FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT.
The extraordinary story which has appeared in the columns of the
_Evening Moon_, and the dreadful intelligence it conveys to me of the
murder of my dear father, render it imperatively necessary that I should
place upon permanent record certain particulars and incidents relating
to my career which will incontestibly prove that the Romance in Real
Life which is now being inserted in every newspaper in the kingdom is
an infamous fabrication. I am impelled to this course by two strong
reasons. First,--Because I wish to clear myself in the eyes of the
woman I love, from whom I have concealed my real name and position.
Second,--Because life is so uncertain that I might not be able to do
to-morrow what it is in my power to do to-day. I pledge myself, in the
name of my dear mother, whose memory I revere, that I will set down here
nothing but the truth--that I will not strive to win pity or grace by
the faintest glossing of any particulars in which I may not appear to
advantage--that I will not swerve by a hair's breadth from my honest
intention to speak of the matters treated herein in a plain, unvarnished
style. The dear one who will be the first to peruse these lines is as
precious to me as ever woman was to man, but I will not retain her love
by subterfuge or pretence, although it would break my heart to lose it.
To her I am known as Frederick Maitland. To a number of persons I am--in
connection with the murder of my father--known as Antony Cowlrick. My
true name is Frederick Holdfast.
Between myself and my father existed--until shortly after he married a
second wife--feelings of respect and affection. During my boyhood his
love for me was exhibited in every tender form which occurs to the mind
of an affectionate father, and I entertained for him a love as sincere
as his own. The death of my mother affected him powerfully. Their
married life had been a happy one, and they lived in harmony. My mother
was a woman with no ambition but that of making those around her happy.
She compassed her ambition, the entire depth and scope of which was
bounded by the word Home. After her death my father, never a man of much
animation and conversation, became even quieter and more reserved in
manner, but I am convinced his love for me was not lessened. He was a
man of strong determination, and he had schooled himself to keep his
passions and emotions in complete control. He was intense in his likes
and dislikes--unobtrusively chivalrous and charitable--disposed to
go to extremes in matters of feeling--thorough in friendship as in
enmity--just in his dealings--and seldom, if ever, forgiving where his
confidence was betrayed, or where he believed himself to be deceived.
Such a man is apt to form wrong judgments--as my father did; to receive
false impressions--as my father did; to be much deceived by cunning--as
my father was. But if he was hasty to condemn, he was eager to make
atonement when he discovered himself to be in the wrong. Then it was
that the chivalry of his nature asserted itself.
He was a successful merchant, and was proud of his successes, and proud
also that his money was made by fair and honourable means. He said to me
once, "I would rather see you compelled to gain a living by sweeping a
road than that it should come to my knowledge that you have been guilty
of a dishonourable action." I was his only child, and he had his views
with respect to my future. He wished me to enter public life, and he
gave me an education to fit me for it. While I was at Oxford he made
me a handsome allowance, and once, when I found myself in debt there,
he did not demur to settling them for me. Only once did this occur,
and when my debts were discharged, he said, "I have increased your
allowance, Frederick; it could not have been liberal enough, as you
contracted debts you were unable to pay." He named the amount of my
increased allowance, and asked me if it was sufficient. I replied that
it was, and then he told me that he considered it a dishonourable act
for a man to consciously contract an obligation he did not see his
way to meet out of his own resources. "The scrape you got into with
your creditors was an error," he said; "you did not sufficiently
consider. You are wiser now, and what was an error in the past would be
dishonourable in the future." I never had occasion to ask him to pay my
debts again. I lived not only within my allowance, but I saved out of
it--a fortunate circumstance, as I afterwards found. The result was
obtained without my being penurious, or depriving myself of any of the
pleasures of living indulged in by my friends and companions. I was not
a purist; I was fond of pleasure, and I have no doubt I did many foolish
things; but no sin lies at my door. I was never false to a friend, and I
never betrayed a woman.
Among my friends was a young man named Sydney Campbell. He is not
living now, and nothing restrains me from speaking of him candidly and
honestly. He was a man of brilliant parts, brilliant in scholarship, in
debate, in social accomplishments. He affected to be a fop, and would
assume an effeminacy which became him well--as everything became him
which he assumed. He was as brave as a lion, and a master of fence;
lavishly prodigal with his money, and ready, at any moment, for any
extravagance, and especially for any extravagance which would serve
to hide the real nobility of his nature. He would hob-a-nob with the
lowest and vilest, saying, "Human nature is much of a muchness; why
give ourselves airs? I am convinced I should have made an admirable
pickpocket." But Sydney Campbell was never guilty of a meanness.
He was the admiration of our set, and we made him the fashion. Though he
affected to disdain popularity he was proud of the position we assigned
to him, and he played us many extravagant tricks. He led us into no
danger of which he did not court the lion's share, and he held out now
and then an example of kindness to those in need of kindness which was
productive of nothing but good. It would be to some men most difficult
to reconcile with each other the amazing inconsistencies of his actions;
now profound, now frivolous, now scholar-like and dignified, now
boisterous and unrestrained; but I knew more of his inner nature than
most of his acquaintances, and I learnt to love as well as admire him.
He had large ideality, and a fund of animal spirits which he sometimes
found it impossible to control; he had large veneration, and a sense of
the ridiculous so strong that he would laugh with tears in his eyes
and tenderness in his heart. I am particular in my description of him,
because I want you to thoroughly understand him, and because it was he
who brought me into acquaintanceship with the woman who has made me
taste something worse than the bitterness of death.
[Decoration]