to sleep aboord, or gie the captain the hint, after treating him wi' the
glass. That was eighteen-pence clean thrown awa'; and only left ye wi'
three-and-sax-pence. Poor soul! what did ye do?"
"Beginning to reflect in the morning," said the other, "that
three-and-sixpence was not an inexhaustible sum, I agreed to pass over
the very useful ceremony of a breakfast; and, strolling about, planning
what to do, and marvelling at all I saw--after narrowly escaping being
jostled to pieces, as I moved slowly from street to street, while every
soul in the great city appeared to be walking for a wager but
myself--towards three o'clock I dined in an eating-house, for six pence,
by the side of a coalheaver. The afternoon was also passed in dreamy
wandering. After nightfall, I became dispirited and fatigued. I was
still unable to form any definite plan of proceeding, and I more than
once asked myself what I had come to London to do."
"Poor man! I doubt there are too many like ye," said Peter.
"I was satiated with the busy variety of the scene," he continued; "the
very changes became as sameness, and I longed only for a place where I
might lie down and rest. I obtained a lodging for the night, in a
suspicious-looking public-house, for a sixpence; and rising early on the
following morning, my second day in London was spent as the first had
been, and at the same expense, save a penny--for on that day my dinner
cost me but five pence. My two shillings and a penny were now sacred,
and I feared to incur the expense of a night's lodgings. I was passing
what I discovered to be Covent Garden. Crowds were pressing into the
theatre. I stood and ran my eyes over the playbill. I saw the names,
Kemble! Cooke! Bannister! Siddons!--The temptation was irresistible."
"Irresistible!" cried Peter; "what the mischief do ye mean? I see
naething irresistible in the case, unless ye just mean to tell me that
ye are a born fool."
"Siddons! Kemble! Cook! and Bannister!" proceeded our hero, "on the same
boards, and on the same night! I thought myself transported to Elysium!
I looked for the word _Gallery_, pressed forward with the eager crowd,
and threw down my shilling. 'Another shilling, sir,' said the man of
checks. I had followed the stream of the two-shilling gallery, and
thus----"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the farmer, raising his hands "did ever man
in his right judgment hear the like o' that?--ye're no to be pitied! I
wonder ye didna think o' buying a strait-jacket!--ye was fitter for it
than a play-house. Doctor, I didna think ye had been such an idiot. But
I must say that some mothers bring fools into the world after a'. Did ye
really no turn back again?--or what did ye do wi' your last penny? It
would be thrown away as wisely as the two shillings, I reckon."
"I plead guilty," said Robert; "I acted as a fool, but bore the
consequence like a philosopher. My last shilling had disappeared. The
performance proceeded--I was delighted, enraptured, overwhelmed. The
curtain dropped. The house was crowded to suffocation--my throat was
parched--and with my last penny--(keep your seat, Mr Liddell)--with my
last penny I bought an orange from a fruit-seller in the gallery. The
second piece was concluded. The human mass moved every one to the tavern
or their homes, a supper and a pillow, and I--I alone of the
thousands--went forth penniless into the streets, hungry, shivering, and
fatigued, to wander without hope!"
"And served ye right," said Peter. "I dinna pity ye, sir. No, no; after
that, I'm done wi' ye. But how did ye get through the night?"
"The day dawned," resumed Robert Musgrave, "and I was still
wandering--fainting, trembling, cold, and benumbed. I had long had some
pretensions to literature. I was born in the midst of poetry. It sang
around me from the deathless voices of my native Esk, hymning to its
green woods and its massy crags. It looked down upon me from the
thunder-belted brows of my native mountains, and drew my soul upwards to
itself. It grew with my growth, it became a part of my being, and, in
the midst of my debasement, it parted not from me."
"Famous! famous!--drat, ye're an orator, doctor!" cried the farmer, in
admiration of the eloquent fervour of his countryman. "Cumberland--and
where is the county like it? I wish, doctor, I had been a bishop for
your sake--ye should have had a benefice."
