Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.

N^{o.} 22.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._

FROM THE RAVEN IN THE HAPPY FAMILY.

I suppose you thought I was dead? No such thing. Don’t flatter yourselves that I haven’t got my eye upon you. I am wide awake, and you give me plenty to look at.

I have begun my great work about you. I have been collecting materials from the Horse, to begin with. You are glad to hear it, ain’t you? Very likely. Oh, he gives you a nice character! He makes you out a charming set of fellows.

He informs me, by the bye, that he is a distant relation of the pony that was taken up in a balloon a few weeks ago; and that the pony’s account of your going to see him at Vauxhall Gardens, is an amazing thing. The pony says, that when he looked round on the assembled crowd, come to see the realisation of the wood-cut in the bill, he found it impossible to discover which was the real Mister Green—there were so many Mister Greens—and they were all so very green!

But, that’s the way with you. You know it is. Don’t tell me! You’d go to see anything that other people went to see. And don’t flatter yourselves that I am referring to “the vulgar curiosity,” as you choose to call it, when you mean some curiosity in which you don’t participate yourselves. The polite curiosity in this country, is as vulgar as any curiosity in the world.

Of course you’ll tell me, no it isn’t, but I say yes it is. What have you got to say for yourselves about the Nepaulese Princes, I should like to know? Why, there has been more crowding, and pressing, and pushing, and jostling, and struggling, and striving, in genteel houses this last season, on account of those Nepaulese Princes, than would take place in vulgar Cremorne Gardens and Greenwich Park, at Easter time and Whitsuntide! And what for? Do you know anything about ’em? Have you any idea why they came here? Can you put your finger on their country in the map? Have you ever asked yourselves a dozen common questions about its climate, natural history, government, productions, customs, religion, manners? Not you! Here are a couple of swarthy Princes very much out of their element, walking about in wide muslin trousers, and sprinkled all over with gems (like the clock-work figure on the old round platform in the street, grown up), and they’re fashionable outlandish monsters, and it’s a new excitement for you to get a stare at ’em. As to asking ’em to dinner, and seeing ’em sit at table without eating in your company (unclean animals as you are!), you fall into raptures at that. Quite delicious, isn’t it? Ugh, you dunder-headed boobies!

I wonder what there is, new and strange, that you _wouldn’t_ lionise, as you call it. Can you suggest anything? It’s not a hippopotamus, I suppose. I hear from my brother-in-law in the Zoological Gardens, that you are always pelting away into the Regent’s Park, by thousands, to see the hippopotamus. Oh, you’re very fond of hippopotami, ain’t you? You study one attentively, when you _do_ see one, don’t you? You come away, so much wiser than you went, reflecting so profoundly on the wonders of creation—eh?

Bah! You follow one another like wild geese, but you are not so good to eat!

These, however, are not the observations of my friend the Horse. _He_ takes you, in another point of view. Would you like to read his contribution to my Natural History of you? No? You shall then.

He is a Cab-horse now. He wasn’t always, but he is now, and his usual stand is close to our Proprietor’s usual stand. That’s the way we have come into communication, we “dumb animals.” Ha, ha! Dumb, too! Oh, the conceit of you men, because you can bother the community out of their five wits, by making speeches!

Well. I mentioned to this Horse that I should be glad to have his opinions and experiences of you. Here they are:

“At the request of my honourable friend the Raven, I proceed to offer
a few remarks in reference to the animal called Man. I have had varied
experience of this strange creature for fifteen years, and am now
driven by a Man, in the hackney cabriolet, number twelve thousand four
hundred and fifty-two.

“The sense Man entertains of his own inferiority to the nobler
animals—and I am now more particularly referring to the Horse—has
impressed me forcibly, in the course of my career. If a Man knows a
Horse well, he is prouder of it than of any knowledge of himself,
within the range of his limited capacity. He regards it, as the sum of
all human acquisition. If he is learned in a Horse, he has nothing
else to learn. And the same remark applies, with some little
abatement, to his acquaintance with Dogs. I have seen a good deal of
Man in my time, but I think I have never met a Man who didn’t feel it
necessary to his reputation to pretend, on occasion, that he knew
something of Horses and Dogs, though he really knew nothing. As to
making us a subject of conversation, my opinion is that we are more
talked about, than history, philosophy, literature, art, and science,
all put together. I have encountered innumerable gentlemen in the
country, who were totally incapable of interest in anything but Horses
and Dogs—except Cattle. And I have always been given to understand
that they were the flower of the civilised world.

“It is very doubtful, to me, whether there is, upon the whole,
anything Man is so ambitious to imitate, as an ostler, a jockey, a
stage coachman, a horse-dealer, or a dog-fancier. There may be some
other character which I do not immediately remember, that fires him
with emulation; but, if there be, I am sure it is connected with
Horses, or Dogs, or both. This is an unconscious compliment, on the
part of the tyrant, to the nobler animals, which I consider to be very
remarkable. I have known Lords, and Baronets, and Members of
Parliament, out of number, who have deserted every other calling, to
become but indifferent stablemen or kennelmen, and be cheated on all
hands, by the real aristocracy of those pursuits who were regularly
born to the business.

