to educate him was mentioned there. His
first ideas were a consciousness of cruelty and oppression. At seven
years of age he was sent to herd a few sheep upon Dartmoor; before he
was nine, he was placed as a parish apprentice to the owner of a tin
mine, and buried from the light of heaven.
Often and anxiously Lieutenant Morris wrote from India, inquiring after
his sons. He sent presents--love-gifts to each; but his letters were
unheeded, his presents disregarded. His children grew up in ignorance of
his existence, or of the existence of each other.
It was about eighteen years after the death of Maria, and what is called
an annual _Revel_ was held at Ashburton. Prizes were to be awarded to
the best wrestlers, and hundreds were assembled from all parts of
Devonshire to witness the sports of the day. Two companies of soldiers
were stationed in the town at the time, and the officers, at the
suggestion of a young ensign called Charles Sim, agreed to subscribe a
purse of ten guineas towards the encouragement of the games. The young
ensign was from Cumberland, where the science of wrestling is still a
passion; and he, as the reader will have anticipated from the name he
bore, was none other than one of the twin brothers. The games were
skilfully and keenly contested; and a stripling from the neighbourhood
of Totnes, amidst the shouts of the multitude, was declared the victor.
The last he had overcome was a gigantic soldier, a native of Cumberland.
When the young ensign beheld his champion overcome, his blood rose for
the honour of his native county, and he regretted that he had not
sustained it in his own person.
The purse subscribed by the officers was still to be wrestled for, and
the stripling victor re-entered the ring to compete for it. On his
design being perceived, others who wished to have contended for it drew
back, and he stood in the ring alone, no one daring to come forward to
compete with him. The umpire of the games was proclaiming that, if no
one stood against him, the purse would be awarded to him who had already
been pronounced the victor of the day, when Ensign Sim, who, with his
brother officers, had witnessed the sports from the windows of an
adjacent inn, said--
"Well, the lad shall have the purse, though I don't expect he will win
it; for, if no one else will, I shall give him a throw to redeem the
credit of old Cumberland."
"Bravo, Sim!" cried his brother officers, and they accompanied him
towards the ring.
The people again shouted when they perceived that there was to be
another game, and the more so when they discovered that the stranger
competitor was a gentleman. The ensign, having cast off his regimentals,
and equipped himself in the strait canvas jacket worn by wrestlers,
entered the ring. But now arose a new subject of wonderment, which in a
moment was perceived by the whole multitude; and the loud huzzas that
had welcomed his approach were hushed in a confused murmur of
astonishment.
"Zwinge!" exclaimed a hundred voices, as they approached each other;
"they be loik one anoother as two beans!"
"Whoy, which be which?" inquired others.
The likeness between the two wrestlers was indeed remarkable; their age,
their stature, the colour of their hair, their features, were alike.
Spectators could not trace a difference between the one and the other.
The ensign had a small and peculiar mark below his chin; he perceived
that his antagonist had the same. They approached each other, extending
their arms for the contest. They stood still, they gazed upon each
other; as they gazed they started; their arms dropped by their sides;
they stood anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of each other, in
which each saw himself as in a glass. Astonishment deprived them of
strength; they forgot the purpose for which they met; they stretched
forth their hands, they grasped them together, and stood eagerly looking
into each other's eyes.
"Friend," said the ensign, "this is indeed singular; our extraordinary
resemblance to each other fills me with amazement. What is your name?
from whence do you come?"
"Whoy, master," rejoined the other, "thou art so woundy like myself,
that had I met thee anywhere but in the middle o' these folk, I should
have been afeared that I was agoing to die, and had zeen mysel'. My name
is George Prescot, at your sarvice. I coom from three miles down the
river there; and what may they call thee?"
"My name," replied the soldier, "is Charles Sim. I am an orphan; my
parents I never saw. And tell me--for this strange resemblance between
us almost overpowers me--do yours live?"
"Whoy," was the reply, "old Tom Prescot and his woif be alive; and they
zay as how they be my vather and moother, and I zuppose they be; but
zoom cast up to them that they bean't."
