CHAPTER VI.
Bad events peep out o' the tail of good purposes.--_Bartholomew Fair_.
IT was not long before there was a visible improvement in the pages of
"The Asinaeum." The slashing part of that incomparable journal was
suddenly conceived and carried on with a vigour and spirit which
astonished the hallowed few who contributed to its circulation. It was
not difficult to see that a new soldier had been enlisted in the service;
there was something so fresh and hearty about the abuse that it could
never have proceeded from the worn-out acerbity of an old _slasher_. To
be sure, a little ignorance of ordinary facts, and an innovating method
of applying words to meanings which they never were meant to denote, were
now and then distinguishable in the criticisms of the new Achilles;
nevertheless, it was easy to attribute these peculiarities to an original
turn of thinking; and the rise of the paper on the appearance of a series
of articles upon contemporary authors, written by this "eminent hand,"
was so remarkable that fifty copies--a number perfectly unprecedented in
the annals of "The Asinaeum"--were absolutely sold in one week; indeed,
remembering the principle on which it was founded, one sturdy old writer
declared that the journal would soon do for itself and become popular.
There was a remarkable peculiarity about the literary debutant who signed
himself "Nobilitas:" he not only put old words to a new sense, but he
used words which had never, among the general run of writers, been used
before. This was especially remarkable in the application of hard names
to authors. Once, in censuring a popular writer for pleasing the public
and thereby growing rich, the "eminent hand" ended with "He who
surreptitiously accumulates bustle [money] is, in fact, nothing better than a
buzz gloak!" [Pickpocket].
These enigmatical words and recondite phrases imparted a great air of
learning to the style of the new critic; and from the unintelligible
sublimity of his diction, it seemed doubtful whether he was a poet from
Highgate or a philosopher from Konigsberg. At all events, the reviewer
preserved his incognito, and while his praises were rung at no less than
three tea-tables, even glory appeared to him less delicious than
disguise.
In this incognito, reader, thou hast already discovered Paul; and now we
have to delight thee with a piece of unexampled morality in the excellent
MacGrawler. That worthy Mentor, perceiving that there was an inherent
turn for dissipation and extravagance in our hero, resolved magnanimously
rather to bring upon himself the sins of treachery and malappropriation
than suffer his friend and former pupil to incur those of wastefulness
and profusion. Contrary therefore to the agreement made with Paul,
instead of giving that youth the half of those profits consequent on his
brilliant lucubrations, he imparted to him only one fourth, and, with the
utmost tenderness for Paul's salvation, applied the other three portions
of the same to his own necessities. The best actions are, alas! often
misconstrued in this world; and we are now about to record a remarkable
instance of that melancholy truth.
One evening MacGrawler, having "moistened his virtue" in the same manner
that the great Cato is said to have done, in the confusion which such a
process sometimes occasions in the best regulated heads, gave Paul what
appeared to him the outline of a certain article which he wished to be
slashingly filled up, but what in reality was the following note from the
editor of a monthly periodical:--
SIR,--Understanding that my friend, Mr.---, proprietor of "The Asinaeum,"
allows the very distinguished writer whom you have introduced to the
literary world, and who signs himself "Nobilitas," only five shillings an
article, I beg, through you, to tender him double that sum. The article
required will be of an ordinary length.
I am, sir, etc.,
Now, that very morning, MacGrawler had informed Paul of this offer,
altering only, from the amiable motives we have already explained, the
sum of ten shillings to that of four; and no sooner did Paul read the
communication we have placed before the reader than, instead of gratitude
to MacGrawler for his consideration of Paul's moral infirmities, he
conceived against that gentleman the most bitter resentment. He did not,
however, vent his feelings at once upon the Scotsman,--indeed, at that
moment, as the sage was in a deep sleep under the table, it would have
been to no purpose had he unbridled his indignation,--but he resolved
without loss of time to quit the abode of the critic. "And, indeed,"
said he, soliloquizing, "I am heartily tired of this life, and shall be
very glad to seek some other employment. Fortunately, I have hoarded up
five guineas and four shillings; and with that independence in my
possession, since I have forsworn gambling, I cannot easily starve."
To this soliloquy succeeded a misanthropical revery upon the
faithlessness of friends; and the meditation ended in Paul's making up a
little bundle of such clothes, etc., as Dummie had succeeded in removing
from the Mug, and which Paul had taken from the rag-merchant's abode one
morning when Dummie was abroad.
