"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER II

The glory of Bond Street is no more. The title of Bond Street Lounger has faded from our lips. In vain the crowd of equipages and the blaze of shops: the renown of Bond Street was in its pavement, its pedestrians. Art thou old enough, O reader! to remember the Bond Street Lounger and his incomparable generation? For my part, I can just recall the decline of the grand era. It was on its wane when, in the ambition of boyhood, I first began to muse upon high neck cloths and Wellington boots. But the ancient habitues—the magni nominis umbrae, contemporaries of Brummell in his zenith, boon companions of George IV. in his regency—still haunted the spot. From four to six in the hot month of June, they sauntered stately to and fro, looking somewhat mournful even then, foreboding the extinction of their race. The Bond Street Lounger was rarely seen alone: he was a social animal, and walked arm in arm with his fellow-man. He did not seem born for the cares of these ruder times; not made was he for an age in which Finsbury returns members to parliament. He loved his small talk; and never since then has talk been so pleasingly small. Your true Bond Street Lounger had a very dissipated look. His youth had been spent with heroes who loved their bottle. He himself had perhaps supped with Sheridan. He was by nature a spendthrift: you saw it in the roll of his walk. Men who make money rarely saunter; men who save money rarely swagger. But saunter and swagger both united to stamp PRODIGAL on the Bond Street Lounger. And so familiar as he was with his own set, and so amusingly supercilious with the vulgar residue of mortals whose faces were strange to Bond Street! But he is gone. The world, though sadder for his loss, still strives to do its best without him; and our young men, nowadays, attend to model cottages, and incline to Tractarianism. Still the place, to an unreflecting eye, has its brilliancy and bustle; but it is a thoroughfare, not a lounge. And adown the thoroughfare, somewhat before the hour when the throng is thickest, passed two gentlemen of an appearance exceedingly out of keeping with the place.—Yet both had the air of men pretending to aristocracy,—an old-world air of respectability and stake in the country, and Church-and-Stateism. The burlier of the two was even rather a beau in his way. He had first learned to dress, indeed, when Bond Street was at its acme, and Brummell in his pride. He still retained in his garb the fashion of his youth; only what then had spoken of the town, now betrayed the life of the country. His neckcloth ample and high, and of snowy whiteness, set off to comely advantage a face smooth-shaven, and of clear florid hues; his coat of royal blue, with buttons in which you might have seen yourself “veluti in speculum”, was rather jauntily buttoned across a waist that spoke of lusty middle age, free from the ambition, the avarice, and the anxieties that fret Londoners into thread-papers; his small-clothes, of grayish drab, loose at the thigh and tight at the knee, were made by Brummell’s own breeches-maker, and the gaiters to match (thrust half-way down the calf), had a manly dandyism that would have done honour to the beau-ideal of a county member. The profession of this gentleman’s companion was unmistakable,—the shovel-hat, the clerical cut of the coat, the neckcloth without collar, that seemed made for its accessory the band, and something very decorous, yet very mild, in the whole mien of this personage, all spoke of one who was every inch the gentleman and the parson.

“No,” said the portlier of these two persons,—“no, I can’t say I like Frank’s looks at all. There’s certainly something on his mind. However, I suppose it will be all out this evening.”

“He dines with you at your hotel, Squire? Well, you must be kind to him. We can’t put old heads upon young shoulders.”

“I don’t object to his bead being young,” returned the squire; “but I wish he had a little of Randal Leslie’s good sense in it. I see how it will end; I must take him back to the country; and if he wants occupation, why, he shall keep the hounds, and I’ll put him into Brooksby farm.”

