The early sun was melting away the coronets of grey clouds on the brows
of the mountains, and the lark, as if proud of its plumage, and
surveying itself in an illuminated mirror, carolled over the bright
water of Keswick, when two strangers met upon the side of the lofty
Skiddaw. Each carried a small bag and a hammer, betokening that their
common errand was to search for objects of geological interest. The one
appeared about fifty, the other some twenty years younger. There is
something in the solitude of the everlasting hills, which makes men who
are strangers to each other despise the ceremonious introductions of the
drawing-room. So it was with our geologists--their place of meeting,
their common pursuit, produced an instantaneous familiarity. They spent
the day, and dined on the mountain-side together. They shared the
contents of their flasks with each other; and, ere they began to descend
the hill, they felt, the one towards the other, as though they had been
old friends. They had begun to take the road towards Keswick, when the
elder said to the younger, "My meeting with you to-day recalls to my
recollection a singular meeting which took place between a friend of
mine and a stranger, about seven years ago, upon the same mountain. But,
sir, I will relate to you the circumstances connected with it; and they
might be called the History of the Prodigal Son."
He paused for a few moments, and proceeded:--About thirty years ago a
Mr. Fen-wick was possessed of property in Bamboroughshire worth about
three hundred per annum. He had married while young, and seven fair
children cheered the hearth of a glad father and a happy mother. Many
years of joy and of peace had flown over them, when Death visited their
domestic circle, and passed his icy hand over the cheek of the
first-born; and, for five successive years, as their children opened
into manhood and womanhood, the unwelcome visitor entered their
dwelling, till of their little flock there was but one, the youngest,
left. And O, sir, in the leaving of that one, lay the cruelty of
Death--to have taken him, too, would have been an act of mercy. His name
was Edward; and the love, the fondness, and the care which his parents
had borne for all their children, were concentrated on him. His father,
whose soul was stricken with affliction, yielded to his every wish; and
his poor mother
"Would not permit
The winds of heaven to visit his cheek too roughly."
But you shall hear how cruelly he repaid their love--how murderously he
returned their kindness. He was headstrong and wayward; and though the
small still voice of affection was never wholly silent in his breast, it
was stifled by the storm of his passions and propensities. His first
manifestation of open viciousness was a delight in the brutal practice
of cock-fighting; and he became a constant attender at every "_main_"
that took place at Northumberland. He was a habitual "_bettor_," and his
losses were frequent; but hitherto his father, partly through fear, and
partly from a too tender affection, had supplied him with money. A
"main" was to take place in the neighbourhood of Morpeth, and he was
present. Two noble birds were disfigured, the savage instruments of
death were fixed upon them, and they were pitted against each other. "A
hundred to one on the Felton Grey!" shouted Fen-wick. "Done! for
guineas!" replied another. "Done! for guineas!--done!" repeated the
prodigal--and the next moment the Felton Grey lay dead on the ground,
pierced through the skull with the spur of the other. He rushed out of
the cockpit--"I shall expect payment to-morrow, Fen-wick," cried the
other. The prodigal mounted his horse, and rode homeward with the fury
of a madman. Kind as his father was, and had been, he feared to meet him
or tell him the amount of his loss. His mother perceived his agony, and
strove to soothe him.
"What is't that troubles thee, my bird?" inquired she. "Come, tell thy
mother, darling."
With an oath he cursed the mention of birds, and threatened to destroy
himself.
"O Edward, love! thou wilt kill thy poor mother. What can I do for
thee?"
"Do for me!" he exclaimed, wildly tearing his hair as he spoke--"do for
me, mother. Get me a hundred pounds, or my heart's blood shall flow at
your feet."
"Child! child!" said she, "thou hast been at thy black trade of betting
again. Thou wilt ruin thy father, Edward, and break thy mother's heart.
But give me thy hand on't, dear, that thou'lt bet no more, and I'll get
thy father to give thee the money."
"My father must not know," he exclaimed; "I will die rather."
"Love! love!" replied she; "but, without asking thy father, where could
I get thee a hundred pounds?"
"You have some money, mother," added he; "and you have
trinkets--jewellery!" he gasped, and hid his face as he spoke.
