comprehension; and, after all, the good people may only mean to present
me with some suitable gift, in consideration of the act of justice I
have this day done them. Let me see if there be any news." And he fell
back in his chair in that delightful _langueur d'esprit_ to which a
newspaper of all things is the most acceptable. "Why," he continued, as
he still searched for some racy bit, "did not Sharp undertake to get a
notice inserted, by way of an editor's advertisement of three lines, to
immortalise me, and pave my way to the hand of Miss Clarinda Pott?" And
he wrung the muscles of his face as if they had been a dish-clout filled
with the humour of his bile. At length his eye stood in his head, his
mouth opened, and he became what artists would call "a living picture."
The part of the paper which produced this strange effect consisted of
merely a few lines, to this import:--
"_New Light._--The matter which the fire in ----- Street failed to
illumine has, we understand, been illustrated by no less an individual
than John Bunyan, Tinker at Elstow. Everything may be reduced to an
allegory; the world itself is an allegory; and this scrap of ours is
nothing but an allegory."
Samuel laid down the paper.
"What can this mean?" said he. "If this be not an allegory, I know not
what is."
"Ah, sir, you are a man this day to be envied," said Miss M'Falzen, who
now entered. "You have proved yourself to be an honest man. I was sure
of it; and you know, Samuel, when all deserted you, I stuck fast by you,
and even gave the--the--excuse me, sir--the consent you asked of me,
while you had no prospect before you in this bad world other than
beggary."
"What consent, ma'am?" replied Mr Thriven, with a face that displayed no
more curiosity than it did love.
"Bless me, Mr Thriven, do you forget?--Is it possible that you can have
forgotten so _interesting_ an occasion?"
"I believe, by the by, ma'am, you have called for your debts," said Mr
Thriven.
"Debt!" ejaculated the devout spinster. "Why should there be any debt
between two people situated as we are. Why should not all claims be
extinguished by the mixture of what Mr Sharp calls _the goods in
communion_. If I take this money from you to-day, won't I be giving it
back after the ceremony. True, my small fortune is now nothing to yours;
yet I will remember with pleasure, and you will never surely forget,
that all I had was at your service when you had lost all you had in the
world; so, you see, my dear Samuel, if you have this day proved yourself
to have a noble spirit, I am not behind you."
"What is the exact amount of your claim, Miss M'Falzen?" said Mr
Thriven, with a determination to distance sentiment.
"And would you really pay it, cruel, cruel man?" said she, somewhat
alarmed.
"Certainly, ma'am," replied he, dryly.
"Are you serious?" said she again, looking him full and searchingly in
the face.
"Yes," answered he, more dryly than ever.
"Can it be possible that your sentiments towards me have undergone a
change, Mr Thriven?" rejoined she. "Ah! I forgot. You are now a man of
ten thousand pounds, and I have only one. The film is falling off my
eyes. O deluded Angelina!"
"Then you will see the better to count the money I am to pay you," said
he, attempting to laugh. "Fifty pounds, ma'am. Here it is; I will thank
you for Mr Mercer's bill."
"Well, sir, since it has come to this, I will none of the money. Alas!
this is the effect of John Bunyan's famous book. Good-day--good-day, Mr
Samuel;" and the spinster, covering her face with her handkerchief,
rushed out of the room.
CHAP. VII.--THE DENOUEMENT.
"Thus have I got quit of the spinster," said Mr Thriven, "and thus have
I too got quit of my creditors. But how comes this? She also talks of
Bunyan; everybody talks of Bunyan. But this paper? No, spite--spite--let
them present me with an inscription on a blank leaf. It will do as well
as a piece of plate. I will get the words of praise inserted in another
newspaper, and then begin to act the gentleman in earnest on my ten
thousand. I shall instantly engage a buggy with a bright bay; and a
man-servant, with a stripe of silver lace round his hat, shall sit on my
sinister side. Let them stare and point at me. They can only say, there
rides an honest man, who failed, and paid his creditors twenty shillings
the pound. Ho! here comes Sharp."
