GEORGE HARRISON.
George Harrison was not distinguished by any remarkable talents; or
endowed with that aspiring genius which forces its way through every
obstacle, and places the possessor above the ordinary mass with whom he
is daily forced to associate. Yet, his was no common character; no
every-day acquaintance, with whom we may spend a pleasant hour, and
care not if we ever meet again in our journey through life.
The moment he entered the office my heart was drawn towards him by an
irresistible, mysterious impulse, so that looking upon him I became
attached to him, and felt confident that the friend whom I had ardently
wished to obtain for so many hopeless years, was now before me.
This impression was strengthened by the simple, unaffected, frank
manner in which he met the advances of the other clerks. There was a
charm in his smile, in the rich tones of his deep, mellow voice, which
made me anxious to catch the one, and hear the other again, though both
were marked by quiet, subdued sadness.
His face, strictly speaking, could not be called handsome; and his
general appearance was more remarkable for a refined and gentlemanly
demeanour, than for anything particularly striking in form or feature.
A good head, fine intelligent hazel eyes, and a profusion of curling
dark brown hair, redeemed his countenance from mediocrity; but its
careworn, anxious expression, showed too clearly, that some great
life-sorrow, had blighted the early promise of youth and hope.
It was some days before I had an opportunity of becoming better
acquainted with him. We were preparing for the spring assizes, and
there was work enough in the office to have employed twice the number
of hands. Nothing was heard but the scratching of pens upon paper, from
early day until midnight.
At last the hurry was over, and we had more leisure to look about us.
Mr. Moncton was attending a circuit in the country, and his watchful
eye was no longer upon us. The clerks were absent at dinner; Mr.
Harrison and I were alone in the office, which he never left till six,
when he returned to his lodgings in Charlotte Street to dine; and
unless there happened to be a great stress of business which required
his presence, we saw him no more that night.
After regarding me for some minutes with an earnest scrutiny which,
impulsive creature that I was, almost offended me, he said--
"Am I mistaken, or is your name _really_ Moncton?"
"_Really_ and truly, Geoffrey Moncton, at your service. What made you
doubt the fact?"
"I had always heard that Robert Moncton had but one son."
"Surely there is enough of the breed, without your wishing to affiliate
me upon him. I flatter myself that we do not in the least resemble each
other. And as to the name, I have so little respect for it, for his
sake, that I wish some one would leave me a fortune to change it; for,
between ourselves, I have small reason to love it. He is my uncle--my
father's younger brother--and I find the relationship near enough."
This explanation led to a brief sketch of my painful, though uneventful
history, to which Mr. Harrison listened with an air of such intense
interest that, though it flattered my vanity, not a little surprised
me. When I concluded, he grasped my hand firmly, muttering to himself--
"It is like him--just like him. The infernal scoundrel!"
"What do you know about him?" said I, astonished at the excited state
into which my revelations had thrown him.
"Only _too_ much," he responded, with a heavy sigh; and sinking back in
his chair, pressed his hands to his head, like one who wished to shut
out painful recollections, while I continued to grasp his arm and stare
at him in blank amazement. At length, rousing himself, he said with a
faint smile,--
"Don't make big eyes at me, Geoffrey. I cannot tell you all you wish to
know. At some other time, and in some other place, I will repay the
confidence you have reposed in me, and satisfy your queries; but not
here--not in the lion's den."
"For heaven's sake! don't keep silent now," I cried. "You have roused
my curiosity to such a pitch, that I shall go mad if you hold your
tongue. You _must_ speak out."
"I _must_ not, if, by so doing, I ruin your prospects and my own. Be
satisfied, Geoffrey, that I am your friend; that henceforth I will
regard you as a brother, and do all in my power to lighten and shorten
your present bondage."
The generous assurance he gave me of a warm and affectionate sympathy
in my destiny, nearly atoned for twenty years of sorrow and
degradation. The intense desire I felt to deserve his esteem, made me
anxious to cultivate my mind, which I had suffered to lie waste.
Harrison kindly offered his aid, and supplied me with books. I now
devoted myself with zeal to the task. For the first time I had a motive
for exertion; I no longer vegetated; I had a friend, and my real life
commenced from that day. I set apart two hours each night for reading
and study, and soon felt a keen relish for the employment.