No wrestling match took place between them; but hand in hand they walked
round the ring together, while the spectators gazed upon them in silent
wonder.
The ensign presented the youth, who might have been styled his
fac-simile, with the purse subscribed by his brother officers and
himself; and in so doing he offered to double its contents. But the
youth, with a spirit above his condition, peremptorily refused the
offer, and said--
"No, master--thank you the zame--I will take nothing but what I have
won."
Charles was anxious to visit "old Tom Prescot and his wife," of whom the
stranger had spoken; but the company to which he belonged was to march
forward to Plymouth on the following day, and there to embark. His
brother officers also dissuaded him from the thought.
"Why, Sim," said they, "the likeness between you and the conqueror of
the ring was certainly a very pretty coincidence, and your meeting each
other quite a drama. But, my good fellow," added they, laughing, "take
the advice of older heads than your own--don't examine too closely into
your father's faults."
Three years passed, and Charles, now promoted to the rank of a
lieutenant, accompanied the Duke of York in his more memorable than
brilliant campaign in Holland. A soldier was accused of having been
found sleeping on guard; he was tried, found guilty, and condemned to be
shot. A corporal's guard was accompanying the doomed soldier from the
place where sentence had been pronounced against him to the
prison-house, from whence he was to be brought forth for execution on
the following day. Lieutenant Sim passed near them. A voice exclaimed--
"Master! master!--save me! save me!"
It was the voice of the condemned soldier. The lieutenant turned round,
and in the captive who called to him for assistance he recognised the
Devonshire wrestler--the strange portrait of himself. And even now, if
it were possible, the resemblance between them was more striking than
before; for, in the stranger, the awkwardness of the peasant had given
place to the smartness of the soldier. Charles had felt an interest in
him from the first moment he beheld him; he had wished to meet him
again, and had resolved to seek for him should he return to England; and
now the interest that he had before felt for him was increased tenfold.
The offence and the fate of the doomed one were soon told. The
lieutenant pledged himself that he would leave no effort untried to save
him; and he redeemed his pledge. He discovered, he obtained proof that
the condemned prisoner, George Prescot, had been employed on severe and
dangerous duties, against which it was impossible for nature longer to
stand up, but in all of which he had conducted himself as a good, a
brave, and a faithful soldier; and, more, that it could not be proved
that he was actually found asleep at his post, but that he was stupified
through excess of fatigue.
He hastened to lay the evidence he had obtained respecting the conduct
and innocence of the prisoner before his Royal Highness, who, whatever
were his faults, was at least the soldier's friend. The Duke glanced
over the documents which the lieutenant laid before him; he listened to
the evidence of the comrades of the prisoner. He took a pen; he wrote a
few lines; he placed them in the hands of Lieutenant Sim. They contained
the free pardon of Private Prescot. Charles rushed with the pardon in
his hand to the prisoner; he exclaimed--
"Take this--you are pardoned--you are free!"
The soldier would have embraced his knees to thank him; but the
lieutenant said--
"No! kneel not to me--consider me as a brother. I have merely saved the
life of an innocent and deserving man. But the strange resemblance
between us seems to me more than a strange coincidence. You have doubts
regarding your parentage; I know but little of mine. Nature has written
a mystery on our faces which we need to have explained. When this
campaign is over, we shall inquire concerning it. Farewell for the
present; but we must meet again."
The feelings of the reprieved and unlettered soldier were too strong for
his words to utter; he shook the hand of his deliverer and wept.
A few days after this some sharp fighting took place. The loss of the
British was considerable, and they were compelled to continue their
retreat, leaving their dead, and many of their wounded, exposed, as they
fell behind them. When they again arrived at a halting-place, Lieutenant
Sim sought the regiment to which the soldier who might be termed his
second self belonged. But he was not to be found; and all that he could
learn respecting him was, that, three days before, George Prescot had
been seen fighting bravely, but that he fell covered with wounds, and in
their retreat was left upon the field.