"My luggage," continued the other, "consisted only of a chest containing
little beyond books and manuscripts. With the same feeling which every
author may be supposed to have for his productions, I considered mine
were not inferior to others which were puffed and published. I say
puffed and published; for, now-a-days, it is common for a puff to be
both written and published before the work be-praised is in the hands of
the printer."
"Coom, now, Maister Musgrave," said the farmer, "not so fast, if you
please; I can believe anything that's possible in a reasonable way. But
how a book can be praised before it be read and printed, or, as I should
say, before it is a book, I canna comprehend. So ye mustna come over me
in that way, doctor."
"It is not so impossible as you imagine," replied the other; "you know
that money is a powerful agent."
"Ay, troth do I," said the farmer; "now I understand ye; I know
'That money makes the mare to go,
Whether she has legs or no.'"
"Well," resumed the surgeon, "laying the hope of fame and reward as an
unction to my wounded spirit, I returned to the vessel, and, intrusting
my trunk to the care of a wharfinger, I took from it a bundle of
manuscripts--consisting of a novel, poems, essays, and papers on medical
subjects--and, with a beating heart, proceeded towards Paternoster Row,
praying as I went. I passed every bookseller's in the street, measuring
the countenance of himself and his shopman. At length, after passing and
repassing several doors a dozen times, as often having my feet upon
their thresholds, half drawing my papers from my pocket and thrusting
them back again, I ventured into one; and, after a few words awkwardly
expressed, holding the manuscripts in my hands, I made known my
business. The gentleman, without looking at my productions, but not
without looking at me, said his hands were full, and hurried back to
his desk. I called on six others; and though my reception with some was
more courteous, my success was the same. I applied to the eighth and
last. A glimmering of hope returned with the first glance of his
countenance. It was not what every one would term inviting; but genuine
feeling glowed through a garb of roughness. He received me with
politeness, looked over my papers, delicately asked me a few questions,
which I neither knew how to answer nor how to evade; he hinted his fears
that I had written on subjects which were not exactly in demand in the
market, and, in conclusion, requested me to leave the manuscripts, and
call on him on the following morning. I again went into the streets, to
hold battle with hunger and anticipation. For several hours, hope and
hope's fond dreams bore me up; but towards evening, and throughout the
night, the wind blew cold and wildly, the rain fell unceasingly. I was
drenched and almost motionless, and but for the interference of the
patrols, I would fain have lain down to sleep, beneath the cover of a
passage, on the damp earth."
"Oh, help us!" said Peter, "what is that o't! I know as well what it is
to travel by night, and in a' weathers, as anybody; but, poor man! I had
none o' your sufferings to contend wi'."
"The longed-for and yet dreaded hour arrived," resumed the other. "I
approached the shop with feelings as anxious, and not more enviable,
than those of a criminal when he is dragged to the bar. The publisher
was out upon business, and one of his young men returned me my
manuscripts, and a letter, with his master's compliments and thanks. I
do not remember leaving the shop. The stupefaction of death was dashed
upon my soul. I believe that I appeared tranquil; but it was the
tranquillity of misery immoveable beneath its own load. In despair, I
broke open the letter--a guinea fell from its folds at my feet."
"Heaven bless him!" interrupted the farmer.
"Amen!" responded the scholar, and continued: "Without waiting to read
the contents of his note, I hurried into a tavern, to allay the cravings
of hunger, and to warm, or rather thaw, my almost frozen body. But I
sickened, and could eat little. I had wanted food until, like a spoiled
child, my appetite refused that for which it had yearned. With the still
open letter upon my knee, as my joints began to feel the influence of
returning heat, I suddenly sank, with my head upon my bosom, into a
deep, dreamless sleep; and, being awoke by the rioting of some
half-drunken men, I found one of them had made free with the back part
of my letter to light his pipe, which had been addressed, after the
usual silly and absurd fashion common amongst literary men--who ought
rather to set an example in despising vain frivolities--_B. Musgrave,
Esq._ 'I beg your pardon, _Squire_,' said the fellow, in a tone of
irony. 'Here's wishing you a pair of new shoes, and health to wear them,
_Squire_,' said a third, in the same tone, raising a tankard to his
lips. And the party broke into a laugh of derision."
