introduced me, was an agreeable and well-informed man. About a mile
before us lay a village in which I intended to take up my quarters for
the night, and near the village was a house of considerable dimensions,
the appearance of which it would puzzle me to describe. The architect
had evidently set all orders at defiance; it was a mixture of the castle
and the cottage--a heap of stones confusedly put together. Around it was
a quantity of trees--poplars and Scotch firs; and they appeared to have
been planted as promiscuously as the house was built. Its appearance
excited my curiosity, and I inquired of my companion what it was called,
or to whom it belonged.
"Why, sir," said he, "people generally call it LOTTERY HALL; but the
original proprietor intended that it should have been named LUCK'S
LODGE. There is rather an interesting story connected with it, if you
had time to hear it."
"If the story be as amusing as the appearance of the house," added I,
"and you have time to tell it, I shall take time to hear it."
I discovered that my friend with the silver-mounted spectacles kept what
he termed an "Establishment for Young Gentlemen" in the
neighbourhood--that being the modernised appellation for a
boarding-school; though, judging from his appearance, I did not suppose
his establishment to be over-filled; and having informed him that I
intended to remain for the night at the village inn, I requested him to
accompany me, where, after I had made obeisance to a supper--which was a
duty that a walk of forty miles strongly prompted me to perform--I
should, "enjoying mine ease" like the good old bishop, gladly hear his
tale of Lottery Hall.
Therefore, having reached the inn, and partaken of supper and a glass
together, after priming each nostril with a separate pinch from the box
aforesaid, he thus began:--
Thirty years ago, there dwelt within this village a man named Andrew
Donaldson. He was merely a day-labourer upon the estate of the squire to
whom the village belongs; but he was a singular man in many respects,
and one whose character very few were able to comprehend. You will be
surprised when I inform you that the desire to become a MAN OF FASHION
haunted this poor day-labourer like his shadow in the sun. It was the
disease of his mind. Now, sir, before proceeding with my story, I shall
make a few observations on this plaything and ruler of the world called
Fashion. I would describe Fashion to be a deformed little monster with a
chameleon skin, bestriding the shoulders of public opinion. Though weak
in itself, it has gradually usurped a degree of power that is well-nigh
irresistible; and this tyranny prevails, in various forms, but with
equal cruelty, over the whole habitable earth. Like a rushing stream, it
bears along all ranks and conditions of men, all avocations and
professions, and often principles. Fashion is withal a notable courtier,
bowing to the strong, and flattering the powerful. Fashion is a mere
whim, a conceit, a foible, a toy, a folly; and withal an idol whose
worshippers are universal. Wherever introduced, it generally assumes the
familiar name of Habit; and many of your great and philosophical men,
and certain ill-natured old women, who appear at parties in their
wedding-gowns, and despise the very name of Fashion, are each the slaves
of sundry habits which once bore the appellation. Should Fashion miss
the skirts of a man's coat, it is certain of seizing him by the beard.
It is humiliating to the dignity of immortal beings, possessed of
capabilities the extent of which is yet unknown, to confess that many of
them, professing to be Christians, Jews, Mahometans, or Pagans, are
merely the followers in the stream of Fashion; and are Christians or
Jews simply because such a religion was after the fashion of their
fathers or country. During the present century, it has been the cause of
much infidelity and free-thinking; or, rather, as is more frequently the
case with its votaries, of _no thinking_. This arose from wisdom and
learning being the fashion; and a vast number of brainless people--who
could neither be out of the service of their idol, nor yet endure the
plodding labour and severe study necessary for the acquiring of wisdom
and learning, and many of them not even possessing the requisite
abilities--in order to be thought at once wise men and philosophers,
they pronounced religion to be a cheat, futurity a bugbear, and
themselves organic clods. Fashion, indeed, is as capricious as it is
tyrannical; with one man it plays the infidel, and with another it runs
the gauntlet of Bible and missionary meetings or benevolent societies.
