Chapter IX: Part 9

Oh, sir, was it no an awfu thing to think that sae mony fine lads, wha had left us a few hours afore, fu' o' life and speerit, should be hurried awa at a moment's warning, and buried in the waves o' the sea! There was an unco gloom owre the ship a' that day and the neist--the men gaed about whispering to ilk ither, as if they were feared to hear the sound o' their ain voices--and the bauldest amang them were sobered for a time. But oh, sir, to see how sune the dearest and best are forgotten! In a few days the maist o' the men were as heartsome and blithe as if naething had happened. Puir Geordie! aft hae I thocht o' you when it was my look-out on deck, and o' the merry ee and the heartsome laugh that I'll ne'er see or hear mair. But it's getting weel on in the day, sir; so I maun cut short my yarn, as we sailors say, and leave ye. I left the ship in China, and volunteered on board a man-o'-war, and, after being three years on a forran station, I was paid aff a fort-nicht past, and am now on my way hame, to share my savings wi' my wee lass, if she hasna forgotten me. Guid afternoon, sir. I'll maybe meet ye again ere lang, and then, if ye like to listen to them, I'll gie ye mair o' my cracks. I maun awa to puir Geordie's faither.

And, before I had time to question him as to the whereabouts of his home, and how or when I was to meet him again, he bounded over the gate, and disappeared.

That same evening, I was sitting in Edward Thompson's comfortable parlour, reading my favourite, Burns; Elsie was knitting near me, and Ellen was preparing some of the trout that I had brought home for supper. The sun had long set, and the twilight was only just beginning to fade into night; the window was open to admit the mild evening air; and the song of the thrush and blackbird had usurped the place of all other sounds with sweet melody.

Just as we were about to seat ourselves at the plain but comfortable board, we heard some one at a short distance whistling the air of

"Dinna think, bonny lass,
I'm gaun to leave you."

And immediately afterwards, a fine, clear, manly voice sang--

"I'll tak my stick into my hand,
And come again and see you."

Ellen started, and turned pale.

"What ails the lass?" said her father, when the door burst open, and, glowing with health and exercise, my friend of the morning stood before us.

The old people stared with surprise; their memory was at fault. Not so Ellen: she blushed, turned pale; and burst into tears.

"Faither, d'ye no mind Tam?--Tam Wilson?" And the next moment Tom--_her_ Tom--was at her side, and fondling her to his heart.

That was a happy night at Fairyknowe. Tom was in all his glory; the old man indulged in an extra glass of toddy while listening to his _yarns_; and Ellen _looked_ the joy she felt--there was no shade on her features now. Next Sunday, which was only two days afterwards, the gossips of the parish were quite astonished when they heard the names of Tom Wilson and Ellen Thompson cried three times in the kirk.

"Whatna Tam Wilson can that be, I wonder?" Nobody knew. But next Sabbath-day all their "wonderings" were satisfactorily silenced, by witnessing the gay kirking party, with Tom and Ellen at their head--the handsomest couple, so they all said, they had seen this "mony a lang day." I was present at the wedding, which took place on the Friday preceding, and a happy scene it was. Tom has left ploughing the sea, to follow the plough on shore, and he and Ellen are settled in a small and comfortable farm with every prospect of happiness before them.

PERSEVERANCE;

OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF RODERIC GRAY.

Courteous reader, thou must be aware that there is no virtue which conferreth greater benefits upon its possessor than the virtue of perseverance. It can scale precipices, overtop mountains, encompass seas. Perseverance is a mighty conqueror; it fighteth against odds, and neither turneth its back nor is dismayed. Its progress may be slow, but in the end it is sure. As a snail ascendeth a perpendicular wall, it may fall or be driven back to the ground, but it will renew the attempt. It suffereth longer than charity, and hence came the adage, that "they who look for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't." It has been said, "Great is truth, and it will prevail;" and in addition thereunto, I would say, "Great is perseverance, for it also will prevail." The motto of every man should be, "_nil desperandum_." Every one should remember that real honour and esteem do not seek a man on whom they are to alight--the man must seek them; he must win them, and then wear them.

Instead, however, of detaining the reader with dull and general remarks on perseverance, I shall at once lay before them a copy of the autobiography of Roderic Gray, whose history will illustrate its effects in particulars:--

I was the son of poor but of honest parents. (With this stereotyped piece of history concerning poverty and honesty, Roderic Gray began his autobiography.) Yes, I repeat that my father and my mother were very poor, but they were sterlingly honest. They had a numerous family, and many privations to contend with; and the first thing I remember of my father was a constant, I may say a daily, expression of his, "Set a stout heart to a stey brae." Another great phrase of his, when any of us were like to be beaten by ought that we were attempting, was, "Try it again--never be beat--step by step brings the mountain low." My mother was of a disposition precisely similar to my father. Almost the first thing I remember of her is, what was her favourite expression, "Try it again, as your faither says--practice makes _perfiteness_."[7]

[Footnote 7: Perfection]