"Doctor!" exclaimed the farmer, indignantly, "ye deserved all ye got, if
ye didna make a broom o' the bunch o' them, and sweep the house wi' the
hair o' their heads."
"I am not remarkable for brooking insults," added Musgrave, "and of that
more than one of the company had cause to be convinced. In his letter,
the bookseller spoke of my writings as displaying considerable
originality and genius. Parts of them, he thought, exhibited marks of
being written too hastily, and recommended their omission. He regretted
that he durst not hazard their publication; as, unfortunately, too much
depended upon patronage, connection, or the influence of a name. He
recommended publishing by subscription, and brought forward the example
of Pope, Burns, and others, to render the advice palatable, as children
receive sweetmeats after acid drugs. He begged to enclose a guinea for
two copies to himself; and, wishing me success, he said it would afford
him pleasure, by every means in his power, to forward the publication. I
will not exhaust your patience by a recital of calamities which a
critic, ignorant of their meaning, or ashamed to look back on them,
would pronounce vulgar, and in bad taste. Being contented with the
luxury of half a bed, for which I paid sixpence, I experienced the truth
of the proverb, that 'misery maketh a man acquainted with strange
bedfellows.' Beggars, thieves, men of all nations, and of all climes and
colours, shared my pillow. But I resolved to husband my guinea,
indulging myself with sleeping one night, and wandering the streets the
next, alternately. It was in vain, in the meantime, that I used every
effort to obtain the situation of assistant-surgeon. In London, more,
perhaps, than in any city, appearance is everything; and I carried my
own condemnation written on my ruined garments."
"Troth, I have remarked there is some truth in what ye say, doctor,"
said the farmer; "if a man wishes to prosper, he should never, if
possible, appear like a shorn sheep wi' the fleece bare on his back."
"My money," added the scholar, "was again reduced to five shillings; and
to ward off the approach of starvation, I was compelled to renounce the
comforts of a bed once in forty-eight hours, as a luxury I could no
longer afford. The very shoes left my feet with ceaseless wandering. My
feet bled as I walked. My hat became shapeless; I was ashamed to look on
it. The wind began to sport through my garments, and found loopholes for
his sport. My person became like a moving spirit of famine, clothed with
poverty, and shivering in a storm. My spirit was not broken, but it was
bowed down. Yielding to the hope of despair, I attempted publishing by
subscription. The plan may succeed where a man is known, where he has
friends to push the subscription for him, or where he has impudence that
is proof against insult; but, amongst strangers, it is a hopeless task.
I was doomed to endure indignities from ignorant and contemptible
menials, who, glancing at my figure, thrust the doors in my face, as on
a common beggar! O sir! the recollection haunts me still. It is the only
act of my life on which I cannot think without a burning blush coming
over my face. I need not say it was unsuccessful. For thirty successive
nights I wandered through the streets of this city, exposed to the
storms of February and the bleak winds of March, sleeping as I moved
along, or standing, and knowing not that I stood, till aroused by the
jest of a passing unfortunate, or rudely driven on by the watchman of
the night. Ten times in the hour, I would stumble beneath the oppression
of sleep to the ground. But I will not detail those days and nights of
misery. The scenes I then encountered would provoke a smile and a tear
at the same moment. They were a mingling of the ludicrous and the
wretched. Yet, to give you but one or two instances out of many:--One
cold and weary night, sleep came upon me like death itself. I was
wandering along Thames Street, and came to Billingsgate. Porters and
oyster-sellers were lounging about the market, some sitting smoking,
laughing, or drinking, though it was not an hour past midnight. I sought
shelter beneath the sheds, and stretched myself upon one of the tables
or benches. But the cold was intense. My very blood seemed freezing. I
arose and removed to a corner of the market over the side of the river,
and there, there was one of the open shops, stalls, or sheds, the one
side of which was screened by a large and loosely-hanging canvas sign,
facing the river, of more than six feet square, setting forth the
occupant of the stall as fishmonger, oyster-dealer, and so forth.
