Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight.“Good-Bye!”So, upon the verge of sorrowStood we blindly hand in hand,Whispering of a happy morrowIn the undiscovered land!The world is not half so bad a place as some discontented people make out.Our fellow-mortals are notalwaysstriving after their own interests, to the neglect of their duty towards their neighbour:—the mass of humanity not entirely selfish at heart—no, nor yet the larger portion of it, by a good way!Of course, there are some ill-natured people. Blisters, are these; moral cataplasms imposed on us, probably, to produce that very feeling we admire, acting as they do by contrast—one of the most vivifying principles of mental action.But, when we come to calculate their percentage, how very few they are in comparison with the better-disposed numbers of God’s creatures that live and breathe, and sicken and die in our midst, and whose kindly ministrations on behalf of their suffering brethren and sisters around them, remain generally unknown, until they are far beyond any praise that the world can give.Yes, humanity is not so debased, but that its good points still excel its bad! Just as you see but one real miser in a fixed proportion of men; so, are there, I believe, quite as small a representative set of absolutely heartless persons. I am certain that the “good Samaritans” outvie the “Levites” in our daily existence—opposed, though my theory may be, to the ruling of the old doggerel, which cautions us that—“’Tis a very good world to live in,To spend and to lend, and to give in;But,To beg, or to borrow, and to get a man’s own,’Tis the very worst world that ever was known!”Look at my present case, for instance. Of course, personal instances are, as a general rule, wrong; but, one cannot very well argue without them—especially when telling a story, and when they come up so opportunely in front of one’s nose, so to speak.No sooner was it generally known in Saint Canon’s that I was going away, than I met with offers of sympathy and assistance from many that I did not expect. I did not require their aid, yet, the proffer of it could not help being grateful to one’s feelings, all the same.There was Horner now. You know that I was always in the habit of “chaffing” him, taking a malicious pleasure in so doing, from the reason that he could not “chaff” me back again in return. Well, you wouldn’t have supposed that he bore me any great love or friendship, or felt kindly disposed towards me? But, he did!About a week after I left the Obstructor General’s Office, he came to me—I assure you, much to my astonishment—offering me his assistance.“Bai-eyJe-ove! Lorton,” said he, “sawy to he-ah you have left us, you know—ah. Thawght you might be in a hole, you know—ah? And, Bai-ey Je-ove! I say, old fellah,”—he added, almost dropping his drawl in his earnestness,—“if I can help you in any way at all—ah, I should weally be vewy glad—ah!”The “us,” whom I had “left—ah,” referred, of course, to officialdom; but, it was kind, wasn’t it?There was old Shuffler, too.“You ain’t a goin’ to Amerikey, sir, is you?” he asked me just before my departure, meeting me in the street.“Yes, I am, Shuffler,” I replied, “and pretty soon, too!”“Lor! Mister Lorton; but I’m right loth to ’ear it! I’ve got a brother myself over in Amerikey; s’pose now, sir, I was to give you a letter to ’im? It might, you know, some’ow or hother, be o’ service, hay?”“America is a large place, Shuffler,” I answered.—“Whereabouts is he over there, eh?”“Well, sir,” said he, “I don’t ’zackly knows were ’e his; but I dessay you’ll come across him, sir. I’ll give you the letter, at hany rate;”—and he did too, although I combated his resolution. I need hardly add that I never met the said “brother in Amerikey” of his; so, that it was of no use to me, as I told him—although, it was a considerate action on Shuffler’s part!Lady Dasher, also, did not forget me.Believing that the last of the Mohicans still lived, and that the continent of the setting sun resembled Hounslow Heath in the old highwaymen’s days, she presented to me—a blunderbuss!It was one with which her “poor dear papa” had been in the habit of frightening obstreperous White Boys, who might assail the sacred premises of Ballybrogue Castle—the ancestral seat of the Earls of Planetree in sportive Tipperary, as I believe I’ve told you before. The weapon, she informed me, was a most efficient one, having once been known—when missing the advocate of “young Ireland” it was aimed at—to demolish a whole litter of those little gentlemen with curly tails who assist, in conjunction with the “praties,” in “paying the rint” of the trusting natives of the Emerald Isle; consequently, its destructive powers were beyond question, and it might really, she thought, be of the utmost utility to me on the western prairies, where, she believed, I was going to “camp out” for ever!My lady gave me, in addition, a piece of advice, which she implored me always to bear in mind throughout my life—as she had invariably done—and that was, that, “Though I might unfortunately be poor, never to forget being proud”:—it was the pass-word to her morbid system.And the vicar, and dear little Miss Pimpernell, and Monsieur Parole d’Honneur—how can I speak of all their kindness—evinced in many, many ways—ere I left the old parish and its whilom associations behind me?Little Miss Pimpernell worked a supply of knitted socks, “comforters,” and muffetees, sufficient to last me for a three years’ cruise in the Polar circle in search of the north-west passage. The vicar gave me letters of introduction to some American friends of his, who received me afterwards most kindly in virtue of his credentials—he wanted to do much more for me, but I would not allow him; and as for Monsieur, hewouldnot be denied, in spite of my telling him, over and over again, that I had no need of temporal assistance.“Ah! but yes!” he said to me, in a parting visit he paid me the night before I started. “You cannote deceives me, my youngish friends! Lamartine was un republicain, hé?—Bien, he go un voyage en Orient; you, my dears Meestaire Lorton, are going to walk on a voyage en Ouest—dat is vraisemble. Ha! ha! Ze one visite the Arabes of ze old world, ze oders ze Arabes of ze nouvelle; and,—bote requires ze money, ze l’argent, ze cash. Ha! ha! Non, my youngish friends, you cannote deceives me!”“But, I assure you, Monsieur Parole,” I replied. “I really have plenty—much more, indeed, than I absolutely require.”“Ah! but yes! My dears, youmoosttake him to obliges me. I have gote here a leetle somme I doos note want. If you takes him note, I peetch him avays—peetch him avays, vraiment!”And he handed me a little roll of banknotes, which I subsequently found to contain a hundred pounds.It was, as I say, of no use my trying to get him to take them back; he would have no denial:—he absolutely got offended with me when I persisted in my refusal.“Non!” he said. “When you come back a reech mans, you can pays me back; but, note till den! Non, Monsieur Lorton! I believes you considers me a friend. You offend me if you refuse! Take hims for ze memory de notre amitie!”What could I do? I had to take the money after that.The onlygreatthing that grieved me at parting was the thought that I could not see Min, to have one parting word; but, even that favour was afforded me:—God was very good to me!I had gone to the vicarage to say a last good-bye to the dear friends there. I was ushered into Miss Pimpernell’s parlour; butshewas not there. Somebody else was, though; for, who should get up from the dear old lady’s seat in the fireside corner—where she always sat, winter and summer alike—but, my darling!The surprise was almost too much for me, it was so unexpected. I thought it was her ghost at first.“Min!” I exclaimed.“Oh, Frank!”—she said, coming forwards eagerly—“and could you have the heart to go away without my seeing you again?”I drew back.“Min,”—said I,—“do not come near me! You do not know what has occurred; how I have sinned; how unworthy I am even to speak to you!”She would not be denied, however. She came nearer me, and took my hand. “But, you have repented, Frank,”—she said—“have you not?”“Oh, my darling!”—I said,—“Ihaverepented; but that will not bring back the past. I can never hope to be forgiven, I know. I ought not to speak to you even!”“Ah, Frank!”—she replied, looking up into my face with her dear grey eyes, which I had thought I would never look upon again.—“Don’t you remember that sermon the vicar preached last year, when we were in church together? and, don’t you remember the words of his text, how assuring they ought to be to us?—‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool!’”We were both silent.Presently, as we sat side by side, Min spoke to me again.“You will not forget me, Frank, will you?” she asked.“That is very likely!” I said, laughing in my heart at the idea.“And you will be good, Frank, will you not?”“My darling,” I said, “with God’s grace I shall never from henceforth be unworthy of your trust in me, either in thought, in word, or, in deed.”“But America issofar off!” she said again after a bit, with a tender little sigh.“Not soveryfar,”—I replied,—“and, though my body may be a few miles distant from you—for itisonly a few miles over the sea—you may know that my heart will always be with you. I shall be ever thinking of the time when I can come back and claim you as my own darling little wife!”“But I can make no promise, you know, Frank!”—she said.“Never mind that, darling!”—I replied.—“I am sanguine enough to believe you will not change towards me if I deserve you by my life; andIshall never marry anyone else, I know!”“It is so hard, too, our not being able to write to each other! I will never be able to know what you are doing!” she said, again.“Ah, yes, you will!” said I, to encourage her.As she became despondent, I got sanguine; although, a tear in the soft grey eyes would have unmanned me at once.“Miss Pimpernell is going to write to me, you know,”—I continued,—“and I to her; so you will be made acquainted with all I do and, even, think. I will write fully to the dear old lady, I promise you!”She gave me a little Bible and Prayer-book, before we separated, in which she had written my name; and, told me that she would pray every night for me, that I might know that her prayers joined mine, and that both, together, would go up before the Master’s throne - notwithstanding that the Atlantic might roll between us.She also gave me a likeness of herself, which was of more solace to me afterwards than I can tell.A little, simple photograph it was, that has lain before my eyes a thousand times—in hope, in sadness, in sickness, in disappointment; and, that has always cheered me and encouraged me in some of the darkest moments of my life, ever bringing back to my mind the darling words of the giver.And then, we parted.One sobbing sigh, that expressed a world of emotion. One frenzied clasp of her to my heart, as if I could never let her go; and, our “Good-bye” was spoken, accomplished:—a good-bye whose recollection was to last! until I returned to claim her, receiving the welcome that her darling rosebud lips would gladly utter; and watching, the while, the unspoken delight that would then, I know, dance from the loving, soul-lit, truth-telling, grey eyes!

So, upon the verge of sorrowStood we blindly hand in hand,Whispering of a happy morrowIn the undiscovered land!

The world is not half so bad a place as some discontented people make out.

Our fellow-mortals are notalwaysstriving after their own interests, to the neglect of their duty towards their neighbour:—the mass of humanity not entirely selfish at heart—no, nor yet the larger portion of it, by a good way!

Of course, there are some ill-natured people. Blisters, are these; moral cataplasms imposed on us, probably, to produce that very feeling we admire, acting as they do by contrast—one of the most vivifying principles of mental action.

But, when we come to calculate their percentage, how very few they are in comparison with the better-disposed numbers of God’s creatures that live and breathe, and sicken and die in our midst, and whose kindly ministrations on behalf of their suffering brethren and sisters around them, remain generally unknown, until they are far beyond any praise that the world can give.

Yes, humanity is not so debased, but that its good points still excel its bad! Just as you see but one real miser in a fixed proportion of men; so, are there, I believe, quite as small a representative set of absolutely heartless persons. I am certain that the “good Samaritans” outvie the “Levites” in our daily existence—opposed, though my theory may be, to the ruling of the old doggerel, which cautions us that—

“’Tis a very good world to live in,To spend and to lend, and to give in;But,To beg, or to borrow, and to get a man’s own,’Tis the very worst world that ever was known!”

Look at my present case, for instance. Of course, personal instances are, as a general rule, wrong; but, one cannot very well argue without them—especially when telling a story, and when they come up so opportunely in front of one’s nose, so to speak.

No sooner was it generally known in Saint Canon’s that I was going away, than I met with offers of sympathy and assistance from many that I did not expect. I did not require their aid, yet, the proffer of it could not help being grateful to one’s feelings, all the same.

There was Horner now. You know that I was always in the habit of “chaffing” him, taking a malicious pleasure in so doing, from the reason that he could not “chaff” me back again in return. Well, you wouldn’t have supposed that he bore me any great love or friendship, or felt kindly disposed towards me? But, he did!

About a week after I left the Obstructor General’s Office, he came to me—I assure you, much to my astonishment—offering me his assistance.

“Bai-eyJe-ove! Lorton,” said he, “sawy to he-ah you have left us, you know—ah. Thawght you might be in a hole, you know—ah? And, Bai-ey Je-ove! I say, old fellah,”—he added, almost dropping his drawl in his earnestness,—“if I can help you in any way at all—ah, I should weally be vewy glad—ah!”

The “us,” whom I had “left—ah,” referred, of course, to officialdom; but, it was kind, wasn’t it?

There was old Shuffler, too.

“You ain’t a goin’ to Amerikey, sir, is you?” he asked me just before my departure, meeting me in the street.

“Yes, I am, Shuffler,” I replied, “and pretty soon, too!”

“Lor! Mister Lorton; but I’m right loth to ’ear it! I’ve got a brother myself over in Amerikey; s’pose now, sir, I was to give you a letter to ’im? It might, you know, some’ow or hother, be o’ service, hay?”