"In these lie your best hope of independence, Geoffrey," said my kind
friend, laying his hand upon a pile of books, which, for lack of a
table, he placed upon the truck-bed in my mean garret. Then seating
himself beside me on the shabby couch, he proceeded to examine, by the
light of a miserable tallow-candle, a translation I had been making
from the Orations of Cicero.
"With your talents, Geoffrey, you need not fear the tyranny of any man.
It will be your own fault if you do not rise in the profession you have
chosen."
"The choice was none of mine."
"Then be grateful to your uncle for once, in having chosen it for you."
"Do not expect impossibilities!" and I smiled bitterly.
"Not exactly. Yet, Geoffrey, many things which appear at first sight
impossible, only require a series of persevering efforts to become both
easy and practicable. You might render your unpleasant position with
your uncle more tolerable, by yielding to his authority with a better
grace. The constant opposition you make to his wishes, is both useless
and dangerous. Though you neither love nor respect him, and I should be
sorry if you could do either, yet he is entitled to obedience and a
certain degree of deference as your guardian and master."
"I never can willingly obey him," I cried, angrily, "or bring my mind
to submit to his authority."
"In which, I assure you as a friend, you are wrong. As long as his
commands do not interfere with any moral obligation, you are bound to
listen to them with respect."
"The man has always been my enemy, and would you have me become a
passive instrument in his hands?"
"Certainly, as long as you remain his clerk, and he does not require
your aid in any villainous transaction. If his intentions towards you
are evil, you cannot frustrate them better than by doing your duty.
Believe me, Geoffrey, you have a more dangerous enemy to contend with,
one bound to you by nearer ties, who exercises a more pernicious
influence over your mind."
"His sordid, selfish, counterpart--his _worthy_ son?"
George shook his head.
I looked inquiringly.
"A certain impetuous, wilful, wrong-headed boy, yclept Geoffrey
Moncton."
"Pish!" I exclaimed, shrugging my shoulders: "is this your friendship?"
"The best proof I can give you of it."
I walked hastily to and fro, the narrow limits of the chamber, raising,
at every step, a cloud of dust from folds of old, yellow parchment and
musty rolls of paper, which had accumulated there for the last half
century, and lay in a pile upon the floor. I was in no humour to listen
to a lecture, particularly when my own faulty temper was to be the
principal subject, and form the text. Harrison watched my movements for
some time in silence, with a provokingly-amused air; not in the least
discouraged by my wayward mood; but evidently ready for another attack.
"Prithee, Geoffrey, leave off raising that cloud of dust, disturbing
the evil spirits which have long slumbered in yon forgotten pile of
professional rubbish, and sit down quietly and listen to reason."
I felt annoyed, and would not resume my place beside him, but, assuming
a very stately air, seated myself opposite to my tormentor on a huge
iron chest, which was the only seat, save the bed, in the room; and
then, fixing my eyes reproachfully upon him, I sat as stiff as a poker,
without relaxing a muscle of my face.
He laughed outright.
"You are displeased with my bluntness, Geoffrey, and I am amused with
your dignity. That solemn, proud face would become the Lord Chancellor
of England."
"Hold your tongue, you tormentor; I won't be laughed at in this absurd
manner. What have I done to deserve such a sermon?"
"'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the preacher,' and surely,
Geoffrey, your vanity exceeds all other vanity. I hint at a fault, and
point it out for correction. You imagine yourself perfection, and are
up in arms in a moment. Answer me, seriously: do you ever expect to
settle in life?"
"I have dared to cherish the forlorn hope."
"Forlorn as it is, you are taking the best method to destroy it."
"What would you have me do?"
"Yield to circumstances."
"Become a villain?" This was said with a very tragic air.
"May Heaven forbid! I should be sorry to see you so nearly resemble
your uncle. But I would have you avoid uselessly offending him; for, by
constantly inflaming his mind to anger, you may ruin your own
prospects, and be driven in desperation to adopt measures for obtaining
a living, scarcely less dishonourable than his own."
"Go on," I cried: "it is all very well for you to talk in this
philosophical strain. You have not been educated in the same bitter
school with me; you have not known what it is to writhe beneath the
oppressive authority of this cold, unfeeling man; you cannot understand
the nature of my sufferings, or the painful humiliation I must daily
endure."
He took my hand affectionately.
"Geoffrey," said he, "how do you know all this? Yours is not a
profession which allows men to jump at conclusions. What can you tell
of my past or present trials. What if I should say, they had been far
greater and worse to bear than your own?"