"Thou shalt have them!--thou shalt have them, child!" said she, "and
all the money thy mother has--only say thou wilt bet no more. Dost thou
promise, Edward--oh, dost thou promise thy poor mother this?"
"Yes, yes!" he cried. And he burst into tears as he spoke.
He received the money, and the trinkets, which his mother had not worn
for thirty years, and hurried from the house, and with them discharged a
portion of his dishonourable debt.
He, however, did bet again; and I might tell you how he became a
horse-racer also; but you shall hear that too. He was now about
two-and-twenty, and for several years he had been acquainted with
Eleanor Robinson--a fair being, made up of gentleness and love, if ever
woman was. She was an orphan, and had a fortune at her own disposal of
three thousand pounds. Her friends had often warned her against the
dangerous habits of Edward Fen-wick. But she had given him her young
heart--to him she had plighted her first vow--and, though she beheld his
follies, she trusted that time and affection would wean him from them;
and, with a heart full of hope and love, she bestowed on him her hand
and fortune. Poor Eleanor! her hopes were vain, her love unworthily
bestowed. Marriage produced no change on the habits of the prodigal son
and thoughtless husband. For weeks he was absent from his own house,
betting and carousing with his companions of the turf; while one vice
led the way to another, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he
unconsciously sunk into all the habits of a profligate.
It was about four years after his marriage, when, according to his
custom, he took leave of his wife for a few days, to attend the meeting
at Doncaster.
"Good-bye, Eleanor, dear," he said gaily, as he rose to depart, and
kissed her cheek; "I shall be back within five days."
"Well, Edward," said she, tenderly, "if you will go, you must; but think
of me, and think of these our little ones." And, with a tear in her eye,
she desired a lovely boy and girl to kiss their father. "Now, think of
us, Edward," she added; "and do not bet, dearest, do not bet!"
"Nonsense, duck! nonsense!" said he; "did you ever see me lose?--do you
suppose that Ned Fen-wick is not 'wide awake?' I know my horse, and its
rider too--Barrymore's Highlander can distance everything. But, if it
could not, I have it from a sure hand--the other horses are all
'_safe_.' Do you understand that--eh?"
"No, I do not understand it, Edward, nor do I wish to understand it,"
added she; "but, dearest, as you love me--as you love our children--risk
nothing."
"Love you, little gipsy! you know I'd die for you," said he--and, with
all his sins, the prodigal spoke the truth. "Come, Nell, kiss me again,
my dear--no long faces--don't take a leaf out of my old mother's book;
you know the saying, 'Never venture, never win--faint heart never won
fair ladye!' Good-bye, love--'bye, Ned--good-bye, mother's darling," said
he, addressing the children as he left the house.
He reached Doncaster; he had paid his guinea for admission to the
betting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the
shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half-melted little manikins, called jockeys,
to ascertain the secrets of their horses. "All's safe!" said the
prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the
festival--the important St. Leger--arrived. Hundreds were ready to back
Highlander against the field: amongst them was Edward Fen-wick; he
would take any odds--he did take them--he staked his all. "A thousand to
five hundred on Highlander against the field," he cried, as he stood
near a betting-post. "Done!" shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in
a barouche by his side. "Done!" cried Fen-wick, "for the double, if you
like, my lord." "Done!" added the peer; "and I'll treble it if you
dare!" "Done!" rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement
of the moment--"Done! my lord." The eventful hour arrived. There was not
a false start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led
the way at his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap,
looked confident. Fen-wick stood near the winning-post, grasping the
rails with his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the
admonition of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen.
His very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his
breast. Of the twenty horses that started, four again appeared in sight.
"The tartan yet! the tartan yet!" shouted the crowd. Fen-wick raised his
eyes--he was blind with anxiety--he could not discern them; still he
heard the cry of "The tartan! the tartan!" and his heart sprang to his
mouth. "Well done, orange!--the orange will have it!" was the next cry.
He again looked up, but he was more blind than before.
"Beautiful!--beautiful! Go it, tartan! Well done, orange!" shouted the
spectators; "a noble race!--neck and neck; six to five on the orange!"
