He that is born is listed. Life is war.
YOUNG’S NIGHT THOUGHTS.
Clare Abbey was sold, and sold well; which was a satisfaction to Mr.
De Grey’s creditors, though it was of no advantage to him. It was
bidden for and eagerly purchased by a gentleman of large property in
the county, whose house was inadequate to the size of his estates,
and who had often contemplated the antique beauty of the house,
grounds, and park of Clare Abbey (speaking as they did of an ancient
family and a far descent), with the eyes of hopeless envy. The sale
was a private one; the house was not dismantled; pictures, books,
furniture, with few exceptions, everything was sold. Mr. De Grey,
with his family and household, departed in the month of September,
and in the month of October his successor, with his family and
household, took possession of the Abbey. There was little noise or
conversation on the subject. The change was so quietly made, that
few remembered how, in that change, the hopes of a young life were
shattered, and a young man’s buoyant heart was saddened for ever.
“Oh, mamma! what a pretty, pretty place!” said a lovely little girl
of about six years old, springing up in the barouche, which was
conveying the new family to their new abode.
“So it is, Camilla;” and Lady Vere, for the first time indolently
raised her veil and looked around her. “What a fine avenue! I wonder
how many trees there are. I dare say there are fifty.”
“Fifty! my lady,” said the nurse, “there must be three hundred at the
very least.”
“Dear, you don’t say so?” and Lady Vere opened her beautiful eyes.
“What a quantity!”
“Oh, Reginald! isn’t it pretty?” said the little girl, springing up
again, as they came in sight of the house. “What a nice garden, and
what nice grass, and what nice bushes! Oh, Reginald! a’n’t you glad
that we are coming to live here?”
“You always like everything new, Camilla,” said the boy, coldly; and
there was a cloud on his brow.
“Sit still, Camilla; you rumple all my silk,” remarked her mother.
The carriage stopped. Camilla was lifted from the carriage, and the
brother followed her.
“Oh, Reginald, pigeons!” she screamed; and, seizing her brother’s
hand, she scampered off into the stables, from whence she had
observed the top of a pigeon-house. He stood by her side in silence,
neither joining in, nor noticing, the screams of delight with which
she watched and endeavoured to seize the pigeons that were picking up
the grain around her.
“Miss St. Maur! Miss St. Maur! come back directly;” called the fat
nurse, waddling towards the place where they stood. “Your mamma
never does allow the stableyard, as you know very well.”
“But I _must_ look at the pigeons, nurse. Look there! look there!”
clapping her hands, and screaming, as seven or eight flew together,
with one movement and one sound, to the top of the pigeon-house. “Oh,
nurse, what a nice place this is! how glad I am papa bought it. I
like it fifty times better than our stupid old house.”
“And in a week, Camilla, you will be wishing for a new one again,”
Reginald said, still gravely.
“And if I do,” replied the child, looking wistfully up in his face,
“what does it matter? Why shouldn’t I wish, and what is it that makes
you cross to-night, Reginald?”
“I’m not cross,” he said, with an emphasis on the word.
“Now, Mr. St. Maur, do you please to take Miss St. Maur into the
garden. Here comes the carriage, and the stablemen, and the servants,
and it isn’t at all a proper place for a young lady.”
“I’m not a young lady, nurse, and I won’t be a young lady. But I’ll
go into the garden with Reginald, if he likes it better, and if he
will play with me there. Come along,” seizing his hand; “do come
along; and goodbye you pretty pigeons till to-morrow.”
But when they reached the garden, Reginald was as indisposed for play
as he had been before. He sate down on a garden-seat, looking about
him with an air of grave contemplation, while the child flew from
bed to bed, from bush to bush, from vista to vista, in an ecstasy of
delight. She came at last,--her bonnet thrown back, her long curls
floating, her cheeks crimson,--and threw herself at her brother’s
feet.
“Oh, Reginald! what _do_ you sit here for, and what _is_ the matter,
you silly, silly boy?”
“I was thinking of the people who are gone away, Camilla.”