“America is a large place, Shuffler,” I answered.—“Whereabouts is he over there, eh?”

“Well, sir,” said he, “I don’t ’zackly knows were ’e his; but I dessay you’ll come across him, sir. I’ll give you the letter, at hany rate;”—and he did too, although I combated his resolution. I need hardly add that I never met the said “brother in Amerikey” of his; so, that it was of no use to me, as I told him—although, it was a considerate action on Shuffler’s part!

Lady Dasher, also, did not forget me.

Believing that the last of the Mohicans still lived, and that the continent of the setting sun resembled Hounslow Heath in the old highwaymen’s days, she presented to me—a blunderbuss!

It was one with which her “poor dear papa” had been in the habit of frightening obstreperous White Boys, who might assail the sacred premises of Ballybrogue Castle—the ancestral seat of the Earls of Planetree in sportive Tipperary, as I believe I’ve told you before. The weapon, she informed me, was a most efficient one, having once been known—when missing the advocate of “young Ireland” it was aimed at—to demolish a whole litter of those little gentlemen with curly tails who assist, in conjunction with the “praties,” in “paying the rint” of the trusting natives of the Emerald Isle; consequently, its destructive powers were beyond question, and it might really, she thought, be of the utmost utility to me on the western prairies, where, she believed, I was going to “camp out” for ever!

My lady gave me, in addition, a piece of advice, which she implored me always to bear in mind throughout my life—as she had invariably done—and that was, that, “Though I might unfortunately be poor, never to forget being proud”:—it was the pass-word to her morbid system.

And the vicar, and dear little Miss Pimpernell, and Monsieur Parole d’Honneur—how can I speak of all their kindness—evinced in many, many ways—ere I left the old parish and its whilom associations behind me?

Little Miss Pimpernell worked a supply of knitted socks, “comforters,” and muffetees, sufficient to last me for a three years’ cruise in the Polar circle in search of the north-west passage. The vicar gave me letters of introduction to some American friends of his, who received me afterwards most kindly in virtue of his credentials—he wanted to do much more for me, but I would not allow him; and as for Monsieur, hewouldnot be denied, in spite of my telling him, over and over again, that I had no need of temporal assistance.

“Ah! but yes!” he said to me, in a parting visit he paid me the night before I started. “You cannote deceives me, my youngish friends! Lamartine was un republicain, hé?—Bien, he go un voyage en Orient; you, my dears Meestaire Lorton, are going to walk on a voyage en Ouest—dat is vraisemble. Ha! ha! Ze one visite the Arabes of ze old world, ze oders ze Arabes of ze nouvelle; and,—bote requires ze money, ze l’argent, ze cash. Ha! ha! Non, my youngish friends, you cannote deceives me!”

“But, I assure you, Monsieur Parole,” I replied. “I really have plenty—much more, indeed, than I absolutely require.”

“Ah! but yes! My dears, youmoosttake him to obliges me. I have gote here a leetle somme I doos note want. If you takes him note, I peetch him avays—peetch him avays, vraiment!”

And he handed me a little roll of banknotes, which I subsequently found to contain a hundred pounds.

It was, as I say, of no use my trying to get him to take them back; he would have no denial:—he absolutely got offended with me when I persisted in my refusal.

“Non!” he said. “When you come back a reech mans, you can pays me back; but, note till den! Non, Monsieur Lorton! I believes you considers me a friend. You offend me if you refuse! Take hims for ze memory de notre amitie!”

What could I do? I had to take the money after that.

The onlygreatthing that grieved me at parting was the thought that I could not see Min, to have one parting word; but, even that favour was afforded me:—God was very good to me!

I had gone to the vicarage to say a last good-bye to the dear friends there. I was ushered into Miss Pimpernell’s parlour; butshewas not there. Somebody else was, though; for, who should get up from the dear old lady’s seat in the fireside corner—where she always sat, winter and summer alike—but, my darling!

The surprise was almost too much for me, it was so unexpected. I thought it was her ghost at first.

“Min!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, Frank!”—she said, coming forwards eagerly—“and could you have the heart to go away without my seeing you again?”

I drew back.

“Min,”—said I,—“do not come near me! You do not know what has occurred; how I have sinned; how unworthy I am even to speak to you!”

She would not be denied, however. She came nearer me, and took my hand. “But, you have repented, Frank,”—she said—“have you not?”

“Oh, my darling!”—I said,—“Ihaverepented; but that will not bring back the past. I can never hope to be forgiven, I know. I ought not to speak to you even!”

“Ah, Frank!”—she replied, looking up into my face with her dear grey eyes, which I had thought I would never look upon again.—“Don’t you remember that sermon the vicar preached last year, when we were in church together? and, don’t you remember the words of his text, how assuring they ought to be to us?—‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool!’”

We were both silent.

Presently, as we sat side by side, Min spoke to me again.

“You will not forget me, Frank, will you?” she asked.

“That is very likely!” I said, laughing in my heart at the idea.

“And you will be good, Frank, will you not?”

“My darling,” I said, “with God’s grace I shall never from henceforth be unworthy of your trust in me, either in thought, in word, or, in deed.”

“But America issofar off!” she said again after a bit, with a tender little sigh.

“Not soveryfar,”—I replied,—“and, though my body may be a few miles distant from you—for itisonly a few miles over the sea—you may know that my heart will always be with you. I shall be ever thinking of the time when I can come back and claim you as my own darling little wife!”

“But I can make no promise, you know, Frank!”—she said.

“Never mind that, darling!”—I replied.—“I am sanguine enough to believe you will not change towards me if I deserve you by my life; andIshall never marry anyone else, I know!”

“It is so hard, too, our not being able to write to each other! I will never be able to know what you are doing!” she said, again.

“Ah, yes, you will!” said I, to encourage her.

As she became despondent, I got sanguine; although, a tear in the soft grey eyes would have unmanned me at once.

“Miss Pimpernell is going to write to me, you know,”—I continued,—“and I to her; so you will be made acquainted with all I do and, even, think. I will write fully to the dear old lady, I promise you!”

She gave me a little Bible and Prayer-book, before we separated, in which she had written my name; and, told me that she would pray every night for me, that I might know that her prayers joined mine, and that both, together, would go up before the Master’s throne - notwithstanding that the Atlantic might roll between us.

She also gave me a likeness of herself, which was of more solace to me afterwards than I can tell.

A little, simple photograph it was, that has lain before my eyes a thousand times—in hope, in sadness, in sickness, in disappointment; and, that has always cheered me and encouraged me in some of the darkest moments of my life, ever bringing back to my mind the darling words of the giver.

And then, we parted.

One sobbing sigh, that expressed a world of emotion. One frenzied clasp of her to my heart, as if I could never let her go; and, our “Good-bye” was spoken, accomplished:—a good-bye whose recollection was to last! until I returned to claim her, receiving the welcome that her darling rosebud lips would gladly utter; and watching, the while, the unspoken delight that would then, I know, dance from the loving, soul-lit, truth-telling, grey eyes!

