CHAPTER II.

In a few days the embassy had orders to return to Pekin. The

ambassador’s palace was fitted up for his winter’s residence; and,

after our arrival, he was arranging his establishment, when, by a fresh

mandate from the emperor, we were required to prepare with all possible

expedition for our departure from the Chinese dominions. On Monday we

received an order to leave Pekin the ensuing Wednesday; and all our

remonstrances could procure only a delay of two days. Various causes

were assigned for this peremptory order, and, among the rest, my unlucky

accident was mentioned. However improbable it might seem that such a

trifle could have had so great an effect, the idea was credited by many

of my companions; and I saw that I was looked upon with an evil eye.

I suffered extremely. I have often observed, that even remorse for

my past negligence has tended to increase the original defect of my

character. During our whole journey from Pekin to Canton, my sorrow for

the late accident was an excuse to myself for neglecting to make either

notes or observations. When we arrived at Canton, my time was taken up

with certain commissions for my friends at home, which I had delayed

to execute while at Pekin, from the idea that we should spend the whole

winter there. The trunks were on board before all my commissions were

ready, and I was obliged to pack up several toys and other articles in

a basket. As to my papers, they still remained in the canvass bag into

which I had stuffed them at Jehol: but I was certain of having leisure,

during our voyage home, to arrange them, and to post my notes into

Locke’s commonplace-book.

At the beginning of the voyage, however, I suffered much from

sea-sickness: toward the middle of the time I grew better, and indulged

myself in the amusement of fishing while the weather was fine; when the

weather was not inviting, in idleness. Innumerable other petty causes of

delay occurred: there was so much eating and drinking, so much singing

and laughing, and such frequent card-playing in the cabin, that,

though I produced my canvass bag above a hundred times, I never could

accomplish sorting its contents: indeed, I seldom proceeded farther than

to untie the strings.

One day I had the state cabin fairly to myself, and had really begun my

work, when the steward came to let me know that my Chinese basket

was just washed overboard. In this basket were all the presents and

commissions which I had bought at Canton for my friends at home. I ran

to the cabin window, and had the mortification to see all my beautiful

scarlet calibash boxes, the fan for my cousin, Lucy, and the variety of

toys, which I had bought for my little cousins, all floating on the sea

far out of my reach. I had been warned before that the basket would

be washed overboard, and had intended to put it into a safe place; but

unluckily I delayed to do so.

I was so much vexed with this accident, that I could not go on with my

writing: if it had not been for this interruption, I do believe I should

that day have accomplished my long postponed task. I will not, indeed

I cannot, record all the minute causes which afterwards prevented my

executing my intentions. The papers were still in the same disorder,

stuffed into the canvass bag, when I arrived in England. I promised

myself that I would sort them the very day after I got home; but visits

of congratulation from my friends upon my return, induced me to

delay doing any thing for the first week. The succeeding week I had a

multiplicity of engagements: all my acquaintance, curious to hear a man

converse who was fresh from China, invited me to dinner and tea parties;

and I could not possibly refuse these kind invitations, and shut myself

up in my room, like a hackney author, to write. My father often urged me

to begin my quarto; for he knew that other gentlemen, who went out with

the embassy, designed to write the history of the voyage; and he,

being a bookseller, and used to the ways of authors, foresaw what would

happen. A fortnight after we came home, the following advertisement

appeared in the papers: “Now in the press, and speedily will be

published, a Narrative of the British Embassy to China, containing the

various Circumstances of the Embassy; with Accounts of the Customs and

Manners of the Chinese; and a Description of the Country, Towns, Cities,

&c.”

I never saw my poor father turn so pale or look so angry as when he saw

this advertisement: he handed it across the breakfast table to me.

“There, Basil,” cried he, “I told you what would happen, and you would

not believe me. But this is the way you have served me all your life,

and this is the way you will go on to the day of your death, putting

things off till to-morrow. This is the way you have lost every

opportunity of distinguishing yourself; every chance, and you have had

many, of advancing yourself in the world! What signifies all I have done

for you, or all you can do for yourself? Your genius and education are

of no manner of use! Why, there is that heavy dog, as you used to call

him at Eton, Johnson: look how he is getting on in the world, by mere

dint of application and sticking steadily to his profession. He will

beat you at every thing, as he beat you at Eton in writing verses.”

“Only in copying them, sir. My verses, every body said, were far better

than his; only, unluckily, I had not mine finished and copied out in

time.” “Well, sir, and that is the very thing I complain of. I suppose

you will tell me that your voyage to China will be far better than this

which is advertised this morning.”

“To be sure it will, father; for I have had opportunities, and collected

materials, which this man, whoever he is, cannot possibly have obtained.

I have had such assistance, such information from my friend the

missionary--”

“But, what signifies your missionary, your information, your abilities,

and your materials?” cried my father, raising his voice. “Your book is

not out, your book will never be finished; or it will be done too late,

and nobody will read it; and then you may throw it into the fire. Here

you have an opportunity of establishing your fame, and making yourself

a great author at once; and if you throw it away, Basil, I give you fair

notice, I never will pardon you.”

I promised my father that I would set about my work _to-morrow_; and

pacified him by repeating that this hasty publication, which had just

been advertised, must be a catchpenny, and that it would serve only to

stimulate instead of satisfying the public curiosity. My quarto, I said,

would appear afterwards with a much better grace, and would be sought

for by every person of science, taste, and literature.

Soothed by these assurances, my father recovered his good-humour, and

trusted to my promise that I would commence my great work the ensuing

day. I was fully in earnest. I went to my canvass bag to prepare my

materials. Alas! I found them in a terrible condition. The sea-water,

somehow or other, had got to them during the voyage; and many of my

most precious documents were absolutely illegible. The notes, written

in pencil, were almost effaced, and when I had smoothed the crumpled

scraps, I could make nothing of them. It was with the utmost difficulty

I could read even those that were written in ink; they were so

villainously scrawled and so terribly blotted. When I had made out the

words, I was often at a loss for the sense; because I had trusted so

much to the excellence of my memory, that my notes were never either

sufficiently full or accurate. Ideas which I had thought could never

be effaced from my mind were now totally forgotten, and I could not

comprehend my own mysterious elliptical hints and memorandums. I

remember spending two hours in trying to make out what the following

words could mean: _Hoy--alla--hoya;--hoya, hoya--hoy--waudihoya_.

At last, I recollected that they were merely the sounds of the words

used by the Chinese sailors, in towing the junks, and I was much

provoked at having wasted my time in trying to remember what was not

worth recording. Another day I was puzzled by the following memorandum:

“W: C: 30. f. h.--24 b.--120 m--1--mandarin--C. tradition--2000--200

before J. C.--” which, after three quarters of an hour’s study, I

discovered to mean that the wall of China is 30 feet high, 24 feet

broad, and 120 miles long; and that a mandarin told me, that, according

to Chinese tradition, this wall had been built above 2000 years, that

is, 200 before the birth of our Saviour.

On another scrap of paper, at the very bottom of the bag, I found

the words, “Wheazou--Chanchin--Cuaboocow--Caungcimmfoa--Callachottueng,

Quanshanglin--Callachotre shansu,” &c.; all which I found to be a list

of towns and villages through which we had passed, or palaces that we

had seen; but how to distinguish these asunder I knew not, for all

recollection of them was obliterated from my mind, and no farther notes

respecting them were to be found.

After many days’ tiresome attempts, I was obliged to give up all hopes

of deciphering the most important of my notes, those which I had made

from the information of the French missionary. Most of what I

had trusted so securely to my memory was defective in some slight

circumstances, which rendered the whole useless. My materials for my

quarto shrunk into a very small compass. I flattered myself, however,

that the elegance of my composition, and the moral and political

reflections with which I intended to intersperse the work, would

compensate for the paucity of facts in my narrative. That I might devote

my whole attention to the business of writing, I determined to leave

London, where I met with so many temptations to idleness, and set off

to pay a visit to my uncle Lowe, who lived in the country, in a retired

part of England. He was a farmer, a plain, sensible, affectionate man;

and as he had often invited me to come and see him, I made no doubt that

I should be an agreeable guest. I had intended to have written a few

lines the week before I set out, to say that I was coming; but I put it

off till at last I thought that it would be useless, because I should

get there as soon as my letter.

I had soon reason to regret that I had been so negligent; for my

appearance at my uncle’s, instead of creating that general joy which

I had expected, threw the whole house into confusion. It happened that

there was company in the house, and all the beds were occupied: while

I was taking off my boots, I had the mortification to hear my aunt Lowe

say, in a voice of mingled distress and reproach, “Come! is he?--My

goodness! What shall we do for a bed?--How could he think of coming

without writing a line beforehand? My goodness! I wish he was a hundred

miles off, I’m sure.”

My uncle shook hands with me, and welcomed me to old England again,

and to his house; which, he said, should always be open to all his

relations. I saw that he was not pleased; and, as he was a man who,

according to the English phrase, scorned _to keep a thing long upon his

mind_, he let me know, before he had finished his first glass of ale to

my good health, that he was _inclinable to take it very unkind indeed_

that, after all he had said about my writing a letter now and then, just

to say how I did, and how I was going on, I had never put pen to paper

to answer one of his letters since the day I first promised to write,

which was the day I went to Eton school, till this present time of

speaking. I had no good apology to make for myself, but I attempted all

manner of excuses; that I had put off writing from day to day, and from

year to year, till I was ashamed to write at all; that it was not from

want of affection, &c.

My uncle took up his pipe and puffed away, while I spoke: and when I had

said all that I could devise, I sat silent; for I saw by the looks of

all present that I had not mended the matter. My aunt pursed up her

mouth, and “wondered, if she must tell the plain truth, that so great a

scholar as Mr. Basil could not, when it must give him so little trouble

to indite a letter, write a few lines to an uncle who had begged it so

often, and who had ever been a good friend.”

“Say nothing of that,” said my uncle: “I scorn to have that put into

account. I loved the boy, and all I could do was done, of course: that’s

nothing to the purpose; but the longest day I have to live I’ll never

trouble him with begging a letter from him no more. For now I see he

does not care a fig for me; and of course I do not care a fig for he.

Lucy, hold up your head, girl; and don’t look as if you were going to be

hanged.”

My cousin Lucy was the only person present who seemed to have any

compassion for me; and, as I lifted up my eyes to look at her when her

father spoke, she appeared to me quite beautiful. I had always

thought her a pretty girl, but she never struck me as any thing very

extraordinary till this moment. I was very sorry that I had offended my

uncle: I saw he was seriously displeased, and that his pride, of which

he had a large portion, had conquered his affection for me.

“‘Tis easier to lose a friend than gain one, young man,” said he; “and

take my word for it, as this world goes, ‘tis a foolish thing to lose

a friend for want of writing a letter or so. Here’s seven years I have

been begging a letter now and then, and could not get one. Never wrote a

line to me before you went to China; should not have known a word about

it but for my wife, who met you by mere chance in London, and gave you

some little commission for the children, which it seems you forgot till

it was too late. Then, after you came back, never wrote to me.”

“And even not to write a line to give one notice of his coming here

to-night,” added my aunt.