“Ail this, I say, is a tribute to our superiority which I consider to
be very remarkable. Yet, still, I can’t quite understand it. Man can
hardly devote himself to us, in admiration of our virtues, because he
never imitates them. We Horses are as honest, though I say it, as
animals can be. If, under the pressure of circumstances, we submit to
act at a Circus, for instance, we always show that we are acting. We
never deceive anybody. We would scorn to do it. If we are called upon
to do anything in earnest, we do our best. If we are required to run a
race falsely, and to lose when we could win, we are not to be relied
upon, to commit a fraud; Man must come in at that point, and force us
to it. And the extraordinary circumstance to me, is, that Man (whom I
take to be a powerful species of Monkey) is always making us nobler
animals the instruments of his meanness and cupidity. The very name of
our kind has become a byeword for all sorts of trickery and cheating.
We are as innocent as counters at a game—and yet this creature WILL
play falsely with us!

“Man’s opinion, good or bad, is not worth much, as any rational Horse
knows. But, justice is justice; and what I complain of, is, that
Mankind talks of us as if We had something to do with all this. They
say that such a man was ‘ruined by Horses.’ Ruined by Horses! They
can’t be open, even in that, and say he was ruined by Men; but they
lay it at _our_ stable-door! As if we ever ruined anybody, or were
ever doing anything but being ruined ourselves, in our generous desire
to fulfil the useful purposes of our existence!

“In the same way, we get a bad name as if we were profligate company.
‘So and so got among Horses, and it was all up with him.’ Why, _we_
would have reclaimed him—_we_ would have made him temperate,
industrious, punctual, steady, sensible—what harm would he ever have
got from _us_, I should wish to ask?

“Upon the whole, speaking of him as I have found him, I should
describe Man as an unmeaning and conceited creature, very seldom to be
trusted, and not likely to make advances towards the honesty of the
nobler animals. I should say that his power of warping the nobler
animals to bad purposes, and damaging their reputation by his
companionship, is, next to the art of growing oats, hay, carrots, and
clover, one of his principal attributes. He is very unintelligible in
his caprices; seldom expressing with distinctness what he wants of us;
and relying greatly on our better judgment to find out. He is cruel,
and fond of blood—particularly at a steeple-chase—and is very
ungrateful.

“And yet, so far as I can understand, he worships us too. He sets up
images of us (not particularly like, but meant to be) in the streets,
and calls upon his fellows to admire them, and believe in them. As
well as I can make out, it is not of the least importance what images
of Men are put astride upon these images of Horses, for I don’t find
any famous personage among them—except one, and _his_ image seems to
have been contracted for, by the gross. The jockeys who ride our
statues are very queer jockeys, it appears to me, but it is something
to find Man even posthumously sensible of what he owes to us. I
believe that when he has done any great wrong to any very
distinguished Horse, deceased, he gets up a subscription to have an
awkward likeness of him made, and erects it in a public place, to be
generally venerated. I can find no other reason for the statues of us
that abound.

“It must be regarded as a part of the inconsistency of Man, that he
erects no statues to the Donkeys—who, though far inferior animals to
ourselves, have great claims upon him. I should think a Donkey
opposite the Horse at Hyde Park, another in Trafalgar Square, and a
group of Donkeys, in brass, outside the Guildhall of the City of
London (for I believe the Common Council Chamber is inside that
building) would be pleasant and appropriate memorials.

“I am not aware that I can suggest anything more, to my honorable
friend the Raven, which will not already have occurred to his fine
intellect. Like myself, he is the victim of brute force, and must bear
it until the present state of things is changed—as it possibly may be
in the good time which I understand is coming, if I wait a little
longer.”

There! How do you like that? That’s the Horse! You shall have another animal’s sentiments, soon. I have communicated with plenty ’of em, and they are all down upon you. It’s not I alone who have found you out. You are generally detected, I am happy to say, and shall be covered with confusion.

Talking about the horse, are you going to set up any more horses? Eh? Think a bit. Come! You haven’t got horses enough yet, surely? Couldn’t you put somebody else on horseback, and stick him up, at the cost of a few thousands? You have already statues to most of the “benefactors of mankind,” (SEE ADVERTISEMENT) in your principal cities. You walk through groves of great inventors, instructors, discoverers, assuagers of pain, preventers of disease, suggesters of purifying thoughts, doers of noble deeds. Finish the list. Come!

Whom will you hoist into the saddle? Let’s have a cardinal virtue! Shall it be Faith? Hope? Charity? Aye, Charity’s the virtue to ride on horseback! Let’s have Charity!

How shall we represent it? Eh? What do you think? Royal? Certainly. Duke? Of course. Charity always was typified in that way, from the time of a certain widow, downwards. And there’s nothing less left to put up; all the commoners who were “benefactors of mankind” having had their statues in the public places, long ago.

How shall we dress it? Rags? Low. Drapery? Common-place. Field-Marshal’s uniform? The very thing! Charity in a Field-Marshal’s uniform (none the worse for wear) with thirty thousand pounds a year, public money, in its pocket, and fifteen thousand more, public money, up behind, will be a piece of plain uncompromising truth in the highways, and an honor to the country and the time.

Ha, ha, ha! You can’t leave the memory of an unassuming, honest, good-natured, amiable old Duke alone, without bespattering it with your flunkeyism, can’t you? That’s right—and like you! Here are three brass buttons in my crop. I’ll subscribe ’em all. One, to the statue of Charity; one, to a statue of Hope; one, to a statue of Faith. For Faith, we’ll have the Nepaulese Ambassador on horseback—being a prince. And for Hope, we’ll put the Hippopotamus on horseback, and so make a group.