Chapter Nine.Across the Atlantic.O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,Survey our empire and behold our home!“Sir,” said the Honourable Mister Pigeonbarley of Missouri, “weaira peculiar people. Jes so!”Have you never noticed how, when travelling on a long journey, the wheels of the railway carriage in which you are sitting seem always to be rattling out some carefully studied tune, to which the jolts of the vehicle beat a concerted bass; while, the slackening of the coupling chains, in combination with the concussion of the buffers as they hitch up suddenly again, sounds a regular obbligato accompaniment—the scream of the steam whistle, and the thundering whish and whirr of the train through a deep cutting or tunnel, or over a bridge with water below, coming in occasionally as a sort of symphony to the main air?Have you never noticed this?No? Bless me, what averyunimaginative person you are! I have, frequently; and yet, I do not think I am any brighter than the ordinary run of people.Drawn some odd thousands of miles by the iron horse, as it has been my fortune to be during different periods of my life, I have seldom failed to associate his progress thus with those lesser Melpomenean nymphs, who may be selected to watch over the destinies of the steam god and fill up their leisure hours by “riding on a rail,” in the favourite fashion of the South Carolinian darkeys.Of course the carriage wheels do not perpetually sing the same song:—that would be monotonous.They know better than that, I can assure you. Sometimes they rattle out the maddest of mad waltzes—such as that which the imprudent German young lady, living near the Harz Mountains, found herself dancing one day against her will, when she had given expression to the very improper statement, that, she would “take the devil for a partner,” if he only would put in an appearance at the gay and festive scene at which she was then present. Sometimes, again, they will evolve, note by note, the dreariest air that the composer of the Dead March inSaulcould have devised; or, croon you out a soothing lullaby, should you feel sleepy, to which the charming melody of “The Cradle Song” would bear no comparison. In fact, the nymphs know their work well; and so alter their strains as to suit every mood and humour of the variously-tempered travellers that listen to their musical cadences.As I proceeded now on my way to Southampton, where I was to take the ocean steamer for my passage to America, the railway nymphs were busy with their harmonies.Not sad or dispiriting by any means, but briskly enlivening was their lay.They seemed to me to sing—“You’re off on your travels! Off on your travels,To fame and fortune in another land!To wait and work, Frank! Wait and work, Frank!Ere you gain your own Min’s hand!”And, perhaps, it was from the recollection of Monsieur Parole d’Honneur’s kindness, and from my having been in company with him that winter in Paris, where I had heard that opera of Offenbach’s for the first time, but the tune of the carriage wheels was strangely like the “Pars pour Crete” chorus in the second act ofLa Belle Hélène—where, if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make room for the advent of Paris, the “gay deceiver,” the successful intriguant!Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting, hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window, waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by.I remember every incident on the way.Not a thing escaped me.The outlook for baggage at Waterloo; the feeing of the obsequious porter expectant of a douceur; the mistake I made in getting my ticket which had to be rectified at the last moment; the confused ringing of bells and clattering of trucks up and down the platform; the slamming of doors and hurrying of feet to and fro:—then, the sudden pause in all these sounds; the shrill whistle, betokening all was ready; the converting of all the employés into animated sign-posts, that waved their arms wildly; the grunt and wheeze from the engine, as if from a giant in pain; the sharp jerk, and then the steady pull at the carriage in which I was sitting; the “pant, pant! puff, puff!” of the iron horse, as he buckled to his work with a will; and then, finally, the preliminary oscillation of the ponderous train, the trembling and rumbling of creaking wheels along the rails—as we glided and bumped, slowly but steadily, out of the terminus—the distance signal showing “all clear” to us, and blocking the up line with the red semaphore of “danger.”Past Vauxhall, once famed for its revelry—conspicuous, now, only for its picturesque expanse of candle-factory roofs and the dead boarding that is displayed skirting the railway:—Clapham, villa-studded and with gardens laid out in bird’s-eye perspective:—Surbiton, dainty in its pretty little road-side station, all garnished with roses and shell-walks:—Farnborough, where a large proportion of our passengers, of military proclivities, alight en route for Aldershot, and celebrated of yore for the “grand international” contest with fisticuffs between a British Sayers and a Transatlantic Heenan:—Basingstoke, the great ugly “junction” of many twisted rails and curiously-intricate stacks of chimneys; until, at length, Southampton was reached—a town smelling of docks and coal-tar, and dismal in the evening gloom.Not a feature of the landscape on my way down was lost to me; although, as I’ve said, I was thinking of Min all the time the train was speeding on.I was wondering within myself, in a duplicate system of thought, when I would see the scene again, in all its variations, as I saw it clearly, now; and whether the green meadows, and fir-summited hills, and shining water-courses that wandered through and around them—nay, whether the very telegraph posts and wires, and the country stations we rattled past so quickly and unceremoniously, as if they were not worth stopping for—would look the same on my coming back to England and my darling once more!But, I was not sad or down-hearted.Her last words had rendered me almost as hopeful as she professed to be; so, in spite of my great grief at our parting, a grief which was too deep for words, I was endeavouring more to look forward sanguinely to the future than dwell on all our past unhappiness—which I tried to put away from me as a bad dream.I was only musing, that’s all.It is impossible to keep one’s mind idle, you know; for, even when engaged in an abstract contemplation of the most engrossing theme, the fancywillstray off into by-paths that lead to strangely dissimilar ideas and very disconnected associations.As the German steamer in which I was going to New York did not start until next day, I put up for the night at Radley’s—that haven of shore-comfort to the Red-Sea-roasted, Biscay-tossed, sea-sickened Indian warriors returning home by the P and O vessels—where, you may be sure, I met with every attention that my constitution required in the way of rest and refreshment; and, at midday on the morrow, embarking on board the statelyHerzog von Gottingen, I passed through the Needles, outward-bound across the Atlantic to the “New World” of promise!Ocean voyages are so common now-a-days that they are not worth mentioning.Mine was no exception to the rule; the only noticeable point that I observed being the rare courageous temperament of the Teutonic ladies, and the undaunted spirit they displayed in “fighting their battles o’er again” at the saloon table, in despite of the insidious attacks of Neptune. No matter how frequently the fell malady of the sea should assail them—at breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or at any of the other and many meals which the ship’s caterer thought necessary to our diurnal wants—these delicate fair ones would “never say die,” on having to beat a precipitate retreat to their cabins. They would return again, I assure you, in a few minutes, to resume the repast which had been temporarily interrupted; smiling as if nothing had happened, and showing, too, that nothinghadhappened, to seriously interfere with their deglutinal faculties!This was not my first voyage—I did not tell you so before?Well, suppose I did not; don’t you remember my saying that I was not aware of being under any obligation to you which would make me regard you as the receptor ofallmy secrets?This was not my first voyage, I say; consequently, ship-board life was no novelty to me—nor the Atlantic Ocean, either, for that matter. I was used to the one, I had seen the other previously. I was as much at home to both, in fact, as I had been in the vicarage parlour standing beside dear little Miss Pimpernell’s old arm-chair in the chimney corner!I love the sea, in rest or unrest.It is never monotonous to me, as some find it; for I think it ever-changing, ever new. I love it always—under every aspect of its kaleidoscopic face.When, bright with mellow sunshine, it reflects the intense blue of the ocean sky above, with a brisk breeze topping its many-furrowed waves—that are racing by and leaping over each other like a parcel of schoolboys at play—and cutting off sheets and sparkling showers of the prismatic foam that exhibits every tint of the rainbow—azure and orange, violet, light-green, and pale luminous white,—scatters it broadcast into the air around; whence it falls into yeasty hollows, a sort of feathery snow of a fairy texture, just suited for the bridal veils of the Nereides—only to be churned over again and tossed up anew by the wanton wind in its frolicsome mirth.Or, when, in a dead calm, it appears to lie sleeping, heaving its tumid bosom in occasional long-drawn sighs—that make it rise and sink in rounded ridges of an oily look and a leadeny tinge, except at the equator, where they shine at midday like a burnished mirror.Or, again, when storm-tossed and tempest-weary, it rages and raves with all its pent-up fury broken loose—goaded to frenzy by the howling lashes of Aeolus and the roar of the storm-fiend. Then it is grand and awful in its majesty; and when I see it so it makes me mad with a triumphant sense of power in overriding it—as it boils beneath the vessel’s keel, longing to overwhelm it and me, yet impotent of evil!Whether in calm or in storm—at dawn of day, with the rosy flush of the rising sun blushing the horizon up to the zenith, or at night, with the twinkling stars shining down into its sombre depths and the recurring flashes of sheet lightning lighting up its immensity, which seems vaster as the darkness grows—it is to me always attractive, ever lovable.In its bright buoyancy it exhilarates me; in its calm, it causes me to dream; and, in its wild moods, when heaven and sea appear to meet together in wrestling embrace, I can—if joyous at the time—almost shout aloud in ecstasy of admiring awe and kindred riot of mind; while, should I feel sad during the carnival of the elements, I get reflective, and—“As I watch the oceanIn pitiless commotion,Like the thoughts, now surging wildly through my storm-tost breast,The snow-capt, heaving billowsSeem to me as lace-fring’d pillowsOf the deep Deep’s bed of rest!”Did you ever chance to read Châteaubriand’sGénie du Christianisme?It is a queer book for a Frenchman to have written, but abounding in beautiful description and startling bits of observation. I remember, one evening on the passage out, when it was very rough, having a particular sentence of this work especially called to my mind. It was that in which the author discourses on the Deity, and says,—“I do not profess to be anything myself; I am only a solitary unit. But I have often heard learned men disputing about a chief originator, or prime cause, and I have never been able to comprehend their arguments; for I have always noticed that it is at the sight of the stupendous movements of nature that the idea of this unknown supreme ‘origin’ becomes manifested to the mind of man.”This sentence was the more impressed on my memory, from the fact, that, on the very same evening, while reading the appointed portion of the Psalms out of the little Prayer-book which Min had given me—a duty that I had promised her to perform regularly every day—I came across a verse, which, in different language, expressed almost the very same thing. It was the one wherein David exclaims, “They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, these men see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep!”Our voyage was uneventful, beyond this one instance of rough weather—when, throughout the night, as the steamer pitched and heaved, rolling and labouring, as if her last hour was come, the screw propeller worked round with a heavy thudding sound, as if some Cyclops were pounding away under my bunk with a broomstick to rouse me up, my cabin being just over the screw shaft. It went for awhile “thump:—thump! thump, thump, thump! Thump:—thump! Thump, thump, thump!” with even regularity; and then would suddenly break off this movement, whizzing away at a great rate, as the “send” of the sea lifted the blades out of the water, buzzing furiously the while like some marine alarum clock running down, or the mainspring of your watch breaking!In the morning, however, only the swelling waves—that were rapidly subsiding—remained to remind us of the gale; and, from that date, we had fine weather and a good wind “a-beam,” until we finally sighted Sandy Hook lightship at the foot of New York Bay.We did this in exactly ten days from the time of our “departure point” being taken, off the Needles.—Rather a fair run on the whole, when you consider that we lost fully a day by the storm, compelling us as it did, not only to slacken speed, but also to reverse our course, in order to keep the vessel’s head to the sea, and prevent her being pooped by some gigantic following wave—as might have been the case if we had kept on before it, as the unfortunateLondondid, a short period before.My first impressions of “the Empire city,” as the proud Manhattanese fondly style it, were, certainly, not favourable; rather the contrary, I may say at once, without any “beating about the bush.”You see, I landed on a Sunday. It was likewise wet—a nasty, drizzling, misty morning, fit to give you the blues with its many disagreeables and make you bless Mackintosh, while cursing Pleiads. Now, either of these two conditions—I do not refer to the act of benediction or its reverse, but to the fact of its being Sunday and wet—would have been sufficient to detract from the attractive merits of any English town; how much more, therefore, from those possessed by the great cosmopolitan metropolis of Transatlantica? This city is in bad weather a hundred-fold more desolate than London, in an aesthetic sense, and that is saying a good deal; and, on a Sunday, through the absence of any Sabbatarian influences and the working of teetotal tastes, it is more outwardly dull and inwardly vicious than any spot north of Tweed—Glasgow, for example, where the name of the illustrious Forbes Mackenzie is venerated!To commence with, during the early morning we had warped into dock at Hoboken, the Rotherhithe—and, in some respects, Rosherville—of New York, being situated on the opposite side of the river; and here, theHerzog von Gottingenlay, with her bowsprit jammed into a coal shed and her decks, aforetime so white and clean, all bespattered with dirt, and encumbered with hawsers and cables. These latter coiling and uncoiling themselves here, there, and everywhere, like so many writhing sea-serpents, and, tripping you up suddenly just when you believed you had discovered a clear space on which you might stand without imperilling your valuable life.Besides, the crew were engaged in getting up luggage from the lower hold by the aid of a donkey engine, which made a great deal of clattering fuss over doing a minimum amount of work—in which respect it resembled a good many people of my acquaintance, by the way. It was not pleasant to have the iron-bound cover of a heavy chest poked into the small of one’s back without leave or licence, and the entire article being subsequently deposited on one’s toes! No, it was not. And, to make matters worse, the escape steam, puffing off in volumes from the waste pipe in a hollow roar of relief at being no longer compelled to earn its living, was condensing an additional shower for our benefit—that was not more agreeable, in consequence of being warm—as if the drizzling rain that was falling was not deemed sufficient for wetting purposes!After settling matters with the Custom House, and crossing the ferry from Hoboken, myself and all my goods packed in a hackney carriage hung on very high springs—like the old “glass coaches” that were used in London during the early part of the century, although, unlike them, drawn by a pair of remarkably fine horses—my drive through the back slums of New York to one of the Broadway hotels was not of a nature to dispel my vapours.The lower parts of the town, adjacent to the Hudson, are about as odoriferous and architecturally beautiful as a sixth-rate seaport in “the old country.” While, as for Broadway itself—that much be-praised-boulevard—Broadway, the “great,” the “much pumpkins, I guess”—to see which, I had been told by enthusiastic Americans, was to behold the very thirteenth wonder of the world!—Well, the less I say about it, perhaps the better!If you are still inquisitive, however, and would kindly imagine what your feelings would be on beholding Upper Oxford Street on a November day—with a few draggling flags hung across it, one or two “blocks” of brown-stone buildings interspersed between its rows of uneven shops, and a lofty-spired church, like Saint Margaret’s, jutting out into the roadway by the Marble Arch—you will have a general idea of my impressions when first looking at the magnificent thoroughfare that our cousins love.It has evidently secured its reputation, from being the only decent street in New York—just as Sackville Street in Dublin is “a foine place entirely,” on account of its being the only one of any respectable length or width in the city on the Liffey—if you will kindly permit the comparison for a moment?I was disappointed, I confess.Ever since boyhood I had pictured America, and everything belonging to it, from Fennimore Cooper’s standpoint. I thought I was going to a spot quite different from any locality I had previously been accustomed to; and, lo! New York was altogether commonplace. Nothing original, nothing tropical, nothing “New World”-like about it. It was only an ordinary town of the same stamp as many I have noticed on this side of the water—a European city in a slop suit—“Yankee” all over inthatway!In regard to its extent, which I had been led to believe was quite equal to, if not surpassing, our metropolis, I found that I could walk from one side of it to the other in half an hour; and traverse its length in twice that time—the entire island on which it is built being only nine miles long. “Why,” thought I, when I had arrived at this knowledge, “some of our suburbs could beat that!”When bright days came, Broadway undoubtedly looked a little better—Barnum’s streamers, “up town,” floating out bravely over the heads of the “stage” drivers—but I was never able to overcome my first impressions of it and New York generally; and, to make an end of the matter, I may say now, that the longer I stayed in the “land of the settin’ sun,” north, south, east, and west—I had experience of all—the less I saw to like in it.The country and the scenery are well enough; but the people!Ah! if the Right Honourable John Bright and other ardent admirers of everything connected with the “great Republic” on the other side of the ocean, would but go over, as I did, and study it honestly from every point of view for three years, say, theymustcome to a different opinion about the nation which they are so constantly eulogising at the expense of their own!Don’t let them merely run over to see it in gala trim, however, and have its workings explained only to them through a transatlantic section of the same clique of which they are members at home; but let them go in a private capacity and see things for themselves, mixing amongst all classes of the American community, and not only in one circle.They won’t, though.The Manchester manufacturer of “advanced views” visits the Massachusetts manufacturer;—and, derives allhisknowledge of America and her institutions from him. The trades’ union delegate of England palavers with the working-men’s societies of the eastern states; whence he getshisinformation of Transatlantic polemics. The ballot enthusiast over here talks, and onlytalks, mind you! with the believer in the ballot over there; and so arrives athisconclusions on the subject of secret voting—and then, all these return to this “down-trodden,” “aristocracy-ridden,” “effete old kingdom,” and prate about the glorious way in which their several theories work across the ocean—not one of them having resided long enough beneath the stars and stripes to be able to judge of the truth of what they allege, as they are quite contented to take for gospel the hearsay with which they bolster up their own opinions!If these respective persons would only go out and live, I say, for three years consecutively in the States, and move about outside of their respective bigotted grooves, they would find out, in time, that, the boasted free, liberty-loving, advanced, progressive commonwealth on the other side of “the big pond,” is?—one of the most despotic, intolerant, morally-and-politically-rotten republics that ever existed, bar none!What will your ballot-advocate—who anathematises “Tory coercion,” and is continually urging into notice the “purity of election” that characterises the system of our “cousins”—say, to the fact, that one party of “free and enlightened citizens” of the model cosmos of his admiration regularly sell their votes to the highest bidder; while, another set, under a military despotism, are compelled to exercise the franchise only in a manner pleasing to a dominant faction? What will your Democratic Dilke, or Ouvrier Odger—who may, in this “speech-gagged,” “oppressed” country, heap scurrilous abuse on royalty and overhaul the washing bills of her Majesty without let or hindrance—say, for the “liberty of speech” on the other side; where, if they were to utter a word in favour of the conquered Confederates, amongst a certain school of “black republicans,” they would run the risk of having a revolver bullet in their epigastric region before they knew where they were?How would your communistic enthusiast, who bawls out about the equality of all men, like to see, as I have seen, “respectable cullered pussons,” representatives of the beloved “man and a brother,”wearing livery, the “badge of servitude,” which is only supposed to be donned by the “menials of European tyrants?” And yet, these darkey flunkeys are in the service of free and equal citizens of a “Great Republic,” strange to say!What does your Manchester “Spinning Jenney,” the earnest upholder of free trade, say to the “Protection” policy of his congeners in the States?How can he reconcile his statementsherewith factsthere?Where is the “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité,” now, when you really come to dive below the surface, and see things as they are in America, eh?—But, bless you, these reformers willnotso regard the objects of their veneration. They will only see them in the light in which they choose to see them; and would swear black was white in order to answer their purpose!Your true radical or republican—the name “liberal” is a misnomer—is, as I have often heard the vicar say, one of the most intolerant, illiberal persons under the sun. His idea of freedom, is, that everybody should be free to do ashepleases:—if they object to his programme, they are evidently not sufficiently “advanced” to suit him! His liberty of speech, is, for himself to spout away ad libitum on his hobby, and everybody else who may not agree with him to hold his tongue! His theory of equality is, for all above him in station to be brought down tohislevel, and then, forhimto remain cock of the walk!I have studied the animal. That’s his view of it, depend upon it! He will not be convinced. He will not even “argue the point,” nor listen to a word said on the side contrary to that which he espouses. He hashisopinions, he says; and will stick to them, right or wrong—notwithstanding the home truths that may lie in those of others opposed to him. Dogged, certainly:—liberal, no! Do you doubt what I say?—Let us go to particulars then.Your candid disestablishers, for instance,—will they meet your outspoken churchmen, who stand up for the old faith in the constitution, on an open platform; and discuss the question of a national church on a common footing, where both its opponents and its supporters can be heard?Will your would—be—republican, foregathering at some Hole-in-the-Wall meeting, allow a conservative speaker to say a word in opposition to his progressive puerilities? Your teetotal-alliancer, in a quorum of water-drinkers, will heleta licensed victualler utter a protest against his scheme for universal abstinence?No.Each and all of these several cliques are, in common with all cliques, narrow-minded and intolerant. They prefer being kings of their respective small companies and enjoying the mutual admiration of a packed assembly, to coming out boldly like men and letting the pros and cons of their schemes be ventilated in free discussion at genuine meetings, composed of diverse elements.—Do you want any further proof?I confess, I don’t like republics or republicans. Once upon a time, before seeing how they worked, I undoubtedly had a leaning towards the “liberalism,” as I thought it, of this school; but a thorough exposure of the “institution” and the character of its partisans in America and in France have completely opened my eyes to their real nature.Were I asked, now, to define a republic, I should say that it was a general scramble for power and perquisites, by a lot of ragged rascals with empty pockets, who have everything to gain by success, and nothing to lose by failure.—A sort of “rough and tumble” fight, in which those with the easiest consciences, the loudest tongues and the wildest promises, come to the fore, letting “the devil take the hindmost!”It is a so-called commonwealth, wherein the welfare of the mass is subordinated to party spirit; and in which each aspirant for place and power, well knowing that his chief ambition is to “feather his own nest” without any afterthought of patriotism, kicks down his struggling brother—likewise on the lookout for the loaves and fishes of office—ostracising him, if he doesn’t put up with the treatment quietly!I may be wrong, certainly, and I’m open to argument on the point, but I like our old system best. I infinitely prefer a gentleman with a reputation, to a snob with none; and a clean shirt to a dirty one! and if you allow that I possess the right of selecting my future rulers, I would much rather have those whom birth and education have taught at least toleration, than a parcel of grubby-nailed democrats, innocent of soap-and-water, who wish to choke their one-sided creed, willy-nilly, down my throat, in defiance of my inclinations and better judgment; and whose sole interest in “their fellow man” is centred in the problem—how to line their own pockets at his cost, in the neatest way!“Sans culottes” and the “Bonnet Rouge” for those who like them; but, as a matter of choice, I prefer a pair of decent “inexpressibles” and a Lincoln and Bennett “chapeau!” As the elder Capulet’s first scullion sagely remarked to his fellow-servant—“When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing!”There are men calling themselves “politicians”—save the mark! that would have us pull down the old constitutional machine, (lumbering it may be,) which has served our purpose for generations, and whose working and capabilities we have tested some odd thousand years; to replace it with the newfangled gimcrack model which is continually getting out of gear across the Atlantic; and I have no patience with them. I do not particularly desire to run America and its people down; but, when we are in the habit of criticising the deeds and doings of our continental neighbours, without much reticence as to our likes and dislikes, I do not see why any especial immunity should be placed over Americans to taboo them from honest judgment!I must say that when I hear and read the fulsome admiration that it has been the fashion of late to express and write concerning our so-called “cousins,” it fairly makes my blood boil. If nobody elsewill“take the gilt off the gingerbread,” why shouldn’t I try to do so?The truth of the matter, with regard to America, is that the Columbian eagle makes such a tremendous cackling over every littleeggit lays, that we cis-Atlantic folks rate its achievements much higher than they deserve!We do not kick up a fuss about our general proceedings; consequently, we imagine something very great must have happened to cause the Bird o’ Freedom to burst into such gallinacious paeans of delight.The “advancement” of the first Republic, you say?—Why, it has taken over a hundred years to grow, and itoughtto be arriving at maturity by this time!The determination of its citizens displayed in crushing out secession?—They took four years to do it in, although they had an army and navy provided to their hand, and were receiving recruits in hundreds from the masses of incoming emigrants, up to the very end of the struggle; while, the Southerners had to improvise everything, and their forces dwindled down day by day.We put down the Indian mutiny in 1857 with a little handful of troops, that had to confront thousands upon thousands of insurgent Hindoos before a single reinforcement could arrive from England:—wenever triumphed so loudly about what we did on that occasion; and yet, our campaign against the Sepoys was fought over a far more extended territory than the war for the “Union.”Their progress, you remark?Pooh, my dear sir! One would almost think, to hear you talk, that the old world had stood still in sheer astonishment ever since the “new” was ushered into being!Granted, that a few wooden shanties are run up “out west” on the prairies, and styled “towns,” and that these towns grow into “cities” by-and-by:—what then? Are there not miles of streets, and houses without number, added to London, and other little villages over here every year, which do not attract any comment—except in the annual report of the Registrar General?Their Union Pacific Railway, connecting New York with Saint Francisco; and hence abridging the distance between Europe and Asia!A “big thing,” certainly; but have you forgotten our Underground line, and the Holborn Viaduct, and the Thames Embankment—either and all of which can vie with the noblest relics of ancient Rome?Bah! Don’t talk to me in that strain, please. Has not France also achieved the Suez Canal, and Italy the Mont Cenis tunnel—both works surpassing any feat of Transatlantic engineering ever attempted. Why, their Hoosaic tunnel, which is not near the size of the Alpine one, and which has been talked of and worked at for the last twenty years, is not yet half completed! Have we not, too, run railways through the jungles of India, and spanned the wastes of Australia with the electric wire?Ha! while alluding to telegraphs, let us instance the Atlantic cable.Thatstrikes nearer home, doesn’t it? Originated as the idea was by an American, Cyrus Field—to whom may all honour be given—can you inform me which country is entitled to take credit for its success—slow England or smart America?You won’t answer, eh? Then I’ll tell you.The company that conducted that undertaking to a triumphant issue—was got up in London, and formed mostly of Englishmen. The money that paid for the ocean cable—came out of the pockets of English shareholders. English manufacturers constructed it:—English artisans fashioned it; and an English ship, the largest ever built, manned by an English crew, laid it. There! what do you say to that now, eh?“Caved in?”I guessed so. Thoughtwe“could crow some, I reckon.”But, I will say no more on the subject. I have allowed you to have the free benefit of my opinions—such as they are—at your private valuation, no discount allowed!You don’t seem pleased—what is it that you say?You want to hear about my doings; and not my opinions?Bless me! How very impatient you are. I was only just going to continue my story!How can you hear about me without hearing my opinions also?I dare say they may not appear palatable to you. There is no accounting for tastes; and, as you probably know, “veritas odium parit!”Still, you cannot separate a man and his opinions; they are inseparable.Fancy an individual without an opinion of his own!Why, he would be a nonentity—a thing!Don’t talk nonsense.

