above all, the sound and sight of the glass, wrought wonders. He rose
deliberately from his seat--examined himself--looked around him--turned
and re-turned--looked at me and my assistants--at his wife, who had come
in wondering at the noise and strange appearance of the glass--and at
the broken evidence, at once of his disorder and his cure.
"This is most wonderful!" he at last ejaculated. "Margaret, woman, look
at that! Where is your scepticism now, your laughs, and your jeers, and
your vain efforts to shake my belief? This may teach you sobriety of
thought, and inspire you with confidence in my opinions. I was never
deceived in my life. Man never found me wrong: and here is my last
victory over the foolish prejudices of all my neighbours."
Saying this, he took a part of the glass, and turned it round in his
hand.
"Perfect, pure, brittle glass," he continued. "A pier-glass might have
been made of it."
"I would rather say a _convex_ mirror, Mr G----," said I, laughing,
contrary to my professional gravity.
"But, doctor," said he, "why were you so hard of belief? It was long ere
you would believe me. I have conquered you too; but, I must confess, you
have conquered my disease."
"Yes; I have mastered it at last," said I; "it will never trouble you
again. Would you have the goodness to allow me to take a part of the
fragments home with me, to put in my museum."
"Most certainly," he replied; "but it's natural that I should have the
liberty of retaining a considerable part, to evidence for my sincerity,
and to exhibit as a great natural curiosity to the world."
This matter was easily arranged. The patient mended from that day. The
joy of the relief he had experienced shot its rays through his heart and
system, quickened his blood, and roused his lethargic nerves. His
daydreams vanished, and his nervous fears were replaced by a healthy,
firm confidence. He was, last time I saw him, a very healthy person, saw
through the glass clearly, and laughed heartily at my ingenuity in
overcoming his complaint.
WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER.
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 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, porin owre yer books--for they're never oot o' yor 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 nicht he had read a
chapter to his younger brothers; and oh, sir," she added, "it wad mak
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, he
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 visiter 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 _protege_. 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--and
he shook as he spoke--he 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 forests 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 buttonhole, 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 an't
such a street in all London."
Adam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among its
million 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
Davison, 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
moment 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 gie me a lift on to my shouther wi't, 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 trousers 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 Tower-hill, 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 rang, 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
eighteen-pence 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 plaisant 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 skylight,
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 hobnailed 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 a
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' 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 visiter
with a gracious smile.
"If ye please, sir," said Adam, "will ye be so good as inform me where
the gentleman lives that wants the book-keeper?"
"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 and, to tell ye the truth, I
can very ill afford it; but, as I am much in want o' a situation, maybe
ye 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 book-keeper."
"Mr Daniells--Mr Daniells?" said the merchant; "don't know any such
person--have not wanted a book-keeper 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, and 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, penniless, 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 hobnailed 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 Shakspere--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 Caesars;
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 performances were 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 hae anither gill,
Ne'er mind 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 stair-head a ringin--
Let a' the neebors 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 and drouthy bags,
And at me thraw their duddy claethin!'
"Chorus, gentlemen--chorus!" cried Adam, and continued--
"'The fient a supper I'll get there--
A _dish o' tongue_ is a' she'll gie me!
She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair,
And wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me!
She vows to leave me, and 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 and cry, "Oh 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, and say, "My dawtie!"
Quo' she, "Weel, weel, my passion's owre;
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 had 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.