It is quite wonderful what a fund of conversation one has with one's
self, when one is left alone for a few minutes, after an hour or two
of that excitement, during which the mind at one moment has enough to
do in calculating what the body is to do the next. This conversation
is sometimes pleasant of course, and sometimes severe, according to
the circumstances of the case, and character of the person, or rather
of the persons concerned. I hold the plural to be the right number in
speaking of such conversation; for therein, more or less, the two
spirits which Araspus, and every other man felt and feels in his own
bosom, hold commune with each other; and--being two twin brothers,
who, though good and evil in their several natures, have still a bond
of kindred sympathy between them--although they wrangle and oppose
each other in the busy strife of the world, yet, when they thus calmly
meet in solitude and silence, to talk together over the past, there is
a strain of melancholy affection mingles with their intercourse, which
renders it always pleasing, though sometimes sad. The good spirit--for
it is his moment of power--rebukes his evil brother gently for every
abuse of his sway; and the evil one bows contrite, or playfully evades
the charge.
All this, however, has very little to do with Henry Burrel, (some
persons may think,) who, in companionship with a hurt lad, half
peasant half sailor, was slowly winding onward, in a creaking
post-chaise, towards the small town of Emberton. Nevertheless,
notwithstanding that fact--and whether any one understands some of the
foregoing sentences or not, which probably they will not do without
reading them over twice--Nevertheless, Henry Burrel's thoughts were
suffered to flow, hardly interrupted--for the young sailor was still
in a dozy, half lethargic state--and the two spirits, though the good
one could scarcely be said to have lost its ascendency during the
hours lately passed, had full leisure for conversation in his bosom.
"I must take care what I am about," thought Burrel, as soon as he had
fallen back in the chaise, after a few kindly words to his poor
companion, which remained half unanswered; "I must take care what I am
about," and it may hardly be necessary to inform the reader, that he
was thinking of Blanche Delaware. "And yet," he continued the next
moment, half smiling, "why should I take care?--whom have I to care
for but myself?"
That was one point gained at least! It was settled, thenceforth and
for ever, that there was no reason on earth why he should not fall in
love with Blanche Delaware, if he liked it. By the way, men very
seldom get so far as that without being somewhat in love already. Few
people think of attacking a fort without being in the army. The next
step to be taken by a reasonable man--and Burrel was one of those
people whose natural inclination to act by impulse was so strong, that
he was very anxious, on all occasions, to give impulse a good reason,
lest she should act without one, and then laugh at him for his
pains--The next step to be taken was to find some good and legitimate
cause, altogether independent of passion, why such a cool and
considerate person as Henry Burrel looked upon Henry Burrel to be--and
which he really was by habit, though not by nature--should fall in
love with Blanche Delaware; and as it is not very easy mathematically
to find a sufficient cause for falling in love at all, Burrel was
obliged to proceed cautiously in the matter, from axiom to postulate,
and so on.
He accordingly set himself to think over all he had seen of Blanche
Delaware; and he did not find it in the least difficult to imagine, to
assume, to demonstrate, that she had plenty of virtues and high
qualities, (independent of her beauty,) to make her a desirable wife
for any man. He next considered the question of marriage in the
abstract, and was naturally led to conclude, with St. Paul, as cited
by the Book of Common Prayer, that it is a state honourable among all
men. All these steps being taken, he next looked into his own
condition, and found that marriage might do him a great deal of good,
and could do him very little harm. Then putting the points already
gained in relative position with his own situation, he deduced the
following: Marriage is good and honourable in all men--marriage in his
own case was peculiarly advisable--and Blanche Delaware was peculiarly
eligible for any man as a wife.
So far all was fair and prosperous, and he was like a ship with full
sails and a favourable wind, dancing over a sunny sea towards the port
of matrimony; and a very comfortable port, too, let me tell you.
However, there was still one little obstacle to be got over, which the
reader unless he be an under-graduate, will never divine. The fact is,
that no man who has been long at either of the two learned
universities, can bear the idea of falling in love. He looks upon it
as a sort of disgrace; and Burrel, who was Christ Church, would not
admit for a moment that he was the least little bit in love in the
world. At the the time, with that sort of odd perversity, which, on
some subject or another, is to be found in the breast of every one, he
had no idea of any one marrying without being in love, unless, indeed,
some point of honour or propriety required it. This latter opinion
came of course from reading novels and romances, plays, poetry, and
such trash; and, in his course through the world hitherto, these
contending principles, always in opposition to each other, had kept
him safe, sound, and unmarried, up to the respectable period of
seven-and-twenty years. His Master of Arts degree, had acted as a
shield to his heart from the many arrows which had been directed
against it; and a romantic disposition had guarded him against that
sort of abstract matrimony which is undertaken without love.
