How could I otherwise "prove the rule," eh?
Min told me that Monsieur Parole d'Honneur was as gay and as full of
anecdote as of yore. She also told me, too, that the kind-hearted
Frenchman having chanced to meet her out one day, long before she had
been able to hear from me directly, had, in the most delicately-
diplomatic way, led the conversation round to America, so that he might
tell her that I was not only well, but doing well!
This was at the time I had written a rapturous note to him, after my
first interview with my friend, "Brown of Philadelphia,"--before, you
may be tolerably certain, that philanthropical polisher had "sloped to
Texas" with the capital Parole d'Honneur endowed me with.
He did not mention that latter fact of his generosity to Min, however;
but, she knew of it, for I told her of it when we parted, and she then
said that she thanked him in her heart for his kindness to me, and would
always "love" him for it--so she said!
The vicar and Miss Pimpernell--also "exceptions,"--I heard, were just as
usual; the former as much liked as ever by rich and poor alike, in the
parish; the latter, trotting about still, with her big basket and
creature comforts for those whom she spiritually visited.
Old Shuffler, too, wobbled on, as he had wobbled on as far back as I
could recollect, Min told me; and rolled his sound eye, and stared with
his glass one, as glassily as then.
I heard also that "Dicky Chips" was as frolicsome and light-hearted a
bullfinch as when Min first had him, and had learnt several new tricks.
But, poor old Catch--my dog--whom I had so loved, had died in my
absence; not from old age, for he was but young, having only seen his
fifth birthday; but, "full of honours," as every one liked him and
respected him who knew of his sagacity and faithfulness, and saw his
honest brown eyes and handsome high cast head.
Dear old doggy!
I had had him from the time he was a month old; and he and I had hardly
ever been, parted from that time until I went to America.
He used to accompany me wherever I went, by day; and sleep across my
room door at night.
He never had had a harsh word from me but once, that I remember; and,
that was respecting a certain little matter connected with a stray
sheep, about which we happened to differ on the occasion.
Poor Catch! I can fancy I hear his eager bark now. It was a welcome to
which I looked forward on my return to England, as only secondary to the
pleasure I would have in meeting Min; and, I confess, when I heard of
his loss, I mourned him more than I had ever mourned one whom the world
calls "friend," before. He was faithful always; changing never. How
many reputed "friends" will you find to act thus?
I think that Lord Byron's recollection of his trusty dog must have
absolved him from a hundred character blots. Do you remember those
lines he wrote to the memory of "Boatswain," on the monument he erected
in his honour at Newstead Abbey? I would like them on Catch's tomb, if
I only knew where the dear old fellow lies; for, what "Boatswain" was to
Byron, so was he to me:--
"In life the foremost friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth!"
Min's news did not come all at once.
It was spread over an expanse of many months, during which I was
rambling over the States;--reporting this speaker and that;--studying
"life and character" in every way--from the inspection of negro camp-
meetings, where coloured saints expounded doctrinal views that would
have made Wilberforce shudder, to participating in a presidential
election, wherein I had the opportunity of seeing the inherent
rottenness of the Transatlantic "institution" thoroughly exposed.
When I was thus bustling about, amidst so many varied phases of life, I
could not very well sympathise with the quiet doings of Saint Canon's.
But, on my return to my Brooklyn lodgings, when once more appointed to
regular newspaper work at the office of the journal with which I was
connected in New York, the old home longings returned also as strong as
ever--stronger, as time went on!
I got in the habit of again marking my almanack, as Robinson Crusoe
notched his post, every day; saying to myself the while, that I was
brought one day nearer to my darling as the sun went down; one day
nearer as it rose on the morrow:--one day nearer to the date of my exile
being ended!