"Impossible!"
"All things that have reference to sorrow and trouble, in this world,
are only too possible. But I will have patience with you, my poor
friend; your heart is very sore. The deadly wounds in mine are
partially healed; yet, my experience of life has been bought with
bitter tears;--the loss of hope, health and self-respect. I am willing
that you should profit by this; and, having made this confession, will
you condescend to hear my lecture to an end?"
"Oh, tell me something more about yourself. I would rather listen to
your sorrows, than have my faults paraded before me."
A melancholy smile passed over his face.
"Geoffrey, what a child you are! Listen to me. You have suffered this
personal dislike to your uncle and his son to overtop, like some rank
weed, every better growth of your mind; to destroy your moral integrity
and mental advantages; to interfere with your studies, and prevent any
beneficial result which might arise from your situation as clerk in
this office. Is this wise?"
I remained obstinately silent.
"You are lengthening the term of your bondage, and riveting the fetters
you are so anxious to break. Does not your uncle know this? Does he not
laugh at your impotent efforts to break his yoke from off your neck? In
one short year your articles will expire, and you will become a free
agent. But, with the little knowledge you have gained of your
profession, what would liberty do for you? Would it procure for you a
better situation; establish your claims as a gentleman, or fill an
empty purse?"
"Let the worst come to the worst, I could work for my bread."
"Not such an easy thing as you imagine."
"With health, strength and youth on my side, what should hinder me?"
"Your uncle's influence, which is very great. The world does not know
him, as we know him. He is considered an upright, honourable man. One
word from him would blast your character, and keep you out of every
office in London."
I felt my cheeks grow pale. I had never seen matters in this light
before. Still, I would not yield to the arguments of my friend. The
obstinate spirit of the Monctons was in active operation just then, and
would not submit to reason.
"There are more ways of earning a living than by following the
profession of the law," said I doggedly.
"To all of which you have an apprenticeship to serve. Think, Geoffrey,
of the thousands of respectable young men who are looking for
employment in this vast metropolis, and how few are successful; and
then ask yourself, how you, without money, without friends, and with a
powerful enemy to crush all your honest endeavours, and render them
abortive, are likely to earn your own living."
I was struck speechless, and for the first time in my life became aware
of my utter inability to extricate myself out of the net of
difficulties which surrounded me.
"You are convinced at last. Look me steadily in the face, Geoffrey, and
own that you are beaten. Nay, smooth that frowning brow: it makes you
look like Robert Moncton. Your profession is a fortune in itself, if
you persevere in acquiring it. Be not discouraged by difficulties that
beset the path. A poor man's road to independence is always up-hill
work. Duty fences the path on either side, and success waves her flag
from the summit; but every step must be trod, often in ragged garments,
and with bare feet, if we would reach the top."
I pressed George Harrison's hand, silently within my own. He had won a
great victory over obstinacy and self-conceit.
From that hour my prospects brightened. I became a new creature, full
of hope, activity and trust. My legal studies engaged all my leisure
moments. I had no time left to brood over my wrongs. My mind had formed
an estimate of its own powers; the energetic spirit which had been
wasted in endless cavils and contradictions (for my temper was faulty
and headstrong, and my uncle not always the aggressor) now asserted its
own dignity, and furnished me with the weapon most needed in such petty
warfare--self-respect. Harrison had given me a motive for exertion, and
I was ashamed of having suffered my mental powers to remain so long
inactive. As my mind recovered a healthy tone, my spirits rose in
proportion. The thirst for improvement daily acquired new strength,
while my industry not only surprised, but drew forth the commendations
of my uncle.
"What has become of your churlish, morose temper, Geoffrey?" said he to
me one day, at dinner; "why, boy, you are greatly changed of late. From
a sulky, impertinent, vindictive lad, you have become an industrious,
agreeable, pleasant fellow."
"It is never too late to mend, uncle," said I, laughing, though I did
not much relish his portrait of what I had been. "My temper I found a
greater punishment to myself than to others, so I thought it high time
to change it for a better."
"You were perfectly right. I have a better hope for your future than I
once had. I shall be able to make something out of you yet."
This unlooked-for condescension on the part of Mr. Moncton, softened
the hard feelings I had long cherished against him into a more
Christian-like endurance of his peculiarities; and the conscientious
discharge of my own duty taught me to consider his interests as my own.