Let’s have a meeting about it!

A SHILLING’S WORTH OF SCIENCE.

Dr. Paris has already shown, in a charming little book treating scientifically of children’s toys, how easy even “philosophy in sport can be made science in earnest.” An earlier genius cut out the whole alphabet into the figures of uncouth animals, and enclosed them in a toybox representing Noah’s Ark, for the purpose of teaching children their letters. Europe, Asia, Africa, and America have been decimated; “yea, the great globe itself,” has been parcelled into little wooden sections, that their readjustment into a continuous map might teach the infant conqueror of the world the relative positions of distant countries. Archimedes might have discovered the principle of the lever and the fundamental principles of gravity upon a rocking-horse. In like manner he might have ascertained the laws of hydrostatics, by observing the impetus of many natural and artificial fountains, which must occasionally have come beneath his eye. So also the principles of acoustics might even now be taught by the aid of a penny whistle, and there is no knowing how much children’s nursery games may yet be rendered subservient to the advancement of science. The famous Dr. Cornelius Scriblerus had excellent notions on these subjects. He determined that his son Martinus should be the most learned and universally well-informed man of his age, and had recourse to all sorts of devices in order to inspire him even unthinkingly with knowledge. He determined that everything should contribute to the improvement of his mind,—even his very dress. He therefore, his biographer informs us, invented for him a geographical suit of clothes, which might give him some hints of that science, and also of the commerce of different nations. His son’s disposition to mathematics—for he was a remarkable child—was discovered very early by his drawing parallel lines on his bread and butter, and intersecting them at equal angles, so as to form the whole superficies into squares. His father also wisely resolved that he should acquire the learned languages, especially Greek,—and remarking, curiously enough, that young Martinus Scriblerus was remarkably fond of gingerbread, the happy idea came into his parental head that his pieces of gingerbread should be stamped with the letters of the Greek alphabet; and such was the child’s avidity for knowledge, that the very first day he eat down to _iota_.

When Sir Isaac Newton changed his residence and went to live in Leicester Place, his next door neighbour was a widow lady, who was much puzzled by the little she observed of the habits of the philosopher. One of the Fellows of the Royal Society, called upon her one day, when among other domestic news, she mentioned that some one had come to reside in the adjoining house, who she felt certain was a poor mad gentleman. “And why so?” asked her friend. “Because,” said she, “he diverts himself in the oddest way imaginable. Every morning when the sun shines so brightly that we are obliged to draw down the window-blinds, he takes his seat on a little stool before a tub of soap-suds, and occupies himself for hours blowing soap-bubbles through a common clay-pipe, which he intently watches floating about until they burst. He is doubtless,” she added, “now at his favourite diversion, for it is a fine day; do come and look at him.” The gentleman smiled; and they went upstairs, when after looking through the staircase window into the adjoining court-yard, he turned round and said, “My dear lady, the person whom you suppose to be a poor lunatic, is no other than the great Sir Isaac Newton studying the refraction of light upon thin plates, a phenomenon which is beautifully exhibited upon the surface of a common soap-bubble.”

The principle, illustrated by the examples we have given, has been efficiently followed by the Directors of the Royal Polytechnic Institution in Regent Street, London. Even the simplest models and objects they exhibit in their extensive halls and galleries, expound—like Sir Isaac Newton’s soap-bubble—some important principle of Science or Art.

On entering the Hall of Manufactures (as we did the other day) it was impossible not to be impressed with the conviction that we are in an utilitarian age in which the science of Mechanics advances with marvellous rapidity. Here we observed steam-engines, hand-looms, and machines in active operation, surrounding us with that peculiar din which makes the air

“Murmur, as with the sound of summer-flies.”

Passing into the “Gallery in the Great Hall,” we did not fail to derive a momentary amusement, from observing the very different objects which seemed most to excite the attention and interest of the different sightseers. Here, stood obviously a country farmer examining the model of a steam-plough; there, a Manchester or Birmingham manufacturer looking into a curious and complicated weaving machine; here, we noticed a group of ladies admiring specimens of elaborate carving in ivory, and personal ornaments esteemed highly fashionable at the antipodes; and there, the smiling faces of youth watching with eager eyes the little boats and steamers paddling along the Water Reservoir in the central counter. But we had scarcely looked around us, when a bell rang to announce a lecture on Voltaic Electricity by Dr. Bachhoffner; and moving with the stream of people up a short staircase, we soon found ourselves in a very commodious and well arranged theatre. There are many universities and public institutions that have not better lecture rooms than this theatre in the Royal Polytechnic Institution. The lecture was elementary and exceedingly instructive, pointing out and showing by experiments, the identity between Magnetism and Electricity—light and heat: but notwithstanding the extreme perspicuity of the Professor, it was our fate to sit next two old ladies who seemed to be very incredulous about the whole business.

“If heat and light are the same thing,” asked one, “why don’t a flame come out at the spout of a boiling tea-kettle?”

“The steam,” answered the other, “may account for that.”

