Chapter XVIII: Act III (13)

If Oliver Goldsmith went up in red plush breeches to be ordained by a bishop, the celebrated Daniel Webster once appeared in as singular a costume, considering the occasion on which he wore it. The time had come when he was required to leave his old home at Elms Farm, to visit Dartmouth College, for the purpose of being matriculated. A neighbour, in honest zeal for his credit, made for him a complete new suit of clothes,—all of homespun cloth,—the colour “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue.” Thus attired, he set off on horseback; and he had not got far on his way when a storm suddenly overtook him, to which he was exposed for many hours. The river in his way became swollen, the bridge was destroyed by the freshet, and he was obliged to ride many miles round ere he could again strike into a direct path. The rain descended in ceaseless torrents during the whole time. The homespun suit was not made of fast colour. The rain sank into the cloth, and the indigo-blue, politely making way for it, soaked off into the shirt and skin of the young student. His features too partook of the general hue, and when the scholar reached Hanover, he was dyed blue from head to foot. Like Essex, when he came travel-soiled from Ireland, and proceeded to an interview with Queen Elizabeth, he went straight before the college authorities; without wiping—indeed he could _not_ wipe the now fixed cerulean from his face, neck, and hands. Every shade of blue, and all moist, could be seen upon his clothes, the darker deposit upon his flesh. “Who is he?” asked one. “At home,” said he, laughing, “they call me _black_ Dan; here I appear as _blue_ Dan!—and trouble enough have I had to arrive among you; but you see me as I am, in a condition which, if it does not entitle me to your approbation, should at least secure for me your sympathy.” Daniel suffered no disparagement by appearing before his grave seniors like a man who had been dyeing all his life. He passed the dreaded ordeal with honour, and the wits said that he had no reason to be discontented with the storm which _blew_ him into a port where honour and welcome attended him; at the same time they advised him not to stick to the colour, and proposed to him a thesis, which should have for its device, “Nimium ne fide colori.” “Ne fide colori!” I hear re-echoed by my readers; “‘Ne fide nimium patientiæ,’ Sirrah; do not super-abuse our patience.” Be it so, ever-courteous Public. _Pauca verba_, as Pistol has it, is a good maxim, particularly when one has nothing more to say. I will conclude, not only with the sentiment I promised, but also with something more valuable,—a recipe to keep you from ever getting wet through. A barrister was once bewailing to Mr. Cresswell, when the latter was also at the Bar, that on going down to Salisbury, outside the mail, he had got his clothes completely wet through. “That calamity need never befall a man, however exposed,” said Mr. Cresswell. “Why,” said the other, “what is he to do?” “Do!” exclaimed the elder practitioner, “why, he has nothing in the world to do but to take off his clothes and sit upon them!”

And now for the sentiment, in which my readers will find a value greater than that which attaches to the recipe for keeping a suit dry. Hear what Cowper says:—

“We sacrifice to dress, till household joys
And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellars dry,
And keeps our larder bare; puts out our fires,
And introduces hunger, frost, and woe,
Where peace and hospitality might reign.”

Well, I will not moralize upon this truth. I should become more unwelcome than Joseph Surface himself; but I will say this, that Cowper’s lines are as applicable now as they were of old, and in that they are so do I distinguish the cause why on many careers joyously begun, there descends so dismal and so dreary a

FINIS.

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