When this easy task was concluded, Paul wrote a short and upbraiding note
to his illustrious preceptor, and left it unsealed on the table. He
then, upsetting the ink-bottle on MacGrawler's sleeping countenance,
departed from the house, and strolled away he cared not whither.
The evening was gradually closing as Paul, chewing the cud of his bitter
fancies, found himself on London Bridge. He paused there, and leaning
over the bridge, gazed wistfully on the gloomy waters that rolled onward,
caring not a minnow for the numerous charming young ladies who have
thought proper to drown themselves in those merciless waves, thereby
depriving many a good mistress of an excellent housemaid or an invaluable
cook, and many a treacherous Phaon of letters beginning with "Parjured
Villen," and ending with "Your affectionot but melancholy Molly."
While thus musing, he was suddenly accosted by a gentleman in boots and
spurs, having a riding-whip in one hand, and the other hand stuck in the
pocket of his inexpressibles. The hat of the gallant was gracefully and
carefully put on, so as to derange as little as possible a profusion of
dark curls, which, streaming with unguents, fell low not only on either
side of the face, but on the neck and even the shoulders of the owner.
The face was saturnine and strongly marked, but handsome and striking.
There was a mixture of frippery and sternness in its expression,--
something between Madame Vestries and T. P. Cooke, or between "lovely
Sally" and a "Captain bold of Halifax." The stature of this personage
was remarkably tall, and his figure was stout, muscular, and well knit.
In fine, to complete his portrait, and give our readers of the present
day an exact idea of this hero of the past, we shall add that he was
altogether that sort of gentleman one sees swaggering in the Burlington
Arcade, with his hair and hat on one side, and a military cloak thrown
over his shoulders; or prowling in Regent Street, towards the evening,
_whiskered_ and _cigarred_.
Laying his hand on the shoulder of our hero, this gentleman said, with an
affected intonation of voice,--
"How dost, my fine fellow? Long since I saw you! Damme, but you look
the worse for wear. What hast thou been doing with thyself?"
"Ha!" cried our hero, returning the salutation of the stranger, "and is
it Long Ned whom I behold? I am indeed glad to meet you; and I say, my
friend, I hope what I heard of you is not true!"
"Hist!" said Long Ned, looking round fearfully, and sinking his voice;
"never talk of what you hear of gentlemen, except you wish to bring them
to their last dying speech and confession. But come with me, my lad;
there is a tavern hard by, and we may as well discuss matters over a pint
of wine. You look cursed seedy, to be sure; but I can tell Bill the
waiter--famous fellow, that Bill!--that you are one of my tenants, come
to complain of my steward, who has just distrained you for rent, you dog!
No wonder you look so worn in the rigging. Come, follow me. I can't
walk _with_ thee. It would look too like Northumberland House and the
butcher's abode next door taking a stroll together."
"Really, Mr. Pepper," said our hero, colouring, and by no means pleased
with the ingenious comparison of his friend, "if you are ashamed of my
clothes, which I own might be newer, I will not wound you with my--"
"Pooh! my lad, pooh!" cried Long Ned, interrupting him; "never take
offence. _I_ never do. I never take anything but money, except, indeed,
watches. I don't mean to hurt your feelings; all of us have been poor
once. 'Gad, I remember when I had not a dud to my back; and now, you see
me,--you see me, Paul! But come, 't is only through the streets you need
separate from me. Keep a little behind, very little; that will do. Ay,
that will do," repeated Long Ned, mutteringly to himself; "they'll take
him for a bailiff. It looks handsome nowadays to be so attended; it
shows one _had_ credit _once!_"
Meanwhile Paul, though by no means pleased with the contempt expressed
for his personal appearance by his lengthy associate, and impressed with
a keener sense than ever of the crimes of his coat and the vices of his
other garment,--"Oh, breathe not its name!"--followed doggedly and
sullenly the strutting steps of the coxcombical Mr. Pepper. That
personage arrived at last at a small tavern, and arresting a waiter who
was running across the passage into the coffee-room with a dish of
hung-beef, demanded (no doubt from a pleasing anticipation of a similar
pendulous catastrophe) a plate of the same excellent cheer, to be
carried, in company with a bottle of port, into a private apartment. No
sooner did he find himself alone with Paul than, bursting into a loud
laugh, Mr. Ned surveyed his comrade from head to foot through an eyeglass
which he wore fastened to his button-hole by a piece of blue ribbon.
