in the neighbourhood of the village for sale. Mr Donaldson became the
purchaser, and immediately commenced to build _Luck's Lodge, or Lottery
Hall_, which to-day arrested your attention. As you may have seen, it
was built under the direction of no architect but caprice, or a fickle
and uninformed taste. The house was furnished expensively; there were
card-tables and dining-tables, the couch, the sofa, and the harpsichord.
Mrs Donaldson was afraid to touch the furniture, and she thought it
little short of sin to sit upon the hair-bottomed mahogany chairs, which
were studded with brass nails, bright as the stars in the firmament.
Though, however, a harpsichord stood in the dining-room, as yet no music
had issued from the lodge. Sarah had looked at it, and Rebecca had
touched it, and appeared delighted with the sounds she produced; but
even her mother knew that such sounds were not a tune. A dancing-master,
therefore, who at that period was teaching the "five positions" to the
youths and maidens of the village, was engaged to teach dancing and the
mysteries of the harpsichord at the same time to the daughters of Mr.
Donaldson. He had become a great and a rich man in a day; yet the pride
of his heart was not satisfied. His neighbours did not lift their hats
to him, as he had expected; but they passed him, saying, "Here's a fine
day, Andrew!" or, "Weel, Andrew, hoo's a' wi' ye the day?" To such
observations or inquiries he never returned an answer, but with his
silver-mounted cane in his hand stalked proudly on. But this was not
all; for, even in passing through the village, he would hear the women
remark, "There's that silly body Donaldson away past;" or, "There struts
the Lottery Ticket!" These things were wormwood to his spirit, and he
repented that he had built his house in a neighbourhood where he was
known. To be equal with the squire, however, and to mortify his
neighbours the more, he bought a pair of horses and a barouche. He was
long puzzled for a crest and motto with which to emblazon it; and Mrs.
Donaldson suggested that Peter should paint on it a lottery ticket, but
her husband stamped his foot in anger; and at length the coach-painter
furnished it with the head and paws of some unknown animal.
Paul had always been given to books; he now requested to be sent to the
university. His wish was complied with, and he took his departure for
Edinburgh. Peter had always evinced a talent for drawing and painting.
When a boy, he was wont to sketch houses and trees with pieces of chalk,
which his mother declared to be as _natural as life_, and he now took
instructions from a drawing-master. Jacob was ever of an idle turn; and
he at first prevailed upon his father to purchase him a riding-horse,
and afterwards to furnish him with the means of seeing the world. So
Jacob set up gentleman in earnest, and went abroad. Mrs Donaldson was at
home in no part of the house but the kitchen; and in it, notwithstanding
her husband's lectures to remember that she was the wife of Mister
Donaldson, she was generally found.
At the period when her father obtained the prize, Sarah was on the eve
of being united to a respectable young man, a mechanic in the village,
but now she was forbidden to speak or to look on him. The cotton gown
lay lighter on her bosom than did its silken successor. Rebecca mocked
her, and her father persecuted her; but poor Sarah could not cast off
the affections of her heart like a worn garment. From childhood she had
been blithe as the lark, but now dull melancholy claimed her as its own.
The smile and the rose expired upon her cheeks together, and her health
and happiness were crushed beneath her father's wealth. Rebecca, too, in
their poverty had been "respected like the lave," but she now turned
disdainfully from her admirer, and when he dared to accost her, she
inquired with a frown, "Who are you, sir?" In her efforts also to speak
properly, she committed foul murder on his Majesty's English; but she
became the pride of her father's heart, his favourite daughter whom he
delighted to honour.
Still feeling bitterly the want of reverence that was shown him by the
villagers, and resolved at the same time to act as other gentlemen of
fortune did, as winter drew on, Mr. Donaldson removed, with his wife,
and daughters, and his son Peter, to London. They took up their abode at
a hotel in Albemarle Street; and having brought the barouche with them,
every afternoon Mr. Donaldson and his daughter Rebecca drove round the
Park. His dress was rich and his carriage proud, and he lounged about
the most fashionable places of resort; but he was not yet initiated into
the mysteries of fashion and greatness; he was ignorant of the key by
which their chambers were to be unlocked; and it mortified and surprised
him that Andrew Donaldson, Esq., of Luck's Lodge--a gentleman who paid
ready money for everything--received no invitations to the routes, the
assemblies, or tables of the _haut ton_; but he paraded Bond Street, or
sauntered on the Mall, with as little respect shown to him as by his
neighbours in the country. When he had been a month in the metropolis,
he discovered that he had made an omission, and he paid two guineas for
the announcement of his arrival in a morning newspaper. "This will do!"