It is like the Emperor of Austria--a compound of intolerable evil and
much good. It attempts to penetrate the mysteries of metaphysics; and it
mocks the calculations of the most sagacious chancellor of the
exchequer. At the nod of Fashion, ladies change their gloves; and the
children of the glove-makers of Worcester go without dinners. At its
call they took the shining buckles from their shoes, and they walked in
the laced boot, the sandalled slipper, or the tied shoe. Individually,
it seemed a small matter whether shoes were fastened with a buckle or
with riband; but the small-ware manufacturers found a new harvest, while
the buckle-makers of Birmingham and their families, in thousands, were
driven through the country, to beg, to steal, to coin, to perish. This
was the work of Fashion; and its effects are similar to the present
hour. If the cloak drive the shawl from the promenade, Paisley and
Bolton may go in sackcloth. Here I may observe that the cry of distress
is frequently raised against _bad government_, assuming it to be the
cause; when fickle Fashion has alone produced the injury. In such a
matter, government was unable to prevent, and is unable to
relieve--Fashion defying all its enactments, and the ladies being the
sole governors in the case. For, although the world rules man and his
business, and Fashion is the ruler of the world, yet the ladies, though
the most devoted of its servants, are at the same time the rulers of
Fashion. This last assertion may seem a contradiction, but it is not the
less true. With simplicity and the graces, Fashion has seldom exhibited
any inclination to cultivate an acquaintance. Now, the ladies being, in
their very nature, form, and feature, the living representatives of
these virtues, I am the more surprised that they should be the especial
patrons of Fashion, seeing that its efforts are more directed to conceal
a defect, by making it more deformed, than to lend a charm to elegance,
or an adornment to beauty. The lady of fortune follows the tide of
Fashion, till she and her husband are within sight of the shores of
poverty. The portionless, or the poorly-portioned, maiden presses on in
its wake, till she find herself immured in the everlasting garret of an
old maid. The well-dressed woman every man admires--the fashionable
woman every man fears. Then comes the animal of the male kind, whose
coat is cut, whose hair is curled, and his very cravat tied according to
the fashion. Away with such shreds and patches of effeminacy! But the
fashion for which Andrew Donaldson, the day-labourer, sighed aimed at
higher things than this. It grieved him that he was not a better-dressed
man and a greater man than the squire on whose estate he earned his
daily bread. He was a hard and severe man in his own house: at his frown
his wife was submissive, and his children trembled. His family consisted
of his wife; three sons, Paul, Peter, and Jacob; and two daughters,
Sarah and Rebecca. Though all scriptural names, they had all been so
called after his own relations. His earnings did not exceed eight or
nine shillings a-week; but even out of this sum he did not permit the
one-half to go to the support of his family--and that half was doled out
most reluctantly, penny by penny. For twenty years, he had never
intrusted his wife with the management or the keeping of a single
sixpence. With her, of a verity, money was but a _sight_, and that
generally in the smallest coins of the realm. She seldom had an
opportunity of contemplating the gracious countenance of His Majesty;
and when she had, it was invariably upon copper. If she needed but a
penny to complete the cooking of a dinner, the children had to run for
it to the fields, the quarry, or the hedge-side, where their father
might be at work; and then it was given with a lecture against their
mother's extravagance! Extravagance indeed! to support seven mouths for
a week out of five shillings! I have spoken of dinners, and I should
tell you that bread was seen in the house but once a-day, and that only
of the coarsest kind. Potatoes were the staple commodity, and necessity
taught Mrs Donaldson to cook them in twenty different ways; and,
although butcher meat was never seen beneath Andrew's roof, with the
exception of pork of their own feeding, in a very small portion, once
a-week, yet the kindness of the cook in the squire's family, who
occasionally presented her with a jar of _kitchen-fee_, enabled her to
dish up her potatoes in modes as various and palatable to the hungry as
they were creditable to her own ingenuity and frugality. Andrew was a
man of no expensive habits himself; he had never been known to spend a
penny upon liquor of any kind but once, and that was at the christening
of his youngest child, who was baptised in the house; when, it being a
cold and stormy night, and the minister having far to ride, and withal
being labouring under a cold, he said he would thank Andrew for a glass
of spirits. The frugal father thought the last born of his flock had
made an expensive entry into existence; but, handing twopence to his son
Paul, he desired him to bring a glass of spirits to his reverence. The
spirits were brought in a milk-pot; but a milk-pot was an unsightly and
an unseemly vessel out of which to ask a minister to drink. The only
piece of crystal in the house was a footless wine-glass, out of which a
grey linnet drank, and there was no alternative but to take it from the
cage, clean it, pour the spirits into it, and hand it, bottomless as it
was, to the clergyman--and this was done accordingly. For twenty years,
this was all that Andrew Donaldson was known to have spent on ale, wine,
or spirits; and as, from the period that his children had been able to
work, he had not contributed a single sixpence of his earnings towards
the maintenance of his house, it was generally believed that he could
not be worth less than two or three hundred pounds. Where he kept his
money, however, or who was his banker, no one could tell. Some believed
that he was saving in order to emigrate to Canada, and purchase land;
but this was only a surmise. For weeks and months he was frequently wont
to manifest the deepest anxiety. His impatience was piteous to behold;
but why he was anxious and impatient no one could tell. These fits of
anxiety were as frequently succeeded by others of the deepest
despondency; and during both, his wife and children feared to look in
his face, to speak or move in his presence. As his despondency was wont
to wear away, his penuriousness in the same degree increased; and at
such periods a penny for the most necessary purpose was obstinately
refused.
