It was a lovely morning; a remittance had arrived in the very nick of
time; my two horses were in excellent condition; and I resolved, with a
college chum, to put in execution a long concerted scheme of driving to
London, Tandem. We sent our horses forward, got others at Cambridge, and
tossing Algebra and Anarcharsis “to the dogs” started in high spirits.
We ran up to London in style--went ball-pitch to the play--and after a
quiet breakfast at the St. James’s, set out with my own horses upon a
dashing drive through the west end of the town. We were turning down the
Haymarket, when whom, to my utter horror and consternation, should I
see crossing to meet us, but my old warmhearted, but severe and peppery
uncle, Sir Thomas.
[Illustration: 297]
To escape was impossible.--A cart before, and two carriages behind, made
us stationary; and I mentally resigned all idea of ever succeeding to
his five thousand per annum. Up he came. “What! can I believe my eyes?
George? what the-do you here? Tandem too, by---- (I leave blanks for the
significant accompaniments which dropped from his mouth like pearls, and
rubies in the fairy tale, when he was in a passion.) I have it, thought
I, as an idea crossed my mind which I resolved to follow. I looked
right and left, as if it was not possible it could be me he was
addressing.--“What! you don’t know me, you young dog? Don’t you know
your uncle? Why, Sir, in the name of common sense--Pshaw! you’ve done
with that. Why in ------ name a’nt you at Cambridge?”
“At Cambridge, Sir?” said I. “At Cambridge, Sir,” he repeated,
mimicking my affected astonishment; “why I suppose you never were at
Cambridge!--Oh! you young spendthrift; is this the manner you dispose of
my allowance? Is this the way you read hard? you young profligate, you
young ------ you ------.” Seeing he was getting energetic, I began to
be apprehensive of a _scene_; and resolved to drop the curtain at once,
“Really, Sir,” said I, with as brazen a look as I could summon upon
emergency, “I have not the honour of your acquaintance.” His large eyes
assumed a fixed stare of astonishment. “I must confess you have the
advantage of me. Excuse me; but, to my knowledge, I never saw you
before.”--A torrent, I perceived, was coming.--“Make no apologies, they
are unnecessary. Your next _rencontre_ will, I hope, be more fortunate,
though your finding your country cousin in London is like looking for a
needle in a bundle of hay.--Bye, bye, old buck.” The cart was removed,
and I drove off, yet not without seeing him, in a paroxysm of rage, half
frightful, half ludicrous, toss his hat on the ground, and hearing
him exclaim--“He disowns me! the jackanapes! disowns his own uncle by
------.”
Poor Philip Chichester’s look of amazement at this finished stroke of
impudence is present, at this instant, to my memory. I think I see his
face, which at no time had more expression than a turnip, assume that
air of a pensive simpleton, _d’un mouton qui rêve_, which he so often
and so successfully exhibited over an incomprehensible problem in
“Principia.”
“Well! you’ve done it.--Dished completely. What could induce you to
be such a blockhead?” said he. “The family of the blockheads, my dear
Phil,” I replied, “is far too creditably established in society to
render their alliance disgraceful. I’m proud to belong to so prevailing
a party.”
“Pshaw! this is no time for joking. What’s to be done?”
“Why, when does a man want a joke, Phil, but when he is in trouble?
However, adieu to _badinage_, and hey for Cambridge, instantly.”
“Cambridge?”
“In the twinkling of an eye--not a moment to be lost. My uncle will post
there with four horses instantly; and my only chance of avoiding that
romantic misfortune of being cut off with a shilling, is to be there
before him.”
Without settling the bill at the inn, or making a single arrangement,
we dashed back to Cambridge. Never shall I forget the mental anxiety I
endured on my way there. Every thing was against us. A heavy rain
had fallen in the night, and the roads were wretched, the traces
broke--turnpike gates were shut--droves of sheep and carts impeded our
progress; but in spite of all these obstacles, we reached the college in
less than six hours. “Has Sir Thomas -------- been here?” said I to the
porter, with an agitation I could not conceal. “No, Sir.” Phil “thanked
God, and took courage.”
“If he does, tell him so and so,” said I, giving _veracious_ Thomas his
instructions, and putting a guinea into his hand to sharpen his memory.
“Phil, my dear fellow, don’t shew your face out of college for this
fortnight. You twig! God bless you.”--I had barely time to get to my
own room, to have my toga and trencher beside me, Newton and Aristotle
before me--optics, mechanics, and hydrostatics, strewed around in
learned confusion, when my uncle drove up to the gate.