“Oh, as to that,” replied my uncle, “he can never find our larder at a

nonplus; we have no dishes for him dressed Chinese fashion; but as to

roast beef of old England, which, I take it, is worth all the foreign

meats in the world, he is welcome to it, and to as much of it as he

pleases. I shall always be glad to see him as a relation and so forth,

as a good Christian ought, but not as the favourite he used to be--that

is out of the question; for things cannot be both done and undone, and

time that’s past cannot come back again, that is clear; and cold water

thrown on a warm heart puts it out; and there’s an end of the matter.

Lucy, bring me my nightcap.”

Lucy, I think, sighed once; and I am sure I sighed above a dozen times;

but my uncle put on his red nightcap, and heeded us not. I was in hopes

that the next morning he would have been better disposed towards me

after having slept off his anger. The moment that I appeared in the

morning, the children, who had been in bed when I arrived the preceding

night, crowded round me, and one cried, “Cousin Basil, have you brought

me the tumbler you promised me from China?”

“Cousin Basil, where’s my boat?”

“O Basil, did you bring me the calibash box that you promised me?”

“And pray,” cried my aunt, “did you bring my Lucy the fan that she

commissioned you to get?”

“No, I’ll warrant,” said my uncle. “He that cannot bring himself to

write a letter in the course of seven years to his friends, will not be

apt to trouble his head about their foolish commissions, when he is in

foreign parts.”

Though I was abashed and vexed, I summoned sufficient courage to

reply that I had not neglected to execute the commissions of any of my

friends; but that, by an unlucky accident, the basket into which I had

packed all their things was washed overboard.

“Hum!” said my uncle.

“And pray,” said my aunt, “why were they all packed in a basket? Why

were not they put into your trunks, where they might have been safe?”

I was obliged to confess that I had delayed to purchase them till after

we left Pekin; and that the trunks were put on board before they were

all procured at Canton. My vile habit of procrastination! How did I

suffer for it at this moment! Lucy began to make excuses for me, which

made me blame myself the more: she said that, as to her fan, it would

have been of little or no use to her; that she was sure she should

have broken it before it had been a week in her possession; and that,

therefore, she was glad that she had it not. The children were clamorous

in their grief for the loss of the boat, the tumbler, and the calibash

boxes; but Lucy contrived to quiet them in time, and to make my peace

with all the younger part of the family. To reinstate me in my uncle’s

good graces was impossible; he would only repeat to her--“The young man

has lost my good opinion; he will never do any good. From a child upward

he has always put off doing every thing he ought to do. He will never

do any good; he will never be any thing.” My aunt was not my friend,

because she suspected that Lucy liked me; and she thought her daughter

might do much better than marry a man who had quitted the profession to

which he was bred, and was, as it seemed, little likely to settle to any

other. My pretensions to genius and my literary qualifications were

of no advantage to me, either with my uncle or my aunt; the one being

_only_ a good farmer, and the other _only_ a good housewife. They

contented themselves with asking me, coolly, what I had ever made by

being an author? And when I was forced to answer _nothing_, they smiled

upon me in scorn. My pride was roused, and I boasted that I expected

to receive at least 600_l_. for my “Voyage to China,” which I hoped to

complete in a few weeks. My aunt looked at me with astonishment; and, to

prove to her that I was not passing the bounds of truth, I added,

that one of my travelling companions had, as I was credibly informed,

received 1000_l_. for his narrative, to which mine would certainly be

far superior.

“When it is done, and when you have the money in your hand to show us, I

shall believe you,” said my aunt; “and then, and not till then, you may

begin to think of my Lucy.”

“He shall never have her,” said my uncle; “he will never come to good.

He shall never have her.”

The time which I ought to have spent in composing my quarto I now wasted

in fruitless endeavours to recover the good graces of my uncle. Love,

assisted as usual by the spirit of opposition, took possession of my

heart; and how can a man in love write quartos? I became more indolent

than ever, for I persuaded myself that no exertions could overcome my

uncle’s prejudice against me; and, without his approbation, I despaired

of ever obtaining Lucy’s hand.

During my stay at my uncle’s, I received several letters from my father,

inquiring how my work went on, and urging me to proceed as rapidly

as possible, lest another “Voyage to China,” which it was reported a

gentleman of high reputation was now composing, should come out, and

preclude mine for ever. I cannot account for my folly: the power of

habit is imperceptible to those who submit passively to its tyranny.

From day to day I continued procrastinating and sighing, till at last

the fatal news came that Sir George Staunton’s History of the Embassy to

China, in two volumes quarto, was actually published.

There was an end of all my hopes. I left my uncle’s house in despair;

I dreaded to see my father. He overwhelmed me with well-merited

reproaches. All his expectations of my success in life were

disappointed; he was now convinced that I should never make my talents

useful to myself or to my family. A settled melancholy appeared in his

countenance; he soon ceased to urge me to any exertion, and I idled away

my time, deploring that I could not marry my Lucy, and resolving upon

a thousand schemes for advancing myself, but always delaying their

execution till to-morrow.

CHAPTER III.

Two years passed away in this manner, about the end of which time my

poor father died. I cannot describe the mixed sensations of grief

and self-reproach which I felt at his death. I knew that I had never

fulfilled his sanguine prophecies, and that disappointment had long

preyed upon his spirits. This was a severe shock to me: I was roused

from a state of stupefaction by the necessity of acting as my father’s

executor.

Among his bequests was one which touched me particularly, because I was

sensible that it was made from kindness to me. “I give and bequeath the

full-length picture of my son Basil, taken when a boy (a very promising

boy) at Eton school, to my brother Lowe--I should say to my sweet niece,

Lucy Lowe, but am afraid of giving offence.”

I sent the picture to my uncle Lowe, with a copy of the words of the

will, and a letter written in the bitterness of grief. My uncle, who

was of an affectionate though positive temper, returned me the following

answer:

“DEAR NEPHEW BASIL,

“Taking it for granted you feel as much as I do, it being natural

you should, and even more, I shall not refuse to let my Lucy have the

picture bequeathed to me by my good brother, who could not offend me

dying, never having done so living. As to you, Basil, this is no time

for reproaches, which would be cruel; but, without meaning to look back

to the past, I must add that I mean nothing by giving the picture to

Lucy but respect for my poor brother’s memory. My opinions remaining

as heretofore, I think it a duty to my girl to be steady in my

determination; convinced that no man (not meaning you in particular) of

what I call a _putting off_ temper could make her happy, she being too

mild to scold and bustle, and do the man’s business in a family. This

is the whole of my mind without malice; for how could I, if I were

malicious, which I am not, bear malice, and at such a time as this,

against my own nephew? and as to anger, that is soon over with me; and

though I said I never would forgive you, Basil, for not writing to me

for seven years, I do now forgive you with all my heart. So let that be

off your conscience. And now I hope we shall be very good friends all

the rest of our lives; that is to say, putting Lucy out of the question;

for, in my opinion, it is a disagreeable thing to have any bickerings

between near relations. So, my dear nephew, wishing you all health and

happiness, I hope you will now settle to business. My wife tells me she

hears you are left in a good way by my poor brother’s care and industry;

and she sends her love to you, in which all the family unite; and hoping

you will write from time to time, I remain,

“My dear nephew Basil,

“Your affectionate uncle,

“THOMAS LOWE.”

My aunt Lowe added a postscript, inquiring more particularly into the

state of my affairs. I answered, by return of post, that my good father

had left me much richer than I either expected or deserved: his credit

in the booksellers’ line was extensive and well established; his shop

was well furnished, and he had a considerable sum of money in bank;

beside many _good_ debts due from authors, to whom he had advanced cash.

My aunt Lowe was governed by her interest, as decidedly as my uncle

was swayed by his humour and affection; and, of course, became more

favourable toward me, when she found that my fortune was better than she

had expected. She wrote to exhort me to attend to my business, and to

prove to my uncle that I could cure myself of my negligent habits. She

promised to befriend me, and to do every thing to obtain my uncle’s

consent to my union with Lucy, upon condition that I would for six

months steadily persevere, or, as she expressed herself, _show that I

could come to good_.

The motive was powerful, sufficiently powerful to conquer the force of

inveterate habit. I applied resolutely to business, and supported the

credit which my father’s punctuality had obtained from his customers.

During the course of six entire months, I am not conscious of having

neglected or delayed to do anything of consequence that I ought to have

done except whetting my razor. My aunt Lowe faithfully kept her word

with me, and took every opportunity of representing, in the most

favourable manner to my uncle, the reformation that love had wrought in

my character.

I went to the country, full of hope, at the end of my six probationary

months. My uncle, however, with a mixture of obstinacy and good sense,

replied to my aunt in my presence: “This reformation that you talk of,

wife, won’t last. ‘Twas begun by love, as _you_ say; and will end with

love, as _I_ say. You and I know, my dear, love lasts little longer than

the honeymoon; and Lucy is not, or ought not to be, such a simpleton as

to look only to what a husband will be for one short month of his life,

when she is to live with him for twenty, thirty, may be forty long

years; and no help for it, let him turn out what he will. I beg your

pardon, nephew Basil; but where my Lucy’s happiness is at stake, I must

speak my mind as a father should. My opinion, Lucy, is, that he is not a

whit changed; and so I now let you understand, if you marry the man, it

must be without my consent.”

Lucy turned exceedingly pale, and I grew extremely angry. My uncle had,

as usual, recourse to his pipe; and to all the eloquence which love and

indignation could inspire, he would only answer; between the whiffs of

his smoking, “If my girl marries you, nephew Basil, I say she must do so

without my consent.”

Lucy’s affection for me struggled for some time with her sense of duty

to her father; her mother supported my cause with much warmth; having

once declared in my favour, she considered herself as bound to maintain

her side of the question. It became a trial of power between my uncle

and aunt; and their passions rose so high in the conflict, that Lucy

trembled for the consequences.

One day she took an opportunity of speaking to me in private. “My dear

Basil,” said she, “we must part. You see that I can never be yours with

my father’s consent; and without it I could never be happy, even in

being united to you. I will not be the cause of misery to all those

whom I love best in the world. I will not set my father and mother at

variance. I cannot bear to hear the altercations, which rise higher

and higher between them every day. Let us part, and all will be right

again.”

It was in vain that I combated her resolution: I alternately resented

and deplored the weakness which induced Lucy to sacrifice her own

happiness and mine to the obstinate prejudices of a father; yet I could

not avoid respecting her the more for her adhering to what she believed

to be her duty. The sweetness of temper, gentleness of disposition, and

filial piety, which she showed on this trying occasion, endeared her to

me beyond expression.

Her father, notwithstanding his determination to be as immoveable as a

rock, began to manifest symptoms of internal agitation; and one night,

after breaking his pipe, and throwing down the tongs and poker twice,

which Lucy twice replaced, he exclaimed, “Lucy, girl, you are a fool!

and, what is worse, you are grown into a mere shadow. You are breaking

my heart Why, I know this man, this Basil, this cursed nephew of mine,

will never come to good. But cannot you marry him without my consent?”

