Chapter VII: Part 7

When I found myself alone in my paternal home, a crowd of gloomy
feelings came thronging upon me. It was a place that always
seemed to sober me, and bring me to reflection. Now, especially,
it looked so deserted and melancholy; the furniture displaced
about the room; the chairs in groups, as their departed occupants
had sat, either in whispering tête-à-têtes, or gossiping
clusters; the bottles and decanters and wine-glasses, half
emptied, and scattered about the tables—all dreary traces of a
funeral festival. I entered the little breakfasting room. There
were my father’s whip and spurs hanging by the fire-place, and
his favorite pointer lying on the hearth-rug. The poor animal
came fondling about me, and licked my hand, though he had never
before noticed me; and then he looked round the room, and whined,
and wagged his tail slightly, and gazed wistfully in my face. I
felt the full force of the appeal. “Poor Dash!” said I, “we are
both alone in the world, with nobody to care for us, and we’ll
take care of one another.” The dog never quitted me afterwards.

I could not go into my mother’s room: my heart swelled when I
passed Within sight of the door. Her portrait hung in the parlor,
just over the place where she used to sit. As I cast my eyes on
it I thought it looked at me with tenderness, and I burst into
tears. My heart had long been seared by living in public schools,
and buffeting about among strangers who cared nothing for me; but
the recollection of a mother’s tenderness was overcoming.

I was not of an age or a temperament to be long depressed. There
was a reaction in my system that always brought me up again at
every pressure; and indeed my spirits were most buoyant after a
temporary prostration. I settled the concerns of the estate as
soon as possible; realized my property, which was not very
considerable, but which appeared a vast deal to me, having a
poetical eye that magnified everything; and finding myself, at
the end of a few months, free of all farther business or
restraint, I determined to go to London and enjoy myself. Why
should not I?—I was young, animated, joyous; had plenty of funds
for present pleasures, and my uncle’s estate in the perspective.
Let those mope at college and pore over books, thought I, who
have their way to make in the world; it would be ridiculous
drudgery in a youth of my expectations.

Well, sir, away to London I rattled in a tandem, determined to
take the town gaily. I passed through several of the villages
where I had played the jack-pudding a few years before; and I
visited the scenes of many of my adventures and follies, merely
from that feeling of melancholy pleasure which we have in
stepping again into the footprints of foregone existence, even
when they have passed among weeds and briars. I made a circuit in
the latter part of my journey, so as to take in West End and
Hempstead, the scenes of my last dramatic exploit, and of the
battle royal of the booth. As I drove along the ridge of
Hempstead Hill, by Jack Straw’s castle, I paused at the spot
where Columbine and I had sat down so disconsolately in our
ragged finery, and looked dubiously upon London. I almost
expected to see her again, standing on the hill’s brink, “like
Niobe all tears;”—mournful as Babylon in ruins!

“Poor Columbine!” said I, with a heavy sigh, “thou wert a
gallant, generous girl—a true woman, faithful to the distressed,
and ready to sacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless man!”

I tried to whistle off the recollection of her; for there was
always Something of self-reproach with it. I drove gayly along
the road, enjoying the stare of hostlers and stable-boys as I
managed my horses knowingly down the steep street of Hempstead;
when, just at the skirts of the village, one of the traces of my
leader came loose. I pulled up; and as the animal was restive and
my servant a bungler, I called for assistance to the robustious
master of a snug ale-house, who stood at his door with a tankard
in his hand. He came readily to assist me, followed by his wife,
with her bosom half open, a child in her arms, and two more at
her heels. I stared for a moment as if doubting my eyes. I could
not be mistaken; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of the ale-house
I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in his slattern spouse,
the once trim and dimpling Columbine.

The change of my looks, from youth to manhood, and the change of
my circumstances, prevented them from recognizing me. They could
not suspect, in the dashing young buck, fashionably dressed, and
driving his own equipage, their former comrade, the painted beau,
with old peaked hat and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My heart
yearned with kindness towards Columbine, and I was glad to see
her establishment a thriving one. As soon as the harness was
adjusted, I tossed a small purse of gold into her ample bosom;
and then, pretending give my horses a hearty cut of the whip, I
made the lash curl with a whistling about the sleek sides of
ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed off like lightning, and I
was whirled out of sight, before either of the parties could get
over their surprise at my liberal donations. I have always
considered this as one of the greatest proofs of my poetical
genius. It was distributing poetical justice in perfection.

I now entered London _en cavalier_, and became a blood upon town.
I took fashionable lodgings in the West End; employed the first
tailor; frequented the regular lounges; gambled a little; lost my
money good-humoredly, and gained a number of fashionable
good-for-nothing acquaintances. Had I had more industry and
ambition in my nature, I might have worked my way to the very
height of fashion, as I saw many laborious gentlemen doing around
me. But it is a toilsome, an anxious, and an unhappy life; there
are few beings so sleepless and miserable as your cultivators of
fashionable smiles.