“Porter, I wish to see Mr. ------,” said he; “is he in his rooms?”
“Yes, Sir; I saw him take a heap of books there ten minutes ago.” This
was not the first bouncer the Essence of Truth, as Thomas was known
through college, had told for me; nor the last he got well paid for.
“Ay! Very likely; reads very hard, I dare say?”
“No doubt of that, I believe, Sir,” said Thomas, as bold as brass.
“You audacious fellow! how dare you look in my face and tell me such a
deliberate falsehood? You know he’s not in college!”
“Not in college! Sir; as I hope----”
“None of your hopes or fears to me. Shew me his rooms.--If two hours ago
I did not see ------. See him,--yes, I’ve seen him, and he’s seen the
last of me.”
He had now reached my rooms; and never shall I forget his look of
astonishment, of amazement bordering on incredulity, when I calmly came
forward, took his hand, and welcomed him to Cambridge. “My dear Sir,
how are you? What lucky wind has blown you here?”--“What George!
who--what--why--I can’t believe my eyes!”--“How happy I am to see you!”
I continued; “How kind of you to come! How well you’re looking!”--“How
people may be deceived! My dear George (speaking rapidly), I met a
fellow, in a tandem, in the Haymarket, so like you in every particular,
that I hailed him at once. The puppy disowned me--affected to cut a
joke--and drove off. Never was I more taken off my stilts. I came down
directly, with four post-horses, to tell your tutor; to tell the master;
to tell all the college, that I would have nothing more to do with you;
that I would be responsible for your debts no longer; to inclose
you fifty pounds and disown you for ever”--My dear Sir, how
singular!”--Singular! I wonder at perjury no longer, for my part. I
would have gone into any court of justice, and would have taken my oath
it was you. I never saw such a likeness. Your father and the fellow’s
mother were acquainted, or I’m mistaken. The air, the height, the voice,
all but the manner, and--that was _not_ yours. No, no, you never would
have treated your uncle so.”--“How rejoiced I am, that--”
“Rejoiced; so am I. I would not but have been undeceived for a thousand
guineas. Nothing but seeing you here so quiet, so studious, surrounded
by problems, would have convinced me. Ecod! I can’t tell you how I was
startled. I had been told some queer stories, to be sure, about your
Cambridge etiquette. I heard that two Cambridge men, one of St. John’s,
the other of Trinity, had met on the top of Vesuvius, and that though
they knew each other by sight and reputation, yet, never having been
formally introduced, like two simpletons, they looked at each other in
silence, and left the mountain separately and without speaking: and that
cracked fellow-commoner, Meadows, had shewn me a caricature, taken from
the life, representing a Cambridge man drowning, and another gownsman
standing on the brink, exclaiming, ‘Oh! that I had had the honour of
being introduced to that man, that I might have taken the liberty of
saving him!’ But,--it, thought I, he never would carry it so far with
his own uncle!--I never heard your father was a gay man,” continued he,
musing; “yet, as you sit in that light, the likeness is--” I moved
instantly--“But it’s impossible, you know, it’s impossible. Come, my
dear fellow, come; I must get some dinner. Who could he be? Never were
two people so like!”
We dined at the inn, and spent the evening together; and instead of the
fifty, the “_last fifty_,” he generously gave me a draft lor three times
the amount. He left Cambridge the next morning and his last words were,
as he entered his carriage, “My brother _was_ a handsome man; and there
_was_ a Lady Somebody, who, the world said was partial to him. She _may_
have a son. Most surprising likeness. God bless you. Read hard, you
young dog; remember. Like as two Brothers!”--I never saw him again.
His death, which happened a few months afterwards, in consequence ol his
being _bit_ in a bet, contracted when he was a “little elevated,” left
me the heir to his fine estate; I wish I could add, to his many and
noble virtues. I do not attempt to palliate deception. It is always
criminal. But, I am sure, no severity, no reprimand, no reproaches,
would have had half the effect which his kindness, his confidence, and
his generosity wrought on me. It reformed me thoroughly, and at once.
I did not see London again till I had graduated: and if my degree was
unaccompanied by brilliant honours, it did not disgrace my uncle’s
liberality or his name. Many years have elapsed since our last
interview; but I never reflect on it without pain and pleasure--pain,
that our last intercourse on earth should have been marked by the
grossest deception; and pleasure, that the serious reflections it
awakened, cured me for ever of all wish to deceive, and made the open
and straightforward path of life.