O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,Survey our empire and behold our home!

“Sir,” said the Honourable Mister Pigeonbarley of Missouri, “weaira peculiar people. Jes so!”

Have you never noticed how, when travelling on a long journey, the wheels of the railway carriage in which you are sitting seem always to be rattling out some carefully studied tune, to which the jolts of the vehicle beat a concerted bass; while, the slackening of the coupling chains, in combination with the concussion of the buffers as they hitch up suddenly again, sounds a regular obbligato accompaniment—the scream of the steam whistle, and the thundering whish and whirr of the train through a deep cutting or tunnel, or over a bridge with water below, coming in occasionally as a sort of symphony to the main air?

Have you never noticed this?

No? Bless me, what averyunimaginative person you are! I have, frequently; and yet, I do not think I am any brighter than the ordinary run of people.

Drawn some odd thousands of miles by the iron horse, as it has been my fortune to be during different periods of my life, I have seldom failed to associate his progress thus with those lesser Melpomenean nymphs, who may be selected to watch over the destinies of the steam god and fill up their leisure hours by “riding on a rail,” in the favourite fashion of the South Carolinian darkeys.

Of course the carriage wheels do not perpetually sing the same song:—that would be monotonous.

They know better than that, I can assure you. Sometimes they rattle out the maddest of mad waltzes—such as that which the imprudent German young lady, living near the Harz Mountains, found herself dancing one day against her will, when she had given expression to the very improper statement, that, she would “take the devil for a partner,” if he only would put in an appearance at the gay and festive scene at which she was then present. Sometimes, again, they will evolve, note by note, the dreariest air that the composer of the Dead March inSaulcould have devised; or, croon you out a soothing lullaby, should you feel sleepy, to which the charming melody of “The Cradle Song” would bear no comparison. In fact, the nymphs know their work well; and so alter their strains as to suit every mood and humour of the variously-tempered travellers that listen to their musical cadences.

As I proceeded now on my way to Southampton, where I was to take the ocean steamer for my passage to America, the railway nymphs were busy with their harmonies.

Not sad or dispiriting by any means, but briskly enlivening was their lay.

They seemed to me to sing—

“You’re off on your travels! Off on your travels,To fame and fortune in another land!To wait and work, Frank! Wait and work, Frank!Ere you gain your own Min’s hand!”

And, perhaps, it was from the recollection of Monsieur Parole d’Honneur’s kindness, and from my having been in company with him that winter in Paris, where I had heard that opera of Offenbach’s for the first time, but the tune of the carriage wheels was strangely like the “Pars pour Crete” chorus in the second act ofLa Belle Hélène—where, if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make room for the advent of Paris, the “gay deceiver,” the successful intriguant!

Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting, hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window, waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by.

I remember every incident on the way.

Not a thing escaped me.

The outlook for baggage at Waterloo; the feeing of the obsequious porter expectant of a douceur; the mistake I made in getting my ticket which had to be rectified at the last moment; the confused ringing of bells and clattering of trucks up and down the platform; the slamming of doors and hurrying of feet to and fro:—then, the sudden pause in all these sounds; the shrill whistle, betokening all was ready; the converting of all the employés into animated sign-posts, that waved their arms wildly; the grunt and wheeze from the engine, as if from a giant in pain; the sharp jerk, and then the steady pull at the carriage in which I was sitting; the “pant, pant! puff, puff!” of the iron horse, as he buckled to his work with a will; and then, finally, the preliminary oscillation of the ponderous train, the trembling and rumbling of creaking wheels along the rails—as we glided and bumped, slowly but steadily, out of the terminus—the distance signal showing “all clear” to us, and blocking the up line with the red semaphore of “danger.”

Past Vauxhall, once famed for its revelry—conspicuous, now, only for its picturesque expanse of candle-factory roofs and the dead boarding that is displayed skirting the railway:—Clapham, villa-studded and with gardens laid out in bird’s-eye perspective:—Surbiton, dainty in its pretty little road-side station, all garnished with roses and shell-walks:—Farnborough, where a large proportion of our passengers, of military proclivities, alight en route for Aldershot, and celebrated of yore for the “grand international” contest with fisticuffs between a British Sayers and a Transatlantic Heenan:—Basingstoke, the great ugly “junction” of many twisted rails and curiously-intricate stacks of chimneys; until, at length, Southampton was reached—a town smelling of docks and coal-tar, and dismal in the evening gloom.

Not a feature of the landscape on my way down was lost to me; although, as I’ve said, I was thinking of Min all the time the train was speeding on.

I was wondering within myself, in a duplicate system of thought, when I would see the scene again, in all its variations, as I saw it clearly, now; and whether the green meadows, and fir-summited hills, and shining water-courses that wandered through and around them—nay, whether the very telegraph posts and wires, and the country stations we rattled past so quickly and unceremoniously, as if they were not worth stopping for—would look the same on my coming back to England and my darling once more!

But, I was not sad or down-hearted.