said he twenty times during breakfast, as he held the paper in his hand,
and twenty times read the announcement--"Arrived at ---- Hotel,
Albemarle Street, A. Donaldson, Esq., of Luck's Lodge, and family, from
their seat in the north." But this did not do; he found it was two
guineas thrown away, but consoled himself with the thought that it would
vex the squire and the people of his native village. With the hope of
becoming familiar with the leading men of the great world, he became a
frequenter of the principal coffee-rooms. At one of these, he shortly
became acquainted with a Captain Edwards, who, as Mr. Donaldson
affirmed, was intimate with all the world, and bowed to and was known by
every nobleman they met. Edwards was one of those creatures who
live--heaven knows how--who are without estates and without fortune, but
who appear in the resorts of fashion as its very mirrors. In a word, he
was one of the hangers-on of the nobility and gentry--one of their
blacklegs and purveyors. Poor Mr. Donaldson thought him the greatest man
he had ever met with. He heard him accost noblemen on the streets in the
_afternoon_ with, "Good _morning_, my lord," and they familiarly
replied, "Ha! Tom! what's the news?" He had borrowed ten, fifty, and a
hundred pounds from his companion; and he had relieved him of a hundred
or two more in teaching him to play at whist; but, vain, simple Mr.
Donaldson never conceived that such a great man and such a fashionable
man could be without money, though he could not be at the trouble to
carry it. Edwards was between thirty and forty years of age, but looked
younger; his hair was black, and tortured into ringlets; his upper lip
was ornamented with thin, curved moustaches; and in his dress he was an
exquisite, or a buck, as they were then called, of the first water. Mr.
Donaldson invited him to his hotel, where he became a daily visitor. He
spoke of his uncle the bishop of such a place, and of his godfather the
earl of another--of his estates in Wales, and the rich advowsons in his
gift. Andrew gloried in his fortune; he was now reaching the _acme_ of
his ambition; he believed there would be no difficulty in getting his
friend to bestow one or more of the benefices, when vacant, upon his son
Paul; and he thought of sending for Paul to leave Edinburgh, and enter
himself of Cambridge. Rebecca displayed all her charms before the
captain; and the captain all his attractions before her. She triumphed
in a conquest; so did he. Mr. Donaldson now also began to give
dinners--and to them Captain Edwards invited the Honourable This, and
Sir That; but in the midst of his own feast he found himself a cipher,
where he was neither looked upon nor regarded, but had to think himself
honoured in honourables eating of the banquet for which he had to pay.
This galled him nearly as much as the perverseness of his neighbours in
the country in not lifting their hats to him; but he feared to notice
it, lest by so doing he should lose the distinction of their society.
From the manner in which his guests treated him, they gave him few
opportunities of betraying his origin; but, indeed, though a vain, he
was not an ignorant man.
While these doings were carrying on in Albemarle-street, Mrs. Donaldson
was, as she herself expressed it, "uneasy as a fish taken from the
water." She said "such ongoings would be her death;" and she almost
wished that the lottery ticket had turned up a blank. Peter was studying
the paintings in Somerset House, and taking lessons in oil-colours;
Rebecca mingled with company, or flaunted with Captain Edwards; but poor
Sarah drooped like a lily that appears before its time, and is bitten by
the returning frost. She wasted away--she died of a withered heart.
For a few weeks her death stemmed the tide of fashionable folly and
extravagance; for, although vanity was the ruling passion of Andrew
Donaldson, it could not altogether extinguish the parent in his heart.
But his wife was inconsolable; for Sarah had been her favourite
daughter, as Rebecca was his. It is a weak and a wicked thing, sir, for
parents to make favourites of one child more than another--good never
comes of it. Peter painted a portrait of his deceased sister from
memory, and sent it to the young man to whom she was betrothed--I say
betrothed, for she had said to him "_I will_," and they had broken a
ring between them; each took a half of it; and, poor thing, her part of
it was found on her breast, in a small bag, when she died. The captain
paid his daily visits--he condoled with Rebecca--and, in a short time,
she began to say it was a silly thing for her sister to die; but she was
a grovelling-minded girl, she had no spirit.
