RBSheridan
R B Sheridan
Though it may appear paradoxical to say so, yet there is no more melancholy reading than the biography of a celebrated wit. In nine out of ten cases, what is such a memoir other than a record of acute suffering, the almost inseparable attendant of that thoughtless and mercurial temperament which cannot, or will not, conform to the staid usages society; which makes ten enemies where it makes one friend; is engaged in a constant warfare with common sense, and lives for the day, letting the morrow shift for itself? Instances there are of prosperous wits, such as Congreve, Pope, and some others that we could mention, whose singular tact and provident habits have preserved them from the usual fate of their fraternity; but these instances are rare: the majority, though enjoying, it is true, their sunny hours, and realising for a brief season their most brilliant hopes, have struggled through life a prey to the bitterest disappointments.
The life of Sheridan will go far to verify these cursory remarks. No wit ever enjoyed more intoxicating successes, or suffered more humiliating reverses. He had frequent opportunities of realising a handsome independence; but, with that recklessness and inattention to the business of life peculiar to such natures as his, he flung away all his chances, and died a beggar, deserted by almost all his old associates, his celebrity on the wane, and his character under a cloud. Never was there a more impressive homily than his death-bed inculcates; it speaks to the heart, like the closing scene of "great Villiers," and is worth all the sermons that ever were preached from the pulpit.
Many, however, of poor Sheridan's defects seem to have descended to him as a sort of heir-loom from his ancestors. His grandfather, Dr. Sheridan, the friend and butt of Swift, though an amiable, was a singularly reckless and improvident man; and his father, the well-known teacher of elocution, is mentioned more then once by Johnson as being remarkable for nothing so much as his "wrong-headedness." It is but justice, however, to this individual to state, that by fits and starts he paid every attention to his son's education that his straitened means and capricious temper would allow. In the year 1758, when young Sheridan had just completed his seventh year, he sent him to a private school in Dublin, whence, at the expiration of fourteen months, he brought him over with him to England, and placed him at Harrow, under the care of Dr. Sumner. From this period to the day of his death, the subject of our memoir never again beheld his native city.
Sheridan had not been long at Harrow when he attracted the favourable notice of Dr. Parr, at that time one of the head-masters of the establishment, who, perceiving in him unquestionable evidences of superior capacity, did all he could to stimulate him to exertion. But his endeavours were fruitless, for the boy was incorrigibly idle, though a general favourite by reason of his good-humour and the social turn of his mind,—and left Harrow at the age of eighteen, with a slender amount of Latin and less Greek, but at the same time with a very fair acquaintance with the lighter branches of English literature.
In the year 1770, Sheridan accompanied his family to Bath, which was then what Cheltenham and Brighton now are,—the head-quarters of gaiety and dissipation. Here he promptly signalised himself, after the usual Irish fashion, by an elopement and two duels; thus literally fighting his way to celebrity! The young lady who was the cause of these sprightly sallies was Miss Linley, daughter of the eminent musician of that name, and one of the most beautiful women of her day. At the time when Sheridan first became acquainted with her she was but sixteen, the favourite vocalist at the Bath concerts, and the standing toast of all the wits and gallants of the city. It is to the impassioned feelings which the charms of this lovely girl called forth in his breast that we owe our hero's first decided plunge into unequivocal poetry. Having on one occasion—for the families of the young couple were in habits of strict intimacy—presumed to offer her some sober counsel, she resented his officiousness, and a quarrel took place between them, which was not made up till Sheridan sent some stanzas of a most penitential character, by way of a peace-offering. We subjoin a specimen or two of this poem, which evinces unquestionable feeling, but is deformed, as was the fashion of those days, by tawdry and puerile conceits:
Oh, this is the grotto where Delia reclined,As late I in secret her confidence sought;And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-covered stone,And tell me, thou willow, with leaves dripping dew,Did Delia seem vexed when Horatio was gone,And did she confide her resentment to you?Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, triesTo whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel,To hint how she frowned when I dared to advise,And sighed when she saw that I did it with zeal.True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow;She frowned, but no rage in her looks could I see;She frowned, for reflection had clouded her brow;She sighed, but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou willow of woe,I tell thee no rage in her looks I could see;I cannot, I will not, believe it was so;She was not, she could not, be angry with me.For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong;It sank at the thought but of giving her pain;But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,Which erred from the feelings it could not explain.
Oh, this is the grotto where Delia reclined,As late I in secret her confidence sought;And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.
Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-covered stone,And tell me, thou willow, with leaves dripping dew,Did Delia seem vexed when Horatio was gone,And did she confide her resentment to you?
Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, triesTo whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel,To hint how she frowned when I dared to advise,And sighed when she saw that I did it with zeal.
True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow;She frowned, but no rage in her looks could I see;She frowned, for reflection had clouded her brow;She sighed, but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.
Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou willow of woe,I tell thee no rage in her looks I could see;I cannot, I will not, believe it was so;She was not, she could not, be angry with me.
For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong;It sank at the thought but of giving her pain;But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,Which erred from the feelings it could not explain.
Sentimental poetry, it is well known, has a great effect in softening the female heart; and Sheridan soon succeeded in sonnetteering Miss Linley into sympathy. He had, however, a sturdy opponent to contend against in the person of Captain Mathews, a married man, of specious address and persevering gallantry. Thisrouébeset the fair vocalist in every possible way, and, when mildly but firmly repulsed, threw out a menace of attacking her good fame. Alarmed at this unmanly threat, and at the consequences of her father's indignation should the captain's dishonourable proposals become known to him, Miss Linley had recourse to Sheridan, who instantly advised her toaccept of his escort to France, where he promised that he would place her under the secure protection of a convent. With some hesitation she complied with his advice, assisted not a little in her resolution by the repugnance which she had long entertained to her profession; and the parties set out for Calais, accompanied by a third person, a female, by way of chaperon.
On reaching the place of their destination, Sheridan at once threw off the mask of the friend, and, addressing Miss Linley as the lover, so worked upon her feelings by artful hints about the injury her character would sustain, if she did not give him a legal title to protect her, that she consented to a private marriage, which accordingly took place in 1772, at a little village near Calais. The parties then made the best of their way back to England where they returned to their respective families; old Linley, from whom the marriage was kept a profound secret, being, of course, not less incensed than surprised by the, to him, unaccountable conduct of his daughter.
Meanwhile Captain Mathews, on learning Miss Linley's extraordinary flight, instantly made good his threat of defaming her character in the local journals, for which he was twice called out by Sheridan, who in the second duel received a wound which long confined him to his bed. His situation at this period must have been one of extreme uneasiness. He was separated from his wife, and was on ill terms with his father, who, on his return from London shortly after the catastrophe, refused to see him, and even went the length of forbidding any of his family to hold the slightest intercourse with the Linleys. A communication was nevertheless kept up between the lovers through the agency of Sheridan's sisters, who had not the heart to resist the imploring appeals of their brother.
In the autumn of 1772 the young Benedict was sent by his father—who was anxious to detach him wholly from the Linleys—to the house of a friend in Essex, where he remained for some months in strict retirement, and spent much of his time in study. While here, he paid occasional flying visits to London, for the purpose of seeing his wife, who was then professionally engaged at the Covent Garden oratorios; but, finding no means of procuring an interview with her, so closely was she watched by her father, he more than once, it is said, disguised himself as a hackney-coachman, for the sole pleasure of driving her home from the theatre.
The time, however, was at hand when his perseverance was to meet with its reward. Old Linley, finding that neither threat, supplication, nor remonstrance could change the current of his daughter's affections and that, by some mysterious process, letters from her husband always found their way into her hands, at length gave his reluctant consent to their union, and they were re-married, by licence, in 1773.
About this time Sheridan entered himself of the Middle Temple, and took a small cottage at East Burnham, whither he retired immediately after his marriage, with no other resources than his wife's slender jointure and his own talents afforded him. Yet, though cramped in his finances, he had the fortitude to resist all the golden temptations which Mrs. Sheridan's musical abilities held out to him; and withdrew her for ever from public life, resolving henceforth to be himself the artificer of his own fortunes.
After a short stay at East Burnham, to which in after-years he often looked back with regret as being the happiest period of his life, Sheridan took a house in the neighbourhood of Portman-square, which his father-in-law kindly furnished for him. Here he laboured with great assiduity; wrote several political tracts, among which was a reply to "Junius;" and completed his comedy of the "Rivals," which was brought out at Covent Garden in the year 1775, and proved a failure on its first representation, though it subsequently won its way into public favour. The "Rivals" is a lively play, whose interest seldom or never flags; is easy and graceful in its dialogue; and contains one or two characters drawn with consummate skill. That of Falkland, in particular,—the sensitive, wayward lover, the idea of which was, no doubt, suggested by Sheridan's own personal experience,—is a masterpiece; and not less effective is the sketch of Sir Anthony Absolute. Mrs. Malaprop—an evident imitation of Fielding's Mrs. Slip-slop—is a mere whimsical caricature; while, as respects Lydia Languish, she is one of the insipid common-places to be picked up at all watering-places, well delineated, it is true, but scarcely worth the labour of delineation.
Sheridan's next production was "St. Patrick's Day;" a clever, bustling farce, but bearing marks of haste and negligence. It was followed, in the winter of 1775, by the well-known opera of the "Duenna," which at once obtained a popularity unexampled in the annals of the drama. The plot of this delightful play is remarkable for the tact with which it is conducted; the language is elegant, without being too ornate or elaborate,—a very common defect in Sheridan's dramas;—and the songs are prettily versified, which is the highest praise we can accord them.