Such were the life and habits of Andrew Donaldson, until his son Paul,
who was the eldest of his family, had attained the age of
three-and-twenty, and his daughter Rebecca, the youngest, was seventeen,
when, on a Saturday evening, he returned from the market-town, so
changed, so elated (though evidently not with strong drink), so kind, so
happy, and withal so proud, that his wife and his sons and daughters
marvelled, and looked at each other with wonder. He walked backward and
forward across the floor, with his arms crossed upon his breast, his
head thrown back, yea, he stalked with the majestic stride of a
stage-king in a tragedy. He took the fragment of a mirror, which, being
fastened in pieces of parchment, hung against the wall, and endeavoured,
as he best might, and as its size and its half-triangular, half-circular
form would admit, to survey himself from head to foot. His family gazed
at him and at each other with increased astonishment.
"The man's possessed!" whispered Mrs Donaldson, in terror.
He thrust his hand into his pocket, he drew out a quantity of silver.
"Go, _Miss_ Rebecca," said he, "and order John Bell of the King's Head
to send Mister Donaldson a bottle of brandy and a bottle of his best
wine, instantly."
His wife gave a sort of scream, his children started to their feet.
"Go!" said he, stamping his foot, and placing the money in her
hand--"go! I order you."
They knew his temper, that he was not to be thwarted, and Rebecca
obeyed. He continued to walk across the floor with the same stride of
importance; he addressed his sons as Master Donaldson, Master Peter, and
Master Jacob; and Sarah, who was the best of the family, as Miss
Donaldson. He walked up to his wife, and, with a degree of kindness,
such as his family had never witnessed before, he clapped her on the
shoulder, and said--
"Catherine, you know the proverb, that 'they who look for a silk gown
always get a sleeve o't'--I have long looked for one to you, and now
"I'll mak ye lady o' them a'!"
And, in his own unmusical way, he sang a line or two from the "Lass o'
Gowrie."
Poor Mrs Donaldson trembled from the crown of the head to the sole of
the foot. Her looks plainly told that she feared her husband had "gone
beside himself." He resumed his march across the floor, stately as an
admiral on the quarterdeck, when Rebecca entered with the brandy and the
wine.
"What!" said he, again, stamping his foot, "did I not _order_ you to
_order_ John Bell to _send_ the bottles?"
Rebecca shook--but he took them from her hand, and ordered her to bring
the glasses! I have already noticed the paucity of glass vessels at
Rebecca's baptism. They were not more numerous now; and even the
footless glass, out of which the linnet drank, had long ago, with the
linnet, gone the way of all flesh and of all glass; and Rebecca placed a
white teacup, scored and seamed with age (there were but four in the
house), upon the table.
"What! a cup! a cup!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot more vehemently
than before; "did I not _order_ you to bring _glasses_! Me!--me!--Mister
Donaldson drink wine out of a teacup!" And he dashed the cup behind the
fire.
"O Paul! Paul!" cried Mrs Donaldson, addressing her first-born, "is yer
faither crazed!--will ye no haud him!--shall we send for the doctor, a
strait-jacket, or the minister?"