He became almost deaf as well as blind. "Now for it!--now for it!--it
won't do, tartan!--hurrah!--hurrah!--orange has it!"
"Liar!" exclaimed Fen-wick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping
the spectator who stood next him by the throat--"I am not ruined!"--In a
moment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing,
and gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul
groaned in agony. "Eleanor!--my poor Eleanor!" cried the prodigal. The
crowd hurried towards the winning-post--he was left alone. The peer with
whom he had betted, came behind him; he touched him on the shoulder with
his whip--"Well, my covey," said the nobleman, "you have lost it."
Fen-wick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair, and
repeated--"Lost it!--I am ruined--soul and body!--wife and children
ruined!"
"Well, Mr. Fen-wick," said the sporting peer, "I suppose, if that be the
case, you won't come to Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day
is to-morrow--you know I keep sharp accounts; and if you have not the
'_ready_' at hand, I shall expect an equivalent--you understand me."
So saying, he rode off, leaving the prodigal to commit suicide if he
chose. It is enough for me to tell you that, in his madness and his
misery, and from the influence of what he called his sense of honour, he
gave the winner a bill for the money--payable at sight. My feelings will
not permit me to tell you how the poor infatuated madman more than once
made attempts upon his own life; but the latent love of his wife and of
his children prevailed over the rash thought, and, in a state bordering
on insanity, he presented himself before the beings he had so deeply
injured.
I might describe to you how poor Eleanor was sitting in their little
parlour, with her boy upon a stool by her side, and her little girl on
her knee, telling them fondly that their father would be home soon, and
anon singing to them the simple nursery rhyme--
"Hush, my babe, baby bunting,
Your father's at the hunting," etc.;
when the door opened, and the guilty father entered, his hair clotted,
his eyes rolling with the wildness of despair, and the cold sweat
running down his pale cheeks.
"Eleanor! Eleanor!" he cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa.
She placed her little daughter on the floor--she flew towards him--"My
Edward!--oh my Edward!" she cried--"what is it, love?--something
troubles you."
"Curse me, Eleanor!" exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face
from her. "I have ruined you I--I have ruined my children!--I am lost
for ever!"
"No, my husband!" exclaimed the best of wives; "your Eleanor will not
curse you. Tell me the worst, and I will bear it--cheerfully bear it,
for my Edward's sake."
"You will not--you cannot," cried he; "I have sinned against you as
never man sinned against woman. Oh! if you would spit upon the very
ground where I tread, I would feel it as an alleviation of my
sufferings; but your sympathy, your affection, makes my very soul
destroy itself! Eleanor!--Eleanor-!--if you have mercy, hate me--tell
me--show me that you do!"
"O Edward!" said she, imploringly, "was it thus when your Eleanor
spurned every offer for your sake, when you pledged to her everlasting
love? She has none but you, and can you speak thus? O husband! if you
will forsake _me_, forsake not my poor children--tell me! only tell me
the worst--and I will rejoice to endure it with my Edward!"
"Then," cried Fen-wick, "if you will add to my misery by professing to
love a wretch like me--know you are a beggar!--and I have made you one!
Now, can you share beggary with me?"
She repeated the word "Beggary!"--she clasped her hands together--for a
few moments she stood in silent anguish--her bosom heaved--the tears
gushed forth--she flung her arms around her husband's neck--"Yes!" she
cried, "I can meet even beggary with my Edward!"
"O Heaven!" cried the prodigal, "would that the earth would swallow me!
I cannot stand this!"
I will not dwell upon the endeavours of the fond, forgiving wife, to
soothe and to comfort her unworthy husband; nor yet will I describe to
you the anguish of the prodigal's father and of his mother, when they
heard the extent of his folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost
the old man much, and, with a heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded
to his son's house to comfort his daughter-in-law. When he entered,
she was endeavouring to cheer her husband with a tune upon the
harpsichord--though, Heaven knows, there was no music in her breast,
save that of love--enduring love!
"Well, Edward," said the old man, as he took a seat, "what is this that
thou hast done now?"
The prodigal was silent.