“Hush!” cried somebody behind them; and the ladies were silent: but it was plain they thought Voltaic Electricity had something to do with conjuring, and that the lecturer might be a professor of Magic. The lecture over, we returned to the Gallery, where we found the Diving Bell just about to be put in operation. It is made of cast iron, and weighs three tons; the interior being provided with seats, and lighted by openings in the crown, upon which a plate of thick glass is secured. The weighty instrument suspended by a massive chain to a large swing crane, was soon in motion, when we observed our sceptical lady-friends join a party and enter, in order, we presume, to make themselves more sure of the truth of the diving bell than they could do of the identity between light and heat. The Bell was soon swung round and lowered into a tank, which holds nearly ten thousand gallons of water; but we confess our fears for the safety of its inmates were greatly appeased, when we learned that the whole of this reservoir of water could be emptied in less than one minute. Slowly and steadily was the Bell drawn up again, and we had the satisfaction of seeing the enterprising ladies and their companions alight on _terra firma_, nothing injured excepting that they were greatly flushed in the face. A man, clad in a water-tight dress and surmounted with a diving helmet, next performed a variety of sub-aqueous feats; much to the amusement and astonishment of the younger part of the audience, one of whom shouted as he came up above the surface of the water, “Oh! Ma’a! Don’t he look like an Ogre!” and certainly the shining brass helmet and staring large plate-glass eyes fairly warranted such a suggestion. The principles of the Diving Bell and of the Diving Helmet, are too well known to require explanation; but the practical utility of these machines is daily proved. Even while we now write, it has been ascertained that the foundations of Blackfriars Bridge are giving way. The bed of the river, owing to the constant ebb and flow of its waters, has sunk some six or seven feet below its level, since the bridge was built, thus undermining its foundation; and this effect, it is presumed, has been greatly augmented by the removal of the old London Bridge, the works surrounding which operated as a dam in checking the force of the current. These machines, also, are constantly used in repairing the bottom of docks, landing-piers, and in the construction of breakwater works, such as those which are at present being raised at Dover Harbour.

Among other remarkable objects in the museum of natural history we recognised, swimming upon his shingly bed under a glass case, our old friend the Gymnotus Electricus, or Electrical Eel. Truly, he is a marvellous fish. The power which animals of every description possess in adapting themselves to external and adventitious circumstances, is here marvellously illustrated, for, notwithstanding this creature is surrounded by the greatest possible amount of artificial circumstances, inasmuch as instead of sporting in his own pellucid and sparkling waters of the River Amazon, he is here confined in a glass prison, in water artificially heated; instead of his natural food, he is here supplied with fish not indigenous to his native country, and denied access to fresh air, with sunlight sparkling upon the surface of the waves—he is here surrounded by an impure and obscure atmosphere, with crowds of people constantly moving to and fro and gazing upon him;—yet, notwithstanding all these disadvantageous circumstances, he has continued to thrive; nay, since we saw him, ten years ago, he has increased in size and is apparently very healthy, notwithstanding that he is obviously quite blind.

This specimen of the Gymnotus Electricus was caught in the River Amazon, and was brought over to this country by Mr. Potter, where it arrived on the 12th of August, 1838, when he displayed it to the proprietors of the Adelaide Gallery. In the first instance, there was some difficulty in keeping him alive, for, whether from sickness, or sulkiness, he refused food of every description, and is said to have eaten nothing from the day he was taken in March, 1838, to the 19th of the following October. He was confided upon his arrival to the care of Mr. Bradley, who placed him in an apartment the temperature of which could be maintained at about seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, and acting upon the suggestions of Baron Humboldt, he endeavoured to feed him with bits of boiled meat, worms, frogs, fish, and bread, which were all tried in succession. But the animal would not touch these. The plan adopted by the London fishmongers for fattening the common Eel was then had recourse to;—a quantity of bullock’s blood was put into the water, care being taken that it should be changed daily, and this was attended with some beneficial effects, as the animal gradually improved in health. In the month of October it occurred to Mr. Bradley to tempt him with some small fish, and the first gudgeon thrown into the water he darted at and swallowed with avidity. From that period the same diet has been continued, and he is now fed three times a day, and upon each occasion is given two or three carp, or perch, or gudgeon, each weighing from two to three ounces. In watching his movements we observed, that in swimming about he seems to delight in rubbing himself against the gravel which forms the bed above which he floats, and the water immediately becomes clouded with the mucus from which he thus relieves the surface of his body.

When this species of fish was first discovered, marvellous accounts respecting them were transmitted to the Royal Society: it was even said that in the River Surinam, in the western province of Guiana, some existed twenty feet long. The present specimen is forty inches in length; and measures eighteen inches round the body; and his physiognomy justifies the description given by one of the early narrators, who remarked, that the Gymnotus “resembles one of our common eels, except that its head is flat, and its mouth wide, like that of a cat-fish, without teeth.” It is certainly ugly enough. On its first arrival in England, the proprietors offered Professor Faraday (to whom this country may possibly discover, within the next five hundred years, that it owes something) the privilege of experimenting upon him for scientific purposes, and the result of a great number of experiments, ingeniously devised, and executed with great nicety, clearly proved the identity between the electricity of the fish and the common electricity. The shock, the circuit, the spark, were distinctly obtained; the galvanometer was sensibly affected; chemical decompositions were obtained; an annealed steel needle became magnetic, and the direction of its polarity indicated a current from the anterior to the posterior parts of the fish, through the conductors used. The force with which the electric discharge is made is also very considerable, for this philosopher tells us we may conclude that a single medium discharge of the fish is at least equal to the electricity of a Leyden Battery of fifteen jars, containing three thousand five hundred square inches of glass, coated upon both sides, charged to its highest degree. But great as is the force of a single discharge, the Gymnotus will sometimes give a double, and even a triple shock, with scarcely any interval. Nor is this all. The instinctive action it has recourse to in order to augment the force of the shock, is very remarkable.