Upon this hint, Lucy’s scruples vanished; and, a few days afterward, we

were married. Prudence, virtue, pride, love, every strong motive which

can act upon the human mind, stimulated me to exert myself to prove that

I was worthy of this most amiable woman. A year passed away, and my Lucy

said that she had no reason to repent of her choice. She took the most

affectionate pains to convince her father that she was perfectly happy,

and that he had judged of me too harshly. His delight at seeing his

daughter happy, vanquished his reluctance to acknowledge that he had

changed his opinion. I never shall forget the pleasure I felt at hearing

him confess that he had been too positive, and that his Lucy had made a

good match for herself.

Alas! when I had obtained this testimony in my favour, when I had

established a character for exertion and punctuality, I began to relax

in my efforts to deserve it: I indulged myself in my old habits of

procrastination. My customers and country correspondents began to

complain that their letters were unanswered, and that their orders were

neglected. Their remonstrances became more and more urgent in process of

time, and nothing but actually seeing the dates of their letters could

convince me that they were in the right, and that I was in the wrong. An

old friend of my father’s, a rich gentleman, who loved books, and bought

all that were worth buying, sent me, in March, an order for books to

a considerable amount. In April, he wrote to remind me of his first

letter.

“MY DEAR SIR, April 3.

“Last month I wrote to request that you would send me the following

books:--I have been much disappointed by not receiving them; and I

request you will be so good as to forward them _immediately_.

“I am, my dear sir,

“Yours sincerely,

“J. C.”

In May he wrote to me again:

“DEAR SIR,

“I am much surprised at not having yet received the books I wrote for

last March--beg to know the cause of this delay; and am,

“Dear sir,

“Yours, &c.

“J. C.”

A fortnight afterward, as I was packing up the books for this gentleman,

I received the following:

“SIR,

“As it is now above a quarter of a year since I wrote to you for books,

which you have not yet sent to me, I have been obliged to apply to

another bookseller.

“I am much concerned at being compelled to this: I had a great regard

for your father, and would not willingly break off my connexion with his

son; but really you have tried my patience too far. Last year I never

had from you any one new publication, until it was in the hands of all

my neighbours; and I have often been under the necessity of borrowing

books which I had bespoken from you months before. I hope you will take

this as a warning, and that you will not use any of your other friends

as you have used,

“Sir,

“Your humble servant,

“J. C.”

This reprimand had little effect upon me, because, at the time when I

received it, I was intent upon an object, in comparison with which the

trade of a bookseller appeared absolutely below my consideration. I was

inventing a set of new taxes for the minister, for which I expected to

be liberally rewarded. I was ever searching for some _short cut_ to the

temple of Fame, instead of following the beaten road.

I was much encouraged by persons intimately connected with those high in

power to hope that my new taxes would be adopted; and I spent my time

in attendance upon my patrons, leaving the care of my business to my

foreman, a young man whose head the whole week was intent upon riding

out on Sunday. With such a master and such a foreman affairs could not

go on well.

My Lucy, notwithstanding her great respect for my abilities, and her

confidence in my promises, often hinted that she feared ministers

might not at last make me amends for the time I devoted to my system

of taxation; but I persisted. The file of unanswered letters was filled

even to the top of the wire; the drawer of unsettled accounts made me

sigh profoundly, whenever it was accidentally opened. I soon acquired a

horror of business, and practised all the arts of apology, evasion, and

invisibility, to which procrastinators must sooner or later be

reduced. My conscience gradually became callous; and I could, without

compunction, promise, with a face of truth, to settle an account

_to-morrow_, without having the slightest hope of keeping my word.

I was a publisher as well as a bookseller, and was assailed by a tribe

of rich and poor authors. The rich complained continually of delays that

affected their fame; the poor of delays that concerned their interest,

and sometimes their very existence. I was cursed with a compassionate as

well as with a procrastinating temper; and I frequently advanced

money to my poor authors, to compensate for my neglect to settle their

accounts, and to free myself from the torment of their reproaches.

They soon learned to take a double advantage of my virtues and my

vices. The list of my poor authors increased, for I was an encourager of

genius. I trusted to my own judgment concerning every performance that

was offered to me; and I was often obliged to pay for having neglected

to read, or to send to press, these multifarious manuscripts.

After having kept a poor devil of an author upon the tenterhooks of

expectation for an unconscionable time, I could not say to him, “Sir, I

have never opened your manuscript; there it is, in that heap of rubbish:

take it away, for Heaven’s sake.” No, hardened as I was, I never failed

to make some compliment, or some retribution; and my compliments were

often in the end the most expensive species of retribution.

My rich authors soon deserted me, and hurt my credit in the circles of

literary fashion by their clamours. I had ample experience, yet I have

never been able to decide whether I would rather meet the “desperate

misery” of a famishing pamphleteer, or the exasperated vanity of a rich

_amateur_. Every one of my authors seemed convinced that the fate of

Europe or the salvation of the world depended upon the publication of

their book on some particular day; while I all the time was equally

persuaded that their works were mere trash, in comparison with my new

system of taxation; consequently I postponed their business, and pursued

my favourite tax scheme.

I have the pride and pleasure to say that all my taxes were approved and

adopted, and brought in an immense increase of revenue to the state; but

I have the mortification to be obliged to add, that I never, directly or

indirectly, received the slightest pecuniary reward; and the credit of

all I had proposed was snatched from me by a rogue, who had no other

merit than that of being shaved sooner than I was one frosty morning.

If I had not put off whetting my razor the preceding day, this would not

have happened. To such a trifling instance of my unfortunate habit of

procrastination, must I attribute one of the most severe disappointments

of my life. A rival financier, who laid claim to the prior invention and

suggestion of my principal taxes, was appointed to meet me at the house

of my great man at ten o’clock in the morning. My opponent was punctual;

I was half an hour too late: his claims were established; mine were

rejected, because I was not present to produce my proofs. When I arrived

at my patron’s, the insolent porter shut the door in my face; and so

ended all hopes from my grand system of taxation.

I went home and shut myself up in my room, to give vent to my grief at

leisure; but I was not permitted to indulge my sorrow long in peace.

I was summoned by my foreman to come down stairs to one of my enraged

authors, who positively refused to quit the shop without seeing me. Of

the whole irritable race, the man who was now waiting to see me was

the most violent. He was a man of some genius and learning, with great

pretensions, and a vindictive spirit. He was poor, yet lived among the

rich; and his arrogance could be equalled only by his susceptibility.

He was known in our house by the name of _Thaumaturgos, the retailer of

wonders_, because he had sent me a manuscript with this title; and once

or twice a week we received a letter or message from him, to inquire

when it would be published. I had unfortunately mislaid this precious

manuscript. Under this circumstance, to meet the author was almost

as dreadful as to stand the shot of a pistol. Down stairs I went,

unprovided with any apology.

“Sir,” cried my angry man, suppressing his passion, “as you do not find

it worth your while to publish _Thaumaturges_, you will be so obliging

as to let me have my manuscript.”

“Pardon me, my dear sir,” interrupted I; “it shall certainly appear this

spring.” “Spring! Zounds, sir, don’t talk to me of spring. Why, you told

me it should be out at Christmas; you said it should be out last June;

you promised to send it to press before last Easter. Is this the way I

am to be treated?”

“Pardon me, my dear sir. I confess I have used you and the world very

ill; but the pressure of business must plead my apology.”

“Look you, Mr. Basil Lowe, I am not come here to listen to commonplace

excuses. I have been ill used, and know it; and the world shall know

it. I am not ignorant of the designs of my enemies; but no cabal shall

succeed against me. Thaumaturgos shall not be suppressed! Thaumaturgos

shall see the light! Thaumaturgos shall have justice, in spite of all

the machinations of malice. Sir, I demand my manuscript.”

“Sir, it shall be sent to you to-morrow.”

“To-morrow, sir, will not do for me. I have heard of to-morrow from you

this twelvemonth past. I will have my manuscript to-day. I do not leave

this spot without Thaumaturgos.”

Thus driven to extremities, I was compelled to confess that I could not

immediately lay my hand upon it; but I added that the whole house

should be searched for it instantly. It is impossible to describe the

indignation which my author expressed. I ran away to search the house.

He followed me, and stood by while I rummaged in drawers and boxes full

of papers, and tossed over heaps of manuscripts. No Thaumaturges could

be found. The author declared that he had no copy of the manuscript;

that he had been offered 500_l_. for it by another bookseller; and

that, for his own part, he would not lose it for twice that sum. Lost,

however, it evidently was. He stalked out of my house, bidding me

prepare to abide by the consequences. I racked my memory in vain, to

discover what I had done with this bundle of wonders. I could recollect

only that I carried it a week in my great-coat pocket, resolving every

day to lock it up; and that I went to the Mount Coffee-house in this

coat several times. These recollections were of little use.

A suit was instituted against me for the value of Thaumaturgos; and the

damages were modestly laid by the author at eight hundred guineas. The

cause was highly interesting to all the tribe of London booksellers

and authors. The court was crowded at an early hour; several people of

fashion, who were partisans of the plaintiff, appeared in the gallery;

many more, who were his enemies, attended on purpose to hear my counsel

ridicule and abuse the pompous _Thaumaturgos_. I had great hopes,

myself, that we might win the day, especially as the lawyer on the

opposite side was my old competitor at Eton, that Johnson, whom I had

always considered as a mere laborious drudge, and a very heavy fellow.

How this heavy fellow got up in the world, and how he contrived to

supply, by dint of study, the want of natural talents, I cannot tell;

but this I know, to my cost, that he managed his client’s cause so ably,

and made a speech so full of sound law and clear sense, as effectually

to decide the cause against me. I was condemned to pay 500_l_. damages,

and costs of suit. Five hundred pounds lost, by delaying to lock up a

bundle of papers! Every body pitied me, because the punishment seemed so

disproportioned to the offence. The pity of every body, however, did not

console me for the loss of my money.

CHAPTER IV.

The trial was published in the papers: my uncle Lowe read it, and all

my credit with him was lost for ever. Lucy did not utter a syllable of

reproach or complaint; but she used all her gentle influence to prevail

upon me to lay aside the various schemes which I had formed for making a

rapid fortune, and urged me to devote my whole attention to my business.

The loss which I had sustained, though great, was not irremediable. I

was moved more by my wife’s kindness than I could have been by the most

outrageous invective. But what is kindness, what is affection, what are

the best resolutions, opposed to all-powerful habit? I put off settling

my affairs till I had finished a pamphlet against government, which my

friends and the critics assured me would make my fortune, by attaching

to my shop all the opposition members.

My pamphlet succeeded, was highly praised, and loudly abused: answers

appeared, and I was called upon to provide rejoinders. Time thus passed

away, and while I was gaining fame, I every hour lost money. I was

threatened with bankruptcy. I threw aside my pamphlets, and in the

utmost terror and confusion, began, too late, to look into my affairs.

I now attempted too much: I expected to repair by bustle the effects of

procrastination. The nervous anxiety of my mind prevented me from doing

any thing well; whatever I was employed about appeared to me of less

consequence than a hundred other things which ought to be done. The

letter that I was writing, or the account that I was settling, was

but one of a multitude, which had all equal claims to be expedited

immediately. My courage failed; I abandoned my business in despair. A

commission of bankruptcy was taken out against me; all my goods were

seized, and I became a prisoner in the King’s Bench.