"Edward," continued the grey-haired parent, "I have had deaths in my
family--many deaths, and thou knowest it--but I never had to blush for a
child but thee! I have felt sorrow, but thou hast added shame to
sorrow--"
"O father!" cried Eleanor, imploringly, "do not upbraid my poor
husband."
The old man wept--he pressed her hand, and, with a groan, said, "I am
ashamed that thou shouldst call me father, sweetest; but if thou canst
forgive him, I should. He is all that is left to me--all that the hand
of death has spared me in this world! Yet, Eleanor, his conduct is a
living death to me--it is worse than all that I have suffered. When
affliction pressed heavily upon me, and, year after year, I followed my
dear children to the grave, my neighbours sympathized with me--they
mingled their tears with mine; but now, child--oh, now, I am ashamed to
hold up my head amongst them! O Edward, man! if thou hast no regard for
thy father or thy heart-broken mother, hast thou no affection for thy
poor wife?--canst thou bring her and thy helpless children to ruin? But
that, I may say, thou hast done already! Son! son! if thou wilt murder
thy parents, hast thou no mercy for thine own flesh and blood?--wilt
thou destroy thine own offspring? O Edward! if there be any sin that I
will repent upon my death-bed, it will be that I have been a too
indulgent father to thee--that I am the author of thy crimes!"
"No, father! no!" cried the prodigal; "my sins are my own! I am their
author, and my soul carries its own punishment! Spurn me! cast me
off!--disown me for ever!--it is all I ask of you! You despise me--hate
me too, and I will be less miserable!"
"O Edward!" said the old man, "thou art a father, but little dost thou
know a father's heart! Disown thee! Cast thee off, sayest thou! As soon
could the graves of thy brothers give up their dead! Never, Edward!
never! O son, wouldst thou but reform thy ways--wouldst thou but become
a husband worthy of our dear Eleanor; and, after all the suffering thou
hast brought upon her, and the shame thou hast brought upon thy family,
I would part with my last shilling for thee, Edward, though I should go
into the workhouse myself."
You are affected, sir--I will not harrow up your feelings by further
describing the interview between the father and his son. The misery of
the prodigal was remorse, not penitence. It is sufficient for me to say,
that the old man took a heavy mortgage on his property, and Edward
Fen-wick commenced business as a wine and spirit merchant in Newcastle.
But, sir, he did not attend upon business; and I need not tell you that
such being the case, business was too proud a customer to attend upon
him. Neither did he forsake his old habits, and, within two years, he
became involved--deeply involved. Already, to sustain his tottering
credit, his father had been brought to the verge of ruin. During his
residence in Bamboroughshire, he had become acquainted with many
individuals carrying on a contraband trade with Holland. To amend his
desperate fortunes, he recklessly embarked in it. In order to obtain a
part in the ownership of a lugger, he _used his father's name_! This was
the crowning evil in the prodigal's drama. He made the voyage himself.
They were pursued and overtaken when attempting to effect a landing near
the Coquet. He escaped. But the papers of the vessel bespoke her as
being chiefly the property of his father. Need I tell you that this was
a finishing blow to the old man?
Edward Fen-wick had ruined his wife and family--he had brought ruin upon
his father, and was himself a fugitive. He was pursued by the law; he
fled from them; and he would have fled from their remembrance if he
could. It was now, sir, that the wrath of Heaven was showered upon the
head, and began to touch the heart of the prodigal: Like Cain, he was a
fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth. For many months he
wandered in a distant part of the country; his body was emaciated and
clothed with rags, and hunger preyed upon his very heart-strings. It is
a vulgar thing, sir, to talk of hunger; but they who have never felt it
know not what it means. He was fainting by the wayside, his teeth were
grating together, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. "The servants
of my father's house," he cried, "have bread enough and to spare, while
I perish with hunger;" and continuing the language of the prodigal in
the Scriptures, he said, "I will arise and go unto my father, and say, I
have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight."
With a slow and tottering step, he arose to proceed on his journey to
his father's house. A month had passed--for every day he made less
progress--ere the home of his infancy appeared in sight. It was noon,
and, when he saw it, he sat down in a little wood by a hill-side and
wept, until it had become dusk; for he was ashamed of his rags. He drew
near the house, but none came forth to welcome him. With a timid hand he
rapped at the door, but none answered him. A stranger came from one of
the outhouses and inquired, "What dost thou want, man?"