These expressions of my honoured parents were the rudiments of my education. They left an impression upon my heart and upon my brain, before I was sensible of what an impression was. There is often a great deal more conveyed through a single sentence, than we are apt to imagine. Our future destiny may be swayed by the hearing of one little word, and that word may be spoken in our hearing at a very early period of our lives. Many a father, when years began to sober down the buoyant tumult of his spirits, has wondered at and grieved over the disposition and actions of his son, marvelling whence they came; whereas the son received the feelings which gave birth to such actions, while he was but an infant, from the lips of his father, as he heard that father recount the deeds, the exploits, the feats of bravery of his young manhood. From the hour that a child begins to notice the objects around it, or to be sensible of kind or of harsh treatment, from that moment every one who takes it in their arms, every object around it, become its instructors. I find I am digressing from my autobiography, but I shall go on with it by and by, and as I have mentioned the subject of education, I shall say a few more words upon that topic, and especially on the education of the young, which, though it detain the reader for a short space from my history, will neither be uninstructive, nor without interest.

Some years ago, I met with a modern Job, who said he had read through the large edition of Johnson's Dictionary; and I do regret, with considerable sincerity, having neglected to ask the gentleman whether, in the course of his highly entertaining reading, he met with any word so murdered, butchered, abused, and misunderstood, as the poor polysyllable--education. Many wise people conceive it to signify many multitudes of words--of dead words and of living words, of words without symbols; or, in plain language, they say (or they act as if they said) that education means to make a man's head a portable lexicon of all languages. This is what they term the education classical. Some very wise men go a step farther with the meaning of the term. They shake their heads in contempt at the mere word-men. They mingle more of utility with their idea of the signification. They maintain that education meaneth also certain figures, whereby something is learned concerning pounds and pence, and square inches and solid inches. Here the general idea of education terminates; and this is the education mercantile and mathematical. There are, however, a third class of philosophically-wise men, who affirm that education means the macadamising, on a small scale, of blue stones and grey ones; in describing comets with tails, and planets without tails; in making the invisible gases give forth light in darkness, as the invisible mind lighteth mortality. This is the education scientific. Thus the artillery of all the three is directed against the head. The head is made a gentleman, a scholar, a philosopher, while the poor heart is suffered to remain in a state of untutored, uncared-for barbarity and ignorance. And in all this parade, concerning what education in reality imports, it is overlooked, that the heart from whence all evil proceeds--the heart where all good is received--is the soil where the first seeds of education ought to be sown, watered, watched over, pruned, and reared with tenderness. And it is not until the heart has become a sturdy savage, hardened in ignorance, that any attempts are made to curb it within the limits of moral obligation. A more insane idea cannot be conceived by a rational man, than supposing that education begins by learning to know that one letter is called A, a second B, and a third C. Education begins with the first glance which the mother bestows upon her child in answer to its first smile. Before the infant has lisped its first word, the work of education has made progress. The mother is the first, the fondest, the most important and responsible teacher. It is hers to draw out the young soul, which dreams in the smiles and the laughing eyes of her infant; it is hers to subdue, and in gentleness to root up, the first germ of evil that springs into existence; it is hers to unfold, by a thousand ways and a thousand tendernesses, which a mother's heart can only conceive, and a mother's eye only can express, the first shadows of right and of wrong; it is hers to teach feelings of love, of gentleness, and gratitude--to give a direction and a colouring to the embryo passions which shall mark the future character and destiny of her yet sucking child. Nor is there an object upon earth more worthy the admiration, we had almost said the envy, of an angel, than a Christian mother gazing, in the depth of her affection, upon the babe of her bosom, watching its faculties expand like young flowers--bending them to the sun of truth, gently as the linnet bends the twig where it thrills its little song to cheer its partner. But, when the infant leaves the lap of its mother, and other duties divide her care, it is then necessary that a teacher, equally affectionate and equally efficient, be provided; for children seek, and will find, teachers of good or of evil in every scene, and in every playmate. It is now that the Infant School must mature the education which the mother has, or ought to have, begun. Some disciple of moth-eaten customs, whose ideas are like the flight of a bat, and whose imagination is hung round with cobwebs, may snarl out his mouthfuls of broken humanity, and inquire, what could be learned by infants of two or of five years of age, to compensate for blighting their ruddy cheeks like tender plants in a frost-wind, by mewing them up and crowding them together within the dismal walls of a noxious schoolroom, through the midst of which a male or a female tyrant continue their dreary tramp, tramping to and fro within the hated circle of their terror, and flourishing fear and trembling in their hand, in the shape of a birch, the bark of which has yielded to their work of punishment? I readily admit that, in such a place, and under such a teacher, nothing could be learned--nothing experienced--but an early foretaste of future misery. This is no picture of an infant school--this is no part of its discipline. Never would I confine the little innocents within the walls of a prison-house--never