My wife’s relations refused to give me any assistance; but her father

offered to receive her and her little boy, on condition that she would

part from me, and spend the remainder of her days with them. This she

positively refused; and I never shall forget the manner of her refusal.

Her character rose in adversity. With the utmost feminine gentleness and

delicacy, she had a degree of courage and fortitude which I have seldom

seen equalled in any of my own sex. She followed me to prison, and

supported my spirits by a thousand daily instances of kindness. During

eighteen months that she passed with me in a prison, which we then

thought must be my abode for life, she never, by word or look, reminded

me that I was the cause of our misfortunes: on the contrary, she drove

this idea from my thoughts with all the address of female affection.

I cannot even, at this distance of time, recall these things to memory

without tears.

What a woman, what a wife had I reduced to distress! I never saw her,

even in the first months of our marriage, so cheerful and so tender as

at this period. She seemed to have no existence but in me and in our

little boy, of whom she was dotingly fond. He was at this time just able

to run about and talk; his playful caresses, his thoughtless gaiety,

and at times a certain tone of compassion for _poor papa_, were very

touching. Alas! he little foresaw.... But let me go on with my history,

if I can, without anticipation.

Among my creditors was a Mr. Nun, a paper-maker, who, from his frequent

dealings with me, had occasion to see something of my character and of

my wife’s; he admired her, and pitied me. He was in easy circumstances,

and delighted in doing all the good in his power. One morning my Lucy

came into my room with a face radiant with joy.

“My love,” said she, “here is Mr. Nun below, waiting to see you; but he

says he will not see you till I have told you the good news. He has

got all our creditors to enter into a compromise, and to set you at

liberty.”

I was transported with joy and gratitude; our benevolent friend was

waiting in a hackney-coach to carry us away from prison. When I began to

thank him, he stopped me with a blunt declaration that I was not a bit

obliged to him; for that, if I had been a man of straw, he would have

done just the same for the sake of my wife, whom he looked upon to be

one or other the best woman he had ever seen, Mrs. Nun always excepted.

He proceeded to inform me how he had settled my affairs, and how he had

obtained from my creditors a small allowance for the immediate support

of myself and family. He had given up the third part of a considerable

sum due to himself. As my own house was shut up, he insisted upon taking

us home with him: “Mrs. Nun,” he said, “had provided a good dinner; and

he must not have her ducks and green peas upon the table, and no friends

to eat them.”

Never were ducks and green peas more acceptable; never was a dinner

eaten with more appetite, or given with more good-will. I have

often thought of this dinner, and compared the hospitality of this

simple-hearted man with the ostentation of great folks, who give

splendid entertainments to those who do not want them. In trifles and

in matters of consequence this Mr. Nun was one of the most liberal and

unaffectedly generous men I ever knew; but the generous actions of men

in middle life are lost in obscurity. No matter: they do not act from a

love of fame; they act from a better motive, and they have their reward

in their own hearts.

As I was passing through Mr. Nun’s warehouse, I was thinking of writing

something on this subject; but whether it should be a poetic effusion,

in the form of “An Ode to him who least expects it,” or a prose work,

under the title of “Modern Parallels,” in the manner of Plutarch, I had

not decided, when I was roused from my reverie by my wife, who, pointing

to a large bale of paper that was directed to “Ezekiel Croft, merchant,

Philadelphia,” asked me if I knew that this gentleman was a very near

relation of her mother? “Is he, indeed?” said Mr. Nun. “Then I can

assure you that you have a relation of whom you have no occasion to be

ashamed: he is one of the most respectable merchants in Philadelphia.”

“He was not very rich when he left this country about six years ago,”

said Lucy.

“He has a very good fortune now,” answered Mr. Nun.

“And has he made this very good fortune in six years?” cried I. “My dear

Lucy, I did not know that you had any relations in America. I have a

great mind to go over there myself.”

“Away from all our friends!” said Lucy.

“I shall be ashamed,” replied I, “to see them after all that has

happened. A bankrupt cannot have many friends. The best thing that I can

possibly do is to go over to a new world, where I may establish a new

character, and make a new fortune.”

“But we must not forget,” said Mr. Nun, “that in the new world, as in

the old one, a character and a fortune must be made by much the same

means; and forgive me if I add, the same bad habits that are against a

man in one country will be as much against him in another.”

True, thought I, as I recollected at this instant my unfortunate voyage

to China. But now that the idea of going to America had come into my

mind, I saw so many chances of success in my favour, and I felt so much

convinced I should not relapse into my former faults, that I could not

abandon the scheme. My Lucy consented to accompany me. She spent a week

in the country with her father and friends, by my particular desire; and

they did all they could to prevail upon her to stay with them, promising

to take the best possible care of her and her little boy during my

absence; but she steadily persisted in her determination to accompany

her husband. I was not too late in going on ship-board this time; and,

during the whole voyage, I did not lose any of my goods; for, in the

first place, I had very few goods to lose, and, in the next, my wife

took the entire charge of those few.

And now behold me safely landed at Philadelphia, with one hundred pounds

in my pocket--a small sum of money; but many, from yet more trifling

beginnings, had grown rich in America. My wife’s relation, Mr. Croft,

had not so much, as I was told, when he left England. Many passengers,

who came over in the same ship with me, had not half so much. Several of

them were, indeed, wretchedly poor.

Among others, there was an Irishman who was known by the name of Barny,

a contraction, I believe, for Barnaby. As to his surname he could not

undertake to spell it; but he assured me there was no better. This man,

with many of his relatives, had come to England, according to their

custom, during harvest-time, to assist in reaping, because they gain

higher wages than in their own country. Barny heard that he should get

still higher wages for labour in America, and accordingly he and his two

sons, lads of eighteen and twenty, took their passage for Philadelphia.

A merrier mortal I never saw. We used to hear him upon deck, continually

singing or whistling his Irish tunes; and I should never have guessed

that this man’s life had been a series of hardships and misfortunes.

When we were leaving the ship, I saw him, to my great surprise, crying

bitterly; and upon inquiring what was the matter, he answered that it

was not for himself, but for his sons, he was grieving, because they

were to be made _redemption-men_, that is, they were to be bound

to work, during a certain time, for the captain, or for whomever he

pleased, till the money due for their passage should be paid. Though I

was somewhat surprised at any one’s thinking of coming on board a vessel

without having one farthing in his pocket, yet I could not forbear

paying the money for this poor fellow. He dropped down on the deck upon

both his knees as suddenly as if he had been shot, and, holding up

his hands to heaven, prayed, first in Irish, and then in English, with

fervent fluency, that “I and mine might never want; that I might live

long to reign over him; that success might attend my honour wherever

I went; and that I might enjoy for evermore all sorts of blessings and

crowns of glory.”

As I had an English prejudice in favour of silent gratitude, I was

rather disgusted by all this eloquence; I turned away abruptly, and got

into the boat which waited to carry me to shore.

As we rowed away I looked at my wife and child, and reproached myself

with having indulged in the luxury of generosity, perhaps at their

expense.

My wife’s relation, Mr. Croft, received us better than she expected, and

worse than I hoped. He had the face of an acute money-making man; his

manners were methodical; caution was in his eye, and prudence in all his

motions. In our first half hour’s conversation he convinced me that he

deserved the character he had obtained, of being upright and exact in

all his dealings. His ideas were just and clear, but confined to the

objects immediately relating to his business; as to his heart, he seemed

to have no notion of general philanthropy, but to have perfectly learned

by rote his duty to his neighbour. He appeared disposed to do charitable

and good-natured actions from reason, and not from feeling; because

they were proper, not merely because they were agreeable. I felt that I

should respect, but never love him; and that he would never either

love or respect me, because the virtue which he held in the highest

veneration was that in which I was most deficient--punctuality. But I

will give, as nearly as I can, my first conversation with him; and from

that a better idea of his character may be formed than I can afford by

any description.

I presented to him Mr. Nun’s letter of introduction, and mentioned that

my wife had the honour of being related to him. He perused Mr. Nun’s

letter very slowly. I was determined not to leave him in any doubt,

respecting who and what I was; and I briefly told him the particulars

of my history. He listened with immoveable attention: and when I had

finished, he said, “You have not yet told me what your views are in

coming to America.”

I replied, “that my plans were not yet fixed.”

“But of course,” said he, “you cannot have left home without forming

some plan for the future. May I ask what line of life you mean to

pursue?”

I answered, “that I was undetermined, and meant to be guided by

circumstances.”

“Circumstances!” said he. “May I request you to explain yourself more

fully? for I do not precisely understand to what circumstances you

allude.”

I was provoked with the man for being so slow of apprehension; but, when

driven to the necessity of explaining, I found that I did not myself

understand what I meant.

I changed my ground; and, lowering my tone of confidence, said, that as

I was totally ignorant of the country, I should wish to be guided by the

advice of better informed persons; and that I begged leave to address

myself to him, as having had the most successful experience.

After a considerable pause, he replied, it was a hazardous thing to give

advice; but that, as my wife was his relation, and as he held it a duty

to assist his relations, he should not decline giving me--all the advice

in his power.

I bowed, and felt chilled all over by his manner.

“And not only my advice,” continued he, “but my assistance--in reason.”

I said, “I was much obliged to him.”

“Not in the least, young man; you are not in the least obliged to me

yet, for I have done nothing for you.”

This was true, and not knowing what to say, I was silent.

“And that which I may be able to do for you in future must depend as

much upon yourself as upon me. In the first place, before I can give any

advice, I must know what you are worth in the world?”

My worth in money, I told him, with a forced smile, was but very

trifling indeed. With some hesitation, I named the sum.

“And you have a wife and child to support!” said he, shaking his head.