Tears gushed into the eyes of the lieutenant when he heard the tidings.
His singular meeting with the stranger in Devonshire; their mysterious
resemblance to each other; his meeting him again in Holland under
circumstances yet more singular; his saving his life; and the dubious
knowledge which each had respecting their birth and parentage,--all had
sunk deep into his heart, and thoughts of these things chased sleep from
his pillow.
It was but a short time after this that the regiment of Lieutenant Sim
was ordered to India, and he accompanied it; and it was only a few
months after his arrival, when the Governor-General gave an
entertainment at his palace, at which all the military officers around
were present. At table, opposite to Lieutenant Sim, sat a man of middle
age; and, throughout the evening, his eyes remained fixed upon him, and
occasionally seemed filled with tears. He was a colonel in the Company's
service, and a man who, by the force of merit, had acquired wealth and
reputation.
"I crave your pardon, sir," said he, addressing the lieutenant; "but if
I be not too bold, a few words with you in private would confer a favour
upon me, and if my conjectures be right, will give us both cause to
rejoice."
"You may command me, sir," said the youth.
The colonel rose from the table and left the room, and the lieutenant
rose also and accompanied him. They entered an adjoining apartment. The
elder soldier gazed anxiously on the face of the younger, and again
addressing him, said--
"Sir, do not attribute this strange behaviour upon my part to rudeness.
It has been prompted by feelings painfully, deeply, I may add tenderly,
interesting to me. It may be accident, but your features bring memories
before my eyes that have become a part of my soul's existence. Nor is it
your features only, but I have observed that there is the mark of a
rose-bud beneath your chin. I remember twins on whom that mark was
manifest, and the likeness of a countenance is graven upon my heart, the
lineaments of which were as yours are. Forgive me then, sir, in thus
abruptly requesting your name."
The lieutenant looked surprised at the anxiety and looks of the
stranger, and he answered--
"My name is Charles Sim."
"Yes! yes!" replied the colonel, gasping as he spoke; "I saw it; I felt
it! Your name is Charles, but not Sim; that was your mother's name--your
sainted mother's. You bear it from your grandfather You come from
Cumberland?"
"I do!" was the reply, in accents of astonishment.
"My son! my son!--child of my Maria!" were the accents that broke from
the colonel, as he fell upon the neck of the other.
"My father!" exclaimed Charles, "have I then found a father?" And the
tears streamed down his cheeks.
Many questions were asked, many answered; and amongst others, the father
inquired--
"Where is your brother--my little George? Does he live? You were the
miniatures of your mother; and so strikingly did you resemble each
other, that while you were infants, it was necessary to tie a blue
ribbon round his arm, and a green one round yours, to distinguish you
from each other."
Charles became pale; his knees shook; his hands trembled.
"Then I _had_ a brother?" he cried.
"You had," replied his father; "but wherefore do you say you _had_ a
brother? Is it possible that you do not know him? He has been brought up
with my father--Mr. Morris of Morris House."
"No, he has not," replied Charles; "the man you speak of, and whom you
say is my grandfather, has brought up no one--none of my age. I have
hated him from childhood, for he has hated me; and but that you have
told me he is my grandfather, I would hate him still. But he has brought
up no one that could be a brother of mine."
"Then my child has died in infancy," rejoined the colonel.
"No, no," added Charles; "I knew not that I had a brother--not even that
I had a father; but you say my brother resembled me; that I from my
birth had the mark beneath my chin which I have now, and that he had the
same: then I know him; I have seen my brother!"
"Where, where? when, when?" breathlessly inquired the anxious parent.
"Speak, my son!--oh speak!"