"What is the meaning of this?" said he, holding out the paper. "Some
wretched joke of an editor who would take from me the honour intended
for me by my creditors. I see by your face that you smell an action of
damages."
"Joke!" echoed Sharp. "That copy of Bunyan which Miss M'Falzen was
lending to Mrs Bairnsfather that day when we went to Cockenzie, is now
in the hands of the procurator-fiscal."
"Oh, the devout maiden lends it to everybody," replied Samuel. "She will
be to get the fiscal to reclaim sinners by it, rather than to punish
them by the arm of the law."
"Is it possible, Mr Thriven, that you can thus make light of an affair
that involves banishment?" said Sharp. "Did you really write on a blank
leaf of that book the details of the profit you were to make of the
burning?"
Samuel jumped at least three feet from the floor; and when he came down
again, he muttered strange things, and did strange things, which no pen
could describe, because they were unique, had no appropriate symbols in
language, had never been muttered or done before since the beginning of
the world, and, probably, will never be again. It might, however, have
been gathered from his ravings, that he _had_ some recollection of
having scribbled something about his failure, but that he thought it was
in the blank leaf of a pocket-book, the which book he grasped and
examined, but all was a dead blank. He then threw himself on a chair,
and twisted himself into all possible shapes, cursing Miss Angelina
M'Falzen, himself, his creditors, every one who had the smallest share
in this tremendous revolution from wealth, hopes of a high match, buggy,
servant with silver lace, even to disgrace, confiscation, and
banishment.
"You are renowned for the quickness, loopiness, subtleness, of thy
profession. Can you not assist me, Sharp? A man's scrawls are not
evidence of themselves."
"But, with the testimony of Clossmuns, who has returned from Liverpool,
they will be conclusive," replied the attorney, whose game now lay in Mr
Samuel's misfortunes. "Such evidence never went before a jury since the
time of the _regiam majestatem_.
"What then is to be done?" inquired Samuel.
"Fly! fly! and leave me a power of attorney to collect your moneys.
There is two thousand of Grizel M'Whirter's fortune still to
uplift--your stock in trade is to be disposed of--I will manage it
beautifully for you, and, in spite of an outlawry, get the proceeds sent
to you wheresoever you go."
"Dreadful relief!" ejaculated the other, "to fly one's country, and
leave one's affairs in the hands of an attorney!"
"Better than banishment," replied Sharp, grinding his teeth as if
sharp set for the quarry that lay before him. "What do you resolve
on? Shall I write out the power of attorney, or will you wait till
the officers are on you?" muttering to himself, in conclusion, "A few
six-and-eight-pences! I'faith I have him now!"
"Then there is no alternative?" rejoined Samuel.
"None," replied Sharp. "I have it on good authority that the warrant
against you was in the act of being written out, when I hurried here,
as you find, to save you. Shall I prepare the commission?"
"Yes, yes! as quick as an ellwand that leaps three inches short of the
yard."
And, while he continued in this extremity of his despair, Sharp set
about writing out the factory--short and general--giving all powers of
uplifting money, and reserving none. It was signed. In a few minutes
more, Mr Thriven was in a post-chaise, driving on to a seaport in
England. The news of the flight of the honest merchant, with all the
circumstances, soon reached the ear of the devout spinster, even as she
was weeping over the result of the interview she had had with her cruel
lover. She wiped her eyes and repressed her sobs, and congratulated
herself on the consequences of her devout labours. Mr Thriven was not
heard of again; neither was his cash.
THE MAN-OF-WAR'S MAN.