“As for the hounds,” replied the parson, “hounds necessitate horses; and I think more mischief comes to a young man of spirit from the stables than from any other place in the world. They ought to be exposed from the pulpit, those stables!” added Mr. Dale, thoughtfully; “see what they entailed upon Nimrod! But Agriculture is a healthful and noble pursuit, honoured by sacred nations, and cherished by the greatest men in classical times. For instance, the Athenians were—”

“Bother the Athenians!” cried the squire, irreverently; “you need not go so far back for an example. It is enough for a Hazeldean that his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather all farmed before him; and a devilish deal better, I take it, than any of those musty old Athenians, no offence to them. But I’ll tell you one thing, Parson, a man to farm well, and live in the country, should have a wife; it is half the battle.”

“As to a battle, a man who is married is pretty sure of half, though not always the better half, of it,” answered the parson, who seemed peculiarly facetious that day. “Ah, Squire, I wish I could think Mrs. Hazeldean right in her conjecture!—you would have the prettiest daughter-in-law in the three kingdoms. And I do believe that, if I could have a good talk with the young lady apart from her father, we could remove the only objection I know to the marriage. Those Popish errors—”

“Ah, very true!” cried the squire; “that Pope sticks hard in my gizzard. I could excuse her being a foreigner, and not having, I suppose, a shilling in her pocket—bless her handsome face!—but to be worshipping images in her room instead of going to the parish church, that will never do. But you think you could talk her out of the Pope, and into the family pew?”

“Why, I could have talked her father out of the Pope, only, when he had not a word to say for himself, he bolted out of the window. Youth is more ingenuous in confessing its errors.”

“I own,” said the squire, “that both Harry and I had a favourite notion of ours till this Italian girl got into our heads. Do you know we both took a great fancy to Randal’s little sister,—pretty, blushing, English-faced girl as ever you saw. And it went to Harry’s good heart to see her so neglected by that silly, fidgety mother of hers, her hair hanging about her ears; and I thought it would be a fine way to bring Randal and Frank more together, and enable me to do something for Randal himself,—a good boy with Hazeldean blood in his veins. But Violante is so handsome, that I don’t wonder at the boy’s choice; and then it is our fault,—we let them see so much of each other as children. However, I should be very angry if Rickeybockey had been playing sly, and running away from the Casino in order to give Frank an opportunity to carry on a clandestine intercourse with his daughter.”

“I don’t think that would be like Riccabocca; more like him to run away in order to deprive Frank of the best of all occasions to court Violante, if he so desired; for where could he see more of her than at the Casino?”

SQUIRE.—“That’s well put. Considering he was only a foreign doctor, and, for aught we know, once went about in a caravan, he is a gentleman-like fellow, that Rickeybockey. I speak of people as I find them. But what is your notion about Frank? I see you don’t think he is in love with Violante, after all. Out with it, man; speak plain.”

PARSON.—“Since you so urge me, I own I do not think him in love with her; neither does my Carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such matters.”

SQUIRE.—“Your Carry, indeed!—as if she were half as shrewd as my Harry. Carry—nonsense!”

PARSON (reddening).—“I don’t want to make invidious remarks; but, Mr. Hazeldean, when you sneer at my Carry, I should not be a man if I did not say that—”

SQUIRE (interrupting).—“She is a good little woman enough; but to compare her to my Harry!”

PARSON.—“I don’t compare her to your Harry; I don’t compare her to any woman in England, Sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr. Hazeldean!” SQUIRE.—“I!”

PARSON.—“And people are staring at you, Mr. Hazeldean. For decency’s sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at the Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as ill as he represents himself in his letter. Ah, is it possible? No, it cannot be. Look—look!”

SQUIRE.—“Where—what—where? Don’t pinch so hard. Bless me, do you see a ghost?”

PARSON.—“There! the gentleman in black!”

SQUIRE.—“Gentleman in black! What! in broad daylight! Nonsense!”

Here the parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on the pair, exclaimed,

“Sir, pardon me; but is not your name Fairfield? Ah, it is Leonard,—it is—my dear, dear boy! What joy! So altered, so improved, but still the same honest face. Squire, come here—your old friend, Leonard Fairfield.”