In the year 1776, on the retirement of Garrick from the stage, Sheridan became one of the proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre. How, or by whose assistance, he obtained the large sum—upwards of forty-five thousand pounds—necessary to make this purchase, is a mystery which none of his numerous biographers, with all their research and ingenuity, have ever been able to fathom. We conclude it must have been by that winning address, and the strenuous exercise of those unrivalled powers of persuasion, which, at a later period, enabled Sheridan to work a miracle,—that is, to soften the soul of an attorney! It was in allusion to these fascinating powers that a rich City banker once observed, "Whenever Sherry makes me a bow, it always costs me a good dinner; and when he calls me 'Tom,' it is a full hundred pounds out of my pocket!"
The year 1777 was rendered memorable by the production of the "School for Scandal," which is incomparably the finest comedy of which modern times can boast. Its success was proportionate to its deserts. It completely took the town by storm. Nevertheless, transcendent as are the excellencies of this brilliant play, it is not without many and serious defects. Its dialogue is too studiously artificial; it has little or no sustained interest of plot; and its characters—with the exception of Charles Surface, whose airy, Mercutio-like vivacity conciliates us in spite of ourselves—are such as them from first to last we regard with indifference. The incessant dazzle of the language, however,—for the "School for Scandal" is a perfect repertory of wit,—its consummate polish, and the power of quick, apt repartee, that it exhibits in every page, altogether blind us to its defects. The onlyplay that can bear a comparison with it is Congreve's "Love for Love," which shows an equal opulence of wit, and an equal sacrifice to effect, of the free and easy play of nature.
Sheridan had now the ball at his feet. He was the lion of the day, courted by all classes; the proprietor of the most thriving theatrical establishment in London; and, could he but have been industrious, and exercised ordinary forethought, he might have insured, not merely what Thomson calls "an elegant sufficiency," but a splendid independence for life. But indolence was his bane,—the fertile source of all his errors and all his misfortunes,—the rock on which he split,—the quicksand in which he was finally engulfed.
In the year following the production of the "School for Scandal," Sheridan brought out "The Critic,"—an admirable farce, the conception of which is derived from the Duke of Buckingham's "Rehearsal." The best character in this drama, and the most natural and spirited ever drawn by its author, is that of Sir Fretful Plagiary, which is supposed to have been meant for Cumberland, who witnessed the representation from one of the side-boxes, and, being of an irritable, tetchy temperament, must of course have been highly entertained.
We are now to regard Sheridan in a new character. Hitherto we have seen him as the triumphant dramatist,—we are now to see him as the triumphant orator. He had always, from his first entrance into public life, had a strong predilection for politics; and the acquaintance with Burke, Fox, Wyndham, and other eminent statesmen, which he made at Johnson's Literary Club, decided him on trying his chance in the House of Commons. Accordingly, in 1780, he stood, and was returned, for Stafford; and made his first speech, as an avowed partisan of Fox, in the November of that year, on the presentation of a petition complaining of his undue election. Though he was listened to with marked attention, yet so general was the impression that he had failed, that the well-known printer, Woodfall, who happened to be in the gallery at the time, said to him, as they quitted the house together, "Oratory is not your forte; you had much better have stuck to the drama;" on which Sheridan impatiently interrupted him with, "It is in me, however, and, by G—! it shall come out."
But, despite this determined confidence in his own powers, he did not for months afterwards take any active part in the debates; but, when he did speak, spoke briefly and unassumingly, with a view, no doubt, to feel his way. By this shrewd conduct he gained insensibly on the good opinion of the house, and became at length so useful an auxiliary to his party, that, on their accession to office in the year 1782, he was appointed one of the Under Secretaries of State; a snug, easy post, but which he was compelled shortly to resign by the sudden breaking up of the ministry, occasioned by the death of the Marquis of Rockingham.
In the following year he was reinstated in office as Secretary of the Treasury, a coalition having been formed between Lord North and the Whigs, much against Sheridan's wishes; for he had the sagacity to foresee that a junction of such discordant interests could have but one termination; and the result proved that he was right. The Coalition Ministry was speedily defeated, chiefly by the King's own personal exertions; and the Under Secretary of the Treasury found himself once again transported to that Siberia,—the Opposition bench.
Up to this period, Sheridan, though acknowledged to be a skilful, ready debater, had not particularly distinguished himself in the House; but the hour was approaching which was to draw forth all his powers, and place him on the very highest pinnacle of oratorical fame. In the year 1787, on the question of Warren Hastings' conduct as Governor-general of India, he was chosen by his party to bring forward in Parliament the charge relative to the Begum princesses of Oude. His speech on this occasion produced an effect on all who heard it, to which there is no parallel in the records of the senate. It startled the House like a thunderbolt. Men of all parties vied with each other in lavishing on it the most enthusiastic praises. Burke declared it to be the "most astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit united, of which there was any record or tradition." Fox said, "all that he had ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it, dwindled into nothing;" and Pitt—even the cold, reserved Pitt—confessed that, in his opinion, "it surpassed all the eloquence of ancient or modern times, and possessed everything that genius or art could furnish, to agitate and control the human mind." So intense, in short, was the sensation created by this philippic, that the Minister actually moved an adjournment of the debate, in order, as he observed, that honourable members might have time to recover from the mental intoxication into which they had been thrown by the spells of the enchanter!