Her last words had rendered me almost as hopeful as she professed to be; so, in spite of my great grief at our parting, a grief which was too deep for words, I was endeavouring more to look forward sanguinely to the future than dwell on all our past unhappiness—which I tried to put away from me as a bad dream.

I was only musing, that’s all.

It is impossible to keep one’s mind idle, you know; for, even when engaged in an abstract contemplation of the most engrossing theme, the fancywillstray off into by-paths that lead to strangely dissimilar ideas and very disconnected associations.

As the German steamer in which I was going to New York did not start until next day, I put up for the night at Radley’s—that haven of shore-comfort to the Red-Sea-roasted, Biscay-tossed, sea-sickened Indian warriors returning home by the P and O vessels—where, you may be sure, I met with every attention that my constitution required in the way of rest and refreshment; and, at midday on the morrow, embarking on board the statelyHerzog von Gottingen, I passed through the Needles, outward-bound across the Atlantic to the “New World” of promise!

Ocean voyages are so common now-a-days that they are not worth mentioning.

Mine was no exception to the rule; the only noticeable point that I observed being the rare courageous temperament of the Teutonic ladies, and the undaunted spirit they displayed in “fighting their battles o’er again” at the saloon table, in despite of the insidious attacks of Neptune. No matter how frequently the fell malady of the sea should assail them—at breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or at any of the other and many meals which the ship’s caterer thought necessary to our diurnal wants—these delicate fair ones would “never say die,” on having to beat a precipitate retreat to their cabins. They would return again, I assure you, in a few minutes, to resume the repast which had been temporarily interrupted; smiling as if nothing had happened, and showing, too, that nothinghadhappened, to seriously interfere with their deglutinal faculties!

This was not my first voyage—I did not tell you so before?

Well, suppose I did not; don’t you remember my saying that I was not aware of being under any obligation to you which would make me regard you as the receptor ofallmy secrets?

This was not my first voyage, I say; consequently, ship-board life was no novelty to me—nor the Atlantic Ocean, either, for that matter. I was used to the one, I had seen the other previously. I was as much at home to both, in fact, as I had been in the vicarage parlour standing beside dear little Miss Pimpernell’s old arm-chair in the chimney corner!

I love the sea, in rest or unrest.

It is never monotonous to me, as some find it; for I think it ever-changing, ever new. I love it always—under every aspect of its kaleidoscopic face.

When, bright with mellow sunshine, it reflects the intense blue of the ocean sky above, with a brisk breeze topping its many-furrowed waves—that are racing by and leaping over each other like a parcel of schoolboys at play—and cutting off sheets and sparkling showers of the prismatic foam that exhibits every tint of the rainbow—azure and orange, violet, light-green, and pale luminous white,—scatters it broadcast into the air around; whence it falls into yeasty hollows, a sort of feathery snow of a fairy texture, just suited for the bridal veils of the Nereides—only to be churned over again and tossed up anew by the wanton wind in its frolicsome mirth.

Or, when, in a dead calm, it appears to lie sleeping, heaving its tumid bosom in occasional long-drawn sighs—that make it rise and sink in rounded ridges of an oily look and a leadeny tinge, except at the equator, where they shine at midday like a burnished mirror.

Or, again, when storm-tossed and tempest-weary, it rages and raves with all its pent-up fury broken loose—goaded to frenzy by the howling lashes of Aeolus and the roar of the storm-fiend. Then it is grand and awful in its majesty; and when I see it so it makes me mad with a triumphant sense of power in overriding it—as it boils beneath the vessel’s keel, longing to overwhelm it and me, yet impotent of evil!

Whether in calm or in storm—at dawn of day, with the rosy flush of the rising sun blushing the horizon up to the zenith, or at night, with the twinkling stars shining down into its sombre depths and the recurring flashes of sheet lightning lighting up its immensity, which seems vaster as the darkness grows—it is to me always attractive, ever lovable.

In its bright buoyancy it exhilarates me; in its calm, it causes me to dream; and, in its wild moods, when heaven and sea appear to meet together in wrestling embrace, I can—if joyous at the time—almost shout aloud in ecstasy of admiring awe and kindred riot of mind; while, should I feel sad during the carnival of the elements, I get reflective, and—

“As I watch the oceanIn pitiless commotion,Like the thoughts, now surging wildly through my storm-tost breast,The snow-capt, heaving billowsSeem to me as lace-fring’d pillowsOf the deep Deep’s bed of rest!”

Did you ever chance to read Châteaubriand’sGénie du Christianisme?

It is a queer book for a Frenchman to have written, but abounding in beautiful description and startling bits of observation. I remember, one evening on the passage out, when it was very rough, having a particular sentence of this work especially called to my mind. It was that in which the author discourses on the Deity, and says,—

“I do not profess to be anything myself; I am only a solitary unit. But I have often heard learned men disputing about a chief originator, or prime cause, and I have never been able to comprehend their arguments; for I have always noticed that it is at the sight of the stupendous movements of nature that the idea of this unknown supreme ‘origin’ becomes manifested to the mind of man.”

This sentence was the more impressed on my memory, from the fact, that, on the very same evening, while reading the appointed portion of the Psalms out of the little Prayer-book which Min had given me—a duty that I had promised her to perform regularly every day—I came across a verse, which, in different language, expressed almost the very same thing. It was the one wherein David exclaims, “They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, these men see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep!”

Our voyage was uneventful, beyond this one instance of rough weather—when, throughout the night, as the steamer pitched and heaved, rolling and labouring, as if her last hour was come, the screw propeller worked round with a heavy thudding sound, as if some Cyclops were pounding away under my bunk with a broomstick to rouse me up, my cabin being just over the screw shaft. It went for awhile “thump:—thump! thump, thump, thump! Thump:—thump! Thump, thump, thump!” with even regularity; and then would suddenly break off this movement, whizzing away at a great rate, as the “send” of the sea lifted the blades out of the water, buzzing furiously the while like some marine alarum clock running down, or the mainspring of your watch breaking!

In the morning, however, only the swelling waves—that were rapidly subsiding—remained to remind us of the gale; and, from that date, we had fine weather and a good wind “a-beam,” until we finally sighted Sandy Hook lightship at the foot of New York Bay.

We did this in exactly ten days from the time of our “departure point” being taken, off the Needles.—Rather a fair run on the whole, when you consider that we lost fully a day by the storm, compelling us as it did, not only to slacken speed, but also to reverse our course, in order to keep the vessel’s head to the sea, and prevent her being pooped by some gigantic following wave—as might have been the case if we had kept on before it, as the unfortunateLondondid, a short period before.

My first impressions of “the Empire city,” as the proud Manhattanese fondly style it, were, certainly, not favourable; rather the contrary, I may say at once, without any “beating about the bush.”

You see, I landed on a Sunday. It was likewise wet—a nasty, drizzling, misty morning, fit to give you the blues with its many disagreeables and make you bless Mackintosh, while cursing Pleiads. Now, either of these two conditions—I do not refer to the act of benediction or its reverse, but to the fact of its being Sunday and wet—would have been sufficient to detract from the attractive merits of any English town; how much more, therefore, from those possessed by the great cosmopolitan metropolis of Transatlantica? This city is in bad weather a hundred-fold more desolate than London, in an aesthetic sense, and that is saying a good deal; and, on a Sunday, through the absence of any Sabbatarian influences and the working of teetotal tastes, it is more outwardly dull and inwardly vicious than any spot north of Tweed—Glasgow, for example, where the name of the illustrious Forbes Mackenzie is venerated!

To commence with, during the early morning we had warped into dock at Hoboken, the Rotherhithe—and, in some respects, Rosherville—of New York, being situated on the opposite side of the river; and here, theHerzog von Gottingenlay, with her bowsprit jammed into a coal shed and her decks, aforetime so white and clean, all bespattered with dirt, and encumbered with hawsers and cables. These latter coiling and uncoiling themselves here, there, and everywhere, like so many writhing sea-serpents, and, tripping you up suddenly just when you believed you had discovered a clear space on which you might stand without imperilling your valuable life.

Besides, the crew were engaged in getting up luggage from the lower hold by the aid of a donkey engine, which made a great deal of clattering fuss over doing a minimum amount of work—in which respect it resembled a good many people of my acquaintance, by the way. It was not pleasant to have the iron-bound cover of a heavy chest poked into the small of one’s back without leave or licence, and the entire article being subsequently deposited on one’s toes! No, it was not. And, to make matters worse, the escape steam, puffing off in volumes from the waste pipe in a hollow roar of relief at being no longer compelled to earn its living, was condensing an additional shower for our benefit—that was not more agreeable, in consequence of being warm—as if the drizzling rain that was falling was not deemed sufficient for wetting purposes!

After settling matters with the Custom House, and crossing the ferry from Hoboken, myself and all my goods packed in a hackney carriage hung on very high springs—like the old “glass coaches” that were used in London during the early part of the century, although, unlike them, drawn by a pair of remarkably fine horses—my drive through the back slums of New York to one of the Broadway hotels was not of a nature to dispel my vapours.

The lower parts of the town, adjacent to the Hudson, are about as odoriferous and architecturally beautiful as a sixth-rate seaport in “the old country.” While, as for Broadway itself—that much be-praised-boulevard—Broadway, the “great,” the “much pumpkins, I guess”—to see which, I had been told by enthusiastic Americans, was to behold the very thirteenth wonder of the world!—Well, the less I say about it, perhaps the better!

If you are still inquisitive, however, and would kindly imagine what your feelings would be on beholding Upper Oxford Street on a November day—with a few draggling flags hung across it, one or two “blocks” of brown-stone buildings interspersed between its rows of uneven shops, and a lofty-spired church, like Saint Margaret’s, jutting out into the roadway by the Marble Arch—you will have a general idea of my impressions when first looking at the magnificent thoroughfare that our cousins love.

It has evidently secured its reputation, from being the only decent street in New York—just as Sackville Street in Dublin is “a foine place entirely,” on account of its being the only one of any respectable length or width in the city on the Liffey—if you will kindly permit the comparison for a moment?

I was disappointed, I confess.

Ever since boyhood I had pictured America, and everything belonging to it, from Fennimore Cooper’s standpoint. I thought I was going to a spot quite different from any locality I had previously been accustomed to; and, lo! New York was altogether commonplace. Nothing original, nothing tropical, nothing “New World”-like about it. It was only an ordinary town of the same stamp as many I have noticed on this side of the water—a European city in a slop suit—“Yankee” all over inthatway!

In regard to its extent, which I had been led to believe was quite equal to, if not surpassing, our metropolis, I found that I could walk from one side of it to the other in half an hour; and traverse its length in twice that time—the entire island on which it is built being only nine miles long. “Why,” thought I, when I had arrived at this knowledge, “some of our suburbs could beat that!”

When bright days came, Broadway undoubtedly looked a little better—Barnum’s streamers, “up town,” floating out bravely over the heads of the “stage” drivers—but I was never able to overcome my first impressions of it and New York generally; and, to make an end of the matter, I may say now, that the longer I stayed in the “land of the settin’ sun,” north, south, east, and west—I had experience of all—the less I saw to like in it.

The country and the scenery are well enough; but the people!

Ah! if the Right Honourable John Bright and other ardent admirers of everything connected with the “great Republic” on the other side of the ocean, would but go over, as I did, and study it honestly from every point of view for three years, say, theymustcome to a different opinion about the nation which they are so constantly eulogising at the expense of their own!

Don’t let them merely run over to see it in gala trim, however, and have its workings explained only to them through a transatlantic section of the same clique of which they are members at home; but let them go in a private capacity and see things for themselves, mixing amongst all classes of the American community, and not only in one circle.

They won’t, though.

The Manchester manufacturer of “advanced views” visits the Massachusetts manufacturer;—and, derives allhisknowledge of America and her institutions from him. The trades’ union delegate of England palavers with the working-men’s societies of the eastern states; whence he getshisinformation of Transatlantic polemics. The ballot enthusiast over here talks, and onlytalks, mind you! with the believer in the ballot over there; and so arrives athisconclusions on the subject of secret voting—and then, all these return to this “down-trodden,” “aristocracy-ridden,” “effete old kingdom,” and prate about the glorious way in which their several theories work across the ocean—not one of them having resided long enough beneath the stars and stripes to be able to judge of the truth of what they allege, as they are quite contented to take for gospel the hearsay with which they bolster up their own opinions!

If these respective persons would only go out and live, I say, for three years consecutively in the States, and move about outside of their respective bigotted grooves, they would find out, in time, that, the boasted free, liberty-loving, advanced, progressive commonwealth on the other side of “the big pond,” is?—one of the most despotic, intolerant, morally-and-politically-rotten republics that ever existed, bar none!