would I behold them trembling beneath the frown of a taskmaster. I would not curtail one of their infant joys, nor cut off one of their young pleasures. I would not mar their merry play, nor curb the glee that wantons in their little clubs. But I would mingle education with their joy and with their pleasures--health and lessons with their play--and affection and forgiveness in their little bands. Thus their joys or their pleasures, their play and their companions, become their teachers. By an infant school I would not mean a room where a hundred children may be crowded together in an unhealthy atmosphere. The situation and comforts of the school are almost as important as the nature of the instruction, or the character and disposition of the teacher. The situation should be airy and healthy, and the room well ventilated, with a small play-ground attached. For the play-ground is almost as necessary as the school, and both are regarded by the pupils as places of loved amusement, where the presence of the teacher inspires no terror, no restraint, but where he mingles in their sports and directs them as an elder playmate, while they regard him as such, and in return love him as a parent. And while all appears unrestrained mirth on the little yard, or the little green; and exercise gives play to the lungs, vigour to the system, and health to the blood, and the small gymnasium rings with the joy of the happy beings, no incident, however trifling, is suffered to pass unimproved, to "lead them from nature up to nature's God," to eradicate evil propensities, and cherish a love of truth, justice, mercy, and mutual love. Their sports, their tempers, their little wrongs, or quarrels, all become monitors in the hands of the teacher, to render his infant charges the future good men, or the excellent women. The schoolroom is only changing the scene of amusement, and tasks which I remember were to me the very essence of purgatory, pain, and punishment, are rendered to them an exquisite pastime. The pence table they carol merrily to the tune of "Nancy Dawson." With two or three sets of merry motions, they chant the formidable multiplication table, which affords them all the hilarity of chasing a butterfly, or romping on the meadow. Nothing is given them in the shape of a task, but every new lesson is a new pleasure. They are not so much taught by words, as by bringing the thing signified under their observation. I should be sorry if the objects of infant schools should ever be so perverted as to attempt making them nurseries for infant prodigies. I care no more for precocity of talent than I do for a tree that has blossomed before its time, the fruit of which is sure not to be worth the gathering. The design of infant schools is not to make ignorant parents _vain_ of their children, but to make all parents _happy_ in their children. It is not so much the _quantity_ of what they learn that is to be regarded, as the _quality_ of what they learn. They will learn cheerful obedience to their parents, their instructors, and their future masters; they will learn the most important of all lessons to their after happiness, the government of their temper; they will learn conscientiousness in all that they do; they will learn sincerity; they will learn habits of order, of cleanliness, and of courtesy; they will learn method and dislike confusion; they will learn to bestow neatness, without vanity, on their persons; and order in all things. They will acquire a knowledge of geography, of the animal, the vegetable, and the mineral kingdoms, not as words but as things that exist, and of which they have an understanding. They will acquire much to amuse and delight the fireside of their parents--much to surround it with edification and instruction. And instances have been, where they have there conveyed upon their lisping tongues conviction and conversion to a parent's heart; while their Maker from the lips of babes and of sucklings perfected praise. They will be taught to feel that there is ever in the midst of them a God of love, of mercy, and of power, who is angry with the wicked every day. They will be taught to love the creatures He has framed, to know his Word, and revere its precepts--to love virtue for virtue's sake. It may be urged that much of the good produced by infant schools will be afterwards destroyed, by their mingling in other schools in riper years, with children whose passions have been permitted to run wild, and especially where evil examples may exist on the part of the parents. That these will have a prejudicial effect to a certain extent, is not to be denied. But for them there is also a preventive and a remedy. The infant school is the nursery of the Sabbath school, where all the good begun will be strengthened and confirmed. Great as the moral and religious change is which Sabbath schools have effected upon society, their effect would have been tenfold, had not the moral culture of the child been so unheeded before sending it to the school, and its heart so hardened by years and neglect, as to render an abiding impression impossible. But religious instruction, whether implanted in our minds by our father's fireside, in the infant school, or the Sabbath school, will never be forgotten. It will not depart from us. We may endeavour to shake it off, but it will struggle with us as Jacob with the angel. It will be a whisper in our souls for ever. We may grow up, and we may mingle with the world, and we may cast our Bibles far from us--and we may become wicked men and thoughtless women, but these whispers of eternal truth, though even thought to be forgotten by ourselves, will return and return again; and, when we wander in solitude, or lie sleepless on our pillow in the darkness of midnight, they will rush back upon our guilty minds, in texts, in verses, and in chapters, long, long forgotten.

But to return to my history. I have said that the first of my education was the sayings which I heard from the lips of my father and mother. They gave an inclination to my spirit, as the hand bendeth the twig. They became to me as monitors that were always present. I often think that I hear the voice of my honoured father saying unto me still, "Whatsoever ye take in hand, _persevere_ until ye accomplish it." That maxim became with me a principle, which has continued with me from childhood unto this day.