Sheridan was now considered of so much consequence by the Whig party, that when the trial of Warren Hastings was finally determined on, he was appointed one of the managers to make good the articles of impeachment; and brought forward in Westminster Hall, before the most august assembly in the world, the same charge which he had previously urged in the House of Commons. On this occasion he spoke for four successive days, exciting, as before, the astonishment and admiration of all his hearers. Fortunately this celebrated oration, unlike the former one, has been preserved, and we are therefore enabled to form a tolerable estimate of it. It contains much brilliant wit, dexterous reasoning, and ready sarcasm; but is at the same time defaced by the most tawdry, patchwork imagery. Whenever Sheridan essays the poetic, he is invariably affected and on stilts. He cannot soar, like Burke, into the empyreum; for he had capacity, not imagination. His best passages are his most unlaboured ones; but of these he seems to have thought least. He tricks out superficial thoughts and obvious common-places in glittering trope and metaphor; piles hyperbole on hyperbole, conceit on conceit; and mistakes such showy, elaborate fustian for the true work of the fancy. There is as much difference between the figurative composition of Sheridan and that of Burke, as there is between specious tinsel and sterling gold; yet, throughout the Westminster Hall proceedings, the former appears to have thrown the latter completely into the shade,—so apt is the world to be caught by the mere show and glare of oratory!
The illness of his Majesty, George the Third, and the discussion on the Regency question which took place in consequence, afforded Sheridan numerous other opportunities of distinguishing himself in Parliament. He espoused, of course, the side of the Prince of Wales, whose confidence he soon gained, and at whose splendid entertainments he was ever the favoured guest. He was, in fact, the chief adviser of the heir-apparent, to whom was entrusted the delicatetask of drawing up his state papers; and he would, no doubt, in the event of a change of ministry, have been raised to one of the most valuable posts that his party could offer, had not the King's recovery put an end to his golden expectations.
Shortly after, a dissolution took place, when he hurried off to Stafford, with the intention of again trying his luck with that borough. One of his fellow-passengers chanced to be an elector; on discovering which, Sheridan took the opportunity of asking him for whom he should vote. The other, ignorant who it was that put the question, replied that neither of the candidates were much to be depended on, but that he would vote for the devil sooner than that scamp Sheridan. The conversation here dropped for a while; but, having in the interim contrived to learn from the coachman the name of his opponent, Sheridan resumed the discourse by observing, that he had heard say there were many corrupt rogues among the Stafford electors, and that among them was one Thompson, the biggest scoundrel in the borough. "I am Mr. Thompson," exclaimed his fellow-traveller, crimson with rage. "And I am Mr. Sheridan," rejoined the other. The joke was immediately seen, and the parties became sworn friends ever after. Another anecdote, equally characteristic of Sheridan, is told of him at this period. A few days after his return to town, having hired a hackney-coach to take him from Carlton Palace to his own house, he found himself, as usual, without the means of paying for it. Luckily he espied his friend Richardson in the street, and, calling to him to get in, he engaged him in a favourite discussion, which he was well aware would draw forth all his energies; and then, after adroitly contradicting him, and so rousing his utmost indignation, he affected to grow angry himself; and, exclaiming that he would not remain an instant longer in the same coach with a man capable of holding such language, he insisted on Jehu setting him down, and walked quietly to his own house, which was now but a few yards off, leaving his angry friend to pay the fare!
In the year 1792, Sheridan lost his beautiful and accomplished wife; a loss which he took greatly to heart. It was indeed an irreparable one; for she had long been his best "guide and friend;" and her benign influence removed, he plunged headlong into that reckless extravagance which ultimately sealed his ruin. Henceforth, for some time, he seldom or never distinguished himself in Parliament, though the French Revolution was then setting all England in a ferment; but was chiefly to be heard of in the circles of fashion, and at the Carlton House revels. On the occasion, however, of the Nore Mutiny, he took a decided part, nobly sacrificing all party considerations in his zeal to maintain his country's honour.
About four years after the death of his first wife, Sheridan entered into a second marriage with Miss Ogle, daughter of the Dean of Winchester. His affairs were now in a sad state of embarrassment, for he obtained but a slender jointure with his wife; and, to retrieve them, he once again turned his attention to the stage. In 1799 he brought out the play of "Pizarro," which had a prodigious run, and is still occasionally performed. The style and sentiments of this drama are in the worst possible taste, utterly at variance with nature, and outraging all the legitimate rules of composition. Strange, however, to say its author was as proud of it as even of his "School for Scandal."