"He was an odd man this Mr. Henry Burrel!"
"He was so, sir! Just such another bundle of contrarieties as you or
I, or any one else. We are all odd men, if you look at us closely."
The simple fact of Burrel's situation at that moment was merely
this--He was not over head and ears in love with Blanche Delaware. He
had not had time, sir! A man does not fall in love by steam! No; but
he had at least advanced two or three steps in that quagmire, and he
was not very likely to get out of it in a hurry. If any one who reads
this book--and pray heaven they may be many!--have ever ridden a
thorough-bred horse over a shaking moor, he will have seen that the
animal, at the first two or three steps over the boggy ground,
trembles at every limb, and if you let him, he will sink to a
certainty. Your only way is to stick your spurs into his sides, keep a
light hand and his head up, and gallop as hard as you can till you get
upon firm ground. Now Burrel felt very much inclined to gallop. He got
a little frightened at his situation, especially when he found himself
stringing together so many reasons for marrying Blanche Delaware, and
it was even betting, whether he staid to fall in love, or got into the
ten o'clock stage, and dined in London.
The way that Love got over it was as follows: Burrel began to think
about the events of the foregoing night, and the remembrance of saving
the life of Blanche Delaware; and carrying her out through the flames
in his arms, was, of course, too pleasant a little spot for memory,
not to pause upon it agreeably. The flickering blush, also, which had
risen in her cheek when she had seen him afterwards, rose up sweetly;
and his next thought was to consider whether it would be more delicate
again to apologize for entering her chamber in the middle of the
night, or to leave it in silence, and never mention it at all. That
was soon settled; but he then thought, "The story will, of course, be
told about the country--ay, and with additions and improvements, which
may very likely injure that sweet girl, and will, at all events, hurt
her feelings if she should hear them. I would not have it so for a
world--and yet what can one do to prevent it?"
At that moment, connecting itself with the blush, by one of those fine
invisible links of thought, which defy all grasp, for who can
"Trace to its cloud the lightning of the mind?"--
At that moment, the few words he had spoken, at the top of the stone
staircase, when he first found they were in safety--the outpouring of
joy which had sparkled over the lip of the cup--the "Dear girl you are
safe!"--were gathered up by memory and held up to his sight; and
Burrel, who was a gentleman, and considered the point of honour more
sacred and more delicate towards a woman than even towards a man,
believed that he had said too much, not to say more, if he found that
to say it, would not offend.
"Doubtless she will forget it!" he said to himself; "Doubtless she
will never think of it more; but yet I have spoken what was either an
insult or a declaration, and for my own honour's sake I cannot quit
the country till I have pursued it farther."
Well done, Maître Cupidon! Strangely well managed for a little blind
gentleman, strongly suspected of being lame in one leg! But 'tis time
to give over gossiping, for I have a long story to tell, and very
little space to tell it in; and if we stop investigating every thing
that passes in the mind of all the principal personages in this tale,
we shall never get half through all the perils, and dangers, and
hairbreadth escapes, which have not yet begun.
Well, the chaise rolled on; but as, for the sake of his hurt
companion, Burrel had ordered it to roll slowly, his own thoughts
rolled a considerable deal faster, and he had got happily over the
above cogitations, and a great many more to boot, before the vehicle
entered the little town of Emberton. All the good folks in the place
were agog with the joy and excitement of a fire, and the misfortunes
of their fellow-creatures; and although it had been discovered, by the
arrival of Mrs. Darlington's carriage, that unfortunately no one had
been killed, yet every body looked out anxiously for the next comers
from the scene of action, in order to have the pleasure of hearing a
detailed account of the property destroyed. Good Lord! what a pleasure
and satisfaction it was to the ladies of Emberton to commiserate Mrs.
Darlington! There is certainly no affection of human nature half so
gratifying as commiseration! It raises us so infinitely above the
object we commiserate; and, oh! if that object have been for long
years a thing or person to be envied!--Ye gods! quit your nectar, for
it is not worth a sup, and learn to commiserate one another!