What will your ballot-advocate—who anathematises “Tory coercion,” and is continually urging into notice the “purity of election” that characterises the system of our “cousins”—say, to the fact, that one party of “free and enlightened citizens” of the model cosmos of his admiration regularly sell their votes to the highest bidder; while, another set, under a military despotism, are compelled to exercise the franchise only in a manner pleasing to a dominant faction? What will your Democratic Dilke, or Ouvrier Odger—who may, in this “speech-gagged,” “oppressed” country, heap scurrilous abuse on royalty and overhaul the washing bills of her Majesty without let or hindrance—say, for the “liberty of speech” on the other side; where, if they were to utter a word in favour of the conquered Confederates, amongst a certain school of “black republicans,” they would run the risk of having a revolver bullet in their epigastric region before they knew where they were?

How would your communistic enthusiast, who bawls out about the equality of all men, like to see, as I have seen, “respectable cullered pussons,” representatives of the beloved “man and a brother,”wearing livery, the “badge of servitude,” which is only supposed to be donned by the “menials of European tyrants?” And yet, these darkey flunkeys are in the service of free and equal citizens of a “Great Republic,” strange to say!

What does your Manchester “Spinning Jenney,” the earnest upholder of free trade, say to the “Protection” policy of his congeners in the States?

How can he reconcile his statementsherewith factsthere?

Where is the “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité,” now, when you really come to dive below the surface, and see things as they are in America, eh?—

But, bless you, these reformers willnotso regard the objects of their veneration. They will only see them in the light in which they choose to see them; and would swear black was white in order to answer their purpose!

Your true radical or republican—the name “liberal” is a misnomer—is, as I have often heard the vicar say, one of the most intolerant, illiberal persons under the sun. His idea of freedom, is, that everybody should be free to do ashepleases:—if they object to his programme, they are evidently not sufficiently “advanced” to suit him! His liberty of speech, is, for himself to spout away ad libitum on his hobby, and everybody else who may not agree with him to hold his tongue! His theory of equality is, for all above him in station to be brought down tohislevel, and then, forhimto remain cock of the walk!

I have studied the animal. That’s his view of it, depend upon it! He will not be convinced. He will not even “argue the point,” nor listen to a word said on the side contrary to that which he espouses. He hashisopinions, he says; and will stick to them, right or wrong—notwithstanding the home truths that may lie in those of others opposed to him. Dogged, certainly:—liberal, no! Do you doubt what I say?—Let us go to particulars then.

Your candid disestablishers, for instance,—will they meet your outspoken churchmen, who stand up for the old faith in the constitution, on an open platform; and discuss the question of a national church on a common footing, where both its opponents and its supporters can be heard?

Will your would—be—republican, foregathering at some Hole-in-the-Wall meeting, allow a conservative speaker to say a word in opposition to his progressive puerilities? Your teetotal-alliancer, in a quorum of water-drinkers, will heleta licensed victualler utter a protest against his scheme for universal abstinence?

No.

Each and all of these several cliques are, in common with all cliques, narrow-minded and intolerant. They prefer being kings of their respective small companies and enjoying the mutual admiration of a packed assembly, to coming out boldly like men and letting the pros and cons of their schemes be ventilated in free discussion at genuine meetings, composed of diverse elements.—Do you want any further proof?

I confess, I don’t like republics or republicans. Once upon a time, before seeing how they worked, I undoubtedly had a leaning towards the “liberalism,” as I thought it, of this school; but a thorough exposure of the “institution” and the character of its partisans in America and in France have completely opened my eyes to their real nature.

Were I asked, now, to define a republic, I should say that it was a general scramble for power and perquisites, by a lot of ragged rascals with empty pockets, who have everything to gain by success, and nothing to lose by failure.—A sort of “rough and tumble” fight, in which those with the easiest consciences, the loudest tongues and the wildest promises, come to the fore, letting “the devil take the hindmost!”

It is a so-called commonwealth, wherein the welfare of the mass is subordinated to party spirit; and in which each aspirant for place and power, well knowing that his chief ambition is to “feather his own nest” without any afterthought of patriotism, kicks down his struggling brother—likewise on the lookout for the loaves and fishes of office—ostracising him, if he doesn’t put up with the treatment quietly!

I may be wrong, certainly, and I’m open to argument on the point, but I like our old system best. I infinitely prefer a gentleman with a reputation, to a snob with none; and a clean shirt to a dirty one! and if you allow that I possess the right of selecting my future rulers, I would much rather have those whom birth and education have taught at least toleration, than a parcel of grubby-nailed democrats, innocent of soap-and-water, who wish to choke their one-sided creed, willy-nilly, down my throat, in defiance of my inclinations and better judgment; and whose sole interest in “their fellow man” is centred in the problem—how to line their own pockets at his cost, in the neatest way!

“Sans culottes” and the “Bonnet Rouge” for those who like them; but, as a matter of choice, I prefer a pair of decent “inexpressibles” and a Lincoln and Bennett “chapeau!” As the elder Capulet’s first scullion sagely remarked to his fellow-servant—

“When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing!”

There are men calling themselves “politicians”—save the mark! that would have us pull down the old constitutional machine, (lumbering it may be,) which has served our purpose for generations, and whose working and capabilities we have tested some odd thousand years; to replace it with the newfangled gimcrack model which is continually getting out of gear across the Atlantic; and I have no patience with them. I do not particularly desire to run America and its people down; but, when we are in the habit of criticising the deeds and doings of our continental neighbours, without much reticence as to our likes and dislikes, I do not see why any especial immunity should be placed over Americans to taboo them from honest judgment!

I must say that when I hear and read the fulsome admiration that it has been the fashion of late to express and write concerning our so-called “cousins,” it fairly makes my blood boil. If nobody elsewill“take the gilt off the gingerbread,” why shouldn’t I try to do so?

The truth of the matter, with regard to America, is that the Columbian eagle makes such a tremendous cackling over every littleeggit lays, that we cis-Atlantic folks rate its achievements much higher than they deserve!

We do not kick up a fuss about our general proceedings; consequently, we imagine something very great must have happened to cause the Bird o’ Freedom to burst into such gallinacious paeans of delight.

The “advancement” of the first Republic, you say?—Why, it has taken over a hundred years to grow, and itoughtto be arriving at maturity by this time!

The determination of its citizens displayed in crushing out secession?—They took four years to do it in, although they had an army and navy provided to their hand, and were receiving recruits in hundreds from the masses of incoming emigrants, up to the very end of the struggle; while, the Southerners had to improvise everything, and their forces dwindled down day by day.

We put down the Indian mutiny in 1857 with a little handful of troops, that had to confront thousands upon thousands of insurgent Hindoos before a single reinforcement could arrive from England:—wenever triumphed so loudly about what we did on that occasion; and yet, our campaign against the Sepoys was fought over a far more extended territory than the war for the “Union.”

Their progress, you remark?

Pooh, my dear sir! One would almost think, to hear you talk, that the old world had stood still in sheer astonishment ever since the “new” was ushered into being!

Granted, that a few wooden shanties are run up “out west” on the prairies, and styled “towns,” and that these towns grow into “cities” by-and-by:—what then? Are there not miles of streets, and houses without number, added to London, and other little villages over here every year, which do not attract any comment—except in the annual report of the Registrar General?

Their Union Pacific Railway, connecting New York with Saint Francisco; and hence abridging the distance between Europe and Asia!

A “big thing,” certainly; but have you forgotten our Underground line, and the Holborn Viaduct, and the Thames Embankment—either and all of which can vie with the noblest relics of ancient Rome?

Bah! Don’t talk to me in that strain, please. Has not France also achieved the Suez Canal, and Italy the Mont Cenis tunnel—both works surpassing any feat of Transatlantic engineering ever attempted. Why, their Hoosaic tunnel, which is not near the size of the Alpine one, and which has been talked of and worked at for the last twenty years, is not yet half completed! Have we not, too, run railways through the jungles of India, and spanned the wastes of Australia with the electric wire?

Ha! while alluding to telegraphs, let us instance the Atlantic cable.Thatstrikes nearer home, doesn’t it? Originated as the idea was by an American, Cyrus Field—to whom may all honour be given—can you inform me which country is entitled to take credit for its success—slow England or smart America?

You won’t answer, eh? Then I’ll tell you.

The company that conducted that undertaking to a triumphant issue—was got up in London, and formed mostly of Englishmen. The money that paid for the ocean cable—came out of the pockets of English shareholders. English manufacturers constructed it:—English artisans fashioned it; and an English ship, the largest ever built, manned by an English crew, laid it. There! what do you say to that now, eh?

“Caved in?”

I guessed so. Thoughtwe“could crow some, I reckon.”

But, I will say no more on the subject. I have allowed you to have the free benefit of my opinions—such as they are—at your private valuation, no discount allowed!

You don’t seem pleased—what is it that you say?

You want to hear about my doings; and not my opinions?

Bless me! How very impatient you are. I was only just going to continue my story!

How can you hear about me without hearing my opinions also?

I dare say they may not appear palatable to you. There is no accounting for tastes; and, as you probably know, “veritas odium parit!”

Still, you cannot separate a man and his opinions; they are inseparable.

Fancy an individual without an opinion of his own!

Why, he would be a nonentity—a thing!

Don’t talk nonsense.