Soon after this, Captain Edwards, in order to cheer Mr. Donaldson,
obtained for him admission to a club, where he introduced him to a needy
peer, who was a sort of half-proprietor of a nomination borough, and had
the sale of the representation of a thousand souls. It was called his
lordship's borough. One of its seats was then vacant, and was in the
market, and his lordship was in want of money. Captain Edwards whispered
the matter to his friend Mr Donaldson. Now, the latter, though a vain
man, and anxious to be thought a fashionable man, was also a shrewd and
a calculating man. His ideas expanded--his ambition fired at the
thought! He imagined he saw the words ANDREW DONALDSON, ESQ., M.P., in
capitals before him. He discovered that he had always had a turn for
politics--he remembered that, when a working man, he had always been too
much in an argument for the _Blacknebs_. He thought of the flaming
speeches he would make in parliament--he had a habit of stamping his
foot (for he thought it dignified), and he did so, and half exclaimed,
"Mr. Speaker!" But he thought also of his family--he sank the idea of
advowsons, and he had no doubt but he might push his son Paul forward
till he saw him prime minister or lord chancellor; Peter's genius, he
thought, was such as to secure his appointment to the Board of Works
whenever he might apply for it; Jacob would make a secretary to a
foreign ambassador; and for Rebecca he provided as a maid of honour.
But, beyond all this, he perceived also that, by writing the letters
M.P. after his name, he would be a greater man than the squire of his
native village, and its inhabitants would then lift their hats to him
when he went down to his seat; or, if they did not, he would know how to
punish them. He would bring in severer bills on the game laws and
against smuggling--he would chastise them with a new turnpike act.
Such were the ideas that passed rapidly through his mind, when his
friend Edwards suggested the possibility of his becoming a Member of
Parliament.
"And how much do ye think it would cost to obtain the seat?" inquired
he, anxiously.
"Oh, only a few thousands," replied the captain.
"How many, think ye?" inquired Mr. Donaldson.
"Can't say exactly," replied the other; "but my friend Mr Borrowbridge,
the solicitor, in Clement's Inn, has the management of the affair--we
shall inquire at him."
So they went to the solicitor; the price agreed upon for the
representation of the borough was five thousand pounds; and the money
was paid.
Mr Donaldson returned to his hotel, his heart swelling within him, and
cutting the figures M.P. in the air with his cane as he went along. A
letter was despatched to Paul at Edinburgh, to write a speech for his
father, which he might deliver on the day of his nomination.
"O father!" exclaimed Paul, as he read the letter, "much money hath made
thee mad."
The speech was written, and forwarded, though reluctantly, by return of
post. It was short, sententious, patriotic.
With the speech in his pocket, Mr. Donaldson, accompanied by his friend
Edwards, posted down to the borough. But, to their horror, on arriving,
they found that a candidate of the opposite party had dared to contest
the borough with the nobleman's nominee, and had commenced his canvass
the day before. But what was worse than all, they were told that he
bleed freely, and his friends were distributing _gooseberries_ right and
left.
"What is the meaning of all this?" said Mr. Donaldson, "have I not paid
for the borough, and is it not mine? I shall punish him for daring to
poach upon my grounds."
And, breaking away from Captain Edwards and his friends, he hurried out
in quest of the mayor, to request advice from him. Nor had he gone far,
till, addressing a person who was employed in thatching a house--
"Holloa, friend!" cried he, "can you inform me where I shall find the
right worshipful the mayor?"
"Whoy, zur!" replied the thatcher, "I be's the mayor!"[3]
[Footnote 3: This picture also is drawn from life.]
Andrew looked at him. "Heaven help us!" thought he, "you the
mayor!--you!--a thatcher!--well may I be a Member of Parliament!" But,
without again addressing his worship, he hastened back to his friends;
and with them he was made sensible, that, although he had given a
consideration for the borough, yet, as opposition had started--as the
power of the patron was not omnipotent--as the other candidate was
bleeding freely--as he was keeping open houses and giving _yellow
gooseberries_--there was nothing for it but that Mr. Donaldson should do
the same.