I was quite content with that kind of society which forms the
frontiers of fashion, and may be easily taken possession of. I
found it a light, easy, productive soil. I had but to go about
and sow visiting cards, and I reaped a whole harvest of
invitations. Indeed, my figure and address were by no means
against me. It was whispered, too, among the young ladies, that I
was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry; and the old ladies had
ascertained that I was a young gentleman of good family, handsome
fortune, and “great expectations.”

I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, so intoxicating
to a young man; and which a man of poetical temperament enjoys so
highly on his first tasting of it. That rapid variety of
sensations; that whirl of brilliant objects; that succession of
pungent pleasures. I had no time for thought; I only felt. I
never attempted to write poetry; my poetry seemed all to go off
by transpiration. I lived poetry; it was all a poetical dream to
me. A mere sensualist knows nothing of the delights of a splendid
metropolis. He lives in a round of animal gratifications and
heartless habits. But to a young man of poetical feelings it is
an ideal world; a scene of enchantment and delusion; his
imagination is in perpetual excitement, and gives a spiritual
zest to every pleasure.

A season of town life somewhat sobered me of my intoxication; or
rather I was rendered more serious by one of my old complaints—I
fell in love. It was with a very pretty, though a very haughty
fair one, who had come to London under the care of an old maiden
aunt, to enjoy the pleasures of a winter in town, and to get
married. There was not a doubt of her commanding a choice of
lovers; for she had long been the belle of a little cathedral
town; and one of the prebendaries had absolutely celebrated her
beauty in a copy of Latin verses.

I paid my court to her, and was favorably received both by her
and her aunt. Nay, I had a marked preference shown me over the
younger son of a needy baronet, and a captain of dragoons on half
pay. I did not absolutely take the field in form, for I was
determined not to be precipitate; but I drove my equipage
frequently through the street in which she lived, and was always
sure to see her at the window, generally with a book in her hand.
I resumed my knack at rhyming, and sent her a long copy of
verses; anonymously to be sure; but she knew my handwriting. They
displayed, however, the most delightful ignorance on the subject.
The young lady showed them to me; wondered who they could be
written by; and declared there was nothing in this world she
loved so much as poetry: while the maiden aunt would put her
pinching spectacles on her nose, and read them, with blunders in
sense and sound, that were excruciating to an author’s ears;
protesting there was nothing equal to them in the whole elegant
extracts.

The fashionable season closed without my adventuring to make a
declaration, though. I certainly had encouragement. I was not
perfectly sure that I had effected a lodgment in the young lady’s
heart; and, to tell the truth, the aunt overdid her part, and was
a little too extravagant in her liking of me. I knew that maiden
aunts were not apt to be captivated by the mere personal merits
of their nieces’ admirers, and I wanted to ascertain how much of
all this favor I owed to my driving an equipage and having great
expectations.

I had received many hints how charming their native town was
during the summer months; what pleasant society they had; and
what beautiful drives about the neighborhood. They had not,
therefore, returned home long, before I made my appearance in
dashing style, driving down the principal street. It is an easy
thing to put a little quiet cathedral town in a buzz. The very
next morning I was seen at prayers, seated in the pew of the
reigning belle. All the congregation was in a flutter. The
prebends eyed me from their stalls; questions were whispered
about the aisles after service, “who is he?” and “what is he?”
and the replies were as usual—“A young gentleman of good family
and fortune, and great expectations.”

I was pleased with the peculiarities of a cathedral town, where I
found I was a personage of some consequence. I was quite a
brilliant acquisition to the young ladies of the cathedral
circle, who were glad to have a beau that was not in a black coat
and clerical wig.

You must know that there was a vast distinction between the
classes of society of the town. As it was a place of some trade,
there were many wealthy inhabitants among the commercial and
manufacturing classes, who lived in style and gave many
entertainments. Nothing of trade, however, was admitted into the
cathedral circle—faugh! the thing could not be thought of. The
cathedral circle, therefore, was apt to be very select, very
dignified, and very dull. They had evening parties, at which the
old ladies played cards with the prebends, and the young ladies
sat and looked on, and shifted from one chair to another about
the room, until it was time to go home.

It was difficult to get up a ball, from the want of partners, the
Cathedral circle being very deficient in dancers; and on those
occasions, there was an occasional drafting among the dancing men
of the other circle, who, however, were generally regarded with
great reserve and condescension by the gentlemen in powdered
wigs. Several of the young ladies assured me, in confidence, that
they had often looked with a wistful eye at the gayety of the
other circle, where there was such plenty of young beaux, and
where they all seemed to enjoy themselves so merrily; but that it
would be degradation to think of descending from their sphere.