On the death of Mr. Pitt, and the accession of the Whigs to power, Sheridan was appointed Treasurer of the Navy,—a situation which he held but a short time, the ministry being unexpectedly broken up by the demise of Mr. Fox. It was while holding this office that he gave a splendid entertainment to the Prince of Wales, which swallowed up his whole year's income. Nevertheless he turned even this absurd extravagance to account; for, having occasion to allude to his resignation in Parliament, he, with matchless effrontery, thanked God that he quitted office as poor as when he entered upon it!
Parliament being dissolved soon after Fox's death, Sheridan, after a violent struggle, was returned for Westminster, but was unseated on the next dissolution, which occurred in 1807. Somewhere about this time his friend the Prince made him a privy-councillor, and appointed him to the Receivership of the Duchy of Cornwall; but, whatever were the pecuniary advantages he derived from this sinecure, they were more than counterbalanced by the destruction of all his theatrical property by fire. This calamity took place in 1809, when Sheridan was on his legs at St. Stephen's. He instantly quitted the House, and, after coolly looking on at the conflagration, retired to a neighbouring tavern, where he was found by a friend, luxuriating over a bottle of wine. On being asked how he could think of enjoying himself at such a time, he replied, "A man may surely be allowed to take a glass by his own fireside!"
We now approach the last and most melancholy period of poor Sheridan's life. The sun that we have seen blazing so long and brilliantly, is now about to set in storm and cloud. Having committed himself with his party by some mysterious intrigues in which he had engaged, relative to the formation of a new ministry, Sheridan lost almost all his political influence; and, on the dissolution of Parliament in 1812, was defeated in his attempts to be re-elected for Stafford. Ruin now begun to stare him in the face. The management of the new theatre had been, some time before, taken out of his hands; his debts were on the increase; his duns grew daily more clamorous; and he had no longer the House of Commons to fly to for shelter. To such a wretched state of destitution was he now reduced, that he was absolutely compelled to pawn his books, his pictures, and all his most valuable furniture. Nor was this the worst. In the spring of 1814 he was arrested and carried to a spunging-house, where he remained in "durance vile" upwards of three days!
From this moment he never again held up his head, or ventured abroad into the world. His heart was broken, and he would sit for hours weeping in the solitude of his chamber. Yet, though hovering on the very threshold of the grave, his duns allowed him not the slightest respite; writs and executions were multiplied against him; and the bailiffs at length forced their way into his house. He was then dying; yet, even in that state, the agents of the law were about to carry him out in blankets, when the interference of a friend saved him from the humiliation of drawing his last breath in a spunging-house. And where were all his fashionable and titled friends during this season of distress? Where were the princes, and dukes, and lords, of whom he had so long been the idol? All had flown; the sight of his death-bed—and such a death-bed!—would, no doubt, have been too much for their delicate sensibilities; and, with the exception of Messrs. Moore, Rogers, and one or two other friends,who remained faithful to the last, there was not one to close his dying eyes. But when all was over, then came the pomp and the pageantry, the titled pall-bearers, the long array of mourners, the public funeral, and the tomb in Westminster Abbey! Poor Sheridan! He was thought of sufficient consequence to be laid by the side of the departed worthies of England; yet the very men who paid this homage to his ashes, scorned to come near him in his poverty!
At the period of his death, which took place in 1816, Sheridan had just completed his sixty-fifth year. His constitution was robust and healthy; and he might have lived full ten years longer, had not grief and his own excesses cut short the span of his days. In youth he was considered handsome; but long confirmed habits of conviviality had obliterated, ere he had yet entered on the autumn of life, every trace of comeliness. His manners were remarkably insinuating, especially to women; his wit ever at command; and his flow of animal spirits unflagging. His worst failing was his unconquerable indolence. To this may be attributed all his misfortunes, and those humiliating expedients to which he was compelled to have recourse in order in ward off the evil day. So deeply was this vice implanted in his nature, that, even when he had to attend the funeral of his old friend Richardson, he could not be prevailed on to set out in time, but arrived after the service was concluded, which, at his particular request, was performed a second time.
Lord Byron, who saw much of him in his decline, has stated—as we see by Moore's admirable life of that poet—that Sheridan's wit was bitter and morose, rather than sparkling or conciliatory. It should be borne in mind, however, that he was then worn down by sickness, disappointed in all his hopes, and deserted by that Prince on whose favour he laid so much stress, and to preserve which he had made so many sacrifices. The concurrent testimony of those who knew him in his best days represents him as having been, like a Wharton or a Villiers, the "life of pleasure and the soul of whim." That in the course of his meteor-like career he committed many indefensible acts, and carried the faculty of non-payment to its highest point of perfection, is true; but, before we finally condemn him, let us consider what was his education, what his original position in society, and, above all, what were his temptations. He was never taught in early life to set a right value on thrifty and industrious habits. His father was an eccentric being from whose example he could derive no benefit; and, at an age when the majority of men are yet in the parental leading-strings, he was cast adrift upon the world, to sink or swim as might happen. Thus situated, without any legitimate profession or certain income, he made his own way to celebrity; and if, while associating with people infinitely his superiors in rank, wealth, and all worldly advantages, he imbibed their extravagances and aped their follies, such weakness is surely a fitter subject for our regret than indignation. At any rate, let us not forget that, if he erred, he paid the penalty; and that many men a thousand times worse than ever he was, but with more tact in concealing their faults, have gone down to the grave honoured and lamented as good citizens and good Christians.