"Shortly after I had joined my regiment," continued Charles, "I was
present in Devonshire, at what is called a revel. Our mess gave a purse
towards the games. We put forward a Cumberland man belonging to the
regiment, in the full confidence that he would be the victor of the day;
but a youth, a mere youth, threw not only our champion, but all who
dared to oppose him. I was stung for the honour of Cumberland; I was
loath to see the hero carry his laurels so easily from the field. I
accoutred myself in the wrestler's garb; I entered the ring. The
shouting of the multitude ceased instantaneously. I gazed upon my
antagonist, he gazed upon me. Our hands fell; we both shook; we were the
image of each other. Three years afterwards I was in Holland. A soldier
was unjustly condemned to die; I saved him; I obtained his pardon. He
was my strange counterpart whom I met in Devonshire. He had the mark of
the rose-bud beneath his chin that I have, and which you say my brother
has."
"And where is he now?" eagerly inquired the colonel.
"Alas! I know not," answered Charles; "nor do I think he lives. Three
days after I had rescued him from unmerited death, I learned that he had
fallen bravely on the field; and whether he be now a prisoner or with
the dead, I cannot tell."
"Surely it was thy brother," said the colonel; "yet how he should be in
Devonshire, or a soldier in the ranks, puzzles me to think. No, no,
Charles, it cannot be; it is a coincidence, heightened by imagination.
Your grandfather has not been kind to me, but he is not capable of the
cruelty which the tale you have told would imply he had exercised
towards the child I entrusted to his care. He hates me, but surely he
could not be cruel to my offspring. You know Morris House?" he added.
"I know it well," replied Charles; "but I never knew in it one who could
be my brother, nor one of my age; neither did I know Mr. Morris to be my
grandfather; nor yet have I heard of him but as one who had injured my
mother while she lived, and who had been the enemy of her parents."
"Enough, enough, my son," said the colonel; "my soul is filled with
words which I cannot utter. I weep for your angel-mother; I weep for my
son, your brother; and I mourn for the unceasing hatred that exists
between your grandsires. But, Charles, we must return to England; we
must do so instantly. I have now fortune enough for you and for your
brother also, if he yet live, and if we can find him. But we must
inquire after and go in quest of him."
Within three months Charles Morris, or Lieutenant Sim as he has hitherto
been called, and his father returned to England together. But instead of
following them, I shall return to George Prescot, the prize-wrestler and
the condemned and pardoned soldier. It has been mentioned that he was
wounded and left upon the field by a retreating army. I have to add that
he was made prisoner, and when his wounds were healed, he was, though
not perceptibly, disabled for active service. Amongst his brethren in
captivity was a Captain Paling, who, when an exchange of prisoners took
place, hastened to join his regiment, and gave George, who was deemed
unfit for service, a letter to his mother and sisters who resided in
Dartmouth. The letter was all that the captain could give him, for he
was penniless as George was himself.
George Prescot feeling himself once more at liberty, took his passage
from Rotterdam in a sloop bound for Dartmouth, and with only the letter
of Captain Paling in his pocket to pay for his conveyance. He perceived
that the skipper frequently cast suspicious glances towards him, as
though he were about to ask, "Where is your money, sir?" But George saw
this, and he bore it down with a high hand. He knew that the certain way
of being treated with the contempt and neglect which poverty always
introduces in its train, was to plead being poor. He was by no means
learned, but he understood something of human nature, and he knew a good
deal of the ways of men--of the shallowness of society, and the depths
of civility. He therefore carried his head high. He called for the best
that the ship could afford, and he fared as the skipper did, though he
partook but sparingly.
But the vessel arrived in Dartmouth harbour; it entered the mouth of the
romantic river, on the one side of which was the fort, still bearing the
name of Cromwell, and on the other Kingsbridge, which Peter Pindar hath
celebrated; while on both sides, as precipitous banks, rose towering
hills, their summits covered by a stunted furze, and the blooming
orchard meeting it midway.