The Professor one day dropped a live fish, five inches long, into the tub; upon which the Gymnotus turned round in such a manner as to form a coil enclosing the fish, the latter representing a diameter across it, and the fish was struck motionless, as if lightning had passed through the water. The Gymnotus then made a turn to look for his prey, which having found, he bolted it, and then went about seeking for more. A second smaller fish was then given him, which being hurt, showed little signs of life; and this he swallowed apparently without “shocking it.” We are informed by Dr. Williamson, in a paper he communicated some years ago to the Royal Society, that a fish already struck motionless gave signs of returning animation, which the Gymnotus observing, he instantly discharged another shock, which killed it. Another curious circumstance was observed by Professor Faraday,—the Gymnotus appeared conscious of the difference of giving a shock to an animate and an inanimate body, and would not be provoked to discharge its powers upon the latter. When tormented by a glass rod, the creature in the first instance threw out a shock, but as if he perceived his mistake, he could not be stimulated afterwards to repeat it, although the moment the Professor touched him with his hands, he discharged shock after shock. He refused, in like manner, to gratify the curiosity of the philosophers, when they touched him with metallic conductors, which he permitted them to do with indifference. It is worthy of observation, that this is the only specimen of the Gymnotus Electricus ever brought over alive into this country. The great secret of preserving his life would appear to consist in keeping the water at an even temperature—summer and winter—of seventy-five degrees of Fahrenheit. After having been subjected to a great variety of experiments, the creature is now permitted to enjoy the remainder of its days in honorable peace, and the only occasion upon which he is now disturbed, is when it is found necessary to take him out of his shallow reservoir to have it cleaned, when he discharges angrily enough shock after shock, which the attendants describe to be very smart, even though he be held in several thick and well wetted cloths, for they do not at all relish the job.

The Gymnotus Electricus is not the only animal endowed with this very singular power; there are other fish, especially the Torpedo and Silurus, which are equally remarkable, and equally well known. The peculiar structure which enters into the formation of their electrical organs, was first examined by the eminent anatomist John Hunter, in the Torpedo; and, very recently, Rudolphi has described their structure with great exactness in the Gymnotus Electricus.

Without entering into minute details, the peculiarity of the organic apparatus of the Electrical Eel seems to consist in this, that it is composed of numerous _laminæ_ or thin tendinous partitions, between which exists an infinite number of small cells filled with a thickish gelatinous fluid. These strata and cells are supplied with nerves of unusual size, and the intensity of the electrical power is presumed to depend on the amount of nervous energy accumulated in these cells, whence it can be voluntarily discharged just as a muscle may be voluntarily contracted. Furthermore, there are, it would appear, good reasons to believe that nervous power (in whatever it may consist) and electricity are identical. The progress of Science has already shown the identity between heat, electricity, and magnetism;—that heat may be concentrated into electricity, and this electricity reconverted into heat; that electric force may be converted into magnetic force, and Professor Faraday himself discovered how, by reacting back again, the magnetic force can be reconverted into the electric force, and _vice versâ_; and should the identity between electricity and nervous power be as clearly established, one of the most important and interesting problems in Physiology will be solved.

Every new discovery in Science, and all improvements in Industrial Art, the principles of which are capable of being rendered in the least degree interesting, are in this Exhibition forthwith popularised, and become, as it were, public property. Every individual of the great public can at the very small cost of one shilling, claim his or her share in the property thus attractively collected, and a small amount of previous knowledge or natural intelligence will put the visitor in actual possession of treasures which previously “he wot not of,” in so amusing a manner that they will be beguiled rather than bored into his mind.

THE GENTLEMAN BEGGAR.

AN ATTORNEY’S STORY.

One morning, about five years ago, I called by appointment on Mr. John Balance, the fashionable pawnbroker, to accompany him to Liverpool, in pursuit for a Levanting customer,—for Balance, in addition to pawning, does a little business in the sixty per cent. line. It rained in torrents when the cab stopped at the passage which leads past the pawning boxes to his private door. The cabman rang twice, and at length Balance appeared, looming through the mist and rain in the entry, illuminated by his perpetual cigar. As I eyed him rather impatiently, remembering that trains wait for no man, something like a hairy dog, or a bundle of rags, rose up at his feet, and barred his passage for a moment. Then Balance cried out with an exclamation, in answer apparently to a something I could not hear, “What, man alive!—slept in the passage!—there, take that, and get some breakfast for Heaven’s sake!” So saying, he jumped into the “Hansom,” and we bowled away at ten miles an hour, just catching the Express as the doors of the station were closing. My curiosity was full set,—for although Balance can be free with his money, it is not exactly to beggars that his generosity is usually displayed; so when comfortably ensconced in a _coupé_, I finished with—

“You are liberal with your money this morning: pray, how often do you give silver to street cadgers?—because I shall know now what walk to take when flats and sharps leave off buying law.”