'Tis night—and, save the waterfallThat murmurs through the stony vale,No sound is near the castle wallOn which the moonlight falls so pale!There is no wind, but up on highThe clouds are passing hurriedly;And the bright tops of tree and tow'rLook chilly cold, although the hourIs midtime of a summer's night,When moon is mixt with morning light.There is a terror o'er the scene,As if but lately it had beenA battle-plain,—and dead and dyingWere silent in the shadows lying!Is it within the night's lone hour—The open vale, or closed bower—The murmur of the distant dells,That such wild melancholy dwells?Is it the silvery orbs that sleepSo tranquilly in heaven's deep,That with their silence wake the mindTo such calm sorrow—such refin'd,And mixture sweet of joy and grief,That makes young hearts think tears relief?Why should the softest season bringThe mind such blissful suffering,As oft we feel when Nature's restSeems most divinely—calmly blest?Who ever roam'd on moonlit night,And thought its beam was gaily bright?Who ever heard a serenade,With ev'n a theme of lightest mirth,But melancholy echoes play'd,And sighs within the heart had birth?Who ever trode, in glenwood way,The trellised shadows of the trees,But felt come o'er his spirit's playA mournful cadence like a breeze?—A mingled thrill of pain and bliss—A dream of hopes and mem'ries lost?Oh! even happiest lovers' kiss,By moonlight is with sadness crost!At such an hour the gayest thingIs sicklied o'er with pleasing sorrow:The nightingale would gladly sing,Were we to list its song by morrow!Such is to-night—a soft, calm, summer night—Dim in its beauty,—gloomy in its light!—Breathing a peacefulness o'er vale and hill,But in its quiet, something sadden'd still!W.
'Tis night—and, save the waterfallThat murmurs through the stony vale,No sound is near the castle wallOn which the moonlight falls so pale!
There is no wind, but up on highThe clouds are passing hurriedly;And the bright tops of tree and tow'rLook chilly cold, although the hourIs midtime of a summer's night,When moon is mixt with morning light.
There is a terror o'er the scene,As if but lately it had beenA battle-plain,—and dead and dyingWere silent in the shadows lying!
Is it within the night's lone hour—The open vale, or closed bower—The murmur of the distant dells,That such wild melancholy dwells?Is it the silvery orbs that sleepSo tranquilly in heaven's deep,That with their silence wake the mindTo such calm sorrow—such refin'd,And mixture sweet of joy and grief,That makes young hearts think tears relief?
Why should the softest season bringThe mind such blissful suffering,As oft we feel when Nature's restSeems most divinely—calmly blest?
Who ever roam'd on moonlit night,And thought its beam was gaily bright?Who ever heard a serenade,With ev'n a theme of lightest mirth,But melancholy echoes play'd,And sighs within the heart had birth?Who ever trode, in glenwood way,The trellised shadows of the trees,But felt come o'er his spirit's playA mournful cadence like a breeze?—A mingled thrill of pain and bliss—A dream of hopes and mem'ries lost?Oh! even happiest lovers' kiss,By moonlight is with sadness crost!At such an hour the gayest thingIs sicklied o'er with pleasing sorrow:The nightingale would gladly sing,Were we to list its song by morrow!
Such is to-night—a soft, calm, summer night—Dim in its beauty,—gloomy in its light!—Breathing a peacefulness o'er vale and hill,But in its quiet, something sadden'd still!W.
No. V. May, 1837.
MAY MORNING.
Welcome, sweet May!There is not a dayOn the wings of the whole year round,That sheds in its flightSuch heart-felt delightAs thou dost, with even thy sound!May! May!There's music in May,From the breath of the meadTo the song of the spray!Welcome, fair May!The first dewy rayThat awaken'd the infant earth,Descended when Thou(With spring-summer brow)And Beauty were twins of a birth!May! May!There's something in MayThat even the lipsOf thy son[88]could not say!W.
Welcome, sweet May!There is not a dayOn the wings of the whole year round,That sheds in its flightSuch heart-felt delightAs thou dost, with even thy sound!May! May!There's music in May,From the breath of the meadTo the song of the spray!
