Japhet in Search of a Father

Part 3—Chapter II

I resolve to begin the World again, and to seek my Fortune in the next Path—I take Leave of all my old Friends.

The Jew retired, and I commenced my meal, when the door again slowly opened, and Mr Emmanuel crawled up to me.

“Mishter Newland, I vash beg your pardon, but vill you not pay me de interest of de monish?”

I started up from my chair, with my rattan in my hand. “Begone, you old thief,” cried I; and hardly were the words out of my mouth, before Mr Emmanuel travelled out of the room, and I never saw him afterwards. I was pleased with myself for having done this act of honesty and for the first time for a long while I ate my dinner with some zest. After I had finished, I took a twenty pound note, and laid it in my desk, the remainder of the five hundred pounds I put in my pocket, to try my last chance. In an hour I quitted the hell penniless. When I returned home I had composed myself a little after the dreadful excitement which I had been under. I felt a calm, and a degree of negative happiness. I knew my fate—there was no more suspense. I sat down to reflect upon what I should do. I was to commence the world again—to sink down at once into obscurity—into poverty—and I felt happy, I had severed the link between myself and my former condition—I was again a beggar, but I was independent—and I resolved so to be. I spoke kindly to Timothy, went to bed, and having arranged in my own mind how I should act, I fell sound asleep.

I never slept better, or awoke more refreshed. The next morning I packed up my portmanteau, taking with me only the most necessary articles; all the details of the toilet, further than cleanliness was concerned, I abjured. When Timothy came in, I told him that I was going down to Lady de Clare’s, which I intended to do. Poor Timothy was overjoyed at the change in my manner, little thinking that he was so soon to lose me—for, reader, I had made up my mind that I would try my fortunes alone; and, painful as I felt would be the parting with so valued a friend, I was determined that I would no longer have even his assistance or company. I was determined to forget all that had passed, and commence the world anew. I sat down while Timothy went out to take a place in the Richmond coach, and wrote to him the following letter:—

“My dear Timothy,—Do not think that I undervalue your friendship, or shall ever forget your regard for me, when I tell you that we shall probably never meet again. Should fortune favour me, I trust we shall—but of that there is little prospect. I have lost almost everything: my money is all gone, my house is sold, and all is gambled away. I leave you, with only my clothes in my portmanteau and twenty pounds. For yourself, there is the furniture, which you must sell, as well as every other article left behind. It is all yours, and I hope you will find means to establish yourself in some way. God bless you—and believe me always and gratefully yours,—

“Japhet Newland.”

This letter I reserved to put in the post when I quitted Richmond. My next letter was to Mr Masterton.

“Sir,—Your note I received, and I am afraid that unwittingly, you have been the occasion of my present condition. That I did not deserve the language addressed to me, you may satisfy yourself by applying to Mr Harcourt. Driven to desperation, I have lost all I had in the world, by adding gaming to my many follies. I now am about to seek my fortune, and prosecute my search after my father. You will, therefore, return my most sincere acknowledgments to Lord Windermear, for his kind offers and intentions, and assure him that my feelings towards him will always be those of gratitude and respect. For yourself accept my warmest thanks for the friendly advice and kind interest which you have shown in my welfare, and believe me, when I say, that my earnest prayers shall be offered up for your happiness. If you can, in any way, assist my poor friend, Timothy, who will, I have no doubt, fall upon you in his distress, you will confer an additional favour on.

“Yours, ever gratefully,—

“Japhet Newland.”

I sealed this letter, and when Timothy returned, I told him that I wished him, after my departure, to take it to Mr Masterton’s, and not wait for an answer. I then, as I had an hour to spare, before the coach started, entered into a conversation with Timothy. I pointed out to him the unfortunate condition in which I found myself, and my determination to quit the metropolis.

Timothy agreed with me. “I have seen you so unhappy of late—I may say, so miserable—that I have neither eaten nor slept. Indeed, Japhet, I have laid in bed and wept, for my happiness depends upon yours. Go where you will, I am ready to follow and to serve you, and as long as I see you comfortable, I care for nothing else.”

These words of Timothy almost shook my resolution, and I was near telling him all; but when I recollected, I refrained. “My dear Timothy,” said I, “in this world we must expect to meet with a checkered existence; we may laugh at one time, but we must cry at others. I owe my life to you, and I never shall forget you, wherever I may be.”

“No,” replied Timothy, “you are not likely to forget one who is hardly an hour out of your sight.”

“Very true, Timothy; but circumstances may occur which may separate us.”

“I cannot imagine such circumstances, nor do I believe, that bad as things may turn out, that they will ever be so bad as that. You have your money and your house; if you leave London, you will be able to add to your income by letting your own apartments furnished, so we never shall want; and we may be very happy running about the world, seeking what we wish to find.”

My heart smote me when Timothy said this, for I felt, by his devotion and fidelity, he had almost the same claim to the property I possessed as myself. He had been my partner, playing the inferior game, for the mutual benefit. “But the time may come, Timothy, when we may find ourselves without money, as we were when we first commenced our career, and shared three-pence halfpenny each, by selling the old woman the embrocation.”

“Well, sir, and let it come. I should be sorry for you, but not for myself, for then Tim would be of more importance, and more useful, than as valet with little or nothing to do.”

I mentally exclaimed, “I have, I think I have, been a fool, a great fool, but the die is cast. I will sow in sorrow, and may I reap a harvest in joy. I feel,” thought I (and I did feel), “I feel a delightful conviction, that we shall meet again, and all this misery of parting will be but a subject of future garrulity.”

“Yes, Tim,” said I in a loud Voice, “all is right.”

“All’s right, sir; I never thought anything was wrong, except your annoyance at people not paying you the attention which they used to do, when they supposed you a man of fortune.”

“Very true; and Tim, recollect that if Mr Masterton speaks to you about me, which he may after I am gone to Richmond, you tell him that before I left, I paid that old scoundrel Emmanuel every farthing that I had borrowed of him, and you know (and in fact so does Mr Masterton) how it was borrowed.”

“Well, sir, I will, if he does talk to me, but he seldom says much to me.”

“But he may, perhaps, Tim; and I wish him to know that I have paid every debt I owe in the world.”

“One would think that you were going to the East Indies, instead of to Richmond, by the way you talk.”

“No, Tim; I was offered a situation in the East Indies, and I refused it; but Mr Masterton and I have not been on good terms lately, and I wish him to know that I am out of debt. You know, for I told you all that passed between Emmanuel and myself, how he accepted five hundred pounds, and I paid him the thousand; and I wish Mr Masterton should know it too, and he will then be better pleased with me.”

“Never fear, sir,” said Tim, “I can tell the whole story with flourishes.”

“No, Tim, nothing but the truth; but it is time I should go. Farewell, my dear fellow. May God bless you and preserve you.” And, overcome by my feelings, I dropped my face on Timothy’s shoulder, and wept.

“What is the matter? What do you mean, Japhet? Mr Newland—pray, sir, what is the matter?”

“Timothy—it is nothing,” replied I, recovering myself, “but I have been ill; nervous lately, as you well know, and even leaving the last and only friend I have, I may say for a few days, annoys and overcomes me.”

“Oh! sir—dear Japhet, do let us leave this house, and sell your furniture, and be off.”

“I mean that it shall be so, Tim. God bless you, and farewell.” I went down stairs, the hackney-coach was at the door. Timothy put in my portmanteau, and mounted the box. I wept bitterly. My readers may despise me, but they ought not; let them be in my situation, and feel that they have one sincere faithful friend, and then they will know the bitterness of parting. I recovered myself before I arrived at the coach, and shaking hands with Timothy, I lost sight of him; for how long, the reader will find out in the sequel of my adventures.

I arrived at Lady de Clare’s, and hardly need say that I was well received. They expressed their delight at my so soon coming again, and made a hundred inquiries—but I was unhappy and melancholy, not at my prospects, for in my infatuation I rejoiced at my anticipated beggary—but I wished to communicate with Fleta, for so I still call her. Fleta had known my history, for she had been present when I had related it to her mother, up to the time that I arrived in London; further than that she knew little. I was determined that before I quitted she should know—all. I dared not trust the last part to her when I was present, but I resolved that I would do it in writing.

Lady de Clare made no difficulty whatever of leaving me with Fleta. She was now a beautiful creature, of between fifteen and sixteen, bursting into womanhood, and lovely as the bud of the moss-rose; and she was precocious beyond her years in intellect. I staid there three days, and had frequent opportunities of conversing with her; I told her that I wished her to be acquainted with my whole life, and interrogated her as to what she knew: I carefully filled up the chasms, until I brought it down to the time at which I placed her in the arms of her mother. “And now, Fleta,” said I, “you have much more to learn—you will learn that much at my departure. I have dedicated hours every night in writing it out; and, as you will find, have analysed my feelings, and have pointed out to you where I have been wrong. I have done it for my amusement, as it may be of service even to a female.”

On the third day I took my leave, and requesting the pony chaise of Lady de Clare, to take me over to —, that I might catch the first coach that went westward, for I did not care which. I put into Fleta’s hands the packet which I had written, containing all that had passed, and I bid her farewell.

“Lady de Clare, may you be happy,” said I. “Fleta—Cecilia, I should say, may God bless and preserve you, and sometimes think of your sincere friend, Japhet Newland.”

“Really, Mr Newland,” said Lady de Clare, “one would think we were never to see you again.”

“I hope that will not be the case, Lady de Clare, for I know nobody to whom I am more devoted.”

“Then, sir, recollect we are to see you very soon.”

I pressed her ladyship’s hand, and left the house. Thus did I commence my second pilgrimage.

Part 3—Chapter III

My new Career is not very prosperous at its Commencement—I am robbed, and accused of being a Robber—I bind up Wounds, and am accused of having inflicted them—I get into a Horse-Pond, and out of it into Gaol.

I had proceeded half a mile from the house, when I desired the servant to turn into a cross-road so as to gain Brentford; and, so soon as I arrived, the distance being only four miles, I ordered him to stop at a public-house, saying that I would wait till the coach should pass by. I then gave him half-a-crown, and ordered him to go home. I went into the inn with my portmanteau, and was shown into a small back parlour; there I remained about half an hour reflecting upon the best plan that I could adopt.

Leaving the ale that I had called for untasted, I paid for it, and, with the portmanteau on my shoulder, I walked away until I arrived at an old clothes’ shop. I told the Jew who kept it, that I required some clothes, and also wanted to dispose of my own portmanteau and all my effects. I had a great rogue to deal with; but after much chaffering, for I now felt the value of money, I purchased from him two pair of corduroy trowsers, two waistcoats, four common shirts, four pairs of stockings, a smock frock, a pair of high-lows, and a common hat. For these I gave up all my portmanteau, with the exception of six silk hand kerchiefs, and received fifty shillings, when I ought to have received, at least, ten pounds but I could not well help myself, and I submitted to the extortion. I dressed myself in my more humble garments, securing my money in the pocket of my trowsers unobserved by the Jew, made up a bundle of the rest, and procured a stick from the Jew to carry it on, however not without paying him three-pence for it, he observing that the stick “wash not in de bargain.” Thus attired, I had the appearance of a countryman well to do, and I set off through the long dirty main street of Brentford, quite undecided and indifferent as to the direction I should take. I walked about a mile, when I thought that it was better to come to some decision previous to my going farther; and perceiving a bench in front of a public-house, I went to it and sat down. I looked around, and it immediately came to my recollection that I was sitting on the very bench on which Timothy and I had stopped to eat our meal of pork, at our first outset upon our travels. Yes, it was the very same! Here sat I, and there sat Timothy, two heedless boys, with the paper containing the meat, the loaf of bread, and the pot of beer between us. Poor Timothy! I conjured up his unhappiness when he had received my note acquainting him with our future separation. I remembered his fidelity, his courage in defence, and his preservation of my life in Ireland, and a tear or two coursed down my cheek.

I remained some time in a deep reverie, during which the various circumstances and adventures of my life passed in a rapid panorama before me. I felt that I had little to plead in my own favour, much to condemn—that I had passed a life of fraud and deceit. I also could not forget that when I had returned to honesty, I had been scouted by the world. “And here I am,” thought I, “once more with the world before me; and it is just that I should commence again, for I started in a wrong path. At least, now I can satisfactorily assert that I am deceiving nobody, and can deservedly receive no contumely. I am Japhet Newland, and not in disguise.” I felt happy with this reflection, and made a determination, whatever my future lot might be, that, at least, I would pursue the path of honesty. I then began to reflect upon another point, which was, whither I should bend my steps, and what I should do to gain my livelihood.

Alas! that was a subject of no little difficulty to me. A person who has been brought up to a profession naturally reverts to that profession—but to what had I been brought up? As an apothecary—true; but I well knew the difficulty of obtaining employment in what is termed a liberal profession, without interest or recommendation; neither did I wish for close confinement, as the very idea was irksome. As a mountebank, a juggler, a quack doctor—I spurned the very idea. It was a system of fraud and deceit. What then could I do? I could not dig, to beg I was ashamed. I must trust to the chapter of accidents, and considering how helpless I was, such trust was but a broken reed. At all events, I had a sufficient sum of money, upwards of twenty pounds, to exist upon with economy for some time.

I was interrupted by a voice calling out, “Hilloa! my lad, come and hold this horse a moment.” I looked up and perceived a person on horseback looking at me. “Do you hear, or are you stupid?” cried the man. My first feeling was to knock him down for his impertinence, but my bundle lying beside, reminded me of my situation and appearance, and I rose and walked towards the horse. The gentleman, for such he was in appearance, dismounted, and throwing the rein on the horse’s neck, told me to stand by him for half a minute. He went into a respectable looking house opposite the inn, and remained nearly half an hour, during which I was becoming very impatient, and kept an anxious eye upon my bundle, which lay on the seat. At last he came out, and mounting his horse looked in my face with some degree of surprise. “Why, what are you?” said he, as he pulled out a sixpence, and tendered it to me.

I was again nearly forgetting myself, affronted at the idea of sixpence being offered to me; but I recovered myself, saying, as I took it, “A poor labouring man, sir.”

“What, with those hands?” said he, looking at them as I took the money; and then looking at my face, he continued, “I think we have met before, my lad—I cannot be sure; you know best—I am a Bow Street magistrate.”

In a moment, I remembered that he was the very magistrate before whom I had twice made my appearance. I coloured deeply, and made no reply.

“Well, my lad, I’m not on my bench now, and this sixpence you have earned honestly. I trust you will continue in the right path. Be careful—I have sharp eyes.” So saying, he rode off.

I never felt more mortified. It was evident that he considered me as one who was acting a part for unworthy purposes; perhaps one of the swell mob or a flash pickpocket rusticating until some hue and cry was over. “Well, well,” thought I, as I took up a lump of dirt and rubbed over my then white hands, “it is my fate to be believed when I deceive, and to be mistrusted when I am acting honestly;” and I returned to the bench for my bundle, which—was gone. I stared with astonishment. “Is it possible?” thought I. “How dishonest people are! Well, I will not carry another for the present. They might as well have left me my stick.” So thinking, and without any great degree of annoyance at the loss, I turned from the bench and walked away, I knew not whither. It was now getting dark, but I quite forgot that it was necessary to look out for a lodging; the fact is, that I had been completely upset by the observations of the magistrate, and the theft of my bundle; and, in a sort of brown study, from which I was occasionally recalled for a moment by stumbling over various obstructions, I continued my walk on the pathway until I was two or three miles away from Brentford. I was within a mile of Hounslow, when I was roused by the groans of some person, and it being now dark, I looked round, trying to catch by the ear the direction in which to offer my assistance. They proceeded from the other side of a hedge, and I crawled through, where I found a man lying on the ground, covered with blood about the head, and breathing heavily. I untied his neckcloth, and, as well as I could, examined his condition. I bound his handkerchief round his head, and perceiving that the position in which he was lying was very unfavourable, his head and boulders being much lower than his body, I was dragging the body round so as to raise those parts, when I heard footsteps and voices. Shortly after, four people burst through the hedge and surrounded me.

“That is him, I’ll swear to it,” cried an immense stout man, seizing me; “that is the other fellow who attacked me, and ran away. He has come to get off his accomplice, and now we’ve just nicked them both.”

“You are very much mistaken,” replied I, “and you have no need to hold me so tight. I heard the man groan, and I came to his assistance.”

“That gammon won’t do,” replied one of them, who was a constable; “you’ll come along with us, and we may as well put on the darbies,” continued he, producing a pair of handcuffs.

Indignant at the insult, I suddenly broke from him who held me, and darting at the constable, knocked him down, and then took to my heels across the ploughed field. The whole four pursued, but I rather gained upon them, and was in hopes to make my escape. I ran for a gap I perceived in the hedge, and sprang over it, without minding the old adage, of “Look before you leap;” for, when on the other side, I found myself in a deep and stagnant pit of water and mud. I sank over head, and with difficulty extricated myself from the mud at the bottom, and when at the surface I was equally embarrassed with the weeds at the top, among which I floundered. In the mean time my pursuers, warned by the loud splash, had paused when they came to the hedge, and perceiving my situation, were at the brink of the pit watching for my coming out. All resistance was useless. I was numbed with cold and exhausted by my struggles, and when I gained the bank I surrendered at discretion.