"But, oh! how much will it require?" again inquired the candidate, in a
tone of anxiety.
"Oh, merely a thousand or two!" again cooly rejoined Captain Edwards.
"A thousand or two!" ejeculated Mr. Donaldson, for his thousands were
becoming few. But, like King Richard, he had "set his fate upon a cast,"
and he "would stand the hazard of the die." As to his landed
qualification, if elected, the patron was to provide for that; and,
after a few words from his friend Edwards, "Richard was himself
again"--his fears vanished--the ocean of his ambition opened before
him--he saw golden prospects for himself and for his family--he could
soon, when elected, redeem a few thousands; and he bled, he opened
houses, he gave gooseberries as his opponent did.
But the great, the eventful, the nomination day arrived. Mr.
Donaldson--Andrew Donaldson, the labourer that was--stood forward to
make his speech--the speech that his son Paul, student in the University
of Edinburgh, had written. He got through the first sentence, in the
tone and after the manner of the village clergyman, whom he had attended
for forty years; but there he stuck fast; and of all his son Paul had
written--short, sententious, patriotic as it was--he remembered not a
single word. But, though gravelled from forgetfulness of his son's
matter, and though he stammered, hesitated, and tried to recollect
himself for a few moments, he had too high an idea of his own
consequence to stand completely still. No man who has a consequential
idea of his own abilities will ever positively stick in a speech. I
remember an old schoolmaster of mine used to say, that a public speaker
should regard his audience as so many cabbage-stocks.[4] But he had
never been a public speaker, or he would have said no such thing, Such
an advice may do very well for a precentor to a congregation; but, as
regards an orator addressing a multitude, it is a different matter. No,
sir; the man who speaks in public must neither forget his audience nor
overlook them; he must regard them as his _equals_, but none of them as
his _superiors_ in intellect; he should regard every man of them as
capable of understanding and appreciating what he may say; and, in order
to make himself understood, he should endeavour to bring his language
and his imagery down to every capacity, rather than permit them to go on
stilts or to take wings. Some silly people imagine that what they call
fine language, flowery sentences, and splendid metaphors, are oratory.
Stuff!--stuff! Where do you find them in the orations of the immortal
orators of Greece or Rome? They used the proper language--they used
effective language--
"Thoughts that breathed and words that burn'd;"
but they knew that the key of eloquence must be applied not to the head
but to the heart. But, sir, I digress from the speech of Mr. Donaldson.
(Pardon me--I am in the habit of illustrating to my boys, and
dissertation is my fault, or rather I should say my habit.) Well, sir,
as I have said, he stuck fast in the speech which his son had written;
but, as I have also said, he had too high an opinion of himself to stand
long without saying something. When left to himself, in what he did say,
I am afraid he "betrayed his birth and breeding;" for there was loud
laughter in the hall, and cries of _hear him! hear him!_ But the poll
commenced; the other candidate brought voters from five hundred miles'
distance--from east, west, north, and south--from Scotland, Ireland and
the Continent. He polled a vote at every three proclamations, when Mr.
Donaldson had no more to bring forward; and on the fourteenth day he
defeated him by a majority of ONE! The right worshipful thatcher
declared that the election had fallen on the opposing candidate. The
people also said that he had spent most money, and that it was right the
election should fall on the best man. He, in truth, had spent more in
the contest than Andrew Donaldson had won by his lottery ticket. The
feelings of Mr. Donaldson on the loss of his election were the agonies
of extreme dispair. In the height of his misery he mentioned to his
_introducer_, Captain Edwards--or rather I should call him his
_traducer_--that he was a ruined man; that he had lost his all. The
captain laughed and left the room. He seemed to have left the town also;
for his victim did not meet with him again.
[Footnote 4: This, I believe, was the advice to his students of a late
professor in the University of Edinburgh.]
In a state bordering on frenzy, he returned to London. He reached the
hotel--he rushed into the room where his wife, his son, and his daughter
sat. With a confused and hurried step he paced to and fro across the
floor, wringing his hands, and ever and anon exclaiming, bitterly--
"Lost Andrew Donaldson!--Ruined Andrew Donaldson!"