"Poor Mrs. Darlington! Only think how unfortunate to have her fine
place entirely destroyed!" cried Commiseration.--"She that was so
smart and gay, and held her head so high!" observed Envy.--"No great
harm; it will lower her pride!" said Hatred.--"They say all her
title-deeds are burned, and she is likely to lose the whole estate!"
whispered Malice.--"It was ill enough got, I dare say!" added All
Uncharitableness; "for no one could tell how her father made his
money!"--And thus the matter being settled to the satisfaction of
every one who had lungs to cry out, "Poor Mrs. Darlington!" the good
people of Emberton waited anxiously for the next arrival, to see
whether it would afford them any thing equally new and pleasant to say
upon the subject.
The next arrival, as we before hinted, was that of Henry Burrel, Esq.,
carrying in the post-chaise along with him, "Poor Wat Harrison," as
the surgeon had called him; and this conjunction of two such very
opposite planets in one post-chaise, was wonderfully prolific of
agreeable speculations to the folks of Emberton. Some declared that
Poor Wat Hanison, or Sailor Wat, as he was called, had been detected
in plundering the house, and had been brought down in irons. Some
vowed that he had insulted Mr. Burrel, and had been knocked down by
that gentleman with a blow which had fractured his skull. One little
boy, who saw him pass with a bloody handkerchief round his head, ran
across to his father on the other side of the way, crying out, "Oh,
papa, they have brought home the widow's son, at the end of the lane,
with his throat cut! You used always to say he would be hanged!"
Besides this gentle vaticination of his ultimate destiny, various were
the reports that his appearance in Burrel's post-chaise produced.
Nevertheless, the chaise rolled on, and, passing through the town,
turned up the lane leading by the park wall towards the mansion-house,
and, after proceeding about a couple of hundred yards, stopped at the
door of a neat cottage, humble and small, but clean and decked with
flowers.
"Stay, and let me help you out!" said Burrel to his companion, as the
postilion opened the door.
"No, no!" cried the lad, rousing himself from the sort of dozing state
in which he had hitherto continued. "It will frighten her.--Let me get
out myself.--She has had frights enough already."
He was next the door, and he staggered down the steps with an effort;
but, before his foot touched the ground, a female figure appeared at
the entrance of the cottage. It was that of a woman of about forty
years of age, with traces of considerable beauty, less withered
apparently by time than by sorrow; for the braided hair upon her
forehead was but thinly mingled with gray, the teeth were fine and
white, the eye clear and undimmed. But there was many a line about the
mouth which seemed to hold every smile in chains, and there was an
expression of deep, habitual anxiety in the eyes, fine as they were,
that can only be fixed in them by care. They seemed always asking,
"What new sorrow now?" She was dressed in the garb of a widow--not
deep weeds--but those habiliments which might still be worn as marks
of the eternal mourning of the heart, after time and the world's
changes had banished the memory of her loss from every bosom but her
own. They were neat and clean, but plain and even coarse; and her
appearance--and it did not belie her state--was altogether that of a
person in the humbler class of life; but with a mind, and perhaps an
education, in some degree superior to those of her own station.
As the young man got out of the chaise, she took two or three quick
steps forward to meet him, exclaiming, with an anxious gaze at his
face, "Oh, my boy! what has happened now?"
"Nothing mother, nothing!" answered the young man, "A knock on the
head! That's all! Nothing at all! It will be well to-morrow;" and he
strove to pass into the house, as if to hide himself from the anxious
eyes which were scanning his pale face, dabbled as it was with blood.
Burrel sprang out of the chaise; and, putting his right hand under the
lad's elbow, so as to support him steadily, he gently displaced his
mother's hand by taking it in his own, and leading her on with them
into the cottage, saying, as he did so, "Your son, my good lady, has
had a severe blow on the head, from the falling of a beam, as he was
aiding gallantly to extinguish the fire at Mrs. Darlington's. We have
been obliged to bleed him; but, as you see, he is much better now; and
I doubt not, with care and good medical advice, will soon be quite
well."
By this time he had got the young man into the cottage, and seated him
on a wooden chair near the door; but the words of comfort that he
spoke seemed to fall meaningless on the ears of the widow, who stood
and gazed upon her son's face, with an expression of anxious care
which we must have all seen at some time or another, but which is
hardly describable. It was not only the sorrow and the anxiety of the
moment, but it was the crushed heart, prophesying many a future woe
from long experience of grief,--it was the waters of bitterness,
welling from the past, and mingling its gall with all things present
or to come.
Her son was her first thought, but she marked Burrel's words,
though she answered them not; for the next moment she said, as if
speaking to herself--for distress had done away with courtesy, for the
moment--"Where am I to get good medical advice?"