“And he wanted to persuade me,” said the squire, shaking Leonard heartily by the hand, “that you were the Gentleman in Black; but, indeed, he has been in strange humours and tantrums all the morning. Well, Master Lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! The world thrives with you, eh? I suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee.”

“Not that, sir,” said Leonard, smiling; “but the world has thriven with me at last, though not without some rough usage at starting. Ah, Mr. Dale, you can little guess how often I have thought of you and your discourse on Knowledge; and, what is more, how I have lived to feel the truth of your words, and to bless the lesson.”

PARSON (much touched and flattered).—“I expected nothing less from you, Leonard; you were always a lad of great sense, and sound judgment. So you have thought of my little discourse on Knowledge, have you?”

SQUIRE.—“Hang knowledge! I have reason to hate the word. It burned down three ricks of mine; the finest ricks you ever set eyes on, Mr. Fairfield.”

PARSON.—“That was not knowledge, Squire; that was ignorance.”

SQUIRE.—“Ignorance! The deuce it was. I’ll just appeal to you, Mr. Fairfield. We have been having sad riots in the shire, and the ringleader was just such another lad as you were!”

LEONARD.—“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Hazeldean. In what respect?”

SQUIRE.—“Why, he was a village genius, and always reading some cursed little tract or other; and got mighty discontented with King, Lords, and Commons, I suppose, and went about talking of the wrongs of the poor, and the crimes of the rich, till, by Jove, sir, the whole mob rose one day with pitchforks and sickles, and smash went Farmer Smart’s thrashing-machines; and on the same night my ricks were on fire. We caught the rogues, and they were all tried; but the poor deluded labourers were let off with a short imprisonment. The village genius, thank Heaven, is sent packing to Botany Bay.”

LEONARD.—“But did his books teach him to burn ricks and smash machines?”

PARSON.—“No; he said quite the contrary, and declared that he had no hand in those misdoings.”

SQUIRE.—“But he was proved to have excited, with his wild talk, the boobies who had! ‘Gad, sir, there was a hypocritical Quaker once, who said to his enemy, ‘I can’t shed thy blood, friend, but I will hold thy head under water till thou art drowned.’ And so there is a set of demagogical fellows, who keep calling out, ‘Farmer, this is an oppressor, and Squire, that is a vampire! But no violence! Don’t smash their machines, don’t burn their ricks! Moral force, and a curse on all tyrants!’ Well, and if poor Hodge thinks moral force is all my eye, and that the recommendation is to be read backwards, in the devil’s way of reading the Lord’s prayer, I should like to know which of the two ought to go to Botany Bay,—Hodge, who comes out like a man, if he thinks he is wronged, or t’ other sneaking chap, who makes use of his knowledge to keep himself out of the scrape?”

PARSON.—“It may be very true; but when I saw that poor fellow at the bar, with his intelligent face, and heard his bold clear defence, and thought of all his hard struggles for knowledge, and how they had ended, because he forgot that knowledge is like fire, and must not be thrown amongst flax,—why, I could have given my right hand to save him. And, oh, Squire, do you remember his poor mother’s shriek of despair when he was sentenced to transportation for life—I hear it now! And what, Leonard—what do you think had misled him? At the bottom of all the mischief was a tinker’s bag. You cannot forget Sprott?”

LEONARD.—“Tinker’s bag! Sprott!”

SQUIRE.—“That rascal, sir, was the hardest follow to nab you could possibly conceive; as full of quips and quirks as an Old Bailey lawyer. But we managed to bring it home to him. Lord! his bag was choke-full of tracts against every man who had a good coat on his back; and as if that was not enough, cheek by jowl with the tracts were lucifers, contrived on a new principle, for teaching my ricks the theory of spontaneous combustion. The labourers bought the lucifers—”

PARSON.—“And the poor village genius bought the tracts.”