I admired the degree of old-fashioned ceremony and superannuated
courtesy that prevailed in this little place. The bowings and
courtseyings that would take place about the cathedral porch
after morning service, where knots of old gentlemen and ladies
would collect together to ask after each other’s health, and
settle the card party for the evening. The little presents of
fruits and delicacies, and the thousand petty messages that would
pass from house to house; for in a tranquil community like this,
living entirely at ease, and having little to do, little duties
and little civilities and little amusements, fill up the day. I
have smiled, as I looked from my window on a quiet street near
the cathedral, in the middle of a warm summer day, to see a
corpulent powdered footman in rich livery, carrying a small tart
on a large silver salver. A dainty titbit, sent, no doubt, by
some worthy old dowager, to top off the dinner of her favorite
prebend.

Nothing could be more delectable, also, than the breaking up of
one of their evening card parties. Such shaking of hands such
mobbing up in cloaks and tippets! There were two or three old
sedan chairs that did the duty of the whole place; though the
greater part made their exit in clogs and pattens, with a footman
or waiting-maid carrying a lanthorn in advance; and at a certain
hour of the night the clank of pattens and the gleam of these
jack lanthorns, here and there, about the quiet little town, gave
notice that the cathedral card party had dissolved, and the
luminaries were severally seeking their homes. To such a
community, therefore, or at least to the female part of it, the
accession of a gay, dashing young beau was a matter of some
importance. The old ladies eyed me with complacency through their
spectacles, and the young ladies pronounced me divine. Everybody
received me favorably, excepting the gentleman who had written
the Latin verses on the belle.—Not that he was jealous of my
success with the lady, for he had no pretensions to her; but he
heard my verses praised wherever he went, and he could not endure
a rival with the muse.

I was thus carrying every thing before me. I was the Adonis of
the Cathedral circle; when one evening there was a public ball
which was attended likewise by the gentry of the neighborhood. I
took great pains with my toilet on the occasion, and I had never
looked better. I had determined that night to make my grand
assault on the heart of the young lady, to batter it with all my
forces, and the next morning to demand a surrender in due form.

I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz and flutter, which
generally took place among the young ladies on my appearance. I
was in fine spirits; for to tell the truth, I had exhilarated
myself by a cheerful glass of wine on the occasion. I talked, and
rattled, and said a thousand silly things, slap-dash, with all
the confidence of a man sure of his auditors; and every thing had
its effect.

In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot gathering
together in the upper part of the room. By degrees it increased.
A tittering broke out there; and glances were cast round at me,
and then there would be fresh tittering. Some of the young ladies
would hurry away to distant parts of the room, and whisper to
their friends; wherever they went there was still this tittering
and glancing at me. I did not know what to make of all this. I
looked at myself from head to foot; and peeped at my back in a
glass, to see if any thing was odd about my person; any awkward
exposure; any whimsical tag hanging out—no—every thing was right.
I was a perfect picture.

I determined that it must be some choice saying of mine, that was
handled about in this knot of merry beauties, and I determined to
enjoy one of my good things in the rebound.

I stepped gently, therefore, up the room, smiling at every one as
I passed, who I must say all smiled and tittered in return. I
approached the group, smirking and perking my chin, like a man
who is full of pleasant feeling, and sure of being well received.
The cluster of little belles opened as I advanced.

Heavens and earth! whom should I perceive in the midst of them,
but my early and tormenting flame, the everlasting Sacharissa!
She was grown up, it is true, into the full beauty of womanhood,
but showed by the provoking merriment of her countenance, that
she perfectly recollected me, and the ridiculous flagellations of
which she had twice been the cause.

I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule that was
bursting over me. My crest fell. The flame of love went suddenly
out in my bosom; or was extinguished by overwhelming shame. How I
got down the room I know not; I fancied every one tittering at
me. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glance of my mistress
and her aunt, listening to the whispers of my poetic rival; the
old lady raising her hands and eyes, and the face of the young
one lighted up with scorn ineffable. I paused to see no more; but
made two steps from the top of the stairs to the bottom. The next
morning, before sunrise, I beat a retreat; and did not feel the
blushes cool from my tingling cheeks until I had lost sight of
the old towers of the cathedral.

I now returned to town thoughtful and crestfallen. My money was
nearly spent, for I had lived freely and without calculation. The
dream of love was over, and the reign of pleasure at an end. I
determined to retrench while I had yet a trifle left; so selling
my equipage and horses for half their value, I quietly put the
money in my pocket and turned pedestrian. I had not a doubt that,
with my great expectations, I could at any time raise funds,
either on usury or by borrowing; but I was principled against
both one and the other; and resolved, by strict economy, to make
my slender purse hold out, until my uncle should give up the
ghost; or rather, the estate.