“What people?” and she looked up eagerly in his face.
“Didn’t you hear what Margaret was telling me last night, about the
lady and the boy who used to live here?”
“No, I didn’t. What sort of a boy? was he as big as you?”
“I don’t know. Margaret said a boy; and she said he was fonder of
this place than ever you can be, Camilla, and that it had quite
broken his heart to leave it. I know she made me wish never to come
near the place.”
“How does a heart break, Reginald? Does it crack?”
“I don’t know what it does; but I feel what she means by it. She said
he had everything in the world that he could wish for; and such a
pony, that knew him, and ate out of his hand; and all the people so
fond of him, that when he went, everybody was crying, she said, as if
they had lost a child....”
“Then, what a silly boy to go,” Camilla said, emphatically.
“But he couldn’t help it. Margaret said they were too poor to live
here any longer, and that the boy must go and learn to earn his
bread.”
“What is, to earn his bread?”
“To work, I suppose, Camilla; not to play any more.”
“Oh, poor, poor boy!” she said, pityingly.
“I should not mind the working, Camilla; but the going away and never
coming back; and leaving all his things, his dogs, and his pony,
and....”
“Oh, look, look at the pigeons!” screamed Camilla, jumping up and
running along the lawn, while the pigeons flew over her head.
“I wish we never had left Evesham,” said Reginald, gloomily, as she
rejoined him; “I never shall feel at home here. I feel as if I was
taking the boy’s things.”
“I dare say he has got a prettier place, as we have,” suggested
Camilla, consolingly.
“No, he hasn’t. He’s gone to London, to live in a dirty street.”
“Oh! I wish we could go to London, too. Mamma says they have such
pretty things--such dogs, and horses, and dolls, and tea-things. What
a happy boy to go to London!”
_Was_ Ernest De Grey happy in London? In answer to some such
question regarding one of his heroines, Walter Scott has beautifully
answered: “Reader, she _was_ happy; for, whatever may be alleged to
the contrary, by the scorner and the sceptic, to each duty performed
there is assigned a degree of mental peace, and high consciousness
of honourable exertion, corresponding to the difficulty of the
task accomplished. That rest of the body which succeeds to hard
and industrious toil, is not to be compared to the repose which
the spirit enjoys under similar circumstances.” The truth of this
passage few will be disposed to doubt; and yet I am bound to say,
that it was not perfectly exemplified in the case of Ernest de Grey.
He had behaved most nobly. To his father, to his mother,--in all the
painful tasks that were assigned him, without a word of murmur or
repining--he had shown the same generous, dutiful disposition, which
had characterized his childish years. He did not think of himself; he
spoke little of the past, cheerfully of the present, hopefully of
the future; and after the evening of the first announcement, even his
mother’s eyes failed to read how deeply the sacrifice was felt. But
when the excitement was over, and they were established in a small
house, in one of those dull, uniform streets beyond the gay-looking
world of Belgravia, his spirits and his resolution began to sink.
He was too young, perhaps, to feel in its full force the blessing
which the peace of an approving conscience brings, too restless with
regrets for the past, and dreams of the future, to feel _peace_, in
thoughts of peace of any kind. He could, as many can, heroically
submit to one great trial; but he failed, as many fail, in the
smaller trials of everyday existence.