"That shall not be wanting, my good lady," replied Burrel kindly.
"Come, come, the matter is not so bad as you think it. Get your son to
bed, and as soon as Mr. Tomkins the surgeon returns, he shall have my
orders to give him every attention. He will soon be better, so set
your mind at ease."
"Oh sir!" answered the widow, looking, for the first time, at the
person who spoke to her, "I have not known what a mind at ease is, for
many a long year. But you are very good, sir, and I ought to have
thanked you before."
"That you ought mother," said the young man, "for he got me out of the
fire, and saved my life. God bless you, sir! I can be thankful enough
for a good turn, in spite of all that the people of this place may say
against me. They first drove me to do a wrong thing, and then gave me
a worse name for it than I ever deserved."
"I believe it is too often so," answered Burrel, laying his hand with
a gentle motion upon his arm; "and many a man like you, my poor
fellow, may be driven from small faults to great ones. But it is never
too late to correct one's mistakes; and as I will bear witness to your
gallant exertions to save Mrs. Darlington's property, you will now
have a good foundation to raise a better name for yourself than you
seem to say, you have hitherto obtained. Let this make a new beginning
for you, and I will take care you shall not want encouragement."
The young sailor suddenly grasped his hand, and wrung it tight in his
own. "God bless you, sir!" he said, "God bless you!" and Burrel fully
understood that the words of hope he had spoken, had found their way
straight to a heart that might have gone astray, but was not entirely
corrupted. After a few more kind words to the widow and her son, he
got into the chaise again, and returned to his lodging. His first care
was to provide medical aid for the young sailor, and he sent
immediately for Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon, who had by this time
returned. After giving full orders and authority to see the young man,
God willing, completely restored to health, with all the necessary
attendance and medicaments to be charged to his account, Burrel
learned from the apothecary the history of the young sailor, which is
as simple a one as ever was told.
His father and mother had married young, principally upon the strength
of that camelion fricasee--hopes and expectations; and his father had
settled in a small shop in Emberton, became bankrupt, and died. There
is nothing wonderful in that; for oxalic--nay, prussic acid itself,
has no advantage over broken hopes, except in being a quicker poison.
If one takes up the Gazette, and looks at the names of the great
bankers and merchants that have figured in its sad list during the
last twenty years, we shall find that two out of three, have not
survived their failure three years. Well, he died; and his widow did
hope that the liberal creditors would allow her the means of carrying
on her husband's trade again, or at least supporting herself and her
child. But no. The world is a very good world, and a liberal and
generous world, _et cetera, et cetera, et cetera_; but let no one, as
they value peace, count upon its kindness or generosity for a moment.
The liberal creditors left her not a shred on the face of the earth
that they could take, and turned her and her beggar boy into the
street. To the kindness of Sir Sidney Delaware she owed the small
cottage in which she dwelt; but Sir Sidney, God help him! had hardly
enough for himself; and though many a little act of comforting
kindness was shown by the poor family of the park to the poor family
in the cottage, yet that was not enough for support, and want was
often at the door. As the boy grew up, his heart burned at his
mother's need; and in an evil hour he became connected with a gang of
poachers--plundered the preserves of Sir Timothy Ridout--was
detected--resisted. The gamekeeper was struck and injured in the
affray, and poor Wat Harrison, as he was called, was nearly finding
his way to Botany Bay; when, by some kind management, he was allowed
to go to sea, and remained in Captain Delaware's ship till she was
paid off, a few months before the time of which I now write.
It has before been shown, however, that Wat Harrison had established
for himself a bad character in the little town which saw his birth. To
such a degree even had he done this, that the peculiar class of
wiseacres, who have a prepossession in favour of hanging, uniformly
agreed that poor Wat Harrison would be hanged. Such a reputation once
established, is not easily shaken off; and although, at his return, he
bore a high character from Captain Delaware, who reported him--what he
really was--a brave, active, gallant lad, somewhat rash and
headstrong, and with a disposition that, in good guidance, might be
led to every thing good and noble--still the wiseacres shook the
knowing head, and declared that all that might be very true, but that
bad company would soon make him as bad as ever.
Burrel listened to the story with some attention; but by this time he
had resumed his impenetrability, which had been a little shaken within
the last four-and-twenty hours, and the good doctor could by no means
discover what Henry Burrel intended to do in favour of poor Wat
Harrison, or whether he intended to do any thing.