Before proceeding farther, it is necessary for me to say that my father was not only a poor man, but his occupation was one of the humblest which a peasant could occupy. He filled no higher situation than that of occasional barnman, and hedger and ditcher, upon a farm near Thornhill, in Dumfries-shire. Neither was he what some would call a strong-minded man, nor did he know much of what the world calls education; but, if he did not know what education was, he knew what the want of it was, and he was resolved that that was a knowledge which his children should never acquire. It was therefore his ambition to make them scholars to the extent of his means. But, when I state that his income did not exceed six shillings, you will agree with me that those means were not great. But my father's maxim, _persevere_, carried him over every difficulty. When my mother had said to him, as a quarter's wages became due--"Robin, I will never be able to stand thir bairns' schooling--sae mony o' them is a perfect ruination to me."

"Nonsense, Jenny," he would have said, in his own half-laughing, good-natured way; "the back is aye made fit for the burden. Just try anither quarter, though we have to be put to our shifts to make it out. I'm no feared but that we will make it out some way or other. We have always done it yet, and what we have done, we can do again. Let us give them a' the schooling we can, poor things; and the day will come when they will thank us, or mair than thank us, for a' that we have wared upon them. O Jenny, woman! had I been a scholar, as I am not, instead o' being the wife o' a labouring man the day, ye would have been my wife--but a leddy."

A thousand times since, it has been a matter of wonder to me how my parents, out of their niggard income, provided food, clothing, and education for their family, which consisted of five sons and four daughters, all of whom could not only read, write, and cast accounts; but, though I say it who perhaps ought not to say it, his sons, in point of "_schooling_" in higher branches, were the equals, and perhaps more than the equals, of the richest farmer's sons in the neighbourhood. And never did a quarter-day arrive, on which any of the nine children of Robert and Janet Gray went before his teacher without his money in their hand, even as the brethren of Joseph, the patriarch, carried the money in their sacks' mouth. For it was not with my revered parents, as now-a-days it is with too many, who regard paying a schoolmaster his fees somewhat in the same light as paying a physician after his patient is dead, or a lawyer when the cause is lost.

Every Saturday night my father, though no scholar himself, caused us to bring home our books and our slates, and in his homely way he examined us--or rather he examined _them_ (the books and the slates)--as to the proficiency we had made. Of figures he did know something: grammar, he said, was a new invention, and there, for a time, his examinations were at fault, and he knew not how to judge or to decide. But (I being the eldest) as I grew up, he transferred the examination of my younger brothers, as regarded grammatical proficiency, to me. And well do I remember, that every weekly examination closed with the admonition--"Now, bairns, _persevere_. Ye see how your mother and me have to fecht late and early to keep ye at the schule; and it is my greatest ambition to see ye a' scholars. Learning is a grand thing; it is a fortune equal to the best estate in the kingdom--ay, even to the Duke o' Buccleugh's; but oh, the want o' it is a great calamity, as nane can tell ye better than your faither. Therefore, bairns, _persevere_; always strive to be at the head o' your class, and if I live to be an auld man, I shall see some o' ye leddies and gentlemen."

Thus the word _persevere_ was for ever rung in our ears; and I believe, before any of us knew its meaning, we one and all put it in practice. And often, when the frost lay white upon the ground, before the sun got up, and even when the ice drew itself together like a piece of lace-work on the shallow pools, at the head of all the classes in our school, which were just like stepping-stairs, a barefooted and barelegged laddie, but with hands and face as clean as the linen on his back, might have been seen as the dux of every class: and all those barefeeted or barelegged laddies were the bairns of Robert Gray.

"Persevere as ye are doing, Roderic," my old teacher used to say, "and ye will live to be an ornament to your country yet." I doubt all the ornament I have been to my country is hardly of a higher kind than that of a stucco or a paste-board figure on a mantelpiece, and perhaps not so much. However, be that as it may, I have the consolation to think that I have not passed through the world exactly as if I had been a cipher.

I know it is a difficult and a delicate thing for a man to write a sketch of his own life, without committing shipwreck on the shoals and quicksands of egotism; but I will endeavour to steer clear of this, and while it is certain that I will "set down nought in malice," I trust that I shall be able to show that I will "nothing extenuate."

My father's precept of _perseverance_ carried me through my schoolboy days gloriously, even as it had borne him through the expense of paying out of his scanty earnings for the education of nine children. I wanted three days of completing my thirteenth year when I left the school, but then I had begun to read Homer in Greek--I had read Horace in Latin, and I was acquainted with Euclid. My father was proud of me, my master was proud of me, for I had _persevered_. It was seldom that the son of a cottar, or the son of any one else, left the school at such an age so far advanced.

Many said that before I was twenty they would see me in a pulpit--but they were mistaken. My father's habitual word, _persevere_, had taken too deep root in my heart, until it produced a sort of mental perpetual motion, which ever urged me onward--onward! and I found that the limits of a pulpit would never confine or contain me. I felt like a thing of life and happiness, that rejoiced and shook its wings beneath the sunshine of freedom, and I longed to expand my wings, even though they should fall or break under me.