Accustomed to the freedom of a country life, fond of all sports and
active amusements, his spirit began to rebel against the imprisonment
of London. He could have borne it, however, and borne it well, if
there had been a prospect of future release; but one word, which
once inadvertently had fallen from his father’s lips, haunted his
imagination and oppressed his spirits night and day. That one word
was _clerk_. To be tied to a desk in London for ever!--every feeling
within him revolted from such a destiny. And yet perhaps even to
this he would have taught himself to submit, if it had not been for
the sudden reawakening of an old fancy, after a slumber of many
years. Superseded by the love of his home, suppressed by the perfect
satisfaction found in that home for all the adventurous tastes and
active habits of his boyhood, his martial ardour had been lulled
to rest--but it did but sleep; springing up in the monotony of the
present, consoling for the disappointment of the past, it took
possession of his fancy with a violence that startled and mastered
him, gilding the future with visions as glittering as they were idle
and delusive. He knew that it was impossible, during his father’s
lifetime. Their only means of support was his mother’s fortune,
a sum of £13,000; and the purchase of commissions from an annual
income of barely £400 a year, even his vague imagination told him
was not a very practicable scheme; but the imagination, especially
of the young, is little bounded by the limits of possibility. Good
sense and good feeling kept him silent; neither by word nor look
did he betray the secret of his heart’s desire, but satisfied with
this exertion, he repaid himself for the sacrifice by dreaming a
never-ending dream. Instead of battling with the excitement of his
mind, he fed it by every means in his power. Wherever soldiers were
to be seen, or sounds of military music were to be heard, there his
steps were wandering. Day by day unfailingly he presented himself
at the Horse-Guards, to watch the mounting of the guard; hour after
hour he would hang about Apsley-House, for one look at the Duke
of Wellington--then would return home, to wile away the long dull
evening by the perusal of the lives of highwaymen, pirates, and other
celebrated and adventurous characters (picked up for a few pence at a
book-stall), which sent him to bed in a fever at once of excitement
and despair. So he passed the early days of his life in London;
dissatisfied with all around him, and most of all dissatisfied with
himself.
Mrs. De Grey saw her son’s failing spirits and sighed: of the cause
of his greatest depression she was not aware. She did not know that
the word “clerk” had reached his ears; for Mr. De Grey, unaccustomed
to deal openly with Ernest, had forbidden the mention of the plan,
until some hope of its success could be obtained,--and Ernest in
the dread of hearing the certainty of his doom, forbore to make an
inquiry. But she could guess from his restless deportment, the hopes
and fears, the dreams and regrets that were agitating him, and she
sighed. But though she sighed, it was _for_ him, not _over_ him.
She was not one of those who groan at the least failure in human
perfection--experience had taught her that, with rare exceptions,
it is through mental struggle and mental failure that the character
is formed and perfected; and though she sighed for him during the
process--though she could not but sigh that disappointment should so
early cloud his sunny brow and buoyant spirit--she felt no fear, no
despondency as to the ultimate result.
One night, Ernest went to bed fresh from the attractive and exciting
annals of the life of Claude Duval. Though within a day or two of
November, the night was hot and close, and Ernest could not sleep; he
tossed to and fro, restless and excited, and, turn where he would,
the word _clerk_ presented itself to his eyes. There is, I think, no
madness or wildness to be compared to the insanity of even the sanest
of mortals in the course of a restless night. Small things assume
such immense importance in the mind--the future, whether the dreams
of that future be joyful or sorrowful, swells into such extraordinary
magnitude. For “a solution of a bright hope,” it seems impossible to
wait--a trial, a coming or a fancied trial it seems impossible to
bear; we appear to have suddenly become all sensation, and with giant
feelings to be waiting, or preparing for gigantic events. In such a
mood of mind and such a state of nerves, Ernest was lying on this
restless night, when there passed before him in dreamy vision, but
in giant proportions, the life of a clerk:--he saw himself rising
in the morning to the impenetrable gloom of a yellow November fog
(it was in the month of November, that his imaginary life chose
to picture itself), he saw himself at breakfast in the small dark
dining-room of their present habitation; through the dismal misty
streets he followed himself at ten o’clock to his office--there he
passed his day in the midst of figures which it made his brain ache
even to think of. He accompanied himself back to his home, when the
scanty daylight had long since faded; and there with dizzy eyes and a
bewildered brain, endeavoured to wile away six weary hours till night
and sleep should come to his release. Again, and again, and again
the vision passed before his fancy, till at length he saw himself a
decrepid old man, feebly tottering along the streets to his hateful
and hated task. I hope my readers can imagine the horrors of a life
like this when presented through the magnifying-glass of sleepless
and feverish eyes. Poor Ernest turned from side to side, endeavouring
to find one ray of light to gild his dreary picture, but in vain;
not even a sunshiny morning would come at his call. He sprang out of
bed, looked round his tiny room, rushed to the window, and by the
faint moonlight gazed upon the rows of roofs and chimneys,--the only
prospect commanded by his room; then drawing back with a feeling of
despair, and stamping with his foot upon the ground, he pronounced
that it _could not, and it should not be_. If no other means of
escape offered themselves he would enlist as a private soldier and
win his way to distinction. He returned to bed calmed in mind, and
possessed by the beauty of the new vision. Unlike the last--colours,
bright colours, came thick and fast to add to its brightness. His
late studies, which probably suggested the idea, suggested also the
pictures in which to adorn it; he saw himself an object of interest
and admiration; his short probation was quickly over, he was received
amongst the officers, distinctions were showered upon him; he was
captain, major, colonel, in less time than it takes to write the
words, and he fell into a sweet sleep, a general officer in full
uniform, leading on his troops to victory.
