SOME ACCOUNT OF A RETIRED TOBACCONIST AND HIS FAMILY.
_Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem._
HORACE.
In all Mr. Bacon's views he was fortunate enough to have the hearty
concurrence of the wealthiest person in the parish. This was a good
man, Allison by name, who having realized a respectable fortune in the
metropolis as a tobacconist, and put out his sons in life according to
their respective inclinations, had retired from business at the age of
threescore, and established himself with an unmarried daughter, and a
maiden sister some ten years younger than himself, in his native
village, that he might there, when his hour should come, be gathered
to his fathers.
“The providence of God,” says South, “has so ordered the course of
things, that there is no action the usefulness of which has made it
the matter of duty and of a profession, but a man may bear the
continual pursuit of it, without loathing or satiety. The same shop
and trade that employs a man in his youth, employs him also in his
age. Every morning he rises fresh to his hammer and his anvil: custom
has naturalized his labour to him; his shop is his element, and he
cannot with any enjoyment of himself, live out of it.” The great
preacher contrasts this with the wearisomeness of an idle life, and
the misery of a continual round of what the world calls pleasure. “But
now,” says he, “if God has interwoven such a contentment with the
works of our ordinary calling, how much superior and more refined must
that be that arises from the survey of a pious and well-governed
life.”
This passage bears upon Mr. Allison's case, partly in the consolatory
fact which it states, and wholly in the application which South has
made of it. At the age of fourteen he had been apprenticed to an Uncle
in Bishopsgate Street-within; and twenty years after, on that Uncle's
death, had succeeded to his old and well-established business. But
though he had lived there prosperously and happily six and twenty
years longer, he had contracted no such love for it as to overcome the
recollections of his childhood. Grateful as the smell of snuff and
tobacco had become to him, he still remembered that cowslips and
violets were sweeter; and that the breath of a May morning was more
exhilarating than the air of his own shop, impregnated as it was with
the odour of the best Virginia. So having buried his wife, who was a
Londoner, and made over the business to his eldest son, he returned to
his native place, with the intention of dying there; but he was in
sound health of body and mind, and his green old age seemed to
promise,—as far as any thing can promise,—length of days.
Of his two other sons, one had chosen to be a clergyman, and approved
his choice both by his parts and diligence, for he had gone off from
Merchant-Taylors' School to St. John's, Oxford, and was then a fellow
of that college. The other was a Mate in the Merchants' service, and
would soon have the command of a ship in it. The desire of seeing the
world led him to this way of life; and that desire had been
unintentionally implanted by his father, who, in making himself
acquainted with every thing relating to the herb out of which his own
fortune was raised, had become fond of reading voyages and travels.
His conversation induced the lad to read these books, and the books
confirmed the inclination which had already been excited; and as the
boy was of an adventurous temper, he thought it best to let him follow
the pursuit on which his mind was bent.
The change to a Yorkshire village was not too great for Mr. Allison,
even after residing nearly half a century in Bishopsgate
Street-within. The change in his own household indeed rendered it
expedient for him to begin, in this sense, a new life. He had lost his
mate; the young birds were full-fledged and had taken flight; and it
was time that he should look out a retreat for himself and the single
nestling that remained under his wing, now that his son and successor
had brought home a wife. The marriage had been altogether with his
approbation; but it altered his position in the house, and in a still
greater degree his sister's; moreover, the nest would soon be wanted
for another brood. Circumstances thus compelled him to put in effect
what had been the dream of his youth, and the still remote intention
of his middle age.
Miss Allison, like her brother, regarded this removal as a great and
serious change, preparatory to the only greater one in this world that
now remained for both; but like him she regarded it rather seriously
than sadly, or sadly only in the old sober meaning of the word; and
there was a soft, sweet, evening sunshine in their prospect, which
both partook, because both had retained a deep affection for the
scenes of their childhood. To Betsey, her niece, nothing could be more
delightful than the expectation of such a removal. She, who was then
only entering her teens, had nothing to regret in leaving London; and
the place to which she was going was the very spot which, of all
others in this wide world, from the time in which she was conscious of
forming a wish, she had wished most to see. Her brother, the sailor,
was not more taken with the story of Pocahontas and Captain Smith, or
Dampier's Voyages, than she was with her aunt's details of the farm
and the dairy at Thaxted Grange, the May-games and the Christmas
gambols, the days that were gone, and the elders who were departed. To
one born and bred in the heart of London, who had scarcely ever seen a
flock of sheep, except when they were driven through the streets, to
or from Smithfield, no fairy tale could present more for the
imagination than a description of green fields and rural life. The
charm of truth heightened it, and the stronger charm of natural piety;
for the personages of the tale were her near kin, whose names she had
learnt to love, and whose living memory she revered, but whose
countenances she never could behold till she should be welcomed by
them in the everlasting mansions of the righteous.
None of the party were disappointed when they had established
themselves at the Grange. Mr. Allison found full occupation at first
in improving the house, and afterwards in his fields and garden. Mr.
Bacon was just such a clergyman as he would have chosen for his parish
priest if it had been in his power to chuse, only he would have had
him provided with a better benefice. The single thing on which there
was a want of agreement between them, was, that the Vicar neither
smoked nor took snuff; he was not the worse company on this account,
for he had no dislike to the fragrance of a pipe; but his neighbour
lost the pleasure which he would have had in supplying him with the
best pig-tail, and with Strasburg or Rappee. Miss Allison fell into
the habits of her new station the more easily, because they were those
which she had witnessed in her early youth; she distilled waters,
dried herbs, and prepared conserves,—which were at the service of all
who needed them in sickness. Betsey attached herself at first sight to
Deborah, who was about five years elder, and soon became to her as a
sister. The Aunt rejoiced in finding so suitable a friend and
companion for her niece; and as this connection was a pleasure and an
advantage to the Allisons, so was it of the greatest benefit to
Deborah.