Some rather unpleasant sensations visited the disabled soldier as the
vessel sailed up the river towards the town. The beauty of its situation
made no impression upon him, for he had seen it a thousand times; and it
was perhaps as well that it did not; for to look on it from the river,
or from a distant height--like a long line of houses hung on the breast
of romance--and afterwards to enter it and find yourself in the midst of
a narrow, dingy street, where scarce two wheelbarrows could pass,
produceth only disappointment, and that, too, of the bitterest kind. It
seems, indeed, that the Devonians have conceded so much of their
beautiful county to the barrenness of Dartmoor, that they grudge every
inch that is occupied as a street or highway. Ere this time, George
Prescot had in a great measure dropped his Devonshire dialect; and now,
taking the letter of Captain Paling from his pocket, he placed it in the
hands of the commander of the packet, saying, "Send your boy ashore with
this to a widow lady's of the name of Paling; you will know her family,
I suppose. You may tell the boy to say that the letter is from her son,
Captain Paling, and that I shall wait here until I receive her answer
before proceeding up the river."
The skipper stated that he knew Mrs. Paling well, who was a most
respectable lady, and that he remembered also her son, who was an
officer in the army, and who for some time had been a prisoner of war.
The boy went on shore with the letter, and within a quarter of an hour
returned, having with him a young gentleman, accompanied by a couple of
pointer dogs. The stranger was the brother of Captain Paling. He
inquired for George Prescot, and on seeing him, invited him to his
mother's house. The skipper, on seeing his passenger in such respectable
company, let fall no hint that the passage-money was not paid; and the
soldier and the brother of Captain Paling went on shore together.
In his letter the captain dwelt on many kindnesses which he had received
from its bearer, and of the bravery which he had seen him evince on the
field; informing them also that his pockets would be but ill provided
with cash, and regretting his own inability to replenish them.
The kindness of Mrs. Paling and her family towards him knew no limits.
She asked him a hundred questions respecting her son, her daughters
concerning their brother; and they imagined wants for him, that they
might show him a kindness. Now, however, twelve miles was all that lay
between him and his home. They entreated him to remain until next day;
but he refused, for
"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."
It is true, he could hardly give the name of home to the house of those
whom he called his parents, for it had ever been to him the habitation
of oppressors; yet it was his home, as the mountain covered with eternal
snow is the home of the Greenlander, and he knew no other. The usual
road to it was by crossing the Dart at a ferry about a hundred yards
above the house of Mrs. Paling. Any other road caused a circuit of many
miles.
"If you will not remain with us to-night," said the brother of Captain
Paling, who had conducted him from the vessel to his mother's house, "I
shall accompany you to the ferry."
"No, I thank you--I thank you," said George, confusedly; "there is no
occasion for it--none whatever. I shall not forget your kindness."
He did not intend to go by the ferry; for though the charge of the
boatman was but a halfpenny, that halfpenny he had not in his
possession; and he wished to conceal his poverty.
But women have sharp eyes in these matters. They see where men are
blind; and a sister of Captain Paling named Caroline read the meaning of
their guest's confusion, and of his refusing to permit her brother to
accompany him to the shore; and, with a delicacy which spoke to the
heart of him to whom the words were addressed, she said--
"Mr. Prescot, you have only now arrived from the Continent, and it is
most likely that you have no small change in your pocket. The ferrymen
are unreasonable people to deal with. If you give them a crown, they
will row away and thank you, forgetting to return the change. The
regular charge is but a halfpenny; therefore you had better take coppers
with you;" and as she spoke, she held a halfpenny in her fingers towards
him.
"Well, well," stammered out George, with his hand in his pocket, "I
believe I have no coppers;" and he accepted the halfpenny from the hand
of Caroline Paling; and while he did so, he could not conceal the tears
that rose to his eyes.
But, trifling as the amount of her offer was, it must be understood that
the person to whom it was tendered was one who would not have accepted
more--who was ashamed of his poverty, and strove to conceal it; and
there was a soul, there was a delicacy, in her manner of tendering it
which I can speak of, but not describe. It saved him also from having to
wander weary and solitary miles at midnight.
No sooner had the disabled soldier crossed the river, and entered the
narrow lanes overshadowed by dark hedges of hazel, than he burst into
tears, and his first words were, "Caroline, I will remember thee!"