“And your child is too young and your wife too delicate to work. They

will be sad burdens upon your hands; these are not the things for

America. Why did you bring them with you? But, as that is done, and

cannot be mended,” continued he, “we must make the best of it, and

support them. You say you are ignorant of the country. I must explain

to you then how money is to be made here, and by whom. The class of

labourers make money readily, if they are industrious, because they

have high wages and constant employment; artificers and mechanics,

carpenters, shipwrights, wheelwrights, smiths, brick-layers, masons,

get rich here, without difficulty, from the same causes; but all these

things are out of the question for you. You have head, not hands, I

perceive. Now mere head, in the line of bookmaking or bookselling,

brings in but poor profit in this country. The sale for imported books

is extensive; and our printers are doing something by subscription here,

in Philadelphia, and in New York, they tell me. But London is the place

for a good bookseller to thrive; and you come from London, where you

tell me you were a bankrupt. I would not advise you to have any thing

more to do with bookselling or bookmaking. Then, as to becoming a

planter: our planters, if they are skilful and laborious, thrive well;

but you have not capital sufficient to clear land and build a house;

or hire servants to do the work, for which you are not yourself

sufficiently robust. Besides, I do not imagine you know much of

agricultural concerns, or country business; and even to oversee and

guide others, experience is necessary. The life of a back settler I do

not advise, because you and your wife are not equal to it. You are

not accustomed to live in a log-house, or to feed upon racoons and

squirrels: not to omit the constant dread, if not imminent danger, of

being burnt in your beds, or scalped, by the Indians with whom you would

be surrounded. Upon the whole, I see no line of life that promises well

for you but that of a merchant; and I see no means of your getting into

this line without property and without credit, except by going into

some established house as a clerk. You are a good penman, and ready

accountant, I think you tell me; and I presume you have a sufficient

knowledge of book-keeping. With sobriety, diligence, and honesty, you

may do well in this way; and may look forward to being a partner, and in

a lucrative situation, some years hence. This is the way I managed, and

I raised myself by degrees to what you see. It is true, I was not at

first encumbered with a wife and young child. In due time I married my

master’s daughter, which was a great furtherance to me; but then, on the

other hand, your wife is my relation; and to be married to the relation

of a rich merchant is next best to not being married at all in your

situation. I told you I thought it my duty to proffer assistance as well

as advice: so take up your abode with me for a fortnight; in that time I

shall be able to judge whether you are capable of being a clerk; and, if

you and I should suit, we will talk farther. You understand that I enter

into no engagement, and make no promise; but shall be glad to lodge you,

and your wife, and little boy, for a fortnight; and it will be your

own fault, and must be your own loss, if the visit turns out waste of

time.--I cannot stay to talk to you any longer at present,” added he,

pulling out his watch, “for I have business, and business waits for no

man. Go back to your inn for my relation, and her little one. We dine at

two precisely.”

I left Mr. Croft’s house with a vague indescribable feeling of

dissatisfaction and disappointment; but when I arrived at my inn, and

repeated all that had passed to my wife, she seemed quite surprised and

delighted by the civil and friendly manner in which this gentleman

had behaved. She tried to reason the matter with me; but there is no

reasoning with imagination.

The fact was, Mr. Croft had destroyed certain vague and visionary ideas,

that I had indulged, of making, by some unknown means, a rapid fortune

in America; and to be reduced to real life, and sink into a clerk in a

merchant’s counting-house, was mortification and misery. Lucy in vain

dwelt upon the advantage of having found, immediately upon my arrival in

Philadelphia, a certain mode of employment, and a probability of rising

to be a partner in one of the first mercantile houses, if I went on

steadily for a few years. I was forced to acknowledge that her relation

was very good; that I was certainly very fortunate; and that I ought

to think myself very much obliged to Mr. Croft. But, after avowing

all this, I walked up and down the room in melancholy reverie for a

considerable length of time. My wife reminded me repeatedly that

Mr. Croft said he dined precisely at two o’clock; that he was a very

punctual man; that it was a long walk, as I had found it, from the inn

to his house; that I had better dress myself for dinner; and that my

clean shirt and cravat were ready for me. I still walked up and down

the room in reverie till my wife was completely ready, had dressed the

child, and held up my watch before my eyes to show me that it wanted

but ten minutes of two. I then began to dress in the greatest hurry

imaginable: and, unluckily, as I was pulling on my silk stocking, I tore

a hole in the leg, or as my wife expressed it, a stitch dropped, and I

was forced to wait while she repaired the evil. Certainly this operation

of _taking up a stitch_, as I am instructed to call it, is one of the

slowest operations in nature; or, rather, one of the most tedious

and teazing manoeuvres of art. Though the most willing and the most

dexterous fingers that ever touched a needle were employed in my

service, I thought the work would never be finished.

At last, I was _hosed_ and shod, and out we set. It struck a quarter

past two as we left the house; we came to Mr. Croft’s in the middle of

dinner. He had a large company at table; every body was disturbed; my

Lucy was a stranger to Mrs. Croft, and was to be introduced; and

nothing could be more awkward and embarrassing than our _entrée_ and

introduction. There were such compliments and apologies, such changing

of places, such shuffling of chairs, and running about of servants, that

I thought we should never be seated.

In the midst of the bustle my little chap began to roar most horribly,

and to struggle to get away from a black servant, who was helping him

up on his chair. The child’s terror at the sudden approach of the negro

could not be conquered, nor could he by any means be quieted. Mrs.

Croft, at last, ordered the negro out of the room, the roaring ceased,

and nothing but the child’s sobs were heard for some instants.

The guests were all silent, and had ceased eating; Mrs. Croft was vexed

because _every thing was cold_; Mr. Croft was much discomfited, and

said not a syllable more than was absolutely necessary, as master of the

house. I never ate, or rather I was never at a more disagreeable dinner.

I was in pain for Lucy, as well as for myself; her colour rose up to her

temples. I cursed myself a hundred times for not having gone to dress in

time.

At length, to my great relief, the cloth was taken away; but even

when we came to the wine after dinner, the cold formality of my

host continued unabated, and I began to fear that he had taken an

insurmountable dislike to me, and that I should lose all the advantages

of his protection and assistance: advantages which rose considerably in

my estimation, when I apprehended I was upon the point of losing them.

Soon after dinner, a young gentleman of the name of Hudson joined the

company; his manners and appearance were prepossessing; he was frank

and well-bred; and the effect of his politeness was soon felt, as if by

magic, for every body became at their ease; his countenance was full

of life and fire; and though he said nothing that showed remarkable

abilities, everything he said pleased. As soon as he found that I was a

stranger, he addressed his conversation principally to me. I recovered

my spirits, exerted myself to entertain him, and succeeded. He was

delighted to hear news from England, and especially from London; a city

which he said he had an ardent desire to visit. When he took leave of

me in the evening, he expressed very warmly the wish to cultivate my

acquaintance, and I was the more flattered and obliged by this

civility, because I was certain that he knew exactly my situation and

circumstances, Mrs. Croft having explained them to him very fully even

in my hearing.

CHAPTER V.

In the course of the ensuing week, young Mr. Hudson and I saw one

another almost every day, and our mutual liking for each other’s company

increased. He introduced me to his father, who had been a planter; and,

having made a large fortune, came to reside at Philadelphia, to enjoy

himself, as he said, for the remainder of his days. He lived in what the

sober Americans called a most luxurious and magnificent style. The best

company in Philadelphia met at his house: and he delighted particularly

in seeing those who had convivial talents, and who would supply him with

wit and gaiety, in which he was naturally rather deficient.

On my first visit, I perceived that his son had boasted of me as one

of the best companions in the world; and I determined to support the

character that had been given of me; I told two or three good stories,

and sang two or three good songs. The company were charmed with me; old

Mr. Hudson was particularly delighted; he gave me a pressing general

invitation to his house, and most of the principal guests followed his

example. I was not a little elated with this success. Mr. Croft was

with me at this entertainment; and I own I was peculiarly gratified by

feeling that I at once became conspicuous, by my talents, in a company

where he was apparently of no consequence, notwithstanding all his

wealth and prudence.

As we went home together, he said to me very gravely, “I would not

advise you, Mr. Basil Lowe, to accept of all these invitations, nor

to connect yourself intimately with young Hudson. The society at Mr.

Hudson’s is very well for those who have made a fortune, and want to

spend it; but for those who have a fortune to make, in my opinion, it is

not only useless but dangerous.”

I was in no humour, at this moment, to profit by this sober advice;

especially as I fancied it might be dictated, in some degree, by envy of

my superior talents and accomplishments. My wife, however, supported

his advice by many excellent and kind arguments. She observed that these

people, who invited me to their houses as a good companion, followed

merely their own pleasure, and would never be of any real advantage to

me; that Mr. Croft, on the contrary, showed, from the first hour when I

applied to him, a desire to serve me; that he had pointed out the means

of establishing myself; and that, in the advice he gave me, he could be

actuated only by a wish to be of use to me; that it was more reasonable

to suspect him of despising than of envying talents which were not

directed to the grand object of gaining money.

Good sense, from the lips of a woman whom a man loves, has a mighty

effect upon his understanding, especially if he sincerely believe that

the woman has no desire to rule. This was my singular case. I promised

Lucy I would refuse all invitations for the ensuing fortnight, and

devote myself to whatever business Mr. Croft might devise. No one could

be more assiduous than I was for ten days; and I perceived that Mr.

Croft, though it was not his custom to praise, was well satisfied with

my diligence. Unluckily, on the eleventh day I put off in the morning

making out an invoice, which he left for me to do, and I was persuaded

in the evening to go out with young Mr. Hudson. I had expressed,

in conversation with him, some curiosity about the American

_frog-concerts_, of which I had read, in modern books of travels,

extraordinary accounts.

Mr. Hudson persuaded me to accompany him to a swamp, at some miles’

distance from Philadelphia, to hear one of these concerts. The

performance lasted some time, and it was late before we returned to

town: I went to bed tired, and waked in the morning with a cold, which

I had caught by standing so long in the swamp. I lay an hour after I was

called, in hopes of getting rid of my cold: when I was at last up and

dressed, I recollected my invoice, and resolved to do it the first thing

after breakfast; but, unluckily, I put it off till I had looked for some

lines in Homer’s “Battle of the Frogs and Mice.” There was no Homer,

as you may guess, in Mr. Croft’s house, and I went to a bookseller’s to

borrow one: he had Pope’s Iliad and Odyssey, but no Battle of the Frogs

and Mice. I walked over half the town in search of it; at length I found

it, and was returning in triumph, with Homer in each pocket, when at the

door of Mr. Croft’s house I found half a dozen porters, with heavy loads

upon their backs.

“Where are you going, my good fellows?” said I.

“To the quay, sir, with the cargo for the Betsy.”

“My God!” cried I. “Stop. Can’t you stop a minute? I thought the Betsy

was not to sail till to-morrow. Stop one minute.”

“No, sir,” said they, “that we can’t; for the captain bade us make what

haste we could to the quay to load her.”

I ran into the house; the captain of the Betsy was bawling in the hall,

with his hat on the back of his head; Mr. Croft on the landing-place of

the warehouse-stairs with open letters in his hand, and two or three of

the under-clerks were running different ways with pens in their mouths.

“Mr. Basil! the invoice!” exclaimed all the clerks at once, the moment I

made my appearance.

“Mr. Basil Lowe, the invoice and the copy, if you please,” repeated Mr.

Croft. “We have sent three messengers after you. Very extraordinary to

go out at this time of day, and not even to leave word where you were

to be found. Here’s the captain of the Betsy has been waiting this half

hour for the invoice. Well, sir! Will you go for it now? And at the same

time bring me the copy, to enclose in this letter to our correspondent

by post.”

I stood petrified. “Sir, the invoice, sir!--Good Heavens! I forgot it

entirely.”

“You remember it now, sir, I suppose. Keep your apologies till we have

leisure. The invoices, if you please.”

“The invoices! My God, sir! I beg ten thousand pardons! They are not

drawn out.”

“Not drawn out. Impossible!” said Mr. Croft.

“Then I’m off,” cried the captain, with a tremendous oath. “I can’t wait

another tide for any clerk breathing.”

“Send back the porters, captain, if you please,” said Mr. Croft, coolly.

“The whole cargo must be unpacked. I took it for granted, Mr. Basil,

that you had drawn the invoice, according to order, yesterday morning;

and of course the goods were packed in the evening. I was certainly

wrong in taking it for granted that you would be punctual. A man of

business should take nothing for granted. This is a thing that will not

occur to me again as long as I live.”