Balance, who would have made an excellent parson if he had not been bred to a case-hardening trade, and has still a soft bit left in his heart that is always fighting with his hard head, did not smile at all, but looked as grim as if squeezing a lemon into his Saturday night’s punch. He answered slowly, “A cadger—yes; a beggar—a miserable wretch, he is now; but let me tell you, Master David, that that miserable bundle of rags was born and bred a gentleman; the son of a nobleman, the husband of an heiress, and has sat and dined at tables where you and I, Master David, are only allowed to view the plate by favour of the butler. I have lent him thousands, and been well paid. The last thing I had from him was his court suit; and I hold now his bill for one hundred pounds that will be paid, I expect, when he dies.”

“Why, what nonsense you are talking! you must be dreaming this morning. However, we are alone, I’ll light a weed, in defiance of Railway law, you shall spin that yarn; for, true or untrue, it will fill up the time to Liverpool.”

“As for yarn,” replied Balance, “the whole story is short enough; and as for truth, that you may easily find out if you like to take the trouble. I thought the poor wretch was dead, and I own it put me out meeting him this morning, for I had a curious dream last night.”

“Oh, hang your dreams! Tell us about this gentleman beggar that bleeds you of half-crowns—that melts the heart even of a pawnbroker!”

“Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate son of the late Marquis of Hoopborough by a Spanish lady of rank. He received a first-rate education, and was brought up in his father’s house. At a very early age he obtained an appointment in a public office, was presented by the marquis at court, and received into the first society, where his handsome person and agreeable manners made him a great favourite. Soon after coming of age, he married the daughter of Sir E. Bumper, who brought him a very handsome fortune, which was strictly settled on herself. They lived in splendid style, kept several carriages, a house in town, and a place in the country. For some reason or other, idleness, or to please his lady’s pride he said, he resigned his appointment. His father died, and left him nothing; indeed, he seemed at that time very handsomely provided for.

“Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy began to disagree. She was cold, correct—he was hot and random. He was quite dependant on her, and she made him feel it. When he began to get into debt, he came to me. At length some shocking quarrel occurred; some case of jealousy on the wife’s side, not without reason, I believe; and the end of it was Mr. Fitz-Roy was turned out of doors. The house was his wife’s, the furniture was his wife’s, and the fortune was his wife’s—he was, in fact, her pensioner. He left with a few hundred pounds ready money, and some personal jewellery, and went to an hotel. On these and credit he lived. Being illegitimate, he had no relations; being a fool, when he spent his money he lost his friends. The world took his wife’s part, when they found she had the fortune, and the only parties who interfered were her relatives, who did their best to make the quarrel incurable. To crown all, one night he was run over by a cab, was carried to a hospital, and lay there for months, and was during several weeks of the time unconscious. A message to the wife, by the hands of one of his debauched companions, sent by a humane surgeon, obtained an intimation that ‘if he died, Mr. Croak, the undertaker to the family, had orders to see to the funeral,’ and that Mrs. Molinos was on the point of starting for the Continent, not to return for some years. When Fitz-Roy was discharged, he came to me limping on two sticks, to pawn his court suit, and told me his story. I was really sorry for the fellow, such a handsome, thoroughbred-looking man. He was going then into the west somewhere, to try to hunt out a friend. ‘What to do, Balance,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. I can’t dig, and unless somebody will make me their gamekeeper, I must starve, or beg, as my Jezebel bade me when we parted!’

“I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and when I next came upon him it was in the Rookery of Westminster, in a low lodging-house, where I was searching with an officer for stolen goods. He was pointed out to me as the ‘gentleman cadger,’ because he was so free with his money when ‘in luck.’ He recognised me, but turned away then. I have since seen him, and relieved him more than once, although he never asks for anything. How he lives, Heaven knows. Without money, without friends, without useful education of any kind, he tramps the country, as you saw him, perhaps doing a little hop-picking or hay-making, in season, only happy when he obtains the means to get drunk. I have heard through the kitchen whispers that you know come to me, that he is entitled to some property; and I expect if he were to die his wife would pay the hundred pound bill I hold; at any rate, what I have told you I know to be true, and the bundle of rags I relieved just now is known in every thieves’ lodging in England as the ‘gentleman cadger.’”

This story produced an impression on me,—I am fond of speculation, and like the excitement of a legal hunt as much as some do a fox-chase. A gentleman a beggar, a wife rolling in wealth, rumours of unknown property due to the husband: it seemed as if there were pickings for me amidst this carrion of pauperism.

Before returning from Liverpool, I had purchased the gentleman beggar’s acceptance from Balance. I then inserted in the “Times” the following advertisement: “_Horatio Molinos Fitz-Roy_.—If this gentleman will apply to David Discount, Esq., Solicitor, St. James’s, he will hear of something to his advantage. Any person furnishing Mr. F.’s correct address, shall receive 1_l._ 1_s._ reward. He was last seen,” &c. Within twenty-four hours I had ample proof of the wide circulation of the “Times.” My office was besieged with beggars of every degree, men and women, lame and blind, Irish, Scotch, and English, some on crutches, some in bowls, some in go-carts. They all knew him as “the gentleman,” and I must do the regular fraternity of tramps the justice to say that not one would answer a question until he made certain that I meant the “gentleman” no harm.