"Mr Fen-wick," feebly answered the prodigal.
"Why, naebody lives there," said the other; "and auld Fen-wick died in
Morpeth jail mair than three months sin'!"
"Died in Morpeth jail!" groaned the miserable being, and fell against
the door of the house that had been his father's.
"I tell ye, ye cannot get in there," continued the other.
"Sir," replied Edward, "pity me; and, oh, tell me is Mrs Fen-wick
here--or her daughter-in-law?"
"I know nought about them," said the stranger. "I'm put in charge here
by the trustees."
Want and misery kindled all their fires in the breast of the fugitive.
He groaned, and, partly from exhaustion, partly from agony, sank upon
the ground. The other lifted him to a shed, where cattle were wont to be
fed. His lips were parched, his languid eyes rolled vacantly. "Water!
give me water!" he muttered in a feeble voice; and a cup of water was
brought to him. He gazed wistfully in the face of the person who stood
over him--he would have asked for bread; but, in the midst of his
sufferings, pride was yet strong in his heart, and he could not. The
stranger, however, was not wholly destitute of humanity.
"Poor wretch!" said he, "ye look very fatigued; dow ye think ye cud eat
a bit bread, if I were gi'en it to thee?"
Tears gathered in the lustreless eyes of the prodigal; but he could not
speak. The stranger left him, and returning, placed a piece of coarse
bread in his hand. He ate a morsel; but his very soul was sick, and his
heart loathed to receive the food for lack of which he was perishing.
Vain, sir, were the inquiries after his wife, his children, and his
mother; all that he could learn was, that they had kept their sorrow and
their shame to themselves, and had left Northumberland together, but
where, none knew. He also learned that it was understood amongst his
acquaintances that he had put a period to his existence, and that this
belief was entertained by his family. Months of wretchedness followed,
and Fen-wick, in despair, enlisted into a foot regiment, which, within
twelve months, was ordered to embark for Egypt. At that period the
British were anxious to hide the remembrance of their unsuccessful
attack upon Cadiz, and resolved to wrench the ancient kingdom of the
Pharaohs from the grasp of the proud armies of Napoleon. The Cabinet,
therefore, on the surrender of Malta, having seconded the views of Sir
Ralph Abercrombie, several transports were fitted out to join the
squadron under Lord Keith. In one of those transports the penitent
prodigal embarked. You are too young to remember it, sir; but at that
period a love of country was more widely than ever becoming the ruling
passion of every man in Britain; and, with all his sins, his follies,
and his miseries, such a feeling glowed in the breast of Edward
Fen-wick. He was weary of existence, and he longed to listen to the
neighing of the war-horse, and the shout of its rider, and as they might
rush on the invulnerable phalanx, and its breastwork of bayonets, to
mingle in the rank of heroes; and, rather than pine in inglorious grief,
to sell his life for the welfare of his country; or, like the gallant
Graham, amidst the din of war, and the confusion of glory, to forget his
sorrows. The regiment to which he belonged joined the main army off the
Bay of Marmorice, and was the first that, with the gallant Moore at its
head, on the memorable seventh of March, raised the shout of victory on
the shores of Aboukir.
In the moment of victory, Fen-wick fell wounded on the field, and his
comrades, in their triumph, passed over him. He had some skill in
surgery, and he was enabled to bind up his wound. He was fainting upon
the burning sand, and he was creeping amongst the bodies of the slain,
for a drop of moisture to cool his parched tongue, when he perceived a
small bottle in the hands of a dead officer. It was half-filled with
wine--he eagerly raised it to his lips--"Englishman!" cried a feeble
voice, "for the love of Heaven! give me one drop--only one!--or I die!"
He looked around--a French officer, apparently in the agonies of death,
was vainly endeavouring to raise himself on his side, and stretching his
hand towards him. "Why should I live?" cried the wretched prodigal;
"take it, take it, and live, if you desire life!" He raised the wounded
Frenchman's head from the sand--he placed the bottle to his lips--he
untied his sash, and bound up his wounds. The other pressed his hand in
gratitude. They were conveyed from the field together. Fen-wick was
unable to follow the army, and he was disabled from continuing in the
service. The French officer recovered, and he was grateful for the poor
service that had been rendered to him; and, previous to his being sent
off with other prisoners, he gave a present of a thousand francs to the
joyless being whom he called his deliverer.
I have told you that Fen-wick had some skill in surgery; he had studied
some years for the medical profession, but abandoned it for the turf and
its vices. He proceeded to Alexandria, where he began to practise as a
surgeon, and, amongst an ignorant people, gained reputation. Many years
passed, and he had acquired, if not riches, at least an independency.
Repentance also had penetrated his soul. He had inquired long and
anxiously after his family. He had but few other relatives; and to all
of them he had anxiously written, imploring them to acquaint him with
the residence of the beings whom he had brought to ruin, but whom he
still loved. Some returned no answer to his applications, and others
only said that they knew nothing of his wife, or his mother, or of his
children, nor whether they yet lived; all they knew was, that they had
endeavoured to hide the shame he had brought upon them from the world.
These words were daggers to his bruised spirit; but he knew he deserved
them, and he prayed that Heaven would grant him the consolation and the
mercy that were denied him on earth.
Somewhat more than seven years ago he returned to his native country,
and he was wandering on the very mountain where, to-day, I met you, when
he entered into conversation with a youth apparently about three or four
and twenty years of age; and they spent the day together as we have
done. Fen-wick was lodging in Keswick, and as, towards evening, they
proceeded along the road together, they were overtaken by a storm. "You
must accompany me home," said the young man, "until the storm be passed;
my mother's house is at hand,"--and he conducted him to yonder lonely
cottage, whose white walls you perceive peering through the trees by the
water-side. It was dusk when the youth ushered him into a little parlour
where two ladies sat; the one appeared about forty, the other threescore
and ten. They welcomed the stranger graciously. He ascertained that they
let out the rooms of their cottage to visitors to the lakes during the
summer season. He expressed a wish to become their lodger, and made some
observations on the beauty of the situation.
"Yes, sir," said the younger lady, "the situation is indeed beautiful;
but I have seen it when the water, and the mountains around it, could
impart no charm to its dwellers. Providence has, indeed, been kind to
us, and our lodgings have seldom been empty; but, sir, when we entered
it, it was a sad house indeed. My poor mother-in-law and myself had
experienced many sorrows; yet my poor fatherless children--for I might
call them fatherless"--and she wept as she spoke--"with their innocent
prattle, soothed our affliction. But my little Eleanor, who was loved by
every one, began to droop day by day. It was a winter night--the snow
was on the ground--I heard my little darling give a deep sigh upon my
bosom. I started up. I called to my poor mother. She brought a light to
the bedside--and I found my sweet child dead upon my breast. It was a
long and sad night, as we sat by the dead body of my Eleanor, with no
one near us; and after she =was= buried, my poor Edward there, as he
sat by our side at night, would draw forward to his knee the stool on
which his sister sat--while his grandmother would glance at him fondly,
and push aside the stool with her foot, that I might not see it;--but I
saw it all."
The twilight had deepened in the little parlour, and its inmates could
not perfectly distinguish the features of each other; but as the lady
spoke, the soul of Edward Fen-wick glowed within him--his heart
throbbed--his breathing became thick--the sweat burst upon his brow.
"Pardon me, lady!" he cried, in agony; "but, oh! tell me your name?"
"Fen-wick, sir," replied she.
"Eleanor! my injured Eleanor!" he exclaimed, flinging himself at her
feet. "I am Edward, your guilty husband! Mother! can you forgive me? My
son! my son! intercede for your guilty father!"
Ah, sir, there needed no intercession--their arms were around his
neck--the prodigal was forgiven! "Behold," continued the narrator,
"yonder from the cottage comes the mother, the wife, and the son of whom
I have spoken! I will introduce you to them--you shall witness the
happiness and the penitence of the prodigal--you must stop with me
to-night. Start not, sir--I am Edward Fen-wick the Prodigal Son!"