"Well, 'gad now," said he, stopping ever and anon, as if to laugh the
more heartily, "stab my vitals, but you are a comical quiz. I wonder
what the women would say, if they saw the dashing Edward Pepper, Esquire,
walking arm in arm with thee at Ranelagh or Vauxhall! Nay, man, never be
downcast; if I laugh at thee, it is only to make thee look a little
merrier thyself. Why, thou lookest like a book of my grandfather's
called Burton's ''Anatomy of Melancholy;' and faith, a shabbier bound
copy of it I never saw."
"These jests are a little hard," said Paul, struggling between anger and
an attempt to smile; and then recollecting his late literary occupations,
and the many extracts he had taken from "Gleanings of the Belles
Lettres," in order to impart elegance to his criticisms, he threw out his
hand theatrically, and spouted with a solemn face,--
"'Of all the griefs that harass the distrest,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest!'"
"Well, now, prithee forgive me," said Long Ned, composing his features,
"and just tell me what you have been doing the last two months."
"Slashing and plastering!" said Paul, with conscious pride.
"Slashing and what? The boy's mad. What do you mean, Paul?"
"In other words," said our hero, speaking very slowly, "know, O very Long
Ned! that I have been critic to 'The Asinaeum.'"
If Paul's comrade laughed at first, he now laughed ten times more merrily
than ever. He threw his full length of limb upon a neighbouring sofa,
and literally rolled with cachinnatory convulsions; nor did his risible
emotions subside until the entrance of the hung-beef restored him to
recollection. Seeing, then, that a cloud lowered over Paul's
countenance, he went up to him with something like gravity, begged his
pardon for his want of politeness, and desired him to wash away all
unkindness in a bumper of port. Paul, whose excellent dispositions we
have before had occasion to remark, was not impervious to his friend's
apologies. He assured Long Ned that he quite forgave him for his
ridicule of the high situation he (Paul) had enjoyed in the literary
world; that it was the duty of a public censor to bear no malice, and
that he should be very glad to take his share in the interment of the
hung-beef.
The pair now sat down to their repast; and Paul, who had fared but
meagerly in that Temple of Athena over which MacGrawler presided, did
ample justice to the viands before him. By degrees, as he ate and drank,
his heart opened to his companion; and laying aside that Asinaeum dignity
which he had at first thought it incumbent on him to assume, he
entertained Pepper with all the particulars of the life he had lately
passed. He narrated to him his breach with Dame Lobkins, his agreement
with MacGrawler, the glory he had acquired, and the wrongs he had
sustained; and he concluded, as now the second bottle made its
appearance, by stating his desire of exchanging for some more active
profession that sedentary career which he had so promisingly begun.
This last part of Paul's confessions secretly delighted the soul of Long
Ned; for that experienced collector of the highways--Ned was, indeed, of
no less noble a profession--had long fixed an eye upon our hero, as one
whom he thought likely to be an honour to that enterprising calling which
he espoused, and an useful assistant to himself. He had not, in his
earlier acquaintance with Paul, when the youth was under the roof and the
_surveillance_ of the practised and wary Mrs. Lobkins, deemed it prudent
to expose the exact nature of his own pursuits, and had contented himself
by gradually ripening the mind and the finances of Paul into that state
when the proposition of a leap from a hedge would not be likely greatly
to revolt the person to whom it was made. He now thought that time near
at hand; and filling our hero's glass up to the brim, thus artfully
addressed him:--
"Courage, my friend! Your narration has given me a sensible pleasure;
for curse me if it has not strengthened my favourite opinion,--that
everything is for the best. If it had not been for the meanness of that
pitiful fellow, MacGrawler, you might still be inspired with the paltry
ambition of earning a few shillings a week and vilifying a parcel of poor
devils in the what-d'ye-call it, with a hard name; whereas now, my good
Paul, I trust I shall be able to open to your genius a new career, in
which guineas are had for the asking,--in which you may wear fine
clothes, and ogle the ladies at Ranelagh; and when you are tired of glory
and liberty, Paul, why, you have only to make your bow to an heiress, or
a widow with a spanking jointure, and quit the hum of men like a
Cincinnatus!"