I poured forth expressions of contrition; but apparently unmoved by

them, and without anger or impatience in his manner, he turned from me

as soon as the porters came back with the goods, and ordered them all to

be unpacked and replaced in the warehouse. I was truly concerned.

“I believe you spent your evening yesterday with young Mr. Hudson?” said

he, turning to me.

“Yes, sir,--I am sincerely sorry------”

“Sorrow, in these cases, does no good, sir,” interrupted he. “I thought

I had sufficiently warned you of the danger of forming that intimacy.

Midnight carousing will not do for men of business.”

“Carousing, sir!” said I. “Give me leave to assure you that we were not

carousing. We were only at a _frog-concert_.”

Mr. Croft, who had at least suppressed his displeasure till now,

looked absolutely angry; he thought I was making a joke of him. When

I convinced him that I was in earnest, he changed from anger to

astonishment, with a large mixture of contempt in his nasal muscles.

“A frog-concert!” repeated he. “And is it possible that any man could

neglect an invoice merely to go to hear a parcel of frogs croaking in a

swamp? Sir, you will never do in a mercantile house.” He walked off to

the warehouse, and left me half mortified and half provoked.

From this time forward all hopes from Mr. Croft’s friendship were at

an end. He was coldly civil to me during the few remaining days of the

fortnight that we stayed at his house, He took the trouble, however, of

looking out for a cheap and tolerably comfortable lodging for my wife

and boy; the rent of which he desired to pay for his relation, he said,

as long as I should remain in Philadelphia, or till I should find myself

in some eligible situation. He seemed pleased with Lucy, and said she

was a very properly conducted, well disposed, prudent young woman, whom

he was not ashamed to own for a cousin. He repeated, at parting, that

he should be happy to afford me every assistance _in reason_, towards

pursuing any feasible plan of advancing myself; but it was his decided

opinion that I could never succeed in a mercantile line.

I never liked Mr. Croft; he was much too _punctual_, too much of an

automaton, for me; but I should have felt more regret at leaving him,

and losing his friendship, and should have expressed more gratitude for

his kindness to Lucy and my boy, if my head had not at the time

been full of young Hudson. He professed the warmest regard for me,

congratulated me on getting free from old Croft’s mercantile clutches,

and assured me that such a man as I was could not fail to succeed in

the world by my own talents and the assistance of friends and good

connexions.

I was now almost every day at his father’s house in company with numbers

of rich and gay people, who were all _my friends_. I was the life of

society, was invited every where, and accepted every invitation, because

I could not offend Mr. Hudson’s intimate acquaintance.

From day to day, from week to week, from month to month, I went on in

this style. I was old Hudson’s grand favourite, and every body told me

he could do any thing he pleased for me. I had formed a scheme, a bold

scheme, of obtaining from government a large tract of territory in

the ceded lands of Louisiana, and of collecting a subscription in

Philadelphia among _my friends_, to make a settlement there: the

subscribers to be paid by instalments, so much the first year, so much

the second, and so onward, till the whole should be liquidated. I was

to collect hands from the next ships, which were expected to be full

of emigrants from Ireland and Scotland. I had soon a long list of

subscribers, who gave me their names always after dinner, or after

supper. Old Hudson wrote his name at the head of the list, with an

ostentatiously large sum opposite to it.

As nothing could be done until the ensuing spring, when the ships were

expected, I spent my time in the same convivial manner. The spring came,

but there was no answer obtained from government respecting the ceded

territory; and a delay of a few months was necessary. Mr. Hudson, the

father, was the person who had undertaken to apply for the grant; and

he spoke always of the scheme, and of his own powers of carrying it into

effect, in the most confident manner. From his conversation any body

would have supposed that the mines of Peru were upon his plantation; and

that in comparison with his the influence of the President of the United

States was nothing. I was a full twelvemonth before I was convinced that

he was a boaster and a _fabulist_; and I was another twelvemonth before

I could persuade myself that he was one of the most selfish, indolent,

and obstinate of human beings. He was delighted to have me always at his

table to entertain him and his guests, but he had not the slightest real

regard for me, or care for my interests. He would talk to me as long as

I pleased of his possessions, and his improvements, and his wonderful

crops; but the moment I touched upon any of my own affairs, he would

begin to yawn, throw himself on a sofa, and seem going to sleep.

Whenever I mentioned his subscription, he would say with a frown--“We

will talk of that, Basil, _to-morrow_.”

Of my whole list of subscribers, not above four ever paid a shilling

into my hands: their excuse always was, “When government has given an

answer about the ceded territory, we will pay the subscriptions;” and

the answer of government always was--“When the subscriptions are paid,

we will make out a grant of the land.” I was disgusted, and out of

spirits; but I thought all my chance was to persevere, and to keep _my

friends_ in good-humour: so that I was continually under the necessity

of appearing the same jovial companion, laughing, singing, and drinking,

when, Heaven knows, my heart was heavy enough.

At the end of the second year of promises, delays, and disappointments,

my Lucy, who had always foretold how things would turn out, urged me

to withdraw myself from this idle society, to give up my scheme, and

to take the management of a small plantation in conjunction with the

brother of Mr. Croft. His regard for my wife, who had won much upon this

family by her excellent conduct, induced him to make me this offer; but

I considered so long, and hesitated so much, whether I should accept of

this proposal, that the time for accepting it passed away.

I had still hopes that my friend, young Hudson, would enable me to carry

my grand project into execution; he had a considerable plantation in

Jamaica, left to him by his grandfather on the mother’s side; he was

to be of age, and to take possession of it the ensuing year, and he

proposed to sell it, and to apply some of the purchase-money to our

scheme, of the success of which he had as sanguine expectations as I had

myself. He was of a most enthusiastic, generous temper. I had obtained

the greatest influence over him, and I am convinced, at this time, there

was nothing in the world he would not have sacrificed for my sake.

All that he required from me was to be his constant companion. He was

extravagantly fond of field sports; and, though a Londoner, I was a good

shot, and a good angler; for, during the time I was courting Lucy, I

found it necessary to make myself a sportsman to win the favour of

her brothers. With these accomplishments, my hold upon the esteem and

affections of my friend was all-powerful. Every day in the season we

went out shooting or fishing together: then, in the winter-time, we had

various employments, I mean, various excuses for idleness. Hudson was a

great skaiter, and he had infinite diversion in teaching me to skait

at the hazard of my skull. He was also to initiate me in the American

pastime of _sleighing_, or sledging. Many a desperately cold winter’s

day I have submitted to be driven in his sledge, when I would much

rather, I own, have been safe and snug by my own fireside, with my wife.

Poor Lucy spent her time in a disagreeable and melancholy way during

these three years: for, while I was out almost every day and all day

long, she was alone in her lodging for numberless hours. She never

repined, but always received me with a good-humoured countenance when

I came home, even after sitting up half the night to wait for my return

from Hudson’s suppers. It grieved me to the heart to see her thus

seemingly deserted, but I comforted myself with the reflection that this

way of life would last but for a short time; that my friend would soon

be of age, and able to fulfil all his promises; and that we should then

all live together in happiness. I assured Lucy that the present idle, if

not dissipated, manner in which I spent my days was not agreeable to my

taste; that I was often extremely melancholy, even when I was forced

to appear in the highest spirits; and that I often longed to be quietly

with her, when I was obliged to sacrifice my time to friendship.

It would have been impossible that she and my child could have subsisted

all this time independently, but for her steadiness and exertions. She

would not accept of any pecuniary assistance except from her relation,

Mr. Croft, who regularly paid the rent of her lodgings. She undertook

to teach some young ladies, whom Mrs. Croft introduced to her, various

kinds of fine needlework, in which she excelled; and for this she was

well paid. I know that she never cost me one farthing, during the three

years and three months that we lived in Philadelphia. But even for this

I do not give her so much credit as for her sweet temper during these

trials, and her great forbearance in never reproaching or disputing with

me. Many wives, who are called excellent managers, make their husbands

pay tenfold in suffering what they save in money. This was not my Lucy’s

way; and, therefore, with my esteem and respect, she ever had my fondest

affections. I was in hopes that the hour was just coming when I should

be able to prove this to her, and when we should no longer be doomed to

spend our days asunder. But, alas! her judgment was better than mine.

My friend Hudson was now within six weeks of being of age, when,

unfortunately, there arrived in Philadelphia a company of players from

England. Hudson, who was eager for every thing that had the name of

pleasure, insisted upon my going with him to their first representation.

Among the actresses there was a girl of the name of Marion, who seemed

to be ordinary enough, just fit for a company of strolling players, but

she danced passably well, and danced a great deal between the acts that

night. Hudson clapped his hands till I was quite out of patience. He was

in raptures, and the more I depreciated, the more he extolled the girl.

I wished her in Nova Zembla, for I saw he was falling in love with her,

and had a kind of presentiment of all that was to follow. To tell the

matter briefly, (for what signifies dwelling upon past misfortunes?) the

more young Hudson’s passion increased for this dancing girl, the more

his friendship for me declined; for I had frequent arguments with him

upon the subject, and did all I could to open his eyes. I saw that the

damsel had art, that she knew the extent of her power, and that she

would draw her infatuated lover in to marry her. He was headstrong and

violent in all his passions; he quarrelled with me, carried the girl

off to Jamaica, married her the day he was of age, and settled upon his

plantation. There was an end of all my hopes about the ceded territory.

Lucy, who was always my resource in misfortune, comforted me by saying I

had done my duty in combating my friend’s folly at the expense of my own

interest; and that, though he had quarrelled with me, she loved me the

better for it.

Reflecting upon my own history and character, I have often thought it

a pity that, with certain good qualities, and I will add talents, which

deserved a better fate, I should have never succeeded in any thing I

attempted, because I could not conquer one seemingly slight defect in

my disposition, which had grown into a habit. Thoroughly determined by

Lucy’s advice to write to Mr. Croft, to request he would give me another

trial, I put off sending the letter till the next day; and that very

morning Mr. Croft set off on a journey to a distant part of the country,

to see a daughter who was newly married.

I was vexed, and from a want of something better to do, went out

a-shooting, to get rid of disagreeable thoughts. I shot several

pheasants, and when I came home, carried them, as was my custom, to old

Mr. Hudson’s kitchen, and gave them to the cook. I happened to stay in

the kitchen to feed a favourite dog, while the cook was _preparing_ the

birds I had brought. I observed, in the crop of one of the pheasants,

some bright green leaves, and some buds, which I suspected to be the

leaves and buds of the _kalmia latifolia_, a poisonous shrub. I was not

quite certain, for I had almost forgotten the little botany which I knew

before I went to China. I took the leaves home with me, to examine them

at leisure, and to compare them with the botanical description; and I

begged that the cook would not dress the birds till she saw or heard

from me again. I promised to see her, or send to her the next day. But

the next day, when I went to the library, to look into a book of botany,

my attention was caught by some new reviews, which were just arrived

from London. I put off the examination of the _kalmia latifolia_ till

the day after. To-morrow, said I, will do just as well, for I know the

cook will not dress the pheasants to-day: old Hudson does not like them

till they have been kept _a day or two_.