I stayed at home, therefore, and read, and would have written;
but I had already suffered too much from my poetical productions,
which had generally involved me in some ridiculous scrape. I
gradually acquired a rusty look, and had a straightened,
money-borrowing air, upon which the world began to shy me. I have
never felt disposed to quarrel with the world for its conduct. It
has always used me well. When I have been flush, and gay, and
disposed for society, it has caressed me; and when I have been
pinched, and reduced, and wished to be alone, why, it has left me
alone, and what more could a man desire?—Take my word for it,
this world is a more obliging world than people generally
represent it.

Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my retirement, and my
studiousness, I received news that my uncle was dangerously ill.
I hastened on the wings of an heir’s affection to receive his
dying breath and his last testament. I found him attended by his
faithful valet, old Iron John; by the woman who occasionally
worked about the house; and by the foxy-headed boy, young Orson,
whom I had occasionally hunted about the park.

Iron John gasped a kind of asthmatical salutation as I entered
the room, and received me with something almost like a smile of
welcome. The woman sat blubbering at the foot of the bed; and the
foxy-headed Orson, who had now grown to be a lubberly lout, stood
gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance.

My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The chamber was without a
fire, or any of the comforts of a sick-room. The cobwebs flaunted
from the ceiling. The tester was covered with dust, and the
curtains were tattered. From underneath the bed peeped out one
end of his strong box. Against the wainscot were suspended rusty
blunderbusses, horse pistols, and a cut-and-thrust sword, with
which he had fortified his room to defend his life and treasure.
He had employed no physician during his illness, and from the
scanty relics lying on the table, seemed almost to have denied
himself the assistance of a cook.

When I entered the room he was lying motionless; with his eyes
fixed and his mouth open; at the first look I thought him a
corpse. The noise of my entrance made him turn his head. At the
sight of me a ghastly smile came over his face, and his glazing
eye gleamed with satisfaction. It was the only smile he had ever
given me, and it went to my heart. “Poor old man!” thought I,
“why would you not let me love you?—Why would you force me to
leave you thus desolate, when I see that my presence has the
power to cheer you?”

“Nephew,” said he, after several efforts, and in a low gasping
voice —“I am glad you are come. I shall now die with
satisfaction. Look,” said he, raising his withered hand and
pointing—“look—in that box on the table you will find that I have
not forgotten you.”

I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears stood in my eyes. I
sat down by his bed-side, and watched him, but he never spoke
again. My presence, however, gave him evident satisfaction—for
every now and then, as he looked at me, a vague smile would come
over his visage, and he would feebly point to the sealed box on
the table. As the day wore away, his life seemed to wear away
with it. Towards sunset, his hand sunk on the bed and lay
motionless; his eyes grew glazed; his mouth remained open, and
thus he gradually died.

I could not but feel shocked at this absolute extinction of my
kindred. I dropped a tear of real sorrow over this strange old
man, who had thus reserved his smile of kindness to his deathbed;
like an evening sun after a gloomy day, just shining out to set
in darkness. Leaving the corpse in charge of the domestics, I
retired for the night.

It was a rough night. The winds seemed as if singing my uncle’s
requiem about the mansion; and the bloodhounds howled without as
if they knew of the death of their old master. Iron John almost
grudged me the tallow candle to burn in my apartment and light up
its dreariness; so accustomed had he been to starveling economy.
I could not sleep. The recollection of my uncle’s dying scene and
the dreary sounds about the house, affected my mind. These,
however, were succeeded by plans for the future, and I lay awake
the greater part of the night, indulging the poetical
anticipation, how soon I would make these old walls ring with
cheerful life, and restore the hospitality of my mother’s
ancestors.

My uncle’s funeral was decent, but private, I knew there was
nobody That respected his memory; and I was determined that none
should be summoned to sneer over his funeral wines, and make
merry at his grave. He was buried in the church of the
neighboring village, though it was not the burying place of his
race; but he had expressly enjoined that he should not be buried
with his family; he had quarrelled with the most of them when
living, and he carried his resentments even into the grave.

I defrayed the expenses of the funeral out of my own purse, that
I might have done with the undertakers at once, and clear the
ill-omened birds from the premises. I invited the parson of the
parish, and the lawyer from the village to attend at the house
the next morning and hear the reading of the will. I treated them
to an excellent breakfast, a profusion that had not been seen at
the house for many a year. As soon as the breakfast things were
removed, I summoned Iron John, the woman, and the boy, for I was
particular of having every one present and proceeding regularly.
The box was placed on the table. All was silence. I broke the
seal; raised the lid; and beheld—not the will, but my accursed
poem of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair!

Could any mortal have conceived that this old withered man; so
taciturn, and apparently lost to feeling, could have treasured up
for years the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy, to punish him with
such cruel ingenuity? I could now account for his dying smile,
the only one he had ever given me. He had been a grave man all
his life; it was strange that he should die in the enjoyment of a
joke; and it was hard that that joke should be at my expense.