In the calm clear evenings of June and July, when the heat of the day
has been abated, it has been my custom to walk forth to brace my nerves
after the cares and fatigues of the day. Pent up for these thirty years
in one of the dingy shops of the Luckenbooths, I have toiled to gain
wealth enough to enable me to exchange the chimes of St Giles' bells for
the singing of the larks; but, alas! I fear my ears will be too hard,
and my eyes too dim, ere that time come when I may seek to enjoy the
melody of the songsters, or the verdure of their habitations. Gradually
already have they been becoming less cheering to me than they were in
those young sunny days of my apprenticeship, when I used to sally forth
as soon as I had given the keys to my master. I have still, however, the
impressions of memory; and this summer they are as vivid as when they
were real perceptions. While sitting at my desk, I wander, in fond
recollection, around Arthur Seat, and fondly think that such evenings in
June may be yet for me as I have enjoyed them. Such is the folly of men
of business. From the month I commenced for myself, the lark has been
singing less sweetly, and my loved haunts have been becoming less and
less engaging. Have the vocalists of these times degenerated, and the
fields become aged? The change cannot be in me; I am still in my vigour,
and a bachelor. Fifty-two is not an old man--so spoke the heart's
wishes--yet this fact is otherwise. Since that period when I took the
cares of the world upon my own shoulders, I have, in general, been lost
to everything else around me. The incubus of the counter and desk mounts
upon my shoulders, and whispers in my ears of bills and debts unpaid, or
to pay; and immediately, in place of the visions of my youth, ledgers
and slips of paper, spangled with columns of figures, occupy what were
once the sad recesses of love. Thus hag-ridden, yet still in search of
happiness, have I stalked over the loveliest of the lovely scenes that
abound around Edinburgh, almost unconscious of where I have been. And
what has been the reward of all my cares? I have accumulated three
thousand pounds, and some properties that yield what some would call
good interest; and the making of this has been the unmaking of the
sensibilities of enjoyment, without which it is nothing.
Such were my reflections before I had reached the last stile next to
Samson's Ribs. Early visions of Duddingston Loch had haunted me through
the day; and hence I had sought again the scene that so sweetly combines
the Alpine and champaign, as if they here met to embrace. I had passed
up through the valley between the Craigs and Arthur Seat, and continued
sauntering along the narrow road, like one cast forth by all the world,
gloomy and dissatisfied--my head leaning forward, my eyes fixed vacantly
upon the ground, and my hands at my back. Some maidens and their swains
were dancing beneath at the Wells of Weary,[3] to the measure of their
own "wood-notes wild." My heart was touched almost to tears. The demon
that drove enjoyment from my walks fled, and a flood of tender
recollections flowed in upon it. On that verdant spot, thirty-two years
before, I had been as happy and as joyous as the group before me,
dancing to the same heart-stirring air, with one I had loved with all
the fervour of a youthful heart, until the chilling influence of what
the world calls prudence damped my flame, but could not extinguish it.
She was now the dispenser of happiness and comfort to another, and the
mother of a lovely family--not so rich in what the world calls wealth;
how much richer was she in peace and joy! I had for years kept her
heart in suspense, until it sickened at my undecided courtship and
shuffling delays. I know she loved me better than all the world beside,
and would have consented to be mine, whatever had been my lot--faithful
and kind to me, also a soother of my soul, in all conditions, she would
have been. To riches I had sacrificed her and myself. Alas! I found now
their heart-searing consolations. Again and again have I striven to
persuade myself that I acted wisely in delaying our union. I at the time
even took praise for vanquishing the warmth of my love, that we might
feel less the delay. Alas! I knew not woman's heart. My coolness pained
and piqued her; and while I was all-intent upon acquiring wealth which
she was to enjoy with me, another was warming that heart which I had
chilled. She was wed unknown to me. I met the marriage party in the
church. What would I have given, to have been able to roll back the
wheels of Time, and throw upon them all my hopes of wealth, with the
curse which they deserved.
[Footnote 3: The Wells of Weary are now numbered with the things that
were. The terminus of the Dalkeith and Edinburgh Railway tunnel, at the
eastern end, has swept them away. They were the favourite resort, in the
olden time, of the love-sick swains and maidens of the city. Many a soft
tale of love was breathed there. It was a wild, sequestered spot--in our
recollection like an oasis in a desert, rendered lovely by the
neighbouring stillness and desolation.]