To-morrow came, and the leaves were forgotten till evening, when I saw

them lying on my table, and put them out of the way; lest my little boy

should find and eat them. I was sorry that I had not examined them

this day, but I satisfied myself in the same way as I had done before:

to-morrow will do as well; the cook will not dress the pheasants to-day;

old Hudson thinks them the better for being kept _two or three days_.

To-morrow came; but, as the leaves of the _kalmia latifolia_ were out

of my sight, they went out of my mind. I was invited to an entertainment

this day at the mayor’s: there was a large company, and after dinner I

was called upon, as usual, for a song; the favourite song of

“Dance and sing, Time’s on the wing,

Life never knows return of spring;”

when a gentleman came in, pale and breathless, to tell us that Mr.

Hudson and three gentlemen, who had been dining with him, were suddenly

seized with convulsions after eating of a pheasant, and that they were

not expected to live. My blood ran cold: I exclaimed, “My God! I am

answerable for this.” On my making this exclamation, there was immediate

silence in the room; and every eye turned upon me with astonishment and

horror. I fell back in my chair, and what passed afterward I know not;

but when I came to myself, I found two men in the room with me, who were

set to guard me. The bottles and glasses were still upon the table, but

the company were all dispersed; and the mayor, as my guards informed me,

was gone to Mr. Hudson’s to take his dying deposition.

In this instance, as in all cases of sudden alarm, report had

exaggerated the evil: Mr. Hudson, though extremely ill, was not dying;

his three guests, after some hours’ illness, were perfectly recovered.

Mr. Hudson, who had eaten the most plentifully of the pheasant, was not

_himself_, as he said, for two days; the third day he was able to

see company at dinner as usual, and my mind was relieved from an

insupportable state of anxiety.

Upon examination, the mayor was convinced that I was perfectly innocent:

the cook told the exact truth, blamed herself for not sending to me

before she dressed the birds; but said that she concluded I had found

the leaves I took home were harmless, as I never came to tell her the

contrary.

I was liberated, and went home to my wife. She clasped me in her arms,

but could not articulate a syllable. By her joy at seeing me again, she

left me to judge of what she must have suffered during this terrible

interval.

For some time after this unfortunate accident happened, it continued to

be the subject of general conversation in Philadelphia. The story was

told a thousand different ways, and the comments upon it were in various

ways injurious to me. Some blamed me, for what indeed I deserved to be

most severely blamed, my delaying one hour to examine the leaves found

in the crop of the pheasant; others affected to think it absolutely

impossible that any human being could be so dilatory and negligent,

where the lives of fellow-creatures and _friends_, and friends by whom I

had been treated with the utmost hospitality for years, were concerned.

Others, still more malicious, hinted that, though I had been favoured by

the mayor, and perhaps by the goodness of poor Mr. Hudson, there must be

something more than had come to light in the business; and some boldly

pronounced that the story of the leaves of the _kalmia latifolia_ was a

mere blind, for that the pheasant could not have been rendered poisonous

by such means. {Footnote: “In the severe winter of the years 1790 and

1791, there appeared to be such unequivocal reasons for believing that

several persons in Philadelphia had died in consequence of their eating

pheasants, in whose crops the leaves and buds of the _kalmia latifolia_

were found, that the mayor of the city thought it prudent and his

duty to warn the people against the use of this bird, by a public

proclamation. I know that by many persons, especially by some lovers

of pheasants’ flesh, the circumstance just mentioned was supposed to be

destitute of foundation: but the foundation was a solid one.”

_Vide_ a paper by B. Smith Barton, M.D., American Transactions, vol.

li.}

That a motive might not be wanting for the crime, it was whispered that

old Mr. Hudson had talked of leaving me a considerable legacy, which I

was impatient to touch, that I might carry my adventuring schemes into

execution. I was astonished as much as shocked at the sudden alteration

in the manners of all my acquaintances. The tide of popularity changed,

and I was deserted. That those who had lived with me so long in

convivial intimacy, that those who had courted, admired, flattered me,

those who had so often professed themselves my friends, could suddenly,

without the slightest probability, believe me capable of the most

horrible crime, appeared to me scarcely credible. In reality, many would

not give themselves the trouble to _think_ about the matter, but were

glad of a pretence to shake off the acquaintance of a man of whose

stories and songs they began to be weary, and who had put their names to

a subscription, which they did not wish to be called upon to pay. Such

is the world! Such is the fate of all _good fellows_, and excellent

bottle companions! Certain to be deserted, by their dear friends, at the

least reverse of fortune.

CHAPTER VI.

My situation in Philadelphia was now so disagreeable, and my disgust

and indignation were so great, that I determined to quit the country. My

real friend, Mr. Croft, was absent all this time from town. I am sure,

if he had been at home, he would have done me justice; for, though he

never liked me, he was a just, slow-judging man, who would not have been

run away with by the hurry of popular prejudice: I had other reasons for

regretting his absence: I could not conveniently quit America without

money, and he was the only person to whom I could or would apply for

assistance. We had not many debts, for which I must thank my excellent

wife; but, when every thing to the last farthing was paid, I was obliged

to sell my watch and some trinkets, to get money for our voyage. I

was not accustomed to such things, and I was ashamed to go to the

pawnbroker’s, lest I should be met and recognized by some of my friends.

I wrapped myself up in an old surtout, and slouched my hat over my face.

As I was crossing the quay, I met a party of gentlemen walking arm in

arm. I squeezed past them, but one stopped to look after me; and, though

I turned down another street to escape him, he dogged me unperceived.

Just as I came out of the pawnbroker’s shop, I saw him posted opposite

to me: I brushed by; I could with pleasure have knocked him down for his

impertinence. By the time that I had reached the corner of the street, I

heard a child calling after me. I stopped, and a little boy put into my

hands my watch, saying, “Sir, the gentleman says you left your watch and

these thingumbobs by mistake.”

“What gentleman?”

“I don’t know, but he was one that said I looked like an honest chap,

and he’d trust me to run and give you the watch. He is dressed in a blue

coat. He went toward the quay. That’s all I know.”

On opening the paper of trinkets I found a card with these words:

“_Barny_--with kind thanks.”

Barny! Poor Barny! The Irishman whose passage I paid coming to America

three years ago. Is it possible?

I ran after him the way which the child directed, and was so fortunate

as just to catch a glimpse of the skirt of his coat, as he went into a

neat, good-looking house. I walked up and down some time, expecting him

to come out again; for I could not suppose that it belonged to Barny.

I asked a grocer, who was leaning over his hatch door, if he knew who

lived in the next house?

“An Irish gentleman, of the name of O’Grady.”

“And his Christian name?”

“Here it is in my books, sir--Barnaby O’Grady.”

I knocked at Mr. O’Grady’s door, and made my way into the parlour; where

I found him, his two sons and his wife, sitting very sociably at tea. He

and the two young men rose immediately to set me a chair.

“You are welcome, kindly welcome, sir,” said he. “This is an honour

I never expected any way. Be pleased to take the seat near the fire.

‘Twould be hard indeed if you _would_ {Footnote: Should.} not have the

best seat that’s to be had in this house, where we none of us never

should have sat, nor had seats to sit upon, but for you.”

The sons pulled off my shabby great coat, and took away my hat, and the

wife made up the fire. There was something in their manner altogether

which touched me so much, that it was with difficulty I could keep

myself from bursting into tears. They saw this, and Barny, (for I shall

never call him any thing else,) as he thought that I should like better

to hear of public affairs than to speak of my own, began to ask his sons

if they had _seen the day’s_ papers, and what news there were?

As soon as I could command my voice, I congratulated his family upon the

happy situation in which I found them; and asked by what lucky accidents

they had succeeded so well?

“The luckiest accident ever _happened me_ before or since I came to

America,” said Barny, “was being on board the same vessel with such a

man as you. If you had not given me the first lift, I had been down for

good and all, and trampled under foot long and long ago. But after that

first lift, all was as easy as life. My two sons here were not taken

from me--God bless you! for I never can bless you enough for that. The

lads were left to work for me and with me; and we never parted, hand or

heart, but just kept working on together, and put all our earnings as

fast as we got them, into the hands of that good woman, and lived hard

at first, as we were bred and born to do, thanks be to Heaven! Then we

swore against drink of all sorts entirely. And, as I had occasionally

served the masons, when I lived a labouring man in the county of Dublin,

and knew something of that business, why, whatever I knew I made the

most of, and a trowel felt no ways strange to me; so I went to work, and

had higher wages at first than I deserved. The same with the two boys:

one was as much of a blacksmith as would shoe a horse; and t’other a

bit of a carpenter; and the one got plenty of work in the forges,

and t’other in the dockyards, as a ship carpenter. So early and late,

morning and evening, we were all at the work, and just went this way

struggling on even for a twelvemonth, and found, with the high wages and

constant employ we had met, that we were getting greatly better in the

world. Besides, the wife was not idle. When a girl, she had seen baking,

and had always a good notion of it, and just tried her hand upon it now,

and found the loaves went down with the customers, and the customers

coming faster and faster for them; and this was a great help. Then I

grew master mason, and had my men under me, and took a house to build

by the job, and that did; and then on to another and another; and after

building many for the neighbours, ‘twas fit and my turn, I thought, to

build one for myself, which I did out of theirs, without wronging them

of a penny. And the boys grew master-men in their line; and when they

got good coats, nobody could say against them, for they had come fairly

by them, and became them well perhaps for that reason. So, not to be

tiring you too much, we went on from good to better, and better to best;

and if it pleased God to question me how it was we got on so well in the

world, I should answer, Upon my conscience, myself does not know; except

it be that we never made Saint Monday, {Footnote: _Saint Monday_, or

Saint Crispin. It is a custom in Ireland, among shoemakers, if they

intoxicate themselves on Sunday, to do no work on Monday; and this they

call making a Saint Monday, or keeping Saint Crispin’s day. Many have

adopted this good custom from the example of the shoemakers.} nor never

put off till the morrow what we could do the day.” I believe I sighed

deeply at this observation, notwithstanding the comic phraseology in

which it was expressed.

“But all this is no rule for a gentleman born,” pursued the good-natured

Barny, in answer, I suppose, to the sigh which I uttered; “nor is it any

disparagement to him if he has not done as well in a place like America,

where he had not the means; not being used to bricklaying and slaving

with his hands, and striving as we did. Would it be too much liberty to

ask you to drink a cup of tea, and to taste a slice of my good woman’s

bread and butter? And happy the day we see you eating it, and only wish

we could serve you in any way whatsoever.”

I verily believe the generous fellow forgot, at this instant, that he

had redeemed my watch and wife’s trinkets. He would not let me thank him

as much as I wished, but kept pressing upon me fresh offers of service.

When he found I was going to leave America, he asked what vessel we

should go in? I was really afraid to tell him, lest he should attempt to

pay for my passage. But for this he had, as I afterwards found, too much

delicacy of sentiment. He discovered, by questioning the captains, in

what ship we were to sail; and, when we went on board, we found him

and his sons there to take leave of us, which they did in the most

affectionate manner; and, after they were gone, we found in the state

cabin, directed to me, every thing that could be useful or agreeable to

us, as sea-stores, for a long voyage.