Chapter Ten.A Hard Fight.Across the wide Atlantic—It drives me almost frantic,To watch the breakers breaking, and hear their dull, low roar!—My soul is winging madly;And my eyes are peering sadly,As I span the long, long distance from my home-girt shore!I was disgusted with America in more ways than one.Being of a hopeful, castle-building temperament, I had sanguinely thought that I would meet with employment there at once; and, be able to master in some unknown, mysterious way, the great art of money-making, on the very instant that I landed in the New World!I really imagined it, I think, to be an enchanted place, where every newly-arrived person became magically changed into a sort of Midas on a small scale; transforming everything he touched, if not into gold—the days of California were now over—at all events into Washington “eagles,” or Mexican silver dollars, or even greenbacks, which were better than nothing, although greasy and not acknowledged at their nominal value.Upon my word, I really believe that that was my secret opinion concerning America before I actually crossed the Atlantic!Probably, I would not have told you so had you asked me then; but I think that was my real idea about it. It was to me an Eldorado, where ill-luck was undreamt of; and where I should be able to heap up riches without the slightest out-of-the-way exertion on my part, in an incredibly short space of time:—riches that would enable me to return home, in the character of a millionaire, in a year or two at the outside, and claim Min’s hand from the then-unresisting Mrs Clyde!Was I not a fool? Pray, say so, if you think it.—Iwon’t mind, bless you! for, I know that there are more such in the world besides myself, eh?I soon found out my mistake.Not only was the cost of living excessively high—I had to pay twelve dollars a week for a bedroom in Brooklyn, an adjacent suburb, with “board” of which I did not partake very frequently, through an inherent dislike to bad cookery—but employment of any description was so difficult to be obtained that for every vacant situation advertised in the New York papers there were several hundred applicants, amongst whom an Englishman stood a very poor chance of being selected when competing with native citizens.Do you know, Transatlantica is about the very worst quarter of the globe for an educated man to go to, who has no scientific attainments, such as a knowledge of chemistry and engineering—which may occasionally stand him in good stead.For skilled artisans, or those brought up to a regular trade, there are good wages to be had, and constant work; but a “gentleman,” or clerk—unless he intends reversing the whole training of his life, which he will find an extremely difficult thing to do—had far better go and break stones on the highways at home, than think to improve his condition by emigrating to America!There are some men who can throw off all old associations and the habits in which they have been bred from boyhood, but, not one in a thousand—though I have myself seen an Oxford graduate acting as an hotel tout in Cincinnati and the son of a “Bart, of the British Empire” driving a mud cart in Chicago!—neither of these, either, had been brought down by drinking, that general curse of exiled Englishmen in ill-luck.I had good introductions; and yet, although I met with great hospitality in being asked out to dinner, I could never get any employment put in my way.A dinner is a dinner, certainly, and a very good thing in itself—not to be sneezed at, either, in the Empire City, let me tell you; for, there, you can have as neat a repast served, whether in private houses or at the Great Delmonico’s of “Fourteenth Street,” as you would meet with at one ortwohaunts I wot of in the Palais Royale. Still, I leave it to yourself, a dinner is but a poor “quid” to him lacking the “quo” of an immediate fortune—is it not?Matters began to grow serious with me; for, my income having amounted tonilsince my landing in the new world, my assets were gradually diminishing. I had only a few pounds left; as my expenditure for lodging alone was at the rate of over two guineas a week; and Monsieur Parole d’Honneur’s loan, which I looked upon only in the light of trading capital, I had determined not to touch on for personal need.What should I do?I went to one of the American gentlemen to whom I had been introduced, and laid my position before him. He advised me, as he had previously advised me, to “look about” me.I had “looked about me” already for some three months—without anything coming of it; however, I looked about me now again, and?—met Brown of Philadelphia!“Brown of Philadelphia” was one who is known among our “cousins” as a “live” man. Brown of Philadelphia was an enterprising man; he was more: he was a benevolent man. He had a splendid scheme, he told me, for turning over thousands of dollars at once. He had no wish to merely better himself, however. He was a man with a large heart, and would make my fortune too. It seemed as if Providence had specially interfered to prevent his meeting with a partner until I had answered his advertisement!Ishould be his partner. I need not know anything of the business—hewould manage all that. What I should have to do, would be, to take care of all the money that came in—a post for which both he and I thought I was peculiarly fitted. And the scheme?—Perhaps you will laugh when I tell you. It was selling blacking!There is nothing to be ashamed of in it, though. Have not Day and Martin made a fortune by it, and a name in all the world? Has not many a proud merchant prince risen to eminence on a more ignoble commodity?Blacking! There is something noble in causing the feet of posterity to shine; and to be the means of testing the standing of a would-be gentleman! Clean boots are an essentiality of society; why should I shrink from the responsibility of helping to produce them?Well, whether you consider it a lowering trade or not, Brown of Philadelphia suggested our “going into” blacking together. He knew of a place, he said, where he could get it for “next to nothing;” and, as he then pertinently observed, I must be aware that it might be disposed of in New York at more than cent, per cent, profit. So, why should we not embark in it? If we did, Brown of Philadelphia—only he was opposed to betting, on moral principle—was prepared to wager a trifle that we would soon have more “greenbacks” than we should know what to do with!He had an office already, had my benevolent friend,—“located” in a first-rate part of Broadway. All I should have to do, he explained, would be to put a small sum into the concern—so as to be independent, as it were, and not merely accepting “a big thing” at his hands—and, my fortune was made. If I would contribute, say, five hundred dollars—“a mere song”—we might go joint shares in what would turn out to be a most remarkably go-a-head enterprise; yes, sir!Strange! But, the amount he mentioned was the exact sum, in American exchange, of my capital—about which, you know, I had previously spoken to him in a friendly and communicative way. Itwasodd, my just having sufficient, wasn’t it?—Yet, how lucky, to be sure! And then, there was no necessity for my being acquainted with the business:—he would manage that. My duty would be to take in money—exactly what I liked! That’s what took my fancy so amazingly—“tickled” me, as Artemus Ward would have expressed it—so I repeat it!Brown of Philadelphia was the soul of honour, as well as distinguished for his smartness and benevolence. He did not want to impose onme, bless you!No; on the contrary, he gave me a reference to a large bank “down town,” and also to a notorious shoddy celebrity who lived “up” town,—to the former of which I went, making inquiries as to his stability. Certainly, they knew Mr Brown of Philadelphia. Had a large balance at present in their hands. As far as they were aware—must be reticent in commercial matters, you know—perfectly responsible party. Could I have taken any further precaution? I think not, after this statement.Quite satisfactory, wasn’t it?I did not go to shoddy character in Fifth Avenue, because it was a horribly long pull there in the street “cars:”—thought bank reference sufficient, wouldn’t you?Perfectly satisfactory, I thought; and told Brown of Philadelphia so at our next meeting, when I lunched with him by appointment.We next went to see the office—our office—in Broadway, afterwards. Just the thing—possibly a trifle small; but then we could enlarge in time, eh? Not the slightest doubt. Brown of Philadelphia and I excellent friends. He dined with me at an hotel that day—at my expense on this occasion.After dinner, arranged business matters as partners should do, drawing up a deed of associationship, and so on. Brown of Philadelphia produced roll of dollars in “greenbacks” - his share of the capital of our embryo firm. I produced roll of “greenbacks”—my share of capital of embryo firm. Both parcels sealed up; and given into Brown of Philadelphia’s custody, as senior partner, to deposit same in our joint names at a bank on the morrow.Brown of Philadelphia and I then parted with words and signs of mutual respect and admiration; and I hied me to my Brooklyn lodgings in high delight at the fortunate turn in my affairs.Why, I would be rich in a few months; and then:—What delightful dreams I had that night!We were to meet again the next morning punctually at “ten sharp” at “the office.”Iwas there to the minute, but Brown of Philadelphia wasn’t; and, although I waited for him many subsequent minutes after the appointed time, he never came—nor have I clapped eyes on him from that day to this.Faithless Brown! He robbed me of my belief in human nature, in addition to my hoarded “greenbacks.”The office, I found, had been taken by the keen philanthropist for a week, a few dollars of the rent being advanced by him as security on account. On asking at the bank, which had in the first instance satisfied me of his integrity, the cashier told me that Brown of Philadelphia had drawn out all of his available balance the very afternoon on which I had made my inquiries respecting him; and where he was gone, no one knew!“Skedaddled,” evidently. As for shoddy celebrity, “up town,” to whom Brown of Philadelphia had also referred me, said that my friend had swindledhima short period before. Good joke, his being given as a reference!I put the affair in the hands of the police; but they gave me about as much comfort as our guardians in blue would have done.They said he had gone south. I went to Baltimore after him; but I could not meet him, although I was full of determination and had taken a revolver with me in case Brown might have his “shooting irons” handy!—The blunderbuss that had belonged to the deceased Earl Planetree, and which Lady Dasher had given me as a useful parting present, I had left behind in England, thinking that such a valuable object of antiquity should not be recklessly risked.The police then telegraphed for me to come north—while I was enjoying the canvas-backed ducks of “Maryland, my Maryland,” and nursing my vengeance. I came “up north;” but it was of no use. I never saw Brown of Philadelphia again, or recovered my lost capital.It had gone where the good, or bad, niggers go; and I only hope “Brown” has gone there too!This misfortune filled up the measure of my troubles, though they were numerous enough already.To get employment of a regular character, which became more necessary to me now than ever—was as impossible as it had been all along!Nobody seemed to want anybody like me, in spite of my being not unskilled in foreign languages, and up to clerk’s work—having not yet forgotten the book-keeping which my crammer had crammed into me for the benefit of the “Polite Letter Writer Commissioners.”I was not actually in necessity, as I had still sufficient funds left to defray my bare living expenses for some months, with strict economy; but I had not come to America merely to exist! I had left home to make my fortune, I tell you; and, how could I be satisfied at this state of things? I was losing time, day by day; and not approaching one whit nearer to the object of my life!In addition to these reflections, I had found out the truth of the time-honoured maxim, “coelum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt.”—I might go from the old world to the new; but I could not leave my old memories, my old thoughts behind me!At first, the novelty of things about me distracted my attention.I was in a strange country amongst fresh faces, all connected only with the present, so that, I had little time to look back on the past.Besides, I was hopeful of carving out a new career for myself; and hope is a sworn antagonist to retrospection.But, as I began to get used to the place and people, never-forgotten scenes and associations came back to mind, which I felt were more difficult to banish now, three thousand miles away, than when I was on the spot with which they had been connected.Oh! how, bustled about amidst a crowd of unsympathising strangers, to whom our domestic life is only an ideality, I longed for the quiet and charm and love of an English home!I think that your wanderers and prodigals and black sheep, little though you may believe it, appreciate family union and social ties much more than your steady-going respectables who never stray without the routine circle of upright existence; never err; are never banned as outcasts!The former look upon “home”—what a world does the very name convey to one who has never known what it is!—much as Moore’s “Peri” regarded Paradise, and as the lost angels may wistfully think of the heaven from which they were expelled. Perhaps they overrate its attributes, imagining, as they do, that it is a blissful state of being, for ever debarred to them; but theydohave such feelings—the dregs, probably, of their bitter nature!I can speak to the point, for, I was one of this class.Iwas a prodigal, a black sheep, a wanderer. One on whom Fate had written on his forehead at his birth, “unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,” and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream of regeneration and happiness!How many a time had I not pictured to myself the home of my longing. Nothing grand or great occurred to me—my old ambitions were dead.I only wished for a little domain of my own, where someonewould look up to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me with gladness “in sorrow or in rest.” A kingdom of affection, where no angry word should be ever spoken or heard; where peace and love would reign, no matter what befell!It was a dream:—you are right. I thought so, now, often enough, far away from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as I always had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. I should “laugh with myself,” as poor Parole d’Honneur used to say!I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of my returning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest life possible.—“Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!”—they would sneer.—“Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, Mrs Grundy, you must not expect us to believethat! Can the leopard change his spots?”—and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,—“when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he.”—Oh yes, I had little doubt whattheircharitable judgment would be!Still, the thought of these people’s opinions did not oppress me much; for I knew equally well that, should some freak of Fate endow me with fame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms—ignoring all my former social enormities.—Their tune would be slightly different then!It would be—“Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, Mrs Grundy, that you always said he would turn out well.—His little fastnesses and Bohemian ways?—Pooh! we won’t speak of those now:—only the hot blood of youth, you know—signs of an ardent disposition—we all have our faults;”—and so on.No, I was not thinking much of “society’s” opinion; but, of that of others, whose good esteem I really valued.Theybelieved in me still:—was I worthy of it?I thought not.I doubted myself. Understand, I had no fear of making any new false step in the eyes of the world; or of plunging anew into the dissipations and riotous living of so-called “life,” in return for which I was now eating the husks of voluntary exile: young as I was, I had already learnt a bitter lesson of the hollowness and deception of all this!It was another dread which haunted me.The vicar had, without in any way making light of them, condoned my misdeeds, telling me that there was more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner, than for ninety-and-nine just persons that had never offended: while, my darling—she who had the most cause to turn from me, the greatest right to condemn—had forgiven me; and bidden me to look forward to the future, with the hopeful assurance that she was certain that I would never give her reason again to doubt her faith in me.But, the fatherly affection of the one, the devoted confidence of the other, merited some greater return on my part than mere “uprightness of life,”—in the worldly sense of the expression! Surely, they did?A man’s words and actions may be above reproach, as far as society is concerned; and yet, he may not have a particle of true religion about him. Both the vicar and Min, however, were earnest Christians. They were deeply religious, without a suspicion of cant or affectation; and they wished me to be so, too. I had promised to pray to please them; but, had I kept my promise? No, I had failed:—my conscience told me so!As long as things had gone smoothly with me, I believe Ididpray—with the faith that my petitions were heard above; but, when dark days came, God seemed to forsake me, and my prayers were cast back into my own bosom. I might repeat a form of words a thousand times over; still, how could I be said to pray when the spirit was wanting?—It was only a jugglery, like the repeating machine in which the Burmese believe, or the beads of irreligious Catholics.Min had specially pointed out a text of promise to me in thePsalms, where it is said, “No good thing shall He withhold from them who lead a godly life;” and, I had hoped in it; yet now, when I saw all my plans fail, this text took away my faith. Everything was withheld from me, I thought; therefore I could not lead a godly life, no matter how strenuously I strove to do so. I was outcast and forgotten! I had gone through the “vale of misery;” but I could not “use it as a well;” for my pools were empty! Instead of my Creator directing my “going in the way,” He had left me to stumble forward blindly, until I had fallen into the Slough of Despond,—the sink of unbelief!How hard it is to find that faith which enables us to pray in the confident belief of our supplications being attended to! I remember once reading a passage in a sermon preached by the Archdeacon of Saint Albans in Westminster Abbey some thirteen years ago, which was now brought to my mind. It was one of a series specially designed “for the working classes,” and entitledThe Prayer of Human Kind. The passage ran as follows:—“Why do some penitents—penitents really at heart—still groan, and try, by self-infliction and by keeping open their wounds, to appease God, and find no comfort to their souls? Is it not that they have not really taken to their hearts that Godistheir Father in Christ; and that, ‘even as a father pitieth his own children, so is the Lord merciful to them that fear him?’ Had they, by faith, taken this blessed truth to their souls, they might and would, not in hopelessness and dread, but in trust and penitential love, make their wants known as a child to its parent; they would arise, and in humble compunctions, and not desponding trust, say, ‘Father, I have sinned.’ They would carry each trouble to him, and say, ‘Lord, thou knowest me to be set in this strait, or under that temptation; Lord, deliver me.’ ‘Thou seest the longing desire of my heart; Lord, grant it.’ ‘Thou knowest my weakness; Lord, strengthen me.’ They would carry and lay their separate cares before Him, and cast them on Him, knowing that He careth for them. They would ask, knowing that they will receive; knowing that an answer that withholds what is asked for is as real, and frequently a more merciful answer, than one that grants it.”Ah! That was the faith I could not fathom:—that was why my prayers gave me no comfort, I suppose. And yet, it is said that God, whom rich men find so difficult of approach, manifests Himself to us more in adversity than in prosperity. I could not believe in this myself; for, when I was successful, I really seemed to have faith, and could pray from my heart; while, now, despondent, it appeared hypocrisy on my part to pretend to bend my knees to the Almighty; I felt so despairingly faithless!La Mennais says, in hisParoles d’un Croyant, that—“Il y a toujours des vents brûlants, qui passent sur l’âme de l’homme, et la desséchant. La prière est la rosée qui la rafraîchit.”And, again,—“Dieu sait mieux que vous ce dont vous avez besoin, et c’est pour cela qu’il veut que vous le lui demandiez; car Dieu est lui-même votre premier besoin, et prier Dieu, c’est commencer à posséder Dieu.”The sirocco of sorrow had fanned its hot breath over my soul; but, no grateful spring shower had cooled it through prayer. God, certainly, knows better than we what we should desire; but why does He not instruct us in His wishes?Perhaps you think this all milk-and-watery talk, and that I do not mean what I say?But I do. Even those people whom you might think the most unlikely persons to have such thoughts, will have these reflections, so why not speak of them?Some, I know, believe that all religious conversation should be strictly tabooed in any reference to secular matters. But it seems to me a very delicate faith that will only stand an airing once a week, like your church services on Sundays!Ihave thought of such things, and I’m not ashamed to mention them.Acting on my mind at the same time—in concert with these religious doubts, and the consciousness of my unlucky fortunes—was a strong feeling of home-sickness, which grew and grew with greater intensity as the months rolled by.I got so miserable, that, I felt with Shelley—“I could lie down, like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne and yet must bear!”For what profit did this warring against destiny bring me? Nothing—nothing, but the “vanity and vexation of spirit,” which a more believing soul than mine had apostrophised in agony, ages before I was born.You may not credit the fact of the Swiss mountaineers pining of what is called “Home-woe,” when banished from their beloved glaciers, the same as Cyrus’s legions suffered fromnostalgia; and, may put down the Frenchman’smaladie du pays, which some expatriated communists are probably experiencing now in New Caledonia, to blatant sentimentality; but they are each and all true expositions of feeling.We Englishmen are generally prosaic; but some of us have known the terrible yearning which this home-sickness produces in us in foreign lands. The Devonshire shepherd will weep over the recollections which a little daisy will bring back to him of the old country of his childhood, when standing beneath an Australian gum tree. I have seen a Scotchman in America cherish a thistle, as if it were the rarest of plants, from its native associations; and I know of a potted shamrock which was brought all the way across the ocean in an emigrant ship, by an Irish miner, and which now adorns the window of a veranda-fronted cottage at the Pittsburgh mines in Pennsylvania!Some of usare“sentimental,” you see. I can answer for myself, at least; and I know that the air of “Home, sweet Home,” has affected me quite as much as the “Ranz des Vaches” would appeal to the sensibilities of an Alpine Jödeller!I got home-sick now. The passion took complete possession of me.The burning, suffocating heat of the summer “in the States,” caused me to pant after the cool shade of the old Prebend’s walk at Saint Canon’s; and call to mind those inviting lawns and osiered eyots along the Thames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought as Izaak Walton, the vicar’s favourite, had thought before me—that I would cheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams of fortune, all future success, problematical though each and all appeared—So, I the fields and meadows green may view;And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,Among the daisies and violets blue,Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil;Purple narcissus, like the morning’s rays,Pale gander grass and azure culver keys.In the gorgeous Indian summer, when the nature of the New World seems to awake, dressing all the trees in fantastic foliage of varied hue, my fancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper that ornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for its leafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld—in the chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet “sumachs” of the western forests.And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance, home was brought even nearer to me—in connection with all the cherished memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the—bah! What good will it do to you and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection?I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England—sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket-book—scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of notching his post for the same purpose:—I used to fret and fret, in fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!And, still, my fortunes did not brighten—notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of “something turning up” on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:—my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger.I would have borne my troubles much better, I’m certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to her mother’s wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss Pimpernell’s letters; but what couldtheybe in comparison with letters from Min?—although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to encourage me?It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle—that first year I passed in America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe, until my dying day.Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success—so the world wags.