I have said that I left school three days before I had completed my thirteenth year, and on the day that I did so, I was to become tutor in the family of a Colonel Mortimer, of the Honourable the East India Company's service. I was to be at once the playmate and instructor of two children; the one five, the other seven years of age--both boys. But his family contained another child--Jessy Mortimer--a lovely, dark-eyed girl of fifteen. The sun of an eastern clime had early drawn forth her beauty into ripeness, and although but two years older than myself, she was as a woman, while I was not only a mere boy, but, if I might use the expression, something between what might be termed a boy and a child; and certainly at the very age when children are most disagreeable to persons of a riper age. Yet, young as I was, from the very day that I beheld her, my soul took up its habitation in her eyes. I was dumb in her presence, I opened not my mouth. I was as a whisper, a shadow, in the family--a piece of mechanism that performed the task designed for it. It was a presumptuous thing in the son of a humble barnman to fix his eyes and his heart upon the daughter of an East India colonel, and one two years older than himself; but the heart hath its vagaries, even as our actions have.

For the first two years that I was in the house of Colonel Mortimer, I may say that, save in my class-room, my voice was not heard above my breath. But, as my voluntary dumbness became more and more oppressive, so also did my affection, my devotion, for Jessy become the more intense. The difference between our ages seemed even to have become more marked, and I felt it. Yet I began to think that her eyes looked upon me more tenderly; and the thought increased the devotion which for two years I had silently cherished. There seemed also a music, a spirit of gentleness and of kindness, in her voice, which first inspired me with hope.

Thus did five years pass on, and during that period I hardly ventured to lift up my eyes in her presence; though throughout that period I had said within my heart, Jessy Mortimer _shall be my wife_, and that was a bold thought for the son of a barnman to entertain towards the daughter of a wealthy nabob. But throughout my whole life I had endeavoured to put into practice my father's counsel concerning perseverance; and most of all was I determined to follow it in the subject which was deepest in my heart.

I remember the first time I ever spoke to Jessy. When I say the first time I spoke to her, I mean the first time that my soul spoke to her through my lips. For more than five years we had exchanged the common civilities of society with each other; but the language of the heart is ever a sealed volume, when the cold-fashioned ceremonies of society have to be observed.

But to proceed. I was now upwards of eighteen, and the children under my tuition were to be removed to a public school. It was no disgrace to me that they were to be so removed, for I knew it from the beginning of my engagement. Yet I felt it as disgrace--as more than disgrace--because that it would tear me from the side of Jessy, on whom my eyes lived and my mind dreamed. I had no wish to be a teacher, no ambition to become a minister; and her father had procured for me a situation as a clerk to a broker in London. But to me the thoughts of departure were terrible. Everything within and around the colonel's establishment had become things that I loved. I loved them because Jessy loved them, because she saw them, touched them, was familiar with and in the midst of them. They had become a portion of my _home_. I was unhappy at the thought of leaving them; but, beyond every other cause, my mind was without comfort at the thought of leaving her--it was hopeless, desolate. It was like causing a memory by force to perish in my heart.

It was in the month of September; I was wandering amidst the wooded walks upon her father's grounds. The rainbowed bronze of autumn lay upon the trees, deepening as it lay. The sun hung over the western hills; and the lark, after its summer silence, carolled over the heads of the last reapers of the season, to cheer their toil. A few solitary swallows twittered together, as if crying, "Come--come!" to summon them to a gathering and departure. The wood-pigeon cooed in the plantations, and as the twilight deepened, the plaintiveness of its strain increased. As I have said, I was then wandering in the wooded walks upon Colonel Mortimer's grounds, and my thoughts were far too deep for words. While I so wandered in lonely melancholy, my attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps approaching. I looked up, and Jessy Mortimer stood before me. I was too bashful to advance--too proud, too attached towards her, to retire.

We stood as though an electric spark had stricken both. I trembled, and my eyes grew dim; but I saw the rose die upon her cheeks. I beheld her ready to fall upon the ground, and, half unconscious of what I did, I sprang forward, and my arm encircled her waist.

"Jessy!--Miss Mortimer!" I cried. "Pardon me--speak to me."

"Sir!" she exclaimed--"Roderic!" I approached her--I took her hand. We stood before each other in silence. She drew herself up--she fixed her eyes upon me. "Sir," she returned, "I will not pretend to misunderstand your meaning; but remember the difference that exists in our situations."

"I remember it, Miss Mortimer--I do. I will remember it, Jessy. There _is_ a difference in our situations."

I sprang from her--I thought I felt her hand detaining mine; and, as I rushed away, I heard her exclaiming, "Stay, Roderick! stay!" But wounded pride forbade me--it withheld me. I thought of my father's and of my mother's words--"Persevere! persevere!" And while I thought, I felt a something within, which whispered that I should one day speak to the daughter of Colonel Mortimer as her equal.

As I rushed away, I turned round for a moment to exclaim, "Farewell, Jessy!--we shall meet again!" Me-thought, as I hurried onward, I heard the accents of broken-hearted agony following after me; and through all, and over all, her voice was there. But I would not, I could not return. It was better to feel the arrow in my soul, than to have a new one thrust into it.