One evening, about three weeks after the appearance of the advertisement, my clerk announced “another beggar.” There came in an old man leaning upon a staff, clad in a soldier’s great coat all patched and torn, with a battered hat, from under which a mass of tangled hair fell over his shoulders and half concealed his face. The beggar, in a weak, wheezy, hesitating tone, said, “You have advertised for Molinos Fitz-roy, I hope you don’t mean him any harm; he is sunk, I think, too low for enmity now; and surely no one would sport with such misery as his.” These last words were uttered in a sort of piteous whisper.

I answered quickly, “Heaven forbid I should sport with misery: I mean and hope to do him good, as well as myself.”

“Then, Sir, I am Molinos Fitz-Roy!”

While we were conversing candles had been brought in. I have not very tender nerves—my head would not agree with them—but I own I started and shuddered when I saw and knew that the wretched creature before me was under thirty years of age and once a gentleman. Sharp, aquiline features, reduced to literal skin and bone, were begrimed and covered with dry fair hair; the white teeth of the half-open mouth chattered with eagerness, and made more hideous the foul pallor of the rest of the countenance. As he stood leaning on a staff half bent, his long, yellow bony fingers clasped over the crutch-head of his stick, he was indeed a picture of misery, famine, squalor, and premature age, too horrible to dwell upon. I made him sit down, sent for some refreshment which he devoured like a ghoul, and set to work to unravel his story. It was difficult to keep him to the point; but with pains I learned what convinced me that he was entitled to some property, whether great or small there was no evidence. On parting, I said “Now Mr. F., you must stay in town while I make proper enquiries. What allowance will be enough to keep you comfortably?”

He answered humbly after much pressing, “Would you think ten shillings too much?”

I don’t like, if I do those things at all, to do them shabbily, so I said, “Come every Saturday and you shall have a pound.” He was profuse in thanks of course, as all such men are as long as distress lasts.

I had previously learned that my ragged client’s wife was in England, living in a splendid house in Hyde Park Gardens, under her maiden name. On the following day the Earl of Owing called upon me, wanting five thousand pounds by five o’clock the same evening. It was a case of life or death with him, so I made my terms and took advantage of his pressure to execute a _coup de main_. I proposed that he should drive me home to receive the money, calling at Mrs. Molinos in Hyde Park Gardens, on our way. I knew that the coronet and liveries of his father, the Marquis, would ensure me an audience with Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy.

My scheme answered. I was introduced into the lady’s presence. She was, and probably is, a very stately, handsome woman, with a pale complexion, high solid forehead, regular features, thin, pinched, self-satisfied mouth. My interview was very short. I plunged into the middle of the affair, but had scarcely mentioned the word husband, when she interrupted me with “I presume you have lent this profligate person money, and want me to pay you.” She paused, and then said, “He shall not have a farthing.” As she spoke, her white face became scarlet.

“But, Madam, the man is starving. I have strong reasons for believing he is entitled to property, and if you refuse any assistance, I must take other measures.” She rang the bell, wrote something rapidly on a card; and, as the footman appeared, pushed it towards me across the table, with the air of touching a toad, saying, “There, Sir, is the address of my solicitors; apply to them if you think you have any claim. Robert, show the person out, and take care he is not admitted again.”

So far I had effected nothing; and, to tell the truth, felt rather crest-fallen under the influence of that grand manner peculiar to certain great ladies and to all great actresses.

My next visit was to the attorneys Messrs. Leasem and Fashun, of Lincoln’s Inn Square, and there I was at home. I had had dealings with the firm before. They are agents for half the aristocracy, who always run in crowds like sheep after the same wine-merchants, the same architects, the same horse-dealers, and the same law-agents. It may be doubted whether the quality of law and land management they get on this principle is quite equal to their wine and horses. At any rate, my friends of Lincoln’s Inn, like others of the same class, are distinguished by their courteous manners, deliberate proceedings, innocence of legal technicalities, long credit and heavy charges. Leasem, the elder partner, wears powder and a huge bunch of seals, lives in Queen Square, drives a brougham, gives the dinners and does the cordial department. He is so strict in performing the latter duty, that he once addressed a poacher who had shot a Duke’s keeper, as “my dear creature,” although he afterwards hung him.

Fashun has chambers in St. James Street, drives a cab, wears a tip, and does the grand haha style.

My business lay with Leasem. The interviews and letters passing were numerous. However, it came at last to the following dialogue:—

“Well, my dear Mr. Discount,” began Mr. Leasem, who hates me like poison. “I’m really very sorry for that poor dear Molinos—knew his father well; a great man, a perfect gentleman; but you know what women are, eh, Mr. Discount? My client won’t advance a shilling, she knows it would only be wasted in low dissipation. Now don’t you think (this was said very insinuatingly)—don’t you think he had better be sent to the workhouse; very comfortable accommodation there, I can assure you—meat twice a week, and excellent soup; and then, Mr. D., we might consider about allowing you something for that bill.”

“Mr. Leasem, can you reconcile it to your conscience to make such an arrangement. Here’s a wife rolling in luxury, and a husband starving!”

“No, Mr. Discount, not starving; there is the workhouse, as I observed before; besides, allow me to suggest that these appeals to feeling are quite unprofessional—quite unprofessional.”

“But, Mr. Leasem, touching this property which the poor man is entitled to.”

“Why, there again, Mr. D., you must excuse me; you really must. I don’t say he is, I don’t say he is not. If you know he is entitled to property, I am sure you know how to proceed; the law is open to you, Mr. Discount—the law is open; and a man of your talent will know how to use it.”