Welcome, fair May!The first dewy rayThat awaken'd the infant earth,Descended when Thou(With spring-summer brow)And Beauty were twins of a birth!May! May!There's something in MayThat even the lipsOf thy son[88]could not say!W.
LEARY THE PIPER'S LILT.
This is the first o' the May, boys!Listen to me, an' my planxty pipeWill show ye the fun o' the day, boys!I know for a spree that ye're always ripe,And fond o' gingerbread while it is gilt."Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"First, on thefirsto' the May, boys!Do as the birds did Valentine morn;Find out a lass for the day, boys!And then together gogetherthe thorn—I warrant she'll never be jade or jilt."Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"Go where yemayfor the May, boys!Folla yir nose, an' ye'll find it soon:On every hedge by the way, boys!Ye'll hear it singin' its scented tune,Unless by the breath o' your darlin'kilt!"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"But isn't it betther theMay, boys!All living tolaveon its flow'ry tree,Than wound it bybrakingaway, boys!A branch that in blossom not long will beWhen the rosy dew that it drank is spilt?"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"An' when ye're all tir'd o' the May, boys!Come to the sign o' the Muzzle an' Can:An' there, at the close o' the day, boys!Let ev'ry lass, by the side of her man,Dance till the daisies are spreadin' their quilt."Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"W.
This is the first o' the May, boys!Listen to me, an' my planxty pipeWill show ye the fun o' the day, boys!I know for a spree that ye're always ripe,And fond o' gingerbread while it is gilt."Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"
First, on thefirsto' the May, boys!Do as the birds did Valentine morn;Find out a lass for the day, boys!And then together gogetherthe thorn—I warrant she'll never be jade or jilt."Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"
Go where yemayfor the May, boys!Folla yir nose, an' ye'll find it soon:On every hedge by the way, boys!Ye'll hear it singin' its scented tune,Unless by the breath o' your darlin'kilt!"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"
But isn't it betther theMay, boys!All living tolaveon its flow'ry tree,Than wound it bybrakingaway, boys!A branch that in blossom not long will beWhen the rosy dew that it drank is spilt?"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"
An' when ye're all tir'd o' the May, boys!Come to the sign o' the Muzzle an' Can:An' there, at the close o' the day, boys!Let ev'ry lass, by the side of her man,Dance till the daisies are spreadin' their quilt."Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"W.
OR,THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.
BY BOZ.ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
OLIVER CONTINUES THE REFRACTORY.
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket, and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.
"Why, what's the matter with the boy?" said the old pauper.
"Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in tones so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.
"Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah; "Oliver, sir,—Oliver has——"
"What? what?" interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away: he hasn't run away; has he, Noah?"
"No, sir, no; not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte, and then missis. Oh, what dreadful pain it is! such agony, please sir!" and here Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that speaking suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before: and, when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever, rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
Oliver and Old Gentleman
Oliver introduced to the respectable Old Gentleman
The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process.
"It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir—by young Twist."
"By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. "I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!"
"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
"And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole.
"And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble.
"No, he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he wanted to—"
"Ah! said he wanted to—did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"Yes, sir," replied Noah; "and, please sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there directly, and flog him, 'cause master's out."
"Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy—a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble."
"No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane for purposes of parochial flagellation.
"Tell Sowerberry not to spare him, either. They'll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"I'll take care, sir," replied the beadle. And, the cocked hat and cane having been by this time adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved, for Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick with undiminished vigour at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent toparley before opening the door: with this view, he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude, and then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone,
"Oliver!"
"Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside.
"Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes," replied Oliver.
"Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble.
"No!" replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole, drew himself up to his full height, and looked from one to another of the three bystanders in mute astonishment.
"Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you."
"It's not madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation; "it's meat."
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
"Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've overfed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am, unbecoming a person of his condition, as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit either? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened."
"Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling. "This comes of being liberal!"
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver had consisted in a profuse bestowal upon him, of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so that there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation, of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent in thought, word, or deed.
"Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again. "The only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so till he's a little starved down, and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through his apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family—excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry. Both the nurse and doctor said that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman weeks before."
At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver just hearing enough to know that some further allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking with a violence which renderedevery other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture, and Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar.
Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched, and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
"Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry, giving Oliver a shake, and a sound box on the ear.
"He called my mother names," replied Oliver, sullenly.
"Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse."
"She didn't!" said Oliver.
"She did!" said Mrs. Sowerberry.
"It's a lie!" said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went,—it was not very extensive,—kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps because it was his interest to be so, perhaps because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and, at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him up stairs to his dismal bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of dogged contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry, for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, if they had roasted him alive. But, now that there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor, and, hiding hisface in his hands, wept such tears as God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him.
For a long time Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet, and having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, gently undid the fastenings of the door and looked abroad.
It was a cold dark night. The stars seemed to the boy's eyes further from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind, and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees on the earth looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door, and, having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters Oliver rose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around,—one moment's pause of hesitation,—he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons as they went out, toiling up the hill; he took the same route, and arriving at a footpath across the fields, which he thought after some distance led out again into the road, struck into it, and walked quickly on.