In a few days I took my departure towards London. I carried with me the letters of introduction which her father had given me. The broker to whom he recommended me was a Mr Stafford. He received me civilly, but at the same time most coldly, and pointing with his finger to the desk, said, "You will take your place there."

I did so, and in a very few weeks I became acquainted with the minutiae of a broker's office. I perceived the situation which my senior clerks occupied, and I trusted one day to be as they were. I had heard them tell of our master having come to London with only half-a-crown in his pocket; and I thought of my father's maxim, "persevere," and that I might do even as my master had done.

There were a dozen clerks; and three years had not passed, until I occupied one of the chief seats in the counting-house. I became a favourite with my employer, and one in whom he trusted.

During that period I had heard nothing of my early benefactor--nothing of Jessy; but my thoughts were full of them.

Now it came to pass, somewhat more than three years after I had arrived in London, that, one day as I was passing up Oldgate, a person stopped me, and exclaimed, "Roderic!"

"Esau!" I returned; for his name was Esau Taylor.

"The same," he replied, "your old schoolfellow."

Hunger sat upon his cheeks--starvation glared from his eyeballs--necessity fluttered around him as a ragged robe. The shoes upon his feet were the ghost of what they had been. His whole apparel was the laughingstock of the wind; but my father had taught me to despise no one, however humble. It was a saying of his, "Look to the heart within a breast, and not to the coat that covers it;" and therefore I received Esau Taylor kindly. He was the son of an extensive farmer in our neighbourhood, and although I wondered to find him in a situation so distressed, I recollected that in London such things were matter of everyday occurrence. Therefore I did not receive him coldly, because of the shabbiness of his coat, and the misery of his appearance. I knew that I was the son of a barnman, and that my father's coat might be out at the elbows.

"Ha, Esau! my dear fellow," said I to him, "when did you come to town?"

"Several weeks ago," he replied.

"And what have you been doing?" said I.

"Nothing, nothing," he rejoined.

"Well," said I, "will you meet me in this house to-morrow? You were always good at figures, Esau; you can keep accounts. I think I can do something for you; and if you _persevere_, I doubt not but that you may arrive at the top of the tree, and become the managing clerk of the establishment."

"Thank you! thank you! thank you!" said Esau, grasping my hands as he spoke.

"Ah!" said I, "there is no necessity for thanks; I am a plain, blunt person. I did not know you personally in the place of my nativity, but I remember having seen you. I remember also your friends; and as a townsman it will give me pleasure to know that I can be of service to you."

Esau grasped my hand, and he shook it as though he would have taken it from the elbow. I was certain that he would obtain the situation which I had in view for him. We sat down together--we talked of old times, when the feelings of our hearts were young; and, amongst other things, we spoke of Jessy Mortimer. I sat--I drank with him--we became happy together--we became mad together. My Jessy--Jessy Mortimer was before me. Her presence filled my thoughts--it overshadowed me. I could think of nothing else--I could speak of nothing else. I drank to her in bumpers; but Esau sat as calm as a judge with the black cap upon his head. I marvelled that the man had so little of what is called sympathy in his soul. He appeared before me as a dead man--a thing that moved merely as it was moved. I almost despised, and yet I trusted him, because he was connected with the part of the country to which I belonged.

Now, as I have informed you, we sat together, we drank together, and the name of Jessy Mortimer overcame me; but I sat till I forgot her, until I forgot myself--my companion--everything! In this state I was left sitting; and when consciousness returned, I was alone, bewildered. My companion had left me. My first sensation was that of shame--of burning shame. I felt that I had abused the time and the confidence of my employer, and the thought rendered me wretched.

It was two days before I ventured to call again at the office, where I had become a confidential clerk. My master passed me as I entered, but he neither spoke to nor noticed me. His coldness stung me. I felt my guiltiness burning over me. But my confusion was increased, when I learned that I was not only discharged, but that my place was to be supplied by Esau Taylor!

"Impossible!" I exclaimed.

"Deem it so," said my informant. "But you have cherished an adder that has stung you; and, with all your knowledge, you are ignorant of the world, and of the people that live, breathe, and act in it. Take my counsel, and regard every man as though he were your enemy, until you have proved him to be your friend."

There was something in his words that more than restored my wandering thoughts into their proper channel.

I found that I had performed an act of kindness towards a villain--for I had not only treated Esau Taylor hospitably, but knowing that in London a good coat is of as much importance as a good character, I had furnished him with wearing apparel from my own wardrobe. A few days afterwards I met him in the Strand, arrayed in my garments, and he passed me with a supercilious air, as though I were a being only fit to be despised. I walked on as though I saw him not, conscious that, if he had a soul within him, it must be burning with the coals of fire which I had heaped upon his head.

I soon found it was much easier to lose a good situation than to obtain an indifferent one, and that one act of folly might accomplish what a thousand of repentances could not retrieve.