Through the lamplight and starlight, I cast a longing and envious look
at the loose and painted canvas. I took it down, and stretched myself
upon the bench, spread it over me as a blanket. It was the most
comfortable covering I had had for many nights. But scarce had sleep,
which pressed heavily upon me, sealed up my eyelids, when I was aroused
by a rude hand shaking me by the shoulder, and a ruder voice exclaiming,
'Holloa! who have we got here?' It was the proprietor of the shed. I
started--rubbed my eyes--stammered out an apology. A crowd of fishwomen
and porters gathered round us. The fishmonger spoke of calling for the
police. I expostulated. He offered to hold me. I raised my hand, and I
am thankful that his table, which was a fixture, was between him and the
river. I rushed through the crowd; and whether the blow which I had lent
the fishmonger operated upon their courage and humanity, I cannot tell,
but they made way for me. I had not, however, proceeded far, when sleep
again became too much for me, and too literally I 'caught myself
tripping.' Its influence was irresistible, and St Paul's had not yet
chimed the hour of three. I saw a cart standing beneath an open gateway;
and, with gratitude in my heart, I lay down on it as a couch of luxury.
But there I had not lain long when I was awoke by a person at my side. I
started.
"'Don't be afraid, sir,' said the intruder; 'it is only a poor brother
in misfortune!'
"I turned round and glanced at him through the dim light, but scarce
could I discover what manner of man he was, till sleep again 'locked up
my senses in forgetfulness.' A little after daybreak, I awoke,
shivering, my joints stiff, my teeth chattering together, and my whole
body a mass of pain. I perceived that my 'poor brother in misfortune'
was, or rather I ought to say had been, dressed respectably, yea, even
fashionably. He carried with him a portfolio, which even in his sleep he
pressed closely beneath his arm. As I arose he awoke; and groaning, he
arose also and accompanied me. I know not whether it was mutual
wretchedness, or the portfolio beneath his arm, that caused me to feel a
regard for him at the first glance; but certain it is I was prepossessed
in his favour. We were a couple of strange, miserable-looking
characters, as we went drowsily, laggardly, and lamely up Fish Street
Hill together. I observed the night-watchmen, who had not left their
beat, turned round, and even held up their lanterns--though the
morning's light was well advanced--and examined us as we passed. As
though our errand or our thoughts were the same, we proceeded towards
the Park together; and when the sun arose, he opened his portfolio, and
exhibited it to me. He was an artist, and an artist, too, of high
promise. His portfolio contained many bold and vigorous pencil sketches,
where soul, taste, and a daring hand were exemplified. He had also a
number of beautiful pieces in water-colours, which showed that his touch
was delicate as well as bold. I took my pencil, and wrote a few lines on
the back of one of the Bristol boards on which one of the subjects was
sketched, and the artist and I became friends. Neither of us had
wherewith to purchase a breakfast; but, in the forenoon, he had to call
upon a printseller in the Strand with some of his pieces in
water-colours, and we parted with a promise to meet again on the
following day. But an accident, which I shall afterwards mention,
prevented me from keeping my engagement; and we parted without the one
knowing the name of the other. I have not again met with him; but, until
this hour, I regret that I learned not the name of a young artist, whom
I met with under such circumstances, and whose productions manifested
high genius, a correct taste, and a skilful hand. Now, at this period,
sir, I should tell you that the greater part of the day was generally
spent in attempts to sleep upon the seats in the Park; and, dreadful as
the pangs of hunger were, at length (and this is no idle saying), I
could have been content to die beneath their rage, to have purchased but
one hour of rest and repose. The agony of hunger yields to the agony of
sleep."
"And do you really say, doctor," inquired the farmer, "that ye have
suffered a' this in a Christian land, even in this city? I hardly think
it possible."
"Some may doubt it," replied Robert, earnestly; "but the remembrance of
what I have endured will live as a coal of fire in my heart for ever;
and the fiftieth part of what I suffered has not been told you. But,
sir, before I proceed farther with my story, allow me to go back to
another part of my history, and advert to another circumstance. You will
remember--it is more than a dozen years ago--a military gentleman, whom
we generally called Colonel Forster, took up his residence on the banks
of the Esk, a few miles from Longtown. He was, I believe, a
lieutenant-colonel in the service of the East India Company."