The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to comprehend the
matter. “Here must be some mistake,” said the lawyer, “there is
no will here.”

“Oh,” said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty jaws, “if it is a
will you are looking for, I believe I can find one.”

He retired with the same singular smile with which he had greeted
me on my arrival, and which I now apprehended boded me no good.
In a little while he returned with a will perfect at all points,
properly signed and sealed and witnessed; worded with horrible
correctness; in which he left large legacies to Iron John and his
daughter, and the residue of his fortune to the foxy-headed boy;
who, to my utter astonishment, was his son by this very woman; he
having married her privately; and, as I verily believe, for no
other purpose than to have an heir, and so baulk my father and
his issue of the inheritance. There was one little proviso, in
which he mentioned that having discovered his nephew to have a
pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had no occasion for
wealth; he recommended him, however, to the patronage of his
heir; and requested that he might have a garret, rent free, in
Doubting Castle.

Mr. Buckthorne had paused at the death of his uncle, and the
downfall of his great expectations, which formed, as he said, an
epoch in his history; and it was not until some little time
afterwards, and in a very sober mood, that he resumed his
particolored narrative.

After leaving the domains of my defunct uncle, said he, when the
gate Closed between me and what was once to have been mine, I
felt thrust out naked into the world, and completely abandoned to
fortune. What was to become of me? I had been brought up to
nothing but expectations, and they had all been disappointed. I
had no relations to look to for counsel or assistance. The world
seemed all to have died away from me. Wave after wave of
relationship had ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk upon the
strand. I am not apt to be greatly cast down, but at this, time I
felt sadly disheartened. I could not realize my situation, nor
form a conjecture how I was to get forward.

I was now to endeavor to make money. The idea was new and strange
to me. It was like being asked to discover the philosopher’s
stone. I had never thought about money, other than to put my hand
into my pocket and find it, or if there were none there, to wait
until a new supply came from home. I had considered life as a
mere space of time to be filled up with enjoyments; but to have
it portioned out into long hours and days of toil, merely that I
might gain bread to give me strength to toil on; to labor but for
the purpose of perpetuating a life of labor was new and appalling
to me. This may appear a very simple matter to some, but it will
be understood by every unlucky wight in my predicament, who has
had the misfortune of being born to great expectations.

I passed several days in rambling about the scenes of my boyhood;
partly because I absolutely did not know what to do with myself,
and partly because I did not know that I should ever see them
again. I clung to them as one clings to a wreck, though he knows
he must eventually cast himself loose and swim for his life. I
sat down on a hill within sight of my paternal home, but I did
not venture to approach it, for I felt compunction at the
thoughtlessness with which I had dissipated my patrimony. But was
I to blame, when I had the rich possessions of my curmudgeon of
an uncle in expectation?

The new possessor of the place was making great alterations. The
house was almost rebuilt. The trees which stood about it were cut
down; my mother’s flower-garden was thrown into a lawn; all was
undergoing a change. I turned my back upon it with a sigh, and
rambled to another part of the country.

How thoughtful a little adversity makes one. As I came in sight
of the school-house where I had so often been flogged in the
cause of wisdom, you would hardly have recognized the truant boy
who but a few years since had eloped so heedlessly from its
walls. I leaned over the paling of the playground, and watched
the scholars at their games, and looked to see if there might not
be some urchin among them, like I was once, full of gay dreams
about life and the world. The play-ground seemed smaller than
when I used to sport about it. The house and park, too, of the
neighboring squire, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, had
shrunk in size and diminished in magnificence. The distant hills
no longer appeared so far off, and, alas! no longer awakened
ideas of a fairy land beyond.

As I was rambling pensively through a neighboring meadow, in
which I had many a time gathered primroses, I met the very
pedagogue who had been the tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had
sometimes vowed to myself, when suffering under his rod, that I
would have my revenge if ever I met him when I had grown to be a
man. The time had come; but I had no disposition to keep my vow.
The few years which had matured me into a vigorous man had shrunk
him into decrepitude. He appeared to have had a paralytic stroke.
I looked at him, and wondered that this poor helpless mortal
could have been an object of terror to me! That I should have
watched with anxiety the glance of that failing eye, or dreaded
the power of that trembling hand! He tottered feebly along the
path, and had some difficulty in getting over a stile. I ran and
assisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but did not
recognize me, and made a low bow of humility and thanks. I had no
disposition to make myself known, for I felt that I had nothing
to boast of. The pains he had taken and the pains he had
inflicted had been equally useless. His repeated predictions were
fully verified, and I felt that little Jack Buckthorne, the idle
boy, had grown up to be a very good-for-nothing man.

This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told you of my
follies, it is meet that I show you how for once I was schooled
for them.

The most thoughtless of mortals will some time or other have this
day of gloom, when he will be compelled to reflect. I felt on
this occasion as if I had a kind of penance to perform, and I
made a pilgrimage in expiation of my past levity.

Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private path
which leads up a hill, through a grove, and across quiet fields,
until I came to the small village, or rather hamlet of Lenington.
I sought the village church. It is an old low edifice of gray
stone on the brow of a small hill, looking over fertile fields to
where the proud towers of Warwick Castle lifted themselves
against the distant horizon. A part of the church-yard is shaded
by large trees. Under one of these my mother lay buried. You
have, no doubt, thought me a light, heartless being. I thought
myself so—but there are moments of adversity which let us into
some feelings of our nature, to which we might otherwise remain
perpetual strangers.

I sought my mother’s grave. The weeds were already matted over
it, and the tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them
away and they stung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for
my heart ached too severely. I sat down on the grave, and read
over and over again the epitaph on the stone. It was simple, but
it was true. I had written it myself. I had tried to write a
poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feelings refused to utter
themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually been filling during
my lonely wanderings; it was now charged to the brim and
overflowed. I sank upon the grave and buried my face in the tall
grass and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the
grave, as I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how
little do we appreciate a mother’s tenderness while living! How
heedless are we in youth, of all her anxieties and kindness. But
when she is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of the
world come withering to our hearts; when we find how hard it is
to find true sympathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few
will befriend us in our misfortunes; then it is we think of the
mother we have lost. It is true I had always loved my mother,
even in my most heedless days; but I felt how inconsiderate and
ineffectual had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced the
days of infancy, when I was led by a mother’s hand and rocked to
sleep in a mother’s arms, and was without care or sorrow. “Oh, my
mother!” exclaimed I, burying my face again in the grass of the
grave—“Oh, that I were once more by your side; sleeping, never to
wake again, on the cares and troubles of this world!”

I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the violence of
my emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, honest,
natural discharge of griefs which had been slowly accumulating,
and gave me wonderful relief. I rose from the grave as if I had
been offering up a sacrifice, and I felt as if that sacrifice had
been accepted.

I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, the weeds
from her grave; the tears trickled more slowly down my cheeks,
and ceased to be bitter. It was a comfort to think that she had
died before sorrow and poverty came upon her child, and that all
his great expectations were blasted.

I leaned my cheek upon my hand and looked upon the landscape. Its
quiet beauty soothed me. The whistle of a peasant from an
adjoining field came cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire hope
and comfort with the free air that whispered through the leaves
and played lightly with my hair, and dried the tears upon my
cheek. A lark, rising from the field before me, and leaving, as
it were, a stream of song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy
with him. He hovered in the air just above the place where the
towers of Warwick Castle marked the horizon; and seemed as if
fluttering with delight at his own melody. “Surely,” thought I,
“if there were such a thing as transmigration of souls, this
might be taken for some poet, let loose from earth, but still
revelling in song, and carolling about fair fields and lordly
towns.”

At this moment the long forgotten feeling of poetry rose within
me. A Thought sprung at once into my mind: “I will become an
author,” said I. “I have hitherto indulged in poetry as a
pleasure, and it has brought me nothing but pain. Let me try what
it will do, when I cultivate it with devotion as a pursuit.”

The resolution, thus suddenly aroused within me, heaved a load
from off my heart. I felt a confidence in it from the very place
where it was formed. It seemed as though my mother’s spirit
whispered it to me from her grave. “I will henceforth,” said I,
“endeavor to be all that she fondly imagined me. I will endeavor
to act as if she were witness of my actions. I will endeavor to
acquit myself in such manner, that when I revisit her grave there
may, at least, be no compunctious bitterness in my tears.”

I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attestation of my vow.
I plucked some primroses that were growing there and laid them
next my heart. I left the church-yard with my spirits once more
lifted up, and set out a third time for London, in the character
of an author.

Here my companion made a pause, and I waited in anxious suspense;
hoping to have a whole volume of literary life unfolded to me. He
seemed, however, to have sunk into a fit of pensive musing; and
when after some time I gently roused him by a question or two as
to his literary career. “No,” said he smiling, “over that part of
my story I wish to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of the craft
rest sacred for me. Let those who have never adventured into the
republic of letters, still look upon it as a fairy land. Let them
suppose the author the very being they picture him from his
works; I am not the man to mar their illusion. I am not the man
to hint, while one is admiring the silken web of Persia, that it
has been spun from the entrails of a miserable worm.”

“Well,” said I, “if you will tell me nothing of your literary
history, let me know at least if you have had any farther
intelligence from Doubting Castle.”

“Willingly,” replied he, “though I have but little to
communicate.”

THE BOOBY SQUIRE

A long time elapsed, said Buckthorne, without my receiving any
accounts of my cousin and his estate. Indeed, I felt so much
soreness on the subject, that I wished, if possible, to shut it
from my thoughts. At length chance took me into that part of the
country, and I could not refrain from making some inquiries.

I learnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, self-willed, and
clownish. His ignorance and clownishness had prevented his
mingling with the neighboring gentry. In spite of his great
fortune he had been unsuccessful in an attempt to gain the hand
of the daughter of the parson, and had at length shrunk into the
limits of such society as a mere man of wealth can gather in a
country neighborhood.

He kept horses and hounds and a roaring table, at which were
collected the loose livers of the country round, and the shabby
gentlemen of a village in the vicinity. When he could get no
other company he would smoke and drink with his own servants, who
in their turns fleeced and despised him. Still, with all this
apparent prodigality, he had a leaven of the old man in him,
which showed that he was his true-born son. He lived far within
his income, was vulgar in his expenses, and penurious on many
points on which a gentleman would be extravagant. His house
servants were obliged occasionally to work on the estate, and
part of the pleasure grounds were ploughed up and devoted to
husbandry.

His table, though plentiful, was coarse; his liquors strong and
bad; and more ale and whiskey were expended in his establishment
than generous wine. He was loud and arrogant at his own table,
and exacted a rich man’s homage from his vulgar and obsequious
guests.

As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown impatient of
the tight hand his own grandson kept over him, and quarrelled
with him soon after he came to the estate. The old man had
retired to a neighboring village where he lived on the legacy of
his late master, in a small cottage, and was as seldom seen out
of it as a rat out of his hole in daylight.

The cub, like Caliban, seemed to have an instinctive attachment
to his mother. She resided with him; but, from long habit, she
acted more as servant than as mistress of the mansion; for she
toiled in all the domestic drudgery, and was oftener in the
kitchen than the parlor. Such was the information which I
collected of my rival cousin, who had so unexpectedly elbowed me
out of all my expectations.

I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to this scene
of my boyhood; and to get a peep at the odd kind of life that was
passing within the mansion of my maternal ancestors. I determined
to do so in disguise. My booby cousin had never seen enough of me
to be very familiar with my countenance, and a few years make
great difference between youth and manhood. I understood he was a
breeder of cattle and proud of his stock. I dressed myself,
therefore, as a substantial farmer, and with the assistance of a
red scratch that came low down on my forehead, made a complete
change in my physiognomy.

It was past three o’clock when I arrived at the gate of the park,
and Was admitted by an old woman, who was washing in a
dilapidated building which had once been a porter’s lodge. I
advanced up the remains of a noble avenue, many of the trees of
which had been cut down and sold for timber. The grounds were in
scarcely better keeping than during my uncle’s lifetime. The
grass was overgrown with weeds, and the trees wanted pruning and
clearing of dead branches. Cattle were grazing about the lawns,
and ducks and geese swimming in the fishponds.

The road to the house bore very few traces of carriage wheels, as
my cousin received few visitors but such as came on foot or on
horseback, and never used a carriage himself. Once, indeed, as I
was told, he had had the old family carriage drawn out from among
the dust and cobwebs of the coachhouse and furbished up, and had
drove, with his mother, to the village church to take formal
possession of the family pew; but there was such hooting and
laughing after them as they passed through the village, and such
giggling and bantering about the church door, that the pageant
had never made a reappearance.

As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sallied out barking
at me, accompanied by the low howling, rather than barking, of
two old worn-out bloodhounds, which I recognized for the ancient
life-guards of my uncle. The house had still a neglected, random
appearance, though much altered for the better since my last
visit. Several of the windows were broken and patched up with
boards; and others had been bricked up to save taxes. I observed
smoke, however, rising from the chimneys; a phenomenon rarely
witnessed in the ancient establishment. On passing that part of
the house where the dining-room was situated, I heard the sound
of boisterous merriment; where three or four voices were talking
at once, and oaths and laughter were horribly mingled.

The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to the door, a tall,
hard-fisted country clown, with a livery coat put over the
under-garments of a ploughman. I requested to see the master of
the house, but was told he was at dinner with some “gemmen” of
the neighborhood. I made known my business and sent in to know if
I might talk with the master about his cattle; for I felt a great
desire to have a peep at him at his orgies. Word was returned
that he was engaged with company, and could not attend to
business, but that if I would “step in and take a drink of
something, I was heartily welcome.” I accordingly entered the
hall, where whips and hats of all kinds and shapes were lying on
an oaken table, two or three clownish servants were lounging
about; everything had a look of confusion and carelessness.

The apartments through which I passed had the same air of
departed gentility and sluttish housekeeping. The once rich
curtains were faded and dusty; the furniture greased and
tarnished. On entering the dining-room I found a number of odd,
vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemen seated round a table, on which
were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. Several
dogs were lying about the room, or sitting and watching their
masters, and one was gnawing a bone under a side-table.