It was near midnight when he approached the house which he called his
home. The inmates were asleep. He tapped at the window, the panes of
which were framed in lead after the form of diamonds.
"Who be there?" cried an angry voice.
"Your son! your son!" he replied. "George!"
"Zon!" repeated the voice; "we have no zon. If it be thee, go to
Coomberland, lad. We have noughts to do with thee. Thy old grandfather,
Zquire Morris, be now dead, and he ha'n't paid us so well for what we
have done as to have oughts to zay to thee again; zo good night, lad."
"Father! mother!" cried George, striking more passionately on the
window, "what do you mean?"
"Whoy, ha'n't I told thee?" answered the voice that had spoken to him
before. "Thou art no zon of ours. Thou moost go to Coomberland, man, to
Zquire Morris--to his zeketors,[*] I mean, for he is dead. They may tell
thee who thou art; I can't. We ha'n't been paid for what we have done
for thee already. However, thou may'st coom in for t'night;" and as the
old man who had professed to be his father spoke, he arose and opened
the door.
[note *: Executors.]
George entered the house, trembling with agitation.
"Father," he said--"for thou hast taught me to call thee father; and if
thou art not, tell me who I am."
"Ha'n't I told thee, lad?" answered the old man. "Go to Coomberland; I
know noughts about thee."
"To Cumberland!" exclaimed George; and he thought of the young officer
whom he had twice met, who belonged to that county, and whose features
were the picture of his own. "Why should I go to Cumberland?"
"Whoy, I can't tell thee whoy thou shouldst go," said the old man; "but
thou was zent me from there, and there thou moost go back again, vor a
bad bargain thou hast been to me. Zquire Morris zent thee here, and
forgot to pay for thee; and if thou lodgest here to-night, thou won't
forget to be a-moving, bag and baggage, in the morning."
George was wearied, and glad to sleep beneath the inhospitable roof of
those whom he had considered as his parents; but on the following
morning he took leave of them, after learning from them all that they
knew of his history.
But I must again leave him, and return to Colonel Morris, and his son
Charles.
They came to England together, and hastened towards Morris House; and
there the long disowned son learned that his father was dead, and that
his mother and his sisters knew not where his child was, or what had
become of him. But his kindred had ascertained that he was now rich, and
they repented of their unkindness towards him.
"Son," said his mother, "I know nothing of thy child. Thy father was a
strange man--he told little to me. If any one can tell thee aught
concerning thy boy, it will be John Bell, the old coachman; but he has
not been in the family for six years, and where he now is I cannot tell,
though I believe he is still somewhere in the neighbourhood."
With sad and anxious hearts the colonel and his son next visited the
house of Mr. Sim--the dwelling-place in which the infancy, the
childhood, and what may be called the youth, of the latter had been
passed.
Tears gathered in the eyes of Charles as he approached the door. He knew
that his grandsire and his grandmother had acted wrongly towards him, in
never speaking to him of his father, or making known to him that such a
person lived; but when he again saw the house which had been the scene
of a thousand happy days, round which he had chased the gaudy butterfly
and the busy bee, or sought the nest of the chaffinch, the yellowhammer,
and the hedge-sparrow, the feelings of boyhood rose too strong in his
soul for resentment; and on meeting Mr. Sim (his grandfather) as they
approached the door of the house, Charles ran towards him, and,
stretching out his hand, cried, "Father!"
The old man recognised him, and exclaimed, "Charles!--Charles!--child of
my Maria!" and wept.
At the mention of her name, the colonel wept also.
"What gentleman is this with thee, Charles?" inquired Mr. Sim.
"It is _my father!_" was the reply.
Mr. Sim, who was now a grey-haired man, reeled back a few paces--he
raised his hands--he exclaimed, "Can I be forgiven?"
"Forgiven!--ay, doubly forgiven!" answered Colonel Morris, "as the
father of lost, loved Maria, and as having been more than a father to my
boy, who is now by my side. But know you nothing of my other son? My
Maria bore twins."