His son Peter, who took the matter calmly, and who believed that the
extent of the loss was the loss of the election, carefully surveyed his
father's attitudes and the expression of his countenance, and thought
the scene before him would make an admirable subject for a picture--the
piece to be entitled, "_The Unsuccessful Candidate_." "It will help to
make good his loss," thought Peter, "provided he will sit."
"Oh dearsake, Andrew! Andrew!--what is't?" cried Mrs. Donaldson.
"Lost! lost! ruined Andrew Donaldson!" replied her husband.
"Oh, where is the Captain?--where is Edwards? Why is he not here?" asked
Rebecca.
"The foul fiend?" exclaimed her father.
"O Andrew, man--speak! Andrew, jewel--what is't?" added his wife; "if it
be only the loss o' siller, Heaven be praised! for I've neither had
peace nor comfort since ye got it."
"_Only_ the loss!" cried he, turning upon her like a fury--"only the
loss!" Agony and passion stopped his utterance.
Mr Donaldson was in truth a ruined man. Of the fifteen thousand which he
had obtained, not three hundred, exclusive of Lottery Hall, and the
twenty acres around it, were left. His career had been a brief and a
fashionable one. On the following day, his son Jacob returned from
abroad. Within twelve months he had cost his father a thousand pounds;
and, in exchange for the money spent, he brought home with him all the
vices he had met with on his route. But I blame not Jacob: his betters,
the learned and the noble, do the same. Poor fellow! he was sent upon
the world with a rough garment round his shoulders, which gathered up
all the dust that blew, and retained a portion of all the filth with
which it came in contact; but polished substances would not adhere to
it.
Captain Edwards returned no more to the hotel. He had given the last
lesson to his scholar in the science of fashion; he had extorted from
him the last fee he could spare. He had gauged the neck of his purse,
and he forsook him--in his debt he forsook him. Poor Rebecca! day after
day, she inquired after the captain--the captain! Lost, degraded,
wretched Rebecca! But I will say no more of her. She became as dead
while she yet lived--the confiding victim of a villain!
The barouche, the horses, the trinkets that deformed Mrs. Donaldson,
with a piano that had been bought for Rebecca, were sold, and Andrew
Donaldson, with his family, left London, and proceeded to Lottery Hall.
But there, though he endeavoured to carry his head high, though he still
walked with his silver cane, and though he was known (and he took care
to make it known) that he had polled within one of being a Member of
Parliament--still the squire did not acknowledge him--his old
acquaintances did not lift their hats to him--but all seemed certain
that he was coming down "_by the run_" (I think that was the slang or
provincial phrase they used) to his old level. They perceived that he
kept no horses now, save one to work the twenty acres around the lodge;
for he had ploughed up, and sown with barley, and let out as potato
ground, what he at first had laid out as a park. This spoke volumes.
They also saw that he had parted with his coach, that he kept but one
servant, and that servant told tales in the village. He was laughed at
by his neighbours and those who had been his fellow-labourers; and with
a sardonic chuckle they were wont to speak of his house as "_the Member
o' Parliament's_." I have said that I would say no more of poor Rebecca;
but the tongues of the women in the village dwelt also on her. She died,
and in the same hour died also a new-born child of the villain Edwards.
Peter had left his father's house, and commenced the profession of an
artist, in a town about twenty miles from this. Mr. Donaldson was now
humbled. It was his intention with the sorry remnant of his fortune, to
take a farm for Jacob; but, oh! Jacob had bathed in a sea of vice, and
the bitter waters of adversity could not wash out the pollution it had
left behind it. Into his native village he carried the habits he had
acquired or witnessed beneath the cerulean skies of Italy, or amidst the
dark-eyed daughters of France. Shame followed his footsteps. Yea,
although the squire despised Mr. Donaldson, his son, a youth of
nineteen, became the boon companion of Jacob. They held midnight orgies
together. Jacob initiated the squireling into the mysteries of Paris and
Rome, of Naples and Munich, whither he was about to proceed. But I will
not dwell upon their short career. Extravagance attended it, shame and
tears followed it.
Andrew Donaldson no longer possessed the means of upholding his son in
folly and wickedness. He urged him to settle in the world--to take a
farm while he had the power left of placing him in it; but Jacob's sins
pursued him. He fled from his father's house, and enlisted in a marching
regiment about to embark for the East Indies. No more was heard of him
for many years, until a letter arrived from one of his comrades,
announcing that he had fallen at Corunna.