The master of the feast sat at the head of the board. He was
greatly altered. He had grown thick-set and rather gummy, with a
fiery, foxy head of hair. There was a singular mixture of
foolishness, arrogance, and conceit in his countenance. He was
dressed in a vulgarly fine style, with leather breeches, a red
waistcoat, and green coat, and was evidently, like his guests, a
little flushed with drinking. The whole company stared at me with
a whimsical muggy look, like men whose senses were a little
obfuscated by beer rather than wine.

My cousin, (God forgive me! the appellation sticks in my throat,)
my cousin invited me with awkward civility, or, as he intended
it, condescension, to sit to the table and drink. We talked, as
usual, about the weather, the crops, politics, and hard times. My
cousin was a loud politician, and evidently accustomed to talk
without contradiction at his own table. He was amazingly loyal,
and talked of standing by the throne to the last guinea, “as
every gentleman of fortune should do.” The village exciseman, who
was half asleep, could just ejaculate, “very true,” to every
thing he said.

The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of his breed, his
mode of managing it, and of the general management of his estate.
This unluckily drew on a history of the place and of the family.
He spoke of my late uncle with the greatest irreverence, which I
could easily forgive. He mentioned my name, and my blood began to
boil. He described my frequent visits to my uncle when I was a
lad, and I found the varlet, even at that time, imp as he was,
had known that he was to inherit the estate.

He described the scene of my uncle’s death, and the opening of
the will, with a degree of coarse humor that I had not expected
from him, and, vexed as I was, I could not help joining in the
laugh, for I have always relished a joke, even though made at my
own expense. He went on to speak of my various pursuits; my
strolling freak, and that somewhat nettled me. At length he
talked of my parents. He ridiculed my father: I stomached even
that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my mother with a
sneer—and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet.

Here a scene of tumult succeeded. The table was nearly
overturned. Bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and
clattering about the floor. The company seized hold of both of us
to keep us from doing farther mischief. I struggled to get loose,
for I was boiling with fury. My cousin defied me to strip and
fight him on the lawn. I agreed; for I felt the strength of a
giant in me, and I longed to pummel him soundly.

Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had a second
assigned me in true boxing style. My cousin, as he advanced to
fight, said something about his generosity in showing me such
fair play, when I had made such an unprovoked attack upon him at
his own table.

“Stop there!” cried I, in a rage—“unprovoked!—know that I am John
Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother.”

The lout was suddenly struck by what I said. He drew back and
reflected for a moment.

“Nay, damn it,” said he, “that’s too much—that’s clear another
thing. I’ve a mother myself, and no one shall speak ill of her,
bad as she is.”

He paused again. Nature seemed to have a rough struggle in his
rude bosom.

“Damn it, cousin,” cried he, “I’m sorry for what I said. Thou’st
served me right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better
for it. Here’s my hand. Come and live with me, and damme but the
best room in the house, and the best horse in the stable, shall
be at thy service.”

I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of nature
breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the
fellow in a moment all his crimes of having been born in wedlock
and inheriting my estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to
convince him that I bore him no ill will; and then making my way
through the gaping crowd of toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle’s
domains forever. This is the last I have seen or heard of my
cousin, or of the domestic concerns of Doubting Castle.

THE STROLLING MANAGER

As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the
Principal theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those
equivocal beings that may often be seen hovering about the
stage-doors of theaters. They were marvellously ill-favored in
their attire, their coats buttoned up to their chins; yet they
wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a certain knowing,
dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the subalterns of the
drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.

These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes;
fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and
armies; and after giving way realms and treasures over night,
have scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet
they have the true vagabond abhorrence of all useful and
industrious employment; and they have their pleasures too: one of
which is to lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the
stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed theatrical
jokes on all passers-by.

Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old
scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes,
are handed down from generation to generation; and will probably
continue to be so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on
of a theater becomes a wag by inheritance, and flourishes about
at tap-rooms and six-penny clubs, with the property jokes of the
green-room.

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed
one in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a
weather-beaten veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who
had no doubt, grown gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals,
Roman senators, and walking noblemen.

“There’s something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that
physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me,” said Buckthorne.
He looked a little closer. “I cannot be mistaken,” added he,
“that must be my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the
tragic hero of the strolling company.”

It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that
times went hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed.
His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut;
single-breasted, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of his
body; which, from long intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and
robustness of a beer-barrel. He wore a pair of dingy white
stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado to reach his waistcoat;
a great quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of old
russet-colored tragedy boots.

When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him aside and
made Himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely
recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam
associate “little gentleman Jack.” Buckthorne invited him to a
neighboring coffee-house to talk over old times; and in the
course of a little while we were put in possession of his history
in brief.

He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for
some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven
from it so abruptly. At length the manager died, and the troop
was thrown into confusion. Every one aspired to the crown; every
one was for taking the lead; and the manager’s widow, although a
tragedy queen, and a brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly
impossible to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous
rascallions.