These seem childish dreams, but Ernest’s mind was youthful enough to
be lulled and dazzled by dreams even more childish than these. He was
still nothing but a boy.
With the dawn of day, something of the brilliancy of his last
consolatory vision faded; nothing is more disappointing than a
morning light on a midnight picture; but still, even considered
in the sober colours of morning, it retained enough of its beauty
and promise to induce him to repeat with calm resolve the feverish
determination of his restless hours; it should be his last resource,
but a resource it should be.
In such a mood and with such a purpose, he went down to breakfast;
his night and morning meditations had made him late, and breakfast
was half over before he appeared. His father was laughing as he
entered the room; rather an unusual and as it might have seemed
a gratifying occurrence; but Ernest was in no laughing mood, and
irritated by the sound, he hurriedly kissed his mother, and sat down
without raising his eyes.
“Half-past nine, Ernest,” said Mr. De Grey looking at his watch,
“this will never do.”
Ernest finished the sentence to himself as he fancied had been
intended, “_never do for a clerk_,” and he answered his father with
some petulance.
“Are you ill, Ernest?” inquired his mother gravely. Ernest looked up
and met her anxious affectionate gaze; his irritation vanished in a
moment, and he said, colouring crimson,
“Not ill, mother; but I am afraid a little cross.”
“And why cross, my dear boy?” she asked smilingly.
He shook his head and said no more.
“Your father was laughing, Ernest, as you came in, at a strange
letter I have had; it partly concerns you--will you read it?”
As she spoke she put into his hand, with a quiet smile, a strangely
scrawled and tumbled letter.
Ernest looked over it, and as he read his colour deepened and his
heart began to beat; it was as follows:--
“Berners-street, Oct. 26.
“MY DEAR GERTRUDE,--You don’t remember me; but I remember you.
The last time I saw you, you were in a dirty pinafore. I know
it was a dirty pinafore; your parents didn’t bedizen you as
the new generation are bedizened; I hate the sight of them.
Since I saw you I have been in India, and now I am come back.
Because I say I have been in India, don’t you suppose that
I’m come back a Nabob. I’m not. I’ve got enough and that’s
all. I want to see you and your son. I suppose he is a young
man by this time. I hate young men; they’re all coxcombs;
empty-headed coxcombs; very different to the young men in
my day; but as he’s your son, and my old and best friend’s
grandson, I want to see him. Come and see me if you think
it worth while. I’ve heard of your misfortunes and I’m sorry
for them, but I can’t help you. I tell you at once I’ve got a
relation, and I shan’t cut him out for anybody. But I shall be
glad to see you and your son, if you think it worth while to
visit an old, wizened, paralytic scarecrow.
“Your father’s old friend,
“MARK WATTS.”
“Shall we go, Ernest?” asked his mother quietly.
He looked at her in astonishment; bright visions were dancing before
his eyes.
“Yes, I think you have no doubt,” she said smiling; and the letter
was folded up, and the conversation changed.