“Then, Mr. Leasem, you mean that I must, in order to right this starving man, file a Bill of Discovery, to extract from you the particulars of his rights. You have the Marriage Settlement, and all the information, and you decline to allow a pension, or afford any information; the man is to starve, or go to the workhouse?”

“Why, Mr. D., you are so quick and violent, it really is not professional; but you see (here a subdued smile of triumph), it has been decided that a solicitor is not bound to afford such information as you ask, to the injury of his client.”

“Then you mean that this poor Molinos may rot and starve, while you keep secret from him, at his wife’s request, his title to an income, and that the Court of Chancery will back you in this iniquity?”

I kept repeating the word “starve,” because I saw it made my respectable opponent wince. “Well, then, just listen to me. I know that in the happy state of our equity law, Chancery can’t help my client; but I have another plan; I shall go hence to my office, issue a writ, and take your client’s husband in execution—as soon as he is lodged in jail, I shall file his schedule in the Insolvent Court, and when he comes up for his discharge, I shall put you in the witness-box, and examine you on oath, ‘touching any property of which you know the insolvent to be possessed,’ and where will be your privileged communications then?”

The respectable Leasem’s face lengthened in a twinkling, his comfortable confident air vanished, he ceased twiddling his gold chain, and at length he muttered, “Suppose we pay the debt?”

“Why then, I’ll arrest him the day after for another.”

“But, my dear Mr. Discount, surely such conduct would not be quite respectable?”

“That’s my business; my client has been wronged, I am determined to right him, and when the aristocratic firm of Leasem and Fashun takes refuge according to the custom of respectable repudiators, in the cool arbours of the Court of Chancery, why, a mere bill-discounting attorney like David Discount need not hesitate about cutting a bludgeon out of the Insolvent Court.”

“Well, well, Mr. D., you are so warm—so fiery; we must deliberate, we must consult. You will give me until the day after to-morrow, and then we’ll write you our final determination; in the mean time, send us copy of your authority to act for Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy.”

Of course I lost no time in getting the gentleman beggar to sign a proper letter.

On the appointed day came a communication with the L. and F. seal, which I opened not without unprofessional eagerness. It was as follows:

“_In re Molinos Fitz-Roy and Another._

“Sir,—In answer to your application on behalf of Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy,
we beg to inform you that under the administration of a paternal aunt
who died intestate, your client is entitled to two thousand five
hundred pounds eight shillings and sixpence, Three per Cents.; one
thousand five hundred pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence, Three
per Cents. Reduced; one thousand pounds, Long Annuities; five hundred
pounds, Bank Stock; three thousand five hundred pounds, India Stock,
besides other securities, making up about ten thousand pounds, which
we are prepared to transfer over to Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy’s direction
forthwith.”

Here was a windfall! It quite took away my breath.

At dusk came my gentleman beggar, and what puzzled me was how to break the news to him. Being very much overwhelmed with business that day, I had not much time for consideration. He came in rather better dressed than when I first saw him, with only a week’s beard on his chin; but, as usual, not quite sober. Six weeks had elapsed since our first interview. He was still the humble, trembling, low-voiced creature, I first knew him.

After a prelude, I said, “I find, Mr. F., you are entitled to something; pray, what do you mean to give me in addition to my bill, for obtaining it?” He answered rapidly, “Oh, take half: if there is one hundred pounds, take half: if there is five hundred pounds, take half.”

“No, no; Mr. F., I don’t do business in that way, I shall be satisfied with ten per cent.”

It was so settled. I then led him out into the street, impelled to tell him the news, yet dreading the effect; not daring to make the revelation in my office, for fear of a scene.

I began hesitatingly, “Mr. Fitz-Roy I am happy to say that I find you are entitled to ... ten thousand pounds!”

“Ten thousand pounds!” he echoed. “Ten thousand pounds!” he shrieked. “Ten thousand pounds!” he yelled; seizing my arm violently. “You are a brick,——Here, cab! cab!” Several drove up—the shout might have been heard a mile off. He jumped in the first.

“Where to?” said the driver.

“To a tailor’s, you rascal!”

“Ten thousand pounds! ha, ha, ha!” he repeated hysterically, when in the cab; and every moment grasping my arm. Presently he subsided, looked me straight in the face, and muttered with agonising fervour, “What a jolly brick you are!”

The tailor, the hosier, the bootmaker, the hairdresser, were in turn visited by this poor pagan of externals. As by degrees under their hands he emerged from the beggar to the gentleman, his spirits rose; his eyes brightened; he walked erect, but always nervously grasping my arm; fearing, apparently, to lose sight of me for a moment, lest his fortune should vanish with me. The impatient pride with which he gave his orders to the astonished tradesman for the finest and best of everything, and the amazed air of the fashionable hairdresser when he presented his matted locks and stubble chin, to be “cut and shaved,” may be _acted_—it cannot be described.

By the time the external transformation was complete, and I sat down in a _Café_ in the Haymarket opposite a haggard but handsome thoroughbred-looking man, whose air, with the exception of the wild eyes and deeply browned face, did not differ from the stereotyped men about town sitting around us, Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy had already almost forgotten the past; he bullied the waiter, and criticised the wine, as if he had done nothing else but dine and drink and scold there all the days of his life.