Though Paul's perception into the abstruser branches of morals was not
very acute,--and at that time the port wine had considerably confused the
few notions he possessed upon "the beauty of virtue,"--yet he could not
but perceive that Mr. Pepper's insinuated proposition was far from being
one which the bench of bishops or a synod of moralists would
conscientiously have approved. He consequently remained silent; and Long
Ned, after a pause, continued:--
"You know my genealogy, my good fellow? I was the son of Lawyer Pepper,
a shrewd old dog, but as hot as Calcutta; and the grandson of Sexton
Pepper, a great author, who wrote verses on tombstones, and kept a stall
of religious tracts in Carlisle. My grandfather, the sexton, was the
best temper of the family; for all of us are a little inclined to be hot
in the mouth. Well, my fine fellow, my father left me his blessing, and
this devilish good head of hair. I lived for some years on my own
resources. I found it a particularly inconvenient mode of life, and of
late I have taken to live on the public. My father and grandfather did
it before me, though in a different line. 'T is the pleasantest plan in
the world. Follow my example, and your coat shall be as spruce as my
own. Master Paul, your health!"
"But, O longest of mortals!" said Paul, refilling his glass, "though the
public may allow you to eat your mutton off their backs for a short time,
they will kick up at last, and upset you and your banquet; in other words
(pardon my metaphor, dear Ned, in remembrance of the part I have lately
maintained in 'The Asinaeum,' that most magnificent and metaphorical of
journals!),--in other words, the police will nab thee at last; and thou
wilt have the distinguished fate, as thou already hast the distinguishing
characteristic, of Absalom!"
"You mean that I shall be hanged," said Long Ned, "that may or may not
be; but he who fears death never enjoys life. Consider, Paul, that
though hanging is a bad fate, starving is a worse; wherefore fill your
glass, and let us drink to the health of that great donkey, the people,
and may we never want saddles to ride it!"
"To the great donkey," cried Paul, tossing off his bumper; "may your
_(y)ears_ be as long! But I own to you, my friend, that I cannot enter
into your plans. And, as a token of my resolution, I shall drink no
more, for my eyes already begin to dance in the air; and if I listen
longer to your resistless eloquence, my feet may share the same fate!"
So saying, Paul rose; nor could any entreaty, on the part of his
entertainer, persuade him to resume his seat.
"Nay, as you will," said Pepper, affecting a nonchalant tone, and
arranging his cravat before the glass,--"nay, as you will. Ned Pepper
requires no man's companionship against his liking; and if the noble
spark of ambition be not in your bosom, 't is no use spending my breath
in blowing at what only existed in my too flattering opinion of your
qualities. So then, you propose to return to MacGrawler (the scurvy old
cheat!), and pass the inglorious remainder of your life in the mangling
of authors and the murder of grammar? Go, my good fellow, go! scribble
again and forever for MacGrawler, and let him live upon thy brains
instead of suffering thy brains to--"
"Hold!" cried Paul. "Although I may have some scruples which prevent my
adoption of that rising line of life you have proposed to me, yet you are
very much mistaken if you imagine me so spiritless as any longer to
subject myself to the frauds of that rascal MacGrawler. No! My present
intention is to pay my old nurse a visit. It appears to me passing
strange that though I have left her so many weeks, she has never relented
enough to track me out, which one would think would have been no
difficult matter; and now, you see, that I am pretty well off, having
five guineas and four shillings all my own, and she can scarcely think I
want her money, my heart melts to her, and I shall go and ask pardon for
my haste!"
"Pshaw! sentimental," cried Long Ned, a little alarmed at the thought of
Paul's gliding from those clutches which he thought had now so firmly
closed upon him. "Why, you surely don't mean, after having once tasted
the joys of independence, to go back to the boozing-ken, and bear all
Mother Lobkins's drunken tantrums! Better have stayed with MacGrawler,
of the two!"
"You mistake me," answered Paul; "I mean solely to make it up with her,
and get her permission to see the world. My ultimate intention is--to
travel."
"Right," cried Ned, "on the high-road,--and on horseback, I hope."