SQUIRE.—“All headed with a motto, ‘To teach the working classes that knowledge is power.’ So that I was right in saying that knowledge had burnt my ricks; knowledge inflamed the village genius, the village genius inflamed fellows more ignorant than himself, and they inflamed my stackyard. However, lucifers, tracts, village genius, and Sprott are all off to Botany Bay; and the shire has gone on much the better for it. So no more of your knowledge for me, begging your pardon, Mr. Fairfield. Such uncommonly fine ricks as mine were too! I declare, Parson, you are looking as if you felt pity for Sprott; and I saw you, indeed, whispering to him as he was taken out of court.”

PARSON (looking sheepish).—“Indeed, Squire, I was only asking him what had become of his donkey, an unoffending creature.”

SQUIRE.—“Unoffending! Upset me amidst a thistle-bed in my own village green! I remember it. Well, what did he say had become of the donkey?”

PARSON.—“He said but one word; but that showed all the vindictiveness of his disposition. He said it with a horrid wink, that made my blood run cold. ‘What’s become of your poor donkey?’ said I, and he answered—”

SQUIRE.—“Go on. He answered—”

PARSON.—“‘Sausages.’”

SQUIRE.—“Sausages! Like enough; and sold to the poor; and that’s what the poor will come to if they listen to such revolutionizing villains. Sausages! Donkey sausages!” (spitting)—“‘T is bad as eating one another; perfect cannibalism.”

Leonard, who had been thrown into grave thought by the history of Sprott and the village genius, now pressing the parson’s hand, asked permission to wait on him before Mr. Dale quitted London; and was about to withdraw, when the parson, gently detaining him, said, “No; don’t leave me yet, Leonard,—I have so much to ask you, and to talk about. I shall be at leisure shortly. We are just now going to call on a relation of the squire’s, whom you must recollect, I am sure,—Captain Higginbotham—Barnabas Higginbotham. He is very poorly.”

“And I am sure he would take it kind in you to call too,” said the squire, with great good-nature.

LEONARD.—“Nay, sir, would not that be a great liberty?”

SQUIRE.—“Liberty! To ask a poor sick gentleman how he is? Nonsense. And I say, Sir, perhaps, as no doubt you have been living in town, and know more of newfangled notions than I do,—perhaps you can tell us whether or not it is all humbug,—that new way of doctoring people.”

LEONARD.—“What new way, sir. There are so many.”

SQUIRE.—“Are there? Folks in London do look uncommonly sickly. But my poor cousin (he was never a Solomon) has got hold, he says, of a homely—homely—What’s the word, Parson?”

PARSON. “Homoeopathist.”

SQUIRE.—“That’s it. You see the captain went to live with one Sharpe Currie, a relation who had a great deal of money, and very little liver;—made the one, and left much of the other in Ingee, you understand. The captain had expectations of the money. Very natural, I dare say; but Lord, sir, what do you think has happened? Sharpe Currie has done him. Would not die, Sir; got back his liver, and the captain has lost his own. Strangest thing you ever heard. And then the ungrateful old Nabob has dismissed the captain, saying, ‘He can’t bear to have invalids about him;’ and is going to marry, and I have no doubt will have children by the dozen!”

PARSON.—“It was in Germany, at one of the Spas, that Mr. Currie recovered; and as he had the selfish inhumanity to make the captain go through a course of waters simultaneously with himself, it has so chanced that the same waters that cured Mr. Currie’s liver have destroyed Captain Higginbotham’s. An English homoeopathic physician, then staying at the Spa, has attended the captain hither, and declares that he will restore him by infinitesimal doses of the same chemical properties that were found in the waters which diseased him. Can there be anything in such a theory?”

LEONARD.—“I once knew a very able, though eccentric homoeopathist, and I am inclined to believe there may be something in the system. My friend went to Germany; it may possibly be the same person who attends the captain. May I ask his name?”