Paul was puzzled: his father did not exactly seem mad; but his conduct,
his extravagance, was so unlike anything he had ever seen in him before,
that he was troubled on his account, and he rose to reason with him.
"Keep your seat, Master Donaldson," said his father, with the dignity of
a duke--"keep your seat, sir; your father is not mad, but before a week
go round, the best hat in the village shall be lifted to him."
Paul knew not what to think; but he had been taught to fear and to obey
his father, and he obeyed him now. Andrew again handed money to his
daughter, and ordered her to go and purchase six tumblers and six
wine-glasses. Mrs Donaldson wrung her hands; she no longer doubted that
her husband was "beside himself." The crystal, however, was brought, the
wine and the brandy were sent round, and the day-labourer made merry
with his children.
On the Monday following, he went not out into the fields to his work as
usual; but arraying himself in his Sunday attire, he took leave of his
family, saying he would be absent for a week. This was as unaccountable
as his sending for the wine, the brandy, and the crystal, for no man
attended his employment more faithfully than Andrew Donaldson. For
twenty years he had never been absent from his work a single day,
Sundays and Fast-days alone excepted. His children communed together,
and his wife shed tears; she was certain that something had gone wrong
about his head; yet, strange as his actions were, his conversation was
rational; and though still imperious, he manifested more affection for
them all than he had ever done before. They did not dare to question him
as to the change that had come over him, or whither he was going; for at
all times his mildest answer to all inquiries was, that "fools and
bairns should never see things half done." He departed, therefore,
without telling why or whither, simply intimating that he would return
within seven days, leaving his family in distress and bewilderment.
Sunday came, but no tidings were heard regarding him. With much
heaviness of heart and anxiety of spirit, his sons and daughters
proceeded to the church; and while they, with others, yet stood in
groups around the church-yard, a stranger gentleman entered. His step
was slow and soldier-like. He carried a silken umbrella to screen
himself from the sun, for they were then but little used as a protection
from rain; few had at that time discovered that they could be so
applied. His head was covered with a hat of the most fashionable shape.
His hair was thickly powdered, and gathered up behind in a _queue_. His
coat, his vest, his breeches, were of silken velvet, and the colour
thereof was the kingly purple--moreover, the knees of the last-mentioned
article were fastened with silver buckles, which shone as stars as the
sun fell upon them. His stockings also were of silk, white as the driven
snow; and partly covering these, he wore a pair of boots of the kind
called Hessian. In his left hand, as I have said, he carried an
umbrella, and in his right he bore a silver-mounted cane.[2]
[Footnote 2: To some this picture may appear exaggerated, but many
readers of these Tales will recognise in it a faithful portraiture of
the original.]
The people gazed with wonder as the stranger paced slowly along the
footpath; and, as he approached the door, the sexton lifted his hat,
bowed, and walking before him, conducted him to the squire's pew. The
gentleman sat down; he placed his umbrella between his knees, his cane
by his side, and from his pocket he drew out a silver snuff-box, and a
Bible in two volumes, bound in crimson-coloured morocco. As the
congregation began to assemble, some looked at the stranger in the
squire's seat with wonder. All thought his face was familiar to them. On
the countenances of some there was a smile; and from divers parts of the
church there issued sounds like the tittering of suppressed laughter.
Amongst those who gazed on him were the sons and daughters of Andrew
Donaldson. Their cheeks alternately became red, pale, hot, and
cold. Their eyes were in a dream, and poor Sarah's head fell, as
though she had fainted away, upon the shoulder of her brother Paul.
Peter looked at Jacob, and Rebecca hung her head. But the squire
and his family entered. They reached the pew--he bowed to the
stranger--gazed--started--frowned--ushered his family rudely past him,
and beckoned for the gentleman to leave the pew. In the purple-robed
stranger he recognised his own field-labourer, Andrew Donaldson! Andrew,
however, kept his seat, and looked haughty and unmoved. But the service
began--the preacher looked often to the pew of the squire, and at length
he too seemed to make the discovery, for he paused for a full
half-minute in the middle of his sermon, gazed at the purple coat, and
all the congregation gazed with him, and breaking from his subject, he
commenced a lecture against the wickedness of pride and vanity.