"No, my Colossus of Roads! no. I am in doubt whether or not I shall
enlist in a marching regiment, or--Give me your advice on it! I fancy I
have a great turn for the stage, ever since I saw Garrick in 'Richard.'
Shall I turn stroller? It must be a merry life."
"Oh, the devil!" cried Ned. "I myself once did Cassio in a barn, and
every one swore I enacted the drunken scene to perfection; but you have
no notion what a lamentable life it is to a man of any susceptibility.
No, my friend, no! There is only one line in all the old plays worthy
thy attention,--
"'Toby [The highway] or not toby, that is the question.'
"I forget the rest!"
"Well," said our hero, answering in the same jocular vein, "I confess I
have 'the actor's high ambition.' It is astonishing how my heart beat
when Richard cried out, 'Come bustle, bustle!' Yes, Pepper, avaunt!-
"'A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.'"
"Well, well," said Long Ned, stretching himself, "since you are so fond
of the play, what say you to an excursion thither to-night? Garrick
acts."
"Done!" cried Paul.
"Done!" echoed lazily Long Ned, rising with that _blase_ air which
distinguishes the matured man of the world from the enthusiastic
tyro,-"done! and we will adjourn afterwards to the White Horse."
"But stay a moment," said Paul; "if you remember, I owed you a guinea
when I last saw you,--here it is!"
"Nonsense," exclaimed Long Ned, refusing the money,--"nonsense! You want
the money at present; pay me when you are richer. Nay, never be coy
about it; debts of honour are not paid now as they used to be. We lads
of the Fish Lane Club have changed all that. Well, well, if I must!"
And Long Ned, seeing that Paul insisted, pocketed the guinea. When this
delicate matter had been arranged,--"Come," said Pepper, "come, get your
hat; but, bless me! I have forgotten one thing."
"What?"
"Why, my fine Paul, consider. The play is a bang-up sort of a place;
look at your coat and your waistcoat, that's all!"
Our hero was struck dumb with this _arqumentum ad hominem_. But Long
Ned, after enjoying his perplexity, relieved him of it by telling him
that he knew of an honest tradesman who kept a ready-made shop just by
the theatre, and who could fit him out in a moment.
In fact, Long Ned was as good as his word; he carried Paul to a tailor,
who gave him for the sum of thirty shillings--half ready money, half on
credit-a green coat with a tarnished gold lace, a pair of red
inexpressibles, and a pepper-and-salt waistcoat. It is true, they were
somewhat of the largest, for they had once belonged to no less a person
than Long Ned himself; but Paul did not then regard those niceties of
apparel, as he was subsequently taught to do by Gentleman George (a
personage hereafter to be introduced to our reader), and he went to the
theatre as well satisfied with himself as if he had been Mr. T---or the
Count de --.
Our adventurers are now quietly seated in the theatre; and we shall not
think it necessary to detail the performances they saw, or the
observations they made. Long Ned was one of those superior beings of the
road who would not for the world have condescended to appear anywhere but
in the boxes; and, accordingly, the friends procured a couple of places
in the dress-tier. In the next box to the one our adventurers adorned
they remarked, more especially than the rest of the audience, a gentleman
and a young lady seated next each other; the latter, who was about
thirteen years old, was so uncommonly beautiful that Paul, despite his
dramatic enthusiasm, could scarcely divert his eyes from her countenance
to the stage. Her hair, of a bright and fair auburn, hung in profuse
ringlets about her neck, shedding a softer shade upon a complexion in
which the roses seemed just budding as it were into blush. Her eyes,
large, blue, and rather languishing than brilliant, were curtained by the
darkest lashes; her mouth seemed literally girt with smiles, so
numberless were the dimples that every time the full, ripe, dewy lips
were parted rose into sight; and the enchantment of the dimples was aided
by two rows of teeth more dazzling than the richest pearls that ever
glittered on a bride. But the chief charm of the face was its exceeding
and touching air of innocence and girlish softness; you might have gazed
forever upon that first unspeakable bloom, that all untouched and
stainless down, which seemed as if a very breath could mar it. Perhaps
the face might have wanted animation; but perhaps, also, it borrowed from
that want an attraction. The repose of the features was so soft and
gentle that the eye wandered there with the same delight, and left it
with the same reluctance, which it experiences in dwelling on or in
quitting those hues which are found to harmonize the most with its
vision. But while Paul was feeding his gaze on this young beauty, the
keen glances of Long Ned had found an object no less fascinating in a
large gold watch which the gentleman who accompanied the damsel ever and
anon brought to his eye, as if he were waxing a little weary of the
length of the pieces or the lingering progression of time.