"Nothing! nothing!" replied Mr. Sim; "that question has cost me many an
anxious thought. It has troubled also the conscience of my wife; for it
was her fault that he also was not committed to my charge; and I would
have inquired after your child long ago, but that there was no good-will
between your father and me; and I was a plain, retired citizen--he a
magistrate, and a justice of the peace for the county, who could do no
wrong."
The colonel groaned.
They proceeded towards the villa together. Mrs. Sim met her grandson
with a flood of tears, and, in her joy at meeting him, she forgot her
dislike to his father and her hatred to that father's family.
The colonel endeavoured to obtain information from his father-in-law
respecting his other son; and he told him all that his mother had said,
of what she had spoken regarding the coachman, and also of what Charles
had told him, in twice meeting one who so strongly resembled himself.
"Colonel," said Mr. Sim, "I know the John Bell your mother speaks of; he
now keeps an inn near Langholm. To-morrow we shall go to his house, and
make inquiry concerning all that he knows."
"Be it so, father," said the colonel. And on the following day they took
a chaise and set out together--the grandfather, the father, and the son.
They had to cross the Annan, and to pass the churchyard where Maria
slept. As they drew near to it, the colonel desired the driver to stop.
"Follow me, Charles," he said; and Mr. Sim accompanied them. They
entered the churchyard; the colonel led them to the humble grave-stone
that he had raised to the memory of his Maria. He sat down upon it, he
pressed his lips to it and wept.
"Charles," said he, "look on your mother's grave. Here, on this stone,
day after day, I was wont to sit with you and your brother upon my knee,
fondling you, breathing your mother's name in your ears; and though
neither of you knew what I said, you smiled as I wept and spoke. Oh
Charles! though you then filled my whole heart (and you do now), I could
only distinguish you from each other by the ribbons on your arms. Would
to Heaven that I may discover my child! and, whatever be his condition,
I shall forgive my father for the injustice he has done me and mine--I
shall be happy. And, oh! should we indeed find your brother--should he
prove to be the youth whom you have twice met--I shall say that Heaven
has remembered me when I forgot myself! But come hither, Charles--come,
kneel upon your mother's grave--kiss the sod where she lies, and angels
will write it in their books, and show it to your mother, where she is
happy. Come, my boy."
Charles knelt on his mother's grave. He had arisen, and they were about
to depart; for his grandfather had accompanied them, and was a silent
but tearful spectator of the scene.
They were leaving the churchyard, joined in the arms of each other, when
two strangers entered it. The one was John Bell, the other George
Prescot.
"Colonel! Colonel! there is John Bell that you spoke of," exclaimed Mr.
Sim.
"Father! father!" at the same instant cried his son, "he is here--it is
him!--my brother--or--he whom I have told you of, who so strangely
resembles me."
Charles rushed forward--it was George Prescot--and he took the proffered
hand of the other, and said, "Sir, I rejoice to meet thee again--it
seems I belong to Cumberland as well as thou dost; and this gentleman
(pointing to John Bell), who seems to know more of me than I do myself,
has promised to show me here my mother's grave!"
"And where is that grave?" cried the colonel earnestly, who had been an
interested spectator of all that passed.
"Even where the wife of your youth is buried, your honour," answered
John Bell; "you have with you one son--behold his twin brother!"
The colonel pressed his new-found son to his breast. With his children
he sat down on the stone over Maria's grave, and they wept together.
Our tale is told. Colonel Morris and his sons had met. His elder
brothers died, and he became the heir of his father's property. Mr. Sim
also stated that, in his will, he should divide his substance equally
between the brothers; and he did so. I have but another word to add.
George forgot not Caroline Paling, who had assisted him when his heart
was full and his pocket empty, and within twelve months he again visited
Dartmouth; but when he returned from it, Caroline accompanied him as his
wife; and when he introduced her to his father and his brother--"Behold,"
said he, "what a halfpenny, delicately tendered, may produce."