In a few months I found myself in a state of destitution; and while the coat which I had given to Esau Taylor was still glossy upon his back, mine--my last remaining one--hung loose and forlorn upon my shoulders. Yet, although I then suffered from both cold and hunger, the words which my parents had made a portion of my character departed not from me, and the words "_persevere!--persevere!_" were ever in my heart, kindling, glowing as a flame, until, in solitary enthusiasm, I have exclaimed aloud, as I wandered (not having a roof to shelter me) upon the streets at midnight, "I will persevere."

I was glad to accept of employment as copying clerk to a law stationer, at a salary of seven shillings a-week. It was a small sum, and I have often thoughtlessly wasted many times the amount since; but it made me happy then. It snatched, or rather it bought from the gripe of death--it relieved me from the pains and the terrors of want. My situation was now sufficiently humble, but my spirit was not broken; neither had I forgotten Jessy Mortimer, nor did I despair of one day calling her mine.

During the days of humiliation which I am recording, I was struck with an incident, which, although trifling in itself, I shall here relate; for from it I drew a lesson which encouraged me, and made me resolve, if possible, to carry my maxim into more active practice. Frequently on a Saturday afternoon, when the labours of the week were over, instead of returning to my wretched garret (for which I paid a shilling a-week, and which contained no furniture save a shake-down bed and a broken chair), I was wont to go out in the country, and to seek the silence and solitude of the woods and the green lanes. On such occasions

"My lodging was on the cold ground,"

and on the Sabbath mornings, I was wont to steal, as if unobserved, into the first country church, or rather place of worship, which I found open. I was there unknown; and in a congregation of English peasantry, the one-half of whom were in their smock-frocks, there were none to observe the shabbiness of my garments. And in the plainness of everything around me, there was something that accorded with my frame of mind, and in the midst of which I felt happier, and more at ease, than I could in the splendid cathedral or the gaudy chapel of a great city. It was in the month of May, and the sweet blossom, like odoriferous snow, lay on the hawthorn. The lark sang over me its Sabbath hymn. The sun had just risen, and, like the canopy of a celestial couch on which an angel might have reposed, the clouds, like curtains of red and gold, seemed drawn asunder. I sat beneath a venerable elm-tree, over which more than a hundred winters had passed; but their frosts had not nipped the majesty of its beauty. Above me a goldfinch chirmed and fed its young, and they seemed ready to break away upon the wing. It chirped to them, it fluttered from branch to branch, to allure them from the nest. One bolder than the rest ventured to follow, but ignorant of the strength of its wings, it fell upon the ground. The parent bird descended, and with strange motions mourned over it, anxiously striving again to teach it to ascend and regain its nest. My first impulse was to take up the little flutterer, to climb the tree, and replace it in the home which its first parent had built; but I lay and watched its motions for a few minutes. Again and again by a bold effort it endeavoured to reach the lofty branch where its parent had poised its nest, but as often it fell upon the ground, and its little breast panted on the earth. At length it perched upon the lowest twig, and from it got to others higher and higher, turning round proudly as it ascended, as if conversing with its parent, happy in what it was achieving, until the nest was regained.

"There," I exclaimed--"there is an example of perseverance; and a lesson is taught me by that little bird. It attempted too much at once, and its efforts were unsuccessful; it endeavoured to rise step by step, and it has gained the object it desired. That bird shall be my monitor, and I will endeavour to rise step by step, even as it has done."

I returned to London, and as I went, the attempts of the little bird were the text on which my thoughts dwelt. By sedulous attention to my duties, I began to rise in the esteem of my employer, the law stationer, and he increased my salary from seven shillings to a guinea a-week. I said unto myself, that, like the young bird, I had gained a higher branch.

Within twelve months he obtained me a situation in the office of an eminent solicitor, where I was engaged at a salary of a hundred pounds a-year. This was the scaling of another branch; and I again found myself in circumstances equal to those I had enjoyed previous to the treachery of Esau Taylor. I did not, in order to ingratiate myself with my employer, practise the _bowing_ system, with which my countrymen have at times been accused; but I strove to be useful, I studied to oblige, and was rewarded with his confidence and favour.

It became a part of my employment to draw up abstracts of pleadings. On one occasion, I had drawn out a brief, which was to be placed in the hands of one of the most eminent counsel at the bar. He was struck with the manner in which the task was executed, and was pleased to pronounce it the clearest, the ablest, and best arranged brief that had ever been placed in his hands. He inquired who had drawn it out; and my employer introduced me to him. He spoke to me kindly and encouragingly, and recommended me to _persevere_. The word rekindled every slumbering energy of my soul. I had always endeavoured to do so, but now stronger impulses seemed to stir within me, and there was a confidence in my hopes that I had never felt before. He suggested that I should prepare myself for the bar, and generously offered to assist me. Through his interest, and the liberality of my master, I was admitted a student of the Inner Temple. My perseverance was now more necessary than ever, and again I thought of the little bird and its successful efforts. I had gained another branch, and the topmost bough to which I aspired was now visible.