"What a beautiful face!" whispered Paul.
"Is the face gold, then, as well as the back?" whispered Long Ned, in
return.
Our hero started, frowned, and despite the gigantic stature of his
comrade, told him, very angrily, to find some other subject for jesting.
Ned in his turn stared, but made no reply.
Meanwhile Paul, though the lady was rather too young to fall in love
with, began wondering what relationship her companion bore to her.
Though the gentleman altogether was handsome, yet his features and the
whole character of his face were widely different from those on which
Paul gazed with such delight. He was not, seemingly, above
five-and-forty, but his forehead was knit into many a line and furrow;
and in his eyes the light, though searching, was more sober and staid
than became his years. A disagreeable expression played about the mouth;
and the shape of the face, which was long and thin, considerably
detracted from the prepossessing effect of a handsome aquiline nose, fine
teeth, and a dark, manly, though sallow complexion. There was a mingled
air of shrewdness and distraction in the expression of his face. He
seemed to pay very little attention to the play, or to anything about
him; but he testified very considerable alacrity, when the play was over,
in putting her cloak around his young companion, and in threading their
way through the thick crowd that the boxes were now pouring forth.
Paul and his companion silently, and each with very different motives
from the other, followed them. They were now at the door of the theatre.
A servant stepped forward and informed the gentleman that his carriage
was a few paces distant, but that it might be some time before it could
drive up to the theatre.
"Can you walk to the carriage, my dear?" said the gentleman to his young
charge; and she answering in the affirmative, they both left the house,
preceded by the servant.
"Come on!" said Long Ned, hastily, and walking in the same direction
which the strangers had taken. Paul readily agreed. They soon overtook
the strangers. Long Ned walked the nearest to the gentleman, and brushed
by him in passing. Presently a voice cried, "Stop thief!" and Long Ned,
saying to Paul, "Shift for yourself, run!" darted from our hero's side
into the crowd, and vanished in a twinkling. Before Paul could recover
his amaze, he found himself suddenly seized by the collar; he turned
abruptly, and saw the dark face of the young lady's companion.
"Rascal!" cried the gentleman, "my watch!"
"Watch!" repeated Paul, bewildered, and only for the sake of the young
lady refraining from knocking down his arrester,--"watch!"
"Ay, young man!" cried a fellow in a great-coat, who now suddenly
appeared on the other side of Paul; "this gentleman's watch. Please your
honour," addressing the complainant, "_I_ be a watch too; shall I take up
this chap?"
"By all means," cried the gentleman; "I would not have lost my watch for
twice its value. I can swear I saw this fellow's companion snatch it
from my fob. The thief's gone; but we have at least the accomplice. I
give him in strict charge to you, watchman; take the consequences if you
let him escape." The watchman answered, sullenly, that he did not want
to be threatened, and he knew how to discharge his duty.
"Don't answer me, fellow!" said the gentleman, haughtily; "do as I tell
you!" And after a little colloquy, Paul found himself suddenly marched
off between two tall fellows, who looked prodigiously inclined to eat
him. By this time he had recovered his surprise and dismay. He did not
want the penetration to see that his companion had really committed the
offence for which he was charged; and he also foresaw that the
circumstance might be attended with disagreeable consequences to himself.
Under all the features of the case, he thought that an attempt to escape
would not be an imprudent proceeding on his part; accordingly, after
moving a few paces very quietly and very passively, he watched his
opportunity, wrenched himself from the gripe of the gentleman on his
left, and brought the hand thus released against the cheek of the
gentleman on his right with so hearty a good will as to cause him to
relinquish his hold, and retreat several paces towards the areas in a
slanting position. But that roundabout sort of blow with the left fist
is very unfavourable towards the preservation of a firm balance; and
before Paul had recovered sufficiently to make an effectual bolt, he was
prostrated to the earth by a blow from the other and undamaged watchman,
which utterly deprived him of his senses; and when he recovered those
useful possessions (which a man may reasonably boast of losing, since it
is only the minority who have them to lose), he found himself stretched
on a bench in the watchhouse.