It is not improbable that, as the surgeon was really a kind-hearted
man, he would have given what medical aid was required by the widow's
son, even had no pecuniary remuneration brightened with its golden
rays the horizon of a long attendance; but the unlimited order he
received to do every thing that was necessary for the youth's complete
recovery, inspired a new alacrity into all his movements; for there is
no charity which is half so active as that which is paid for. Away,
then, hied worthy Mr. Tomkins, undivided surgeon to the whole little
township of Emberton and its dependencies, to attend poor Wat
Harrison, with as much eager zeal as if the lad had been a Calender, a
king's son, instead of a poor widow's; and his prompt appearance, as
well as several mysterious "nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,"
which he joined to some mysterious words about her son having secured
a powerful protector, served greatly to soothe the heart of poor Widow
Harrison. In good truth, much did it need soothing; for her only child
had soon fallen into the same fearful drowsy state again, from which
his first arrival at her humble dwelling had roused him, and either
left her questions unanswered, or answered _à tort et à travers_. This
had terrified and alarmed her to a dreadful degree; and the assurances
of the surgeon, that her son would do well, joined to the hints he
gave, that her future prospects were brightening, brought the first
rays of the blessed daystar of joy to shine in upon her heart, which
had found their way through the casement of her cottage for many
a-year.
The lad was by this time in bed, and a second bleeding relieved him;
but it was now discovered that the beam had struck his side as well as
his head, and there appeared some reason to fear inflammation from the
feverish state of his pulse. Cooling drinks and refrigerants of all
kinds were recommended; and as Mr. Burrel's orders had been dictated
in a spirit of liberality, to which the mind of the village surgeon
was averse to set bounds, yet afraid to give full course, he deemed it
best to wait upon that gentleman, and state what he thought necessary.
"In regard to medicines, and every thing of that kind, my dear sir,"
replied Burrel, who was found with half a dozen half-written letters
before him; "in regard to medicines, and every thing of that kind, I
must let him trust to you. As to diet, the _juvantia_ and _lædentia_
must be explained to my man, who shall have full orders to provide all
that is necessary for him."
The letters on the table were a sufficient hint to a man, a part of
whose profession it is to understand hints quickly; and after the
words of course, he took leave once more, and departed.
A short time after, Burrel's silent servant, Harding, appeared at the
cottage, bringing with him all that could make a sick man comfortable.
He himself was active and attentive; and, considering his wonted
reserve, Master Harding might be looked upon as loquacious. He showed
none of those airs which the servants of fine gentlemen sometimes
affect, when called upon to attend the poor or sick, in any of those
cases in which their masters find it convenient to do the less
pleasant parts of charity by deputy; but, sitting down by the bed of
the sick man, he asked kindly after his health--talked over
the accident which had occasioned the injury from which he
suffered--turned up his nose at his own master, when Widow Harrison
called down blessings on Burrel's head--declared that the time was
fast coming when such men would find their right level--and hoped in
his days to see the national debt wiped away with a wet spunge, and a
reasonable limit fixed to the fortunes of private men, so that no such
unequal distribution, of things that were naturally in common, should
take place.
Widow Harrison was silent from astonishment, and her son was ill, and
not logical; so that the oration of silent servant passed
unquestioned, and he returned to his master's lodging, where, to do
him all manner of justice, although he was perfectly respectful, his
lips did not overflow with any of those warm professions of attachment
and devotion which used to characterize the determined rascal in days
of old. It is to be remarked here, that the character of the
scoundrel, the pickpocket, and the thief, has changed within the last
five or six years most amazingly; and that the leaven of liberal
sentiments, of one kind or another, which has been so industriously
kneaded up with the dough-like and ductile minds of Englishmen, has
been naturally communicated in a greater proportion to the thieves,
pickpockets, cheats, and valets-de-chambre, than to any other class in
the state.
Far from finding fawning and cringing in the knavish valet--far from
meeting courtesy and gentleness in the highwayman--far from being
treated with urbanity and persiflage by the swindler--the first, when
about to steal his master's silver spoons, discusses the origin of the
idea of property; the second, when he lays you prostrate with a club,
or blows your brains out with a pistol, swaggers about the rights of
the people, while the swindler is sure to cheat you under the guise of
a lecture on political economy; and the man who meditates cutting your
throat in your bed, views you with cool indifference--reads Cato
before he goes to rest--and, ere he sets to work, lies down to take an
hour or two of sleep, and dream of Brutus. Oh, ye gods, it is a goodly
world! and those who see most of the march of intellect, begin to
suspect that its progression is somewhat like that of a crab.