In this reverie I stumbled upon an artist. He was drawing the scene of
my dreams. A few words passed. He resumed; and I gazed upon the happy
group which he was ably sketching, till early recollections raised a
sigh almost amounting to a groan. The stranger started, and inquired if
I was unwell. The sincere and sympathising tone of his voice interested
me, and I requested to have the pleasure of looking at his sketch.
"You are most welcome," he replied: "but it is a mere scratch. I will be
enabled to do much better soon. I mean it for the foreground of a
picture I am painting, sir. I am one of the most fortunate fellows in
the world; I always get what I wish just at the moment I want it, or at
least soon after it."
This speech struck me as a most singular one from the person who made
it. He was apparently about thirty years of age, with an open, generous
countenance, which, though not handsome, exhibited the glance of the eye
and lofty brow that spoke intellect and feeling.
"I am no judge of painting or drawing further than of what gives me
pleasure," said I; and I looked upon his sketch with a melancholy
delight; for he had drawn the group as they really were--true to
nature--and fancy enabled me to see, in one of the females, her I had
lost. I spoke my praise in the warmth of my feelings; for I again
enjoyed the scene so much, that it conquered my love of money, and I at
once, and for the first time in my life, resolved to purchase a picture.
I looked from the sketch to the artist, to examine the man I was to deal
with, that I might judge how to make my bargain; for, strong as my
inclination was to have the picture, my mercantile habits were equally
strong. His dress was much the worse for the service it had seen; and
there was an appearance of penury about him that made me anticipate a
good bargain.
"Do you paint for amusement only," said I, "or do you dispose of them?"
"I paint for fame and fortune, my good sir," said he; "but I am yet only
a novice in the noble art, however long I may have been an admirer."
"Is your present work bespoke?" again said I.
"Oh no, sir," replied he; "but I will soon get it off my hands when it
is finished; for I am, as I told you, a fortunate man."
"How much do you expect for it?"
"If I had as much money as purchase a frame for it," said he, "I might
get five pounds; but, as that is not the case, I must take what I can
get from a dealer--perhaps a pound, or less."
For the first time for many years, I felt the generous glow of doing
good to a fellow-creature at the expense of my cash; but, if the truth
will be told, it was the recollection of the good and gentle Helen that
at this moment operated upon me.
"Well, sir, if you will sell me this sketch and the finished picture for
two pounds, I will be the purchaser," said I.
"I accept your offer," was his reply, "and I feel grateful for your
patronage, as I am yet unknown; but I feel confident I shall succeed at
length in this my present aim at fame and fortune. The goddess has
eluded me often, doubtless even when I was sure I held her in my grasp.
But that is nothing. I was happy, as I am at present, in the pursuit;
for all my life has been a series of anticipations supremely happy."