What of her ensues
I list not prophecy, but let Time's news
Be known, when 'tis brought forth. Of this allow
If ever you have spent time worse ere now;
If never yet, the Author then doth say
He wishes earnestly you never may.[1]
[Footnote 1: SHAKSPEARE.]
INTERCHAPTER XI.
ADVICE TO CERTAIN READERS INTENDED TO ASSIST THEIR DIGESTION OF THESE
VOLUMES.
Take this in good part, whatsoever thou be,
And wish me no worse than I wish unto thee.
TUSSER.
The wisest of men hath told us that there is a time for every thing. I
have been considering what time is fittest for studying this elaborate
_opus_, so as best to profit by its recondite stores of instruction,
as the great chronicler of Garagantua says, _avec espoir certain
d'acquerrir moult prudence et preud 'hommie à la ditte lecture, la
quelle vous relevera de tres-hauts sacrements et mysteres
horrifiques._
The judicious reader must ere this have perceived that this work, to
use the happy expression of the Demoiselle de Gournay, is, _edifié de
telle sort que les mots et la matière sont consubstantiels._ In one
sense indeed it is,
Meet for all hours and every mood of man;[1]
but all hours are not equally meet for it. For it is not like Sir
Walter Scott's novels, fit for men, women and children, at morning,
noon, or night, summer and winter, and every day, among all sorts of
people,—Sundays excepted with the religious public. Equally sweet in
the mouth it may be to some; but it will not be found equally light of
digestion.
[Footnote 1: DR. BUTT.]
Whether it should be taken upon an empty stomach, must depend upon the
constitution of the reader. If he is of that happy complexion that he
awakes in the morning with his spirits elastic as the air, fresh as
the dawn, and joyous as the sky-lark, let him by all means read a
chapter before breakfast. It will be a carminative, a cordial for the
day. If on the contrary his faculties continue to feel the influence
of the leaden sceptre till breakfast has resuscitated them, I advise
him not to open the book before the stomach has been propitiated by a
morning offering.
Breakfast will be the best time for batchelors, and especially for
lawyers. They will find it excellent to prime with.
I do not recommend it at night. Rather, indeed, I caution the reader
against indulging in it at that time. Its effect might be injurious,
for it would counteract the genial tendency to repose which ought then
to be encouraged. Therefore when the hour of sleep approaches, lay
this book aside, and read four pages upon political economy,—it
matters not in what author, though the Scotch are to be preferred.
Except at night, it may be perused at any time by those who have the
_mens sana in corpore sano_; those who fear God, honor the King, love
their country and their kind, do their duty to their neighbours, and
live in the performance and enjoyment of the domestic charities.
It will be an excellent Saturday book for Rowland Hill; his sermon
will be pleasanter for it next day.
The book is good for valetudinarians, and may even be recommended in
aid of Abernethy's blue-pill. But I do not advise it with water-gruel
nor sago; hardly with chicken-broth, calf's-foot-jelly or beef-tea. It
accords well with a course of tonics. But a convalescent will find it
best with his first beef-steak and glass of wine.
The case is different for those who have either a twist in the head or
a morbid affection about the pericardium.
If Grey Bennet will read it,—(from which I dehort him) he should
prepare by taking the following medicine to purge choler:
Rx. _Extract: Colocynth: Comp: gr. x.
Calomel: gr. v.
Syr: q. s. f. Massa in pilulas iij. dividenda.
—Sumat pilulas iij horâ somni._
It will do Lord Holland no harm.
Lord John Russel is recommended to use sage tea with it. If this
operate as an alterative, it may save him from taking oil of rue
hereafter in powerful doses.
For Mr. Brougham, a strong decoction of the herb _lunaria_, will be
needful,—a plant “elegantly so named by the elder botanists, and by
all succeeding ones, from _luna_, the moon, on account of the silvery
semi-transparent aspect, and broad circular shape of its
seed-vessels.” _Honesty_, or _satin-flower_, are its trivial names. It
is recommended in this case not so much for the cephalic properties
which its Linnean appellation might seem to denote, as for its
emollient and purifying virtue.
The Lord Chancellor must never read it in his wig. Dr. Parr, never
without it.
Mr. Wilberforce may dip into it when he will. At all times it will
find him in good humour, and in charity with all men. Nay, if I
whisper to him that it will be no sin to allow himself a few pages on
a Sunday, and that if the preacher under whom he has been sitting,
should have given his discourse a strong spice of Calvinism, it may
then be useful to have recourse to it;—though he should be shocked at
the wholesome hint, the worst thing he will say of the incognizable
incognito from whom it comes, will be Poo-oo-oo-r cree-ee-eature!
shaking his head, and lowering it at the same time till his forehead
almost touches the table, and his voice, gradually quickening in speed
and sinking in tone, dies away to a whisper, in a manner which may
thus be represented in types:
Pooo-oo-oo-oo-r Crēēēature
Poo-oo-oo-oo-r Crēēature
Poo-oo-ŏŏ-r Crēature
Pōō-ŏŏ-r Crĕature
Pōōŏŏr Crĕature
Pōŏŏr Crĕature
Pŏŏr Crĕature
Pŏŏr Crĕture
Poor Cretur
Poor Crtur
Poo Crtr
PooCrt