I allowed myself but five hours out of the twenty-four for repose; the rest I devoted to hard study, and to the duties of assistant reporter to a daily newspaper. But often, in the midst of my studies, and even while noting down the strife of words in Parliament, thoughts of Jessy Mortimer came over me, and her image was pictured on my mind, like a guardian angel revealing for a moment the brightness of its countenance. My hopes became more sanguine, and I felt an assurance that the day would come when I should call her mine.

I had many privations to encounter, and many difficulties to overcome, but for none did I turn aside; my watch-word was "onward," and in due time I was called to the bar. I expected to struggle for years with the genteel misery of a briefless barrister, but the thought dismayed me not.

Before, however, I proceed farther with my own career, I shall notice that of Esau Taylor. There was no species of cunning, of treachery, or of meanness, of which he was not capable. There was none to which he did not resort. His brother clerks hated him; for, to his other properties, he added that of a low tale-bearer. But he was plausible as Lucifer, and with his smooth tongue, and fair professions, he succeeded in ingratiating himself into the chief place in his master's confidence; and eventually was placed by him at the head of his establishment; and, in order further to reward what he considered his singular worth and honesty, he permitted him to have a small share in the firm. But Esau was not one of those whom a small share, or any portion short of the whole, would satisfy. This he accomplished more easily and more speedily than it is possible that even he, with all his guilty cunning, had anticipated.

The merchant from whose employment he had supplanted me, and over whom his plausibility and pretended honesty had gained such an ascendency, had a daughter--an only child--who, about the time of Taylor's being admitted into a sort of partnership, returned from a boarding-school in Yorkshire. He immediately conceived that the easiest way to obtain both the father's business and his wealth would be by first securing the daughter's hand. Of anything even bordering upon affection his sordid soul was incapable: but to obtain his object he could assume its appearance, and he could employ the rhapsodies which at times pass for its language. The maiden was young and inexperienced, and with just as much of affectation as made her the more likely to be entangled in the snares of a plausible hypocrite, who adapted his conversation to her taste. The girl began to imagine that she loved him--perhaps she did--but more possibly it was a morbid fancy which she mistook for affection, and which he well knew how to encourage.

She became pensive, sighed, and drooped like a lily that is nipped by the frost, and seemed ready to leave her father childless; and the merchant, to save his daughter, consented to her union with Esau Taylor, his managing clerk and nominal partner.

The old man lived but a few months after their union, bequeathing to them his fortune and his business; and within a year and a-half his daughter followed him to the grave; to which, it was said, she was hurried through the cruelty and neglect of her husband.

Esau was now a rich man, a great man, and withal a bad man--one whose heart was blacker than the darkness of the grave, where his injured, I believe I may say his murdered, wife was buried.

We had not met each other for more than five years, and it is possible that he had half forgotten me, or, if he remembered me, considered me unworthy of a thought.

I have told you that I was called to the bar, and for ten months I attended the courts in my gown and wig, sitting in the back benches, and listening to the eloquence of my seniors, with a light pocket, and frequently a heavy heart.

I was sitting one evening in my chambers, as they were called--though they contained nothing but an old writing-desk, two chairs, and a few law books; I was poring over a volume of olden statutes, mincing a biscuit, and sipping a glass of cold water, when the bell rang, and on opening the door, my old master, the solicitor, stood before me, and he had what appeared to be a brief in his hand. My heart began to beat audibly in my bosom.

"Well, Roderic," said he, entering, "I always promised that I would do what I could for you, and now I am determined to bring you out. Here is a case that may make your fortune. You will have scope for argument, feeling, declamation. If you do not produce an impression in it, you are not the person I take you for. Don't tremble, don't be too diffident; but, as I say to you, throw your soul into it, and I will answer for it making your fortune. Here are fifty guineas as a retaining fee, and it is not unlikely that my fair client to-morrow may give you fifty more as a refresher."

"Fifty guineas!" I involuntarily exclaimed, and my eyes glanced upon the money. I felt as though my fortune were already made, and that I should be rich for ever.

"Come, Roderic," said he, "don't think about the retainer, but think of the case--think of getting another."

"What is the case?" I inquired.

"That," replied he, "your brief, which is as clearly and fully drawn up as if you had done it yourself, will explain to you. In the meantime, I may state, that your client, the defendant, is a young lady of matchless beauty, great fortune and accomplishments. When you see her, you will be inspired. She is the orphan daughter, and now the sole surviving child, of an officer who had extensive dealings with a house in the city. Of late years the prosecutor was his broker. Some time after the father's death, the prosecutor made overtures of marriage to the defendant, which she rejected. He has now, stimulated by revenge, set up a fictitious claim for twenty thousand pounds, which he alleges her father owed to the house of which he is now at the head; and for this claim he now drags my client into court. Now, I trust that we shall not only be able to prove that the debt is fictitious, but to establish that the documents which he holds, bearing the colonel's signature, are forgeries. It is a glorious case for you--here is your brief, and I shall call on you again in the morning."