We had stood during this discourse; my eye was on him; and I could see
the glow that was upon his face. How strange to me it seemed: I, too,
had lived in anticipation of being rich, yet never felt the thrill, the
full joy, of hope which possession banishes. How justly may anticipation
and fruition be compared to youth and age!--the one, joyous and buoyant,
moves along the rough walks of life, with hope pointing the way and
smoothing his path; fruition, like an aged traveller, feeble and spent,
sees ever a length of way before him, rendered rougher by cares for what
he has attained, while all behind him is nothing. One of my gloomy fits
was coming over me--my mind was turning in upon itself, when he aroused
me, by inquiring where he should have the pleasure of bringing his work
to me. I gave him my address, and we began to return to the city. Long
before we reached the last stile, he had so won upon my regard, that I
invited him home with me to supper, under promise that he should give me
an outline of his life. He redeemed his pledge thus:--
My father, Andrew Elder (said he), lived in one of the villages not far
from town, where I was born. He was not rich, but well enough to do; by
trade a joiner, tolerably well read, of a shrewd and argumentative turn
of mind, and the oracle of the village, at a time when it was distracted
by the politics of the period, which ran high between the aristocrats
and democrats. The French Revolution had attained the climax of its
horrors, and the best blood of France was poured forth as water. Once a
democrat, he had changed his former opinions, and his antipathy was as
intense against the bloody miscreants who, in the public commotion, had
wriggled themselves into their bad pre-eminence, as his sympathy had
been strong at the commencement in favour of an enslaved people. I was
scarce seventeen--an anxious listener to all that passed in the shop
between my father and his opponents. All he said was to me true as holy
writ; and those hearers who doubted one word he said were deemed worthy
only of my pity. Well do I recollect--it was the beginning of May, 1794,
and our dinner hour; the newspaper had just arrived; a number of
neighbours were seated on or standing around the bench on which the
all-engrossing paper was spread. My father gave a shout of triumph, and
looked contempt upon the democratic part of his audience, who were
ranged on the opposite side. They again looked, their anxiety not
unmixed with fear.
"Hurrah!" cried my father, "the bloody monsters will soon be put down
and die by their own accursed guillotine. James, run into the house and
bring me my Gazetteer; I wish to see the map."
I was not slow to obey, for I was as eager to learn the cause of my
father's joy as the oldest politician present.
He read, with exultation, the arrival of the Emperor of Germany at
Brussels on the 9th of April, and his advance to Valenciennes, to join
the Duke of York, who lay there with the Allied Army under his command.
Then, opening Guthrie's well-thumbed volume, and laying it before his
auditors, he seized his compasses, as a marshal would his truncheon,
waved them in triumph, then spread out the map, measuring on the scale a
number of leagues to illustrate his demonstration.
"Now, attention, you blacknebs," he said, "and do not interrupt me;" and
immediately all eyes were bent upon the map. "Now, here is
Valenciennes," said he; "and here is Paris, the den of the murderers.
The Allies will be there in three weeks at farthest; what can stay them?
Tell me, ye democrats!" They hung their heads, as he struck the bench,
to give his demonstration force. "In four months," he continued, "the
king, Louis XVII., will be in Paris, to avenge his brother's blood; and
peace will be restored before the corn is off the ground. Hurrah!"
There might have been some grave humour in his earnestness, but his
prophecy made an impression on me he little dreamed of; while he spoke,
a voice seemed to sound in my ear that made me start--"Here is an
opportunity for you to see the world you have often wished for. The
contest will not last four months; you may enter the navy, which will be
paid off at the end of the war; be home before winter, and boast to your
father of all you have seen and done." The impulse was so strong that I
left the politicians in keen debate--for the dinner hour was not
expired--and, putting on my coat and hat, set off for Leith as quick as
I could walk. My only fear was that I might be too late to be received;
the account of the Allies having entered Paris might have arrived; peace
might be made before I could join, and my golden dreams be dissipated.
It was nearly dark before I reached the rendezvous upon the shore. A
throb of joy gave new spirit to me when I saw the union-jack hanging
over the door. I entered at once, and inquired if I was not too late to
go on board of a man-of-war?
"By no means," said the active Captain Nash, who was present at the
time. "Were you ever at sea, my spirited lad?"
"No, sir," said I; "but I hope that will be no objection."
"Oh, none in the least," said he. "You shall, in an hour or two, be put
on board the tender which sails for the Nore to-morrow. Here, mate, give
this volunteer something to drink his majesty's health."
I was now seated at a long table, at which were some of the most
forbidding individuals I had ever seen: several were evidently
intoxicated, spoke in phrases I could not comprehend, and uttered oaths
that made my heart tremble. I became bewildered; the situation in which
I had placed myself was not what I had anticipated. I loathed the liquor
they offered me, began to think I had done a foolish action, and wished
to be at my bench again, a free agent.