Across the wide Atlantic—It drives me almost frantic,To watch the breakers breaking, and hear their dull, low roar!—My soul is winging madly;And my eyes are peering sadly,As I span the long, long distance from my home-girt shore!

I was disgusted with America in more ways than one.

Being of a hopeful, castle-building temperament, I had sanguinely thought that I would meet with employment there at once; and, be able to master in some unknown, mysterious way, the great art of money-making, on the very instant that I landed in the New World!

I really imagined it, I think, to be an enchanted place, where every newly-arrived person became magically changed into a sort of Midas on a small scale; transforming everything he touched, if not into gold—the days of California were now over—at all events into Washington “eagles,” or Mexican silver dollars, or even greenbacks, which were better than nothing, although greasy and not acknowledged at their nominal value.

Upon my word, I really believe that that was my secret opinion concerning America before I actually crossed the Atlantic!

Probably, I would not have told you so had you asked me then; but I think that was my real idea about it. It was to me an Eldorado, where ill-luck was undreamt of; and where I should be able to heap up riches without the slightest out-of-the-way exertion on my part, in an incredibly short space of time:—riches that would enable me to return home, in the character of a millionaire, in a year or two at the outside, and claim Min’s hand from the then-unresisting Mrs Clyde!

Was I not a fool? Pray, say so, if you think it.—Iwon’t mind, bless you! for, I know that there are more such in the world besides myself, eh?

I soon found out my mistake.

Not only was the cost of living excessively high—I had to pay twelve dollars a week for a bedroom in Brooklyn, an adjacent suburb, with “board” of which I did not partake very frequently, through an inherent dislike to bad cookery—but employment of any description was so difficult to be obtained that for every vacant situation advertised in the New York papers there were several hundred applicants, amongst whom an Englishman stood a very poor chance of being selected when competing with native citizens.

Do you know, Transatlantica is about the very worst quarter of the globe for an educated man to go to, who has no scientific attainments, such as a knowledge of chemistry and engineering—which may occasionally stand him in good stead.

For skilled artisans, or those brought up to a regular trade, there are good wages to be had, and constant work; but a “gentleman,” or clerk—unless he intends reversing the whole training of his life, which he will find an extremely difficult thing to do—had far better go and break stones on the highways at home, than think to improve his condition by emigrating to America!

There are some men who can throw off all old associations and the habits in which they have been bred from boyhood, but, not one in a thousand—though I have myself seen an Oxford graduate acting as an hotel tout in Cincinnati and the son of a “Bart, of the British Empire” driving a mud cart in Chicago!—neither of these, either, had been brought down by drinking, that general curse of exiled Englishmen in ill-luck.

I had good introductions; and yet, although I met with great hospitality in being asked out to dinner, I could never get any employment put in my way.

A dinner is a dinner, certainly, and a very good thing in itself—not to be sneezed at, either, in the Empire City, let me tell you; for, there, you can have as neat a repast served, whether in private houses or at the Great Delmonico’s of “Fourteenth Street,” as you would meet with at one ortwohaunts I wot of in the Palais Royale. Still, I leave it to yourself, a dinner is but a poor “quid” to him lacking the “quo” of an immediate fortune—is it not?

Matters began to grow serious with me; for, my income having amounted tonilsince my landing in the new world, my assets were gradually diminishing. I had only a few pounds left; as my expenditure for lodging alone was at the rate of over two guineas a week; and Monsieur Parole d’Honneur’s loan, which I looked upon only in the light of trading capital, I had determined not to touch on for personal need.

What should I do?

I went to one of the American gentlemen to whom I had been introduced, and laid my position before him. He advised me, as he had previously advised me, to “look about” me.

I had “looked about me” already for some three months—without anything coming of it; however, I looked about me now again, and?—met Brown of Philadelphia!

“Brown of Philadelphia” was one who is known among our “cousins” as a “live” man. Brown of Philadelphia was an enterprising man; he was more: he was a benevolent man. He had a splendid scheme, he told me, for turning over thousands of dollars at once. He had no wish to merely better himself, however. He was a man with a large heart, and would make my fortune too. It seemed as if Providence had specially interfered to prevent his meeting with a partner until I had answered his advertisement!Ishould be his partner. I need not know anything of the business—hewould manage all that. What I should have to do, would be, to take care of all the money that came in—a post for which both he and I thought I was peculiarly fitted. And the scheme?—

Perhaps you will laugh when I tell you. It was selling blacking!

There is nothing to be ashamed of in it, though. Have not Day and Martin made a fortune by it, and a name in all the world? Has not many a proud merchant prince risen to eminence on a more ignoble commodity?

Blacking! There is something noble in causing the feet of posterity to shine; and to be the means of testing the standing of a would-be gentleman! Clean boots are an essentiality of society; why should I shrink from the responsibility of helping to produce them?

Well, whether you consider it a lowering trade or not, Brown of Philadelphia suggested our “going into” blacking together. He knew of a place, he said, where he could get it for “next to nothing;” and, as he then pertinently observed, I must be aware that it might be disposed of in New York at more than cent, per cent, profit. So, why should we not embark in it? If we did, Brown of Philadelphia—only he was opposed to betting, on moral principle—was prepared to wager a trifle that we would soon have more “greenbacks” than we should know what to do with!

He had an office already, had my benevolent friend,—“located” in a first-rate part of Broadway. All I should have to do, he explained, would be to put a small sum into the concern—so as to be independent, as it were, and not merely accepting “a big thing” at his hands—and, my fortune was made. If I would contribute, say, five hundred dollars—“a mere song”—we might go joint shares in what would turn out to be a most remarkably go-a-head enterprise; yes, sir!

Strange! But, the amount he mentioned was the exact sum, in American exchange, of my capital—about which, you know, I had previously spoken to him in a friendly and communicative way. Itwasodd, my just having sufficient, wasn’t it?—Yet, how lucky, to be sure! And then, there was no necessity for my being acquainted with the business:—he would manage that. My duty would be to take in money—exactly what I liked! That’s what took my fancy so amazingly—“tickled” me, as Artemus Ward would have expressed it—so I repeat it!

Brown of Philadelphia was the soul of honour, as well as distinguished for his smartness and benevolence. He did not want to impose onme, bless you!

No; on the contrary, he gave me a reference to a large bank “down town,” and also to a notorious shoddy celebrity who lived “up” town,—to the former of which I went, making inquiries as to his stability. Certainly, they knew Mr Brown of Philadelphia. Had a large balance at present in their hands. As far as they were aware—must be reticent in commercial matters, you know—perfectly responsible party. Could I have taken any further precaution? I think not, after this statement.

Quite satisfactory, wasn’t it?

I did not go to shoddy character in Fifth Avenue, because it was a horribly long pull there in the street “cars:”—thought bank reference sufficient, wouldn’t you?

Perfectly satisfactory, I thought; and told Brown of Philadelphia so at our next meeting, when I lunched with him by appointment.

We next went to see the office—our office—in Broadway, afterwards. Just the thing—possibly a trifle small; but then we could enlarge in time, eh? Not the slightest doubt. Brown of Philadelphia and I excellent friends. He dined with me at an hotel that day—at my expense on this occasion.

After dinner, arranged business matters as partners should do, drawing up a deed of associationship, and so on. Brown of Philadelphia produced roll of dollars in “greenbacks” - his share of the capital of our embryo firm. I produced roll of “greenbacks”—my share of capital of embryo firm. Both parcels sealed up; and given into Brown of Philadelphia’s custody, as senior partner, to deposit same in our joint names at a bank on the morrow.

Brown of Philadelphia and I then parted with words and signs of mutual respect and admiration; and I hied me to my Brooklyn lodgings in high delight at the fortunate turn in my affairs.

Why, I would be rich in a few months; and then:—

What delightful dreams I had that night!

We were to meet again the next morning punctually at “ten sharp” at “the office.”

Iwas there to the minute, but Brown of Philadelphia wasn’t; and, although I waited for him many subsequent minutes after the appointed time, he never came—nor have I clapped eyes on him from that day to this.

Faithless Brown! He robbed me of my belief in human nature, in addition to my hoarded “greenbacks.”

The office, I found, had been taken by the keen philanthropist for a week, a few dollars of the rent being advanced by him as security on account. On asking at the bank, which had in the first instance satisfied me of his integrity, the cashier told me that Brown of Philadelphia had drawn out all of his available balance the very afternoon on which I had made my inquiries respecting him; and where he was gone, no one knew!

“Skedaddled,” evidently. As for shoddy celebrity, “up town,” to whom Brown of Philadelphia had also referred me, said that my friend had swindledhima short period before. Good joke, his being given as a reference!

I put the affair in the hands of the police; but they gave me about as much comfort as our guardians in blue would have done.

They said he had gone south. I went to Baltimore after him; but I could not meet him, although I was full of determination and had taken a revolver with me in case Brown might have his “shooting irons” handy!—The blunderbuss that had belonged to the deceased Earl Planetree, and which Lady Dasher had given me as a useful parting present, