the Treasurer had been in; he himself gave a shudder. All thanked
God for his escape. Wattie Brown continued in his employ, as foreman
over his work, and died about the year 1789. Widow Horner did not
long survive that night of intense anguish--she died of a broken
heart in her son's house. It was remarked by all, that, while Thomas
Kerr prospered, Walter Horner, who was at one time much the richer
man, gradually sank into the most abject circumstances, and died a
pensioner on his incorporation, more despised than pitied. And thus
ends our tale of Major Weir's famous night airings in Edinburgh.
WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER.
By JOHN MACKAY WILSON.
When the glass, the laugh, and the social "crack" go round the
convivial table, there are few who may not have heard the words,
"_We'll have another!_" It is an oft-repeated phrase--and it seems a
simple one; yet, simple as it appears, it has a magical and fatal
influence. The lover of sociality yieldeth to the friendly
temptation it conveys, nor dreameth that it is a whisper from which
scandal catcheth its thousand echoes--that it is a phrase which has
blasted reputation--withered affection's heart--darkened the fairest
prospects--ruined credit--conducted to the prison-house, and led to
the grave. When our readers again hear the words, let them think of
our present story.
Adam Brown was the eldest son of a poor widow who kept a small shop
in a village near the banks of the Teviot. From his infancy, Adam
was a mild retiring boy, and he was seldom seen to join in the sports
of his schoolmates. On the winter evenings, he would sit poring over
a book by the fire, while his mother would say--"Dinna stir up the
fire, bairn; ye dinna mind that coals are dear; and I'm sure ye'll
hurt yoursel' wi' pore, poring ower your books--for they're never out
o' your hand." In the summer, too, Adam would steal away from the
noise of the village to some favourite shady nook by the river side;
and there, on the gowany brae, he would, with a standard author in
his hand, "crack wi' kings," or "hold high converse with the mighty
dead." He was about thirteen when his father died; and the Rev. Mr
Douglas, the minister of the parish, visiting the afflicted widow,
she said "she had had a sair bereavement, yet she had reason to be
thankfu' that she had ae comfort left, for her poor Adam was a great
consolation to her; every night he had read a chapter to his younger
brithers--and, oh, sir," she added, "it wad make your heart melt to
have heard my bairn pray for his widowed mother." Mr Douglas became
interested in the boy, and finding him apt to learn, placed him for
another year at the parish school at his own expense. Adam's
progress was all that his patron could desire. He became a frequent
visitor at the manse, and was allowed the use of the minister's
library. Mr Douglas had a daughter who was nearly of the same age as
his young _protegé_. Mary Douglas was not what could be called
beautiful, but she was a gentle and interesting girl. She and Adam
read and studied together. She delighted in a flower-garden, and he
was wont to dress it, and he would often wander miles, and consider
himself happy when he obtained a strange root to plant in it.
Adam was now sixteen. It was his misfortune, as it has been the ruin
of many, to be _without an aim_. His mother declared that she "was
at a loss what to make him; but," added she, "he is a guid scholar,
that is ae thing, and CAN DO is easy carried about." Mr Douglas
himself became anxious about Adam's prospects: he evinced a dislike
to be apprenticed to any mechanical profession, and he was too old to
remain longer a burden upon his mother. At the suggestion of Mr
Douglas, therefore, when about seventeen, he opened a school in a
neighbouring village. Some said that he was too young; others, that
he was too simple, that he allowed the children to have all their own
way; and a few even hinted that he went too much back and forward to
the manse in the adjoining parish to pay attention to his school.
However these things might be, certain it is the school did not
succeed; and, after struggling with it for two years, he resolved to
try his fortune in London.
He was to sail from Leith, and his trunk had been sent to Hawick to
be forwarded by the carrier. Adam was to leave his mother's house
early on the following morning; and, on the evening preceding his
departure, he paid his farewell visit to the manse. Mr Douglas
received him with his wonted kindness; he gave him one or two letters
of recommendation, and much wholesome advice, although the good man
was nearly as ignorant of what is called the world, as the youth who
was about to enter it. Adam sat long and said little, for his heart
was full and his spirit heavy. He had never said to Mary Douglas, in
plain words, that he loved her--he had never dared to do so; and he
now sat with his eyes anxiously bent upon her, trembling to bid her
farewell. She, too, was silent. At length he rose to depart; he
held out his hand to Mr Douglas; the latter shook it affectionately,
adding--"Farewell, Adam!--may Heaven protect you against the numerous
temptations of the great city." He turned towards Mary--he
hesitated, his hands dropped by his side--"Could I speak wi' you a
moment?" said he, and his tongue faltered as he spoke. With a tear
glistening in her eyes, she looked towards her father, who nodded his
consent, and she arose and accompanied Adam to the door. They walked
towards the flower-garden--he had taken her hand in his--he pressed
it, but he spoke not, and she offered not to withdraw it. He seemed
struggling to speak; and, at length, in a tone of earnest fondness,
he nervously said, "Will you not forget me, Mary?"
A half-smothered sob Was her reply, and a tear fell on his hand.
"Say you will not," he added, yet more earnestly.
"O Adam!" returned she, "how can you say _forget_!--never!--never!"
"Enough! enough!" he continued, and they wept together.
It was scarce daybreak when Adam rose to take his departure, and to
bid his mother and his brethren farewell. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as
she placed his breakfast before him; "is this the last meal that my
bairn's to eat in my house?" He ate but little; and she continued,
weeping as she spoke--"Eat, hinny, eat; ye have a lang road before
ye;--and, O Adam, aboon everything earthly, mind that ye write to me
every week; never think o' the postage--for, though it should tak' my
last farthing, I maun hear frae ye."
He took his staff in his hand, and prepared to depart. He embraced
his younger brothers, and tears were their only and mutual adieu.
His parent sobbed aloud. "Fareweel, mother!" said he, in a voice
half choked with anguish--"Fareweel!"
"God bless my bairn!" she exclaimed, wringing his hand; and she
leaned her head upon his shoulder and wept as though her heart would
burst. In agony he tore himself from her embrace, and hurried from
the house; and, during the first miles of his journey, at every
rising ground, he turned anxiously round, to obtain another lingering
look of the place of his nativity; and, in the fulness and bitterness
of his feelings, he pronounced the names of his mother, and his
brethren, and of Mary Douglas, in the same breath.
We need not describe his passage to London, nor tell how he stood
gazing wonderstruck, like a graven image of amazement, as the vessel
winded up the Thames, through the long forest of masts, from which
waved the flags of every nation.
It was about mid-day, early in the month of April, when the smack
drew up off Hermitage Stairs, and Adam was aroused from his reverie
of astonishment by a waterman, who had come upon deck, and who,
pulling him by the button-hole, said--"Boat, master? boat?" Adam did
not exactly understand the question, but, seeing the other passengers
getting their luggage into the boats, he followed their example. On
landing, he was surrounded by a group of porters, several of whom
took hold of his trunk, all inquiring, at the same moment, where he
wished it taken to. This was a question he could not answer. It was
one he had never thought of before. He looked confused, and replied,
"I watna."
"_Watna!_" said one of the Cockney burden-bearers--"_Watna!_ there
ain't such a street in all London."
Adam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among
its millions of inhabitants. He knew not where to go; but,
recollecting that one of the gentlemen to whom Mr Douglas had
recommended him was a Mr Davidson, a merchant in Cornhill, he
inquired--
"Does ony o' ye ken a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill?"
"Vy, I can't say as how I know him," replied a porter; "but, if you
wish your luggage taken there, I will find him for you in a
twinkling."
"And what wad ye be asking to carry the bit box there?" said Adam, in
a manner betokening an equal proportion of simplicity and caution.
"Hasking?" replied the other--"vy, I'm blessed if you get any one to
carry it for less than four shillings."
"I canna afford four shillings," said Adam, "and I'll be obleeged to
ye if ye'll gi'e me a lift on to my shoulder wi' it, and I'll carry
it mysel'."
They uttered some low jests against his country, and left him to get
his trunk upon his shoulders as he best might. Adam said truly that
he could not afford four shillings; for, after paying his passage, he
had not thirty shillings left in the world.
It is time, however, that we should describe Adam more particularly
to our readers. He was dressed in a coarse grey coat, with trowsers
of the same colour, a striped waistcoat, a half-worn broad-brimmed
hat, and thick shoes studded with nails, which clattered as he went.
Thus arrayed, and with his trunk upon his shoulders, Adam went
tramping and clattering along East Smithfield, over Towerhill, and
along the Minories, inquiring at every turning--"If any one could
direct him to Mr Davison's, the merchant in Cornhill?" There was
many a laugh, and many a joke, at poor Adam's expense, as he went
trudging along, and more than once the trunk fell to the ground as he
came in contact with the crowds who were hurrying past him. He had
been directed out of his way; but at length he arrived at the place
he sought. He placed his burden on the ground--he rang the bell--and
again and again he rung, but no one answered. His letter was
addressed to Mr Davison's counting-house. It was past business
hours, and the office was locked up for the day. Adam was now tired,
disappointed, and perplexed. He wist not what to do. He informed
several "decent-looking people," as he said, "that he was a stranger,
and he would be obleeged to them if they could recommend him to a
lodging." He was shown several, but the rent per week terrified
Adam. He was sinking under his burden, when, near the corner of
Newgate Street, he inquired of an old Irish orange-woman, if "she
could inform him where he would be likely to obtain a lodging at the
rate of eighteenpence or two shillings a-week?"
"Sure, and it's I who can, jewel," replied she, "and an iligant room
it is, with a bed his Holiness might rest his blessed bones on, and
never a one slapes in it at all but my own boy, Barney; and, barring
when Barney's in dhrink--and that's not above twice a-week--you'll
make mighty pleasant sort of company together."
Adam was glad to have the prospect of a resting-place of any sort
before him at last, and with a lighter heart and a freer step he
followed the old orange-woman. She conducted him to Green Dragon
Court, and desiring him to follow her up a long, dark, dirty stair,
ushered him into a small, miserable-looking garret, dimly lighted by
a broken sky-light, while the entire furniture consisted of four
wooden posts without curtains, which she termed a bed, a mutilated
chair, and a low wooden stool. "Now, darlint," said she, observing
Adam fatigued, "here is a room fit for a prince; and, sure, you won't
be thinking half-a-crown too much for it?"
"Weel," said Adam, for he was ready to lie down anywhere, "we'll no'
quarrel about a sixpence."
The orange-woman left him, having vainly recommended him "to christen
his new tenement with a drop of the cratur." Adam threw himself upon
the bed, and, in a few minutes, his spirit wandered in its dreams
amidst the "bonny woods and braes" of Teviotdale. Early on the
following day he proceeded to the counting-house of Mr Davison, who
received him with a hurried sort of civility--glanced over the letter
of introduction--expressed a hope that Mr Douglas was well--said he
would be happy to serve him--but he was engaged at present, and if Mr
Brown would call again, if he should hear of anything he would let
him know. Adam thanked him, and, with his best bow (which was a very
awkward one), withdrew. The clerks in the outer office tittered as
poor Adam, with his heavy hob-nailed shoes, tramped through the midst
of them. He delivered the other letter of introduction, and the
gentleman to whom it was addressed received him much in the same
manner as Mr Davison had done, and his clerks also smiled at Adam's
grey coat, and gave a very peculiar look at his clattering shoes, and
then at each other. Day after day he repeated his visits to the
counting-houses of these gentlemen--sometimes they were too much
engaged to see him, at others they simply informed him that they were
sorry they had heard of nothing to suit him, and continued writing,
without noticing him again; while Adam, with a heavy heart, would
stand behind their desk, brushing the crown of his brown
broad-brimmed hat with his sleeve. At length, the clerks in the
outer office merely informed him their master had heard of nothing
for him. Adam saw it was in vain--three weeks had passed, and the
thirty shillings which he had brought to London were reduced to ten.
He was wandering disconsolately down Chancery Lane, with his hands
thrust in his pockets, when his attention was attracted to a shop,
the windows and door of which were covered with written placards, and
on these placards were the words, "_Wanted, a
Book-keeper_"--"_Wanted, by a Literary Gentleman, an Amanuensis_"--in
short, there seemed no sort of situation for which there was not a
person wanted, and each concluded with "_inquire within_." Adam's
heart and his eyes overflowed with joy. There were at least
half-a-dozen places which would suit him exactly--he was only at a
loss now which to choose upon--and he thought also that Mr Douglas's
friends had used him most unkindly in saying they could hear of no
situation for him, when here scores were advertised in the streets.
At length he fixed upon one. He entered the shop. A sharp,
Jewish-looking little man was writing at a desk--he received the
visitor with a gracious smile.
"If you please, sir," said Adam, "will ye be so good as inform me
where the gentleman lives that wants the bookkeeper?"
"With pleasure," said the master of the register office; "but you
must give me five shillings, and I will enter your name."
"Five shillings!" repeated Adam, and a new light began to dawn upon
him. "Five shillings, sir, is a deal o' money, an', to tell you the
truth, I can very ill afford it; but, as I am much in want o' a
situation, maybe you wad tak' half-a-crown."
"Can't book you for that," said the other; "but give me your
half-crown, and you may have the gentleman's address."
He directed him to a merchant in Thames Street. Adam quickly found
the house; and, entering with his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and
scraping the hob-nails along the floor--"Sir," said he, "I'm the
person Mr Daniells o' Chancery Lane has sent to you as a bookkeeper."
"Mr Daniells--Mr Daniells," said the merchant; "don't know any such
person--have not wanted a bookkeeper these six months."
"Sir," said Adam, "are ye no' Mr Robertson, o' 54 Thames Street?"
"I am," replied the merchant; "but," added he, "I see how it is.
Pray, young man, what did you give this Mr Daniells to recommend you
to the situation?"
"Half-a-crown, sir," returned Adam.
"Well," said the other, "you have more money than wit. Good morning,
sir, and take care of another Mr Daniells."
Poor Adam was dumfoundered; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he
said London was a den o' thieves. I might tell you how his last
shilling was expended--how he lived upon bread and water--how he fell
into arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret--how
she persecuted him--how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of
the generous words, "_Money lent_;" how the orange-woman, in order to
obtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the _three golden balls_;
and how the shirts--which his mother had made him from a web of her
own spinning--and his books, all that he had, save the clothes upon
his back, were pledged--and how, when all was gone, the old landlady
turned him to the door, houseless, friendless, pennyless, with no
companion but despair. We might have dwelt upon these things, but
must proceed with his history.
Adam, after enduring privations which would make humanity shudder,
obtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office.
The employment was humble, but he received it joyfully. He was
steady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed
warehouseman; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good
qualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his
confidential clerks. He had held the situation about two years. The
rust, as his brother-clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed off
Scotch Adam. His hodden grey was laid aside for the dashing green,
his hob-nailed shoes for fashionable pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat
for a narrow-crowned beaver; his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling
of the southern accent; but, in other respects, he was the same
inoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's
cottage.