The service being concluded, the sons and daughters of Andrew Donaldson
proceeded home, with as many eyes fixed upon them as upon their father's
purple coat. They were confounded and unhappy beyond the power of words
to picture their feelings. They communicated to their mother all that
they had seen. She, good soul, was more distressed than even they were,
and she sat down and wept for "her poor Andrew." He came not; and Paul,
Peter, and Jacob were about to go in quest of him--and they now thought
in earnest of a strait-waistcoat--when John Bell's waiter of the King's
Head entered, and presenting Mr Donaldson's compliments, requested them
to come and dine with him. Wife, sons, and daughters were petrified!
"Puir man!" said Mrs Donaldson, and tears forbade her to say more.
"Oh! my father! my puir father!" cried Sarah.
"He does not seem to be poor," answered the waiter.
"What in the world can hae put him sae?" said Jacob.
"We maun try to soothe and humour him," added Paul.
The whole family, therefore, though ashamed to be seen in the village,
went to the King's Head together. They were ushered into a room, in the
midst of which stood Andrew, with divers trunks or boxes around him. His
wife screamed, as she beheld his transformation; and, clasping her hands
together, she cried, "O Andrew!"
"Catherine," said he, "ye must understand that ye are a lady now, and ye
must not call me Andrew, but Mister Donaldson."
"A leddy!" exclaimed she, in a tone of mingled fear and astonishment--"O
dear! what does the man mean! Bairns! bairns! can nane o' ye bring yer
faither to reason!"
"It is you that requires to be brought to reason, Mrs Donaldson," said
he; "but now since I see that ye are all upon the rack, I'll put ye at
your wits' end. I am sensible that baith you and our neighbours have
always considered me in the light of a miser. But neither you nor them
knew my motive for saving. It has ever been my desire to become the
richest, the greatest, and the most respectable man in the parish. But,
though you may think that I have pinched the stomach, and wasted
nothing on the back, this I knew I never could become out of the savings
of nine shillings a-week. Yet, night and day, I hoped, prayed, and
believed, that it would be accomplished--and it is accomplished!--yes, I
repeat, it is accomplished."
"Oh help us!--help us?--what's to be dune wi' him?" cried Mrs Donaldson.
"Will ye speak sae that we can understand ye, faither?" said Paul.
"Well, then," replied Andrew, "for twenty years have I purchased shares
in the lotteries, and twenty times did I get nothing but blanks--but I
have got it at last!--I have got it at last!"
"What have you got, Andrew?" inquired Mrs Donaldson, eagerly, whose eyes
were beginning to be opened.
"What have ye got, faither?" exclaimed Rebecca, breathlessly, who
possessed no small portion of her father's pride; "how muckle
is't?--will we can keep a coach?"
"Ay, and a coachman, too!" answered he, with an air of triumphant pride;
"I have got the half of a _thirty thousand_!"
"The like o' that!" said Mrs Donaldson, raising her hands.
"A coach!" repeated Rebecca, surveying her face in a mirror.
Sarah looked surprised, but said nothing.
"Fifteen thousand pounds!" said Peter.
"Fifteen thousand!" responded Jacob.
Paul was thoughtful.
"Now," added Andrew, opening the boxes around him, "go each of you cast
off the sackcloth which now covers you, and in these you will find
garments such as it becomes the family of Andrew Donaldson, Esquire, to
wear."
They obeyed his commands; and, casting aside their home-made cloth and
cotton gowns, they appeared before him in the raiment which he had
provided for them. The gowns were of silk, the coats of the finest
Saxony, the waistcoats Marseilles. Mrs Donaldson's dress sat upon her
awkwardly--the waist was out of its place, she seemed at a loss what to
do with her arms, and altogether she appeared to feel as though the gown
were too fine to sit upon. Sarah was neat, though not neater than she
was in the dress of printed cotton which she had cast off; but Rebecca
was transformed into the fine lady in a moment, and she tossed her head
with the air of a duchess. The sleeves of Paul's coat were too short,
Peter's vest would admit of but one button, and Jacob's trousers were
deficient in length. Nevertheless, great was the outward change upon the
family of Andrew Donaldson, and they gazed upon each other in wonder, as
they would have stared at an exhibition of strange animals.