How I wronged this man, when I thought his expressions of gratitude were

not sincere, because they were not made exactly in the mode and with the

accent of my own countrymen! I little thought that Barny and his sons

would be the only persons who would bid us a friendly adieu when we were

to leave America.

We had not exhausted our bountiful provision of sea-stores when we were

set ashore in England. We landed at Liverpool; and I cannot describe the

melancholy feelings with which I sat down, in the little back parlour

of the inn, to count my money, and to calculate whether we had enough to

carry us to London. Is this, thought I, as I looked at the few guineas

and shillings spread on the table, is this all I have in this world? I,

my wife, and child! And is this the end of three years’ absence from my

native country? As the negroes say of a fool who takes a voyage in vain,

I am come back “_with little more than the hair upon my head_.” Is this

the end of all my hopes, and all my talents? What will become of my wife

and child? I ought to insist upon her going home to her friends, that

she may at least have the necessaries and comforts of life, till I am

able to maintain her.

The tears started from my eyes; they fell upon an old newspaper, which

lay upon the table under my elbow. I took it up to hide my face from

Lucy and my child, who just then came into the room: and, as I read

without well knowing what, I came among the advertisements to my own

name.

“If Mr. Basil Lowe, or his heir, will apply to Mr. Gregory, attorney,

No. 34, Cecil-street, he will hear of something to his advantage.”

I started up with an exclamation of joy, wiped my tears from the

newspaper, put it into Lucy’s hand, pointed to the advertisement, and

ran to take places in the London coach for the next morning. Upon

this occasion I certainly did not delay. Nor did I, when we arrived in

London, put off one moment going to Mr. Gregory’s, No. 34, Cecil-street.

Upon application to him I was informed that a very distant relation

of mine, a rich miser, had just died, and had left his accumulated

treasures to me, “because I was the only one of his relations who had

never cost him a single farthing.” Other men have to complain of their

ill fortune, perhaps with justice; and this is a great satisfaction,

which I have never enjoyed; for I must acknowledge that all my disasters

have arisen from my own folly. Fortune has been uncommonly favourable

to me. Without any merit of my own, or rather, as it appeared, in

consequence of my negligent habits, which prevented me from visiting a

rich relation, I was suddenly raised from the lowest state of pecuniary

distress to the height of affluent prosperity.

I took possession of a handsome house in an agreeable part of the town,

and enjoyed the delight of sharing all the comforts and luxuries which

wealth could procure, with the excellent woman who had been my support

in adversity. I must do myself the justice to observe that I did not

become dissipated or extravagant; affection and gratitude to my Lucy

filled my whole mind, and preserved me from the faults incident to

those who rise suddenly from poverty to wealth. I did not forget my good

friend, Mr. Nun, who had relieved me formerly from prison; of course I

paid the debt which he had forgiven, and lost no opportunity of showing

him kindness and gratitude.

I was now placed in a situation where the best parts of my character

appeared to advantage, and where the grand defect of my disposition was

not apparently of any consequence. I was not now obliged, like a man of

business, to be punctual; and delay, in mere engagements of pleasure,

was a trifling offence, and a matter of raillery among my acquaintance.

My talents in conversation were admired, and, if I postponed

letter-writing, my correspondents only tormented me a little with polite

remonstrances. I was conscious that I was not cured of my faults; but

I rejoiced that I was not now obliged to reform, or in any danger of

involving those I loved in distress, by my negligence.

For one year I was happy, and flattered myself that I did not waste

my time; for, at my leisure, I read with attention all the ancient

and modern works upon education. I resolved to select from them what

appeared most judicious and practicable; and so to form, from the

beauties of each, a perfect system for the advantage of my son. He was

my only child; he had lived with me eighteen months in prison: he was

the darling of his mother, whom I adored, and he was thought to be in

mind and person a striking resemblance of myself. How many reasons had

I to love him!--I doted upon the child. He certainly showed great

quickness of intellect, and gave as fair a promise of talents as could

be expected at his age. I formed hopes of his future excellence and

success in the world, as sanguine as those which my poor father had

early formed of mine. I determined to watch carefully over his temper,

and to guard him particularly against that habit of procrastination

which had been the bane of my life.

One day, while I was alone in my study, leaning on my elbow, and

meditating upon the system of education which I designed for my son, my

wife came to me and said, “My dear, I have just heard from our friend,

Mr. Nun, a circumstance that alarms me a good deal. You know little

Harry Nun was inoculated at the same time with our Basil, and by the

same person. Mrs. Nun, and all the family, thought he had several spots,

just as much as our boy had, and that that was enough; but two years

afterwards, while we were in America, Harry Nun caught the small-pox in

the natural way, and died. Now it seems the man who inoculated him was

quite ignorant; for two or three other children, whom he attended, have

caught the disease since, though he was positive that they were safe.

Don’t you think we had better have our boy inoculated again immediately,

by some proper person?”

“Undoubtedly, my dear; undoubtedly. But I think we had better have him

vaccined. I am not sure, however; but I will ask Dr. ------‘s opinion

this day, and be guided by that; I shall see him at dinner: he has

promised to dine with us.”

Some accident prevented him from coming, and I thought of writing to him

the next day, but afterward put it off. Lucy came again into my study,

where she was sure to find me in the morning. “My dear,” said she, “do

you recollect that you desired me to defer inoculating our little boy

till you could decide whether it be best to inoculate him in the common

way or the vaccine?”

“Yes, my dear, I recollect it perfectly well. I am much inclined to the

vaccine. My friend, Mr. L------, has had all his children vaccined, and

I just wait to see the effect.”

“Oh, my love!” said Lucy, “do not wait any longer; for you know we run a

terrible risk of his catching the small-pox, every day, every hour.”

“We have run that risk, and escaped for these three years past,” said I;

“and, in my opinion, the boy has had the small-pox.”

“So Mr. and Mrs. Nun thought, and you see what has happened. Remember

our boy was inoculated by the same man. I am sure, ever since Mr. Nun

mentioned this, I never take little Basil out to walk, I never see him

in a shop, I never have him in the carriage with me, without being in

terror. Yesterday a woman came to the coach-door with a child in

her arms, who had a breaking out on his face. I thought it was the

small-pox, and was so terrified that I had scarcely strength or presence

of mind enough to draw up the glass. Our little boy was leaning out of

the door to give a halfpenny to the child. My God! if that child had the

small-pox!”

“My love,” said I, “do not alarm yourself so terribly; the boy shall be

inoculated to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! Oh, my dearest love, do not put it off till to-morrow,” said

Lucy; “let him be inoculated to-day.”

“Well, my dear, only keep your mind easy, and he shall be inoculated

to-day, if possible; surely you must know I love the boy as well as you

do, and am as anxious about him as you can be.”

“I am sure of it, my love,” said Lucy; “I meant no reproach. But since

you have decided that the boy shall be vaccined, let us send directly

for the surgeon, and have it done, and then he will be safe.”

She caught hold of the bell-cord to ring for a servant: I stopped her.

“No, my dear, don’t ring,” said I; “for the men are both out. I have

sent one to the library for the new Letters on Education, and the other

to the rational toy-shop for some things I want for the child.”

“Then if the servants are out, I had better walk to the surgeon’s, and

bring him back with me.”

“No, my dear,” said I; “I must see Mr. L------‘s children first. I am

going out immediately; I will call upon them: they are healthy children;

we can have the vaccine infection from them, and I will inoculate the

boy myself.”

Lucy submitted. I take a melancholy pleasure in doing her justice, by

recording every argument that she used, and every persuasive word that

she said to me, upon this occasion. I am anxious to show that she was

not in the least to blame. I alone am guilty! I alone ought to have

been the sufferer! It will scarcely be believed--I can hardly believe it

myself, that, after all Lucy said to me, I delayed two hours, and stayed

to finish making an extract from Rousseau’s Emilius before I set out.

When I arrived at Mr. L------‘s, the children were just gone out to take

an airing, and I could not see them. A few hours may sometimes make all

the difference between health and sickness, happiness and misery: I put

off till the next day the inoculation of my child.

In the mean time a coachman came to me to be hired: my boy was playing

about the room, and, as I afterward collected, went close up to the man,

and, while I was talking, stood examining a greyhound upon his buttons.

I asked the coachman many questions, and kept him for some time in the

room. Just as I agreed to take him into my service, he said he could not

come to live with me till the next week, because _one of his children

was ill of the small-pox_.

These words struck me to the heart. I had a dreadful presentiment of

what was to follow. I remember starting from my seat, and driving the

man out of the house with violent menaces. My boy, poor innocent victim!

followed, trying to pacify me, and holding me back by the skirts of my

coat. I caught him up in my arms. I could not kiss him; I felt as if I

was his murderer. I set him down again; indeed I trembled so violently

that I could not hold him. The child ran for his mother.

I cannot dwell on these things. Our boy sickened the next week; and the

week afterward died in his mother’s arms! Her health had suffered

much by the trials which she had gone through since our marriage. The

disapprobation of her father, the separation from all her friends, who

were at variance with me, my imprisonment, and then the death of her

only child, were too much for her fortitude. She endeavoured to conceal

this from me; but I saw that her health was rapidly declining. She was

always fond of the country; and, as my sole object now in life was to

do whatsoever I could to console and please her, I proposed to sell

our house in town, and to settle somewhere in the country. In the

neighbourhood of her father and mother there was a pretty place to be

let, which I had often heard her mention with delight; I determined to

take it: I had secret hopes that her friends would be gratified by this

measure, and that they would live upon good terms with us. Her mother

had seemed, by her letters, to be better disposed towards me since my

rich relation had left me his fortune. Lucy expressed great pleasure at

the idea of going to live in the country, near her parents; and I was

rejoiced to see her smile once more. Being naturally of a sanguine

disposition, hope revived in my heart; I flattered myself that we might

yet be happy, that my Lucy would recover her peace of mind and her

health, and that perhaps Heaven might bless us with another child.

I lost no time in entering into treaty for the estate in the country,

and I soon found a purchaser for my excellent house in town. But my evil

genius prevailed. I had neglected to renew the insurance of my house;

the policy was out but nine days, {Footnote: Founded on fact.} when a

fire broke out in one of my servants’ rooms at midnight, and, in spite

of all the assistance we could procure, the house was burnt to the

ground. I carried my wife out senseless in my arms; and, when I had

deposited her in a place of safety, returned to search for a portfolio,

in which was the purchase-money of the country estate, all in

bank-notes. But whether this portfolio was carried off by some of the

crowd, which had assembled round the ruins of my house, or whether it

was consumed in the flames, I cannot determine. A more miserable wretch

than I was could now scarcely be found in the world; and, to complete my

misfortunes, I felt the consciousness that they were all occasioned by

my own folly.

I am now coming to the most extraordinary and the most interesting part

of my history. A new and surprising accident happened.

{_Note by the Editor_.--What this accident was can never now be known;

for Basil put off finishing his history till TO-MORROW.

This fragment was found in an old escritoir, in an obscure lodging in

Swallow-street.

_August_, 1803.}