"I remember him perfectly well, Mr Musgrave," said the farmer, "and know
him yet; and, moreover, I also remember that ye was particularly fond of
his daughter Bertha, and that it was said that it wasna her beauty ye
was in love wi', but her siller; for the colonel was understood to be a
perfect nabob, and I have heard that he forbade you to come about the
house."
"Sir," continued Musgrave--and there was a glow of indignation on his
countenance--"I care not what the world may have said, nor what they do
say. The lark greeteth not the dawning of the dawn with more fervent
delight than I first beheld the fair countenance of Bertha Forster. I
knew not that her father was rich, and, when I did know it, I grieved
that he was so. But to me she plighted her first vow, and pledged her
'maiden troth;' and, though I knew that, by her fulfilling it, I should
take the hand of a penniless bride--for it is true that her father
threatened to disinherit her if she kept my company, and to leave all
that he was possessed of to a son in India--yet I loved her the more. I
loved her for herself, and our feelings were reciprocal. Ever shall I
remember the night on which we parted, previous to my leaving Cumberland
for this city. It was in a deep wood, near her father's house. The Esk
murmured by our feet, and the grey twilight fell over us. The
evening-star was in the heavens; and the wood, the star, the river, and
the twilight, were the witnesses of our tears and of our vows. But you
are past the period of life when the recital of such things can be
interesting; and respect for her whom my soul worships forbids me to say
more. Yet, although her father despised and spurned me, we parted with a
promise to write to each other, with a declaration to preserve our
plighted vows inviolate even unto death. It was agreed that I should
send my letters to her, addressed to a humble but mutual friend. But I
was long in London ere I wrote; for I had not the means of writing; and,
when an answer came to that letter--oh! I never knew real misery till
then! She knew not the depth of my wretchedness--the extremeness of my
poverty! I beheld my name on the board at the post-office amongst the
list of persons whose residence could not be found. Day after day I
visited it, and stood with my eyes fixed upon my own name, while my
heart was ready to burst with agony and anxiety. I knew the letter was
from my Bertha; but I had not the few pence necessary to relieve it. I
had no means of obtaining them. I was a penniless, houseless stranger,
unknown to every one in this vast city. And, after gazing on the board
till my eyes were dimmed by rising tears, and my brain excited almost to
madness, I was wont to flee from the city; and often, in solitude and in
darkness, pour forth the bitterness of my spirit to the night winds.
Often, at such times, in the excess of misery, I have wrung my hands
together, and exclaimed aloud--
"'What would my poor Bertha think if she knew this!'
"At length the list of names amongst which mine appeared was removed
from the post-office and replaced by others; and when, after obtaining
the means of paying for the letter, I made inquiry after it, I was
informed that it had been returned. I doubted not but that she would
imagine I had forgotten her; and, as I turned away in disappointment and
in hopelessness, I said unto myself, 'Farewell, my Bertha!'"
"Help us, doctor!" exclaimed Peter; "is it really possible that anybody
can have been so put about for a thirteenpence matter! Yet, how do we
fling away shilling after shilling, day after day, without ever thinking
o' the road they are going! And how ready we are to say about anything,
'Oh, it was only a shilling!' But, doctor, when ye think what a relief
'only a shilling' would have given to your mind at that moment, surely
ye will have considered weel the length and breadth o' every sixpence ye
have spent since then. It will be a lesson to me, however, to be more
cautious how I ever spend thirteenpence again; and, if I find myself
ready to fling it away on any unwiselike or unprofitable purposes, I
will just think--'What good will what I am going to do wi' my money do
me?--and what would Doctor Musgrave have given for it, when he saw the
letter from his sweetheart, and hadna the thirteenpence to open it?' As
sure as death!--as we used to say at school, and that is gay sure--had
any other body told me what ye have said but yoursel, I would have
laughed at it. Had I read it in print, I wouldna have believed it. But
there is one thing in it, and that is, it just shows us what poor
dependent creatures we are one upon another. Doctor, ye had a sair trial
there for a sma' matter."