SQUIRE.—“Cousin Barnabas does not mention it. You may ask it of himself, for here we are at his chambers. I say, Parson” (whispering slyly), “if a small dose of what hurt the captain is to cure him, don’t you think the proper thing would be a—legacy? Ha! ha!”

PARSON (trying not to laugh).—“Hush, Squire. Poor human nature! We must be merciful to its infirmities. Come in, Leonard.”

Leonard, interested in his doubt whether he might thus chance again upon Dr. Morgan, obeyed the invitation, and with his two companions followed the woman, who “did for the captain and his rooms,” across the small lobby, into the presence of the sufferer.

CHAPTER III

Whatever the disposition towards merriment at his cousin’s expense entertained by the squire, it vanished instantly at the sight of the captain’s doleful visage and emaciated figure.

“Very good in you to come to town to see me,—very good in you, cousin, and in you, too, Mr. Dale. How very well you are both looking! I’m a sad wreck. You might count every bone in my body.”

“Hazeldean air and roast beef will soon set you up, my boy,” said the squire, kindly. “You were a great goose to leave them, and these comfortable rooms of yours in the Albany.”

“They are comfortable, though not showy,” said the captain, with tears in his eyes. “I had done my best to make them so. New carpets, this very chair—(morocco!), that Japan cat (holds toast and muffins)—just when—just when”—(the tears here broke forth, and the captain fairly whimpered)—“just when that ungrateful, bad-hearted man wrote me word ‘he was—was dying and lone in the world;’ and—and—to think what I’ve gone through for him;—and to treat me so! Cousin William, he has grown as hale as yourself, and—and—”

“Cheer up, cheer up!” cried the compassionate squire. “It is a very hard case, I allow. But you see, as the old proverb says, ‘‘T is ill waiting for a dead man’s shoes;’ and in future—I don’t mean offence—but I think if you would calculate less on the livers of your relations, it would be all the better for your own. Excuse me!”

“Cousin William,” replied the poor captain, “I am sure I never calculated; but still, if you had seen that deceitful man’s good-for-nothing face—as yellow as a guinea—and have gone through all I’ve gone through, you would have felt cut to the heart, as I do. I can’t bear ingratitude. I never could. But let it pass. Will that gentleman take a chair?”

PARSON.—“Mr. Fairfield has kindly called with us, because he knows something of this system of homeeopathy which you have adopted, and may, perhaps, know the practitioner. What is the name of your doctor?”

CAPTAIN (looking at his watch).—“That reminds me” (swallowing a globule). “A great relief these little pills—after the physic I’ve taken to please that malignant man. He always tried his doctor’s stuff upon me. But there’s another world, and a juster!”

With that pious conclusion the captain again began to weep.

“Touched,” muttered the squire, with his forefinger on his forehead. “You seem to have a good—tidy sort of a nurse here, Cousin Barnabas. I hope she ‘s pleasant, and lively, and don’t let you take on so.”

“Hist!—don’t talk of her. All mercenary; every bit of her fawning! Would you believe it? I give her ten shillings a week, besides all that goes down of my pats of butter and rolls, and I overheard the jade saying to the laundress that ‘I could not last long; and she ‘d—EXPECTATIONS!’ Ah, Mr. Dale, when one thinks of the sinfulness there is in this life! But I’ll not think of it. No, I’ll not. Let us change the subject. You were asking my doctor’s name. It is—”

Here the woman with “expectations” threw open the door, and suddenly announced “DR. MORGAN.”

CHAPTER IV

The parson started, and so did Leonard.

The homoeopathist did not at first notice either. With an unobservant bow to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, “How go the symptoms?”

Therewith the captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single nook or corner in his anatomical organization, so far as the captain was acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The squire listened with horror to the morbific inventory, muttering at each dread interval, “Bless me! Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!” Meanwhile the doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting down in the leaves of his pocketbook what appeared to him the salient points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then, drawing forth a minute paper said,