His companions were wont "to roast" Adam, as they termed it, on what
they called his Methodism. They had often urged him to accompany
them to the theatre; but, for two years, he had stubbornly withstood
their temptations. The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge
was to his first namesake and progenitor. He had been counselled
against it, he had read against it, he had heard sermons against it;
but had never been within the walls of a theatre. _The_ Siddons, and
her brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were
filling not only London but Europe with their names. One evening
they were to perform, together--Adam had often heard of them--he
admired Shakspeare--his curiosity was excited, he yielded to the
solicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent
Garden. The curtain was drawn up. The performance began. Adam's
soul was riveted, his senses distracted. The Siddons swept before
him like a vision of immortality--Kemble seemed to draw a soul from
the tomb of the Cæsars; and, as the curtain fell, and the loud music
pealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened
before him, and his head reeled with wonder and delight. When the
performance was concluded, his companions proposed to have a single
bottle in an adjoining tavern; Adam offered some opposition, but was
prevailed upon to accompany them. Several of the players
entered--they were convivial spirits, abounding with wit, anecdote,
and song. The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam. He took no
note of time. He was unused to drink, and little affected him. The
first bottle was finished. "WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER," said one of his
companions. It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words,
and he offered no opposition. He drank again--he began to expatiate
on divers subjects--he discovered he was an orator. "Well done, Mr
Brown," cried one of his companions, "there's hope of you yet--_we'll
have another_, my boy--three's band!" A third bottle was brought;
Adam was called upon for a song. He could sing, and sing well too;
and, taking his glass in his hand, he began--
"Stop, stop, we'll ha'e anither gill,
Ne'ermind a lang-tongued beldame's yatter;
They're fools wha'd leave a glass o' yill
For ony wife's infernal clatter.
"There's Bet, when I gang hame the night,
Will set the hail stairhead a ringin'--
Let a' the neebours hear her flyte,
Ca' me a brute, and stap my singin'.
"She'll yelp about the bairns' rags--
Ca' me a drucken gude-for-naethin'!
She'll curse my throat an' drouthy bags,
An' at me thraw their duddy claethin'!
"Chorus, gentlemen--chorus!" cried Adam, and continued--
"The fient a supper I'll get there--
A _dish o' tongues_ is a' she'll gie me!
She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair,
An' wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me!
She vows to leave me, an' I say,
'Gang, gang! for dearsake!--that's a blessin'!'
She rins to get her claes away,
But--_o' the kist the key's amissin!_
"The younkers a' set up a skirl,
They shriek an' cry--'O dinna, mither!'
I slip to bed, and fash the quarrel
Neither ae way nor anither.
Bet creeps beside me unco dour,
I clap her back, an' say--'My dawtie!'
Quo' she--'Weel, weel, my passion's ower,
But dinna gang a-drinkin', Watty.'"
"Bravo, Scotchy!" shouted one. "Your health and song, Mr Brown,"
cried another. Adam's head began to swim--the lights danced before
his eyes--he fell from his chair. One of his friends called a
hackney coach; and, half insensible of where he was, he was conveyed
to his lodgings. It was afternoon on the following day before he
appeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the
languid look of one who has spent a night in revelry. That night he
was again prevailed upon to accompany his brother-clerks to the
club-room, "just," as they expressed it, "to have one bottle to put
all right." That night he again heard the words--"_We'll have
another_," and again he yielded to their seduction.
But we will not follow him through the steps and through the snares
by which he departed from virtue and became entangled in vice. He
became an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or
both, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousness.
Still he kept up a correspondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle
object of his young affections, and for a time her endeared
remembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his
ear and saving him from depravity. But his religious principles were
already forgotten; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre
of affection that twined around his heart did not long hold him in
the path of virtue. As the influence of company grew upon him, her
remembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all
the pleasures and temptations of the metropolis.
Still he was attentive to business--he still retained the confidence
of his employer--his salary was liberal--he still sent thirty pounds
a-year to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart,
though he was changed--fatally changed. He had been about four years
in his situation when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his
native village. It was on a summer afternoon when a chaise from
Jedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the
village. A fashionably dressed young man alighted, and, in an
affected voice, desired the landlord to send a porter with his
luggage to Mrs Brown's. "A porter, sir?" said the
innkeeper--"there's naething o' the kind in the toun; but I'll get
twa callants to tak' it alang."
He hastened to his mother's. "Ah! how d'ye do?" said he, slightly
shaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his
eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first
surprise was over, said "she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine
gentleman." He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the
change in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the
less; but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young
friend, and grieved over them.
He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand,
and they set out for London together.