Along this same footpath, Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this, and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; and, as he stopped, he raised his pale face, and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him before he went, for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate; they had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.
"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?"
"Nobody but me," replied the child.
"You mustn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver; "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune some long way off, I don't know where. How pale you are!"
"I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop."
"Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see you again, Dick; I know I shall. You will be well and happy."
"I hope so," replied the child, "after I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right. Oliver; because I dream so much of heaven, and angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. "Good-b'ye dear! God bless you!"
The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through all the struggles and sufferings of his after life, through all the troubles and changes of many weary years, he never once forgot it.
OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON, AND ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROADA STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated, and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now; and, though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges by turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest at the side of a mile-stone, and began to think for the first time where he had better go and try to live.
The stone by which he was seated bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind. London!—that great large place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there. He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London, and that there were ways of living in that vast city which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings in his bundle; and a penny—a gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more thanordinarily well—in his pocket. "A clean shirt," thought Oliver, "is a very comfortable thing,—very; and so are two pairs of darned stockings, and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk in winter time." But Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow, and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields, and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
He felt cold and stiff when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf in the very first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again; for his feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air only made him worse; and, when he set forward on his journey next morning, he could hardly crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any notice of him, and even those, told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn't deserve anything; and the coach rattled away, and left only a cloud of dust behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up, warning all persons who begged within the district that they would be sent to jail, which frightened Oliver very much, and made him very glad to get out of them with all possible expedition. In others he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed; a proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady's ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer's house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, theytalked about the beadle, which brought Oliver's heart up into his mouth,—very often the only thing he had there, for many hours together.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolent old lady, Oliver's troubles would have been shortened by the very same process which put an end to his mother's; in other words, he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king's highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefooted in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver's soul than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed, the street was empty, not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sun was rising in all his splendid beauty, but the light only seemed to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation as he sat with bleeding feet and covered with dust upon a cold door-step.
By degrees the shutters were opened, the window-blinds were drawn up, and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg, and there he sat.
He had been crouching on the step for some time, gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do with ease in a few hours what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish, when he was roused by observing that a boy who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over, and, walking close up to Oliver, said,
"Hullo! my covey, what's the row?"
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer was about his own age, but one of the queerest-looking boys that Oliver had ever seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough, and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had got about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age, with rather bow-legs, and little sharp ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so slightly that it threatened to fall off every moment, andwould have done so very often if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back halfway up his arm to get his hands out of the sleeves, apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, for there he kept them. He was altogether as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood three feet six, or something less, in his bluchers.
"Hullo, my covey, what's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.
"I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver, the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way,—I have been walking these seven days."
"Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know wot a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on."
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question.
"My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madg'st'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always going up, and nivir coming down agen. Was you never on the mill?"
"What mill?" inquired Oliver.
"What mill!—why,themill,—the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a stone jug, and always goes better when the wind's low with people than when it's high, acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark,—only one bob and a magpie; but,asfarasit goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There: now then, morrice."
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran;" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in by the direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.
"Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
"Yes."
"Got any lodgings?"
"No."
"Money?"
"No."
The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as the big-coat sleeves would let them go.
"Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver.
"Yes, I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?"
"I do indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country."
"Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night, and I know a 'spectable old genelman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change; that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me?—Oh, no,—not in the least,—by no means,—certainly not."
The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical, and finished the beer as he did so.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted, especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman already referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue, from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet andprotegéof the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
Mr. Dawkins's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but as he had a somewhat flighty and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by thesobriquetof "The artful Dodger," Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's-road, struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler's Wells theatre, through Exmouth-street and Coppice-row, down the little court by the side of the workhouse, across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-hole, thence into Little Saffron-hill, and so into Saffron-hill theGreat, along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours. There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place were the public-houses, and in them, the lowest orders of Irish (who are generally the lowest orders of anything) were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in the filth; and from several of the doorways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, upon no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill: his conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field-lane, and, drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them.
"Now, then," cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.
"Plummy and slam!" was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that it was all right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed upon the wall at the farther end of the passage, and a man's face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
"There's two on you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?"
"A new pal," replied Jack, pulling Oliver forward.
"Where did he come from?"
"Greenland. Is Fagin up stairs?"
"Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!" The candle was drawn back, and the face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and with the other firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal-table before the fire, uponwhich was a candle stuck in a ginger-beer bottle; two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare, and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and a clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks were huddled side by side on the floor; and seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes and drinking spirits with all the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew, and then turned round and grinned at Oliver, as did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
"This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend, Oliver Twist."
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentlemen with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard,—especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them when he went to bed. These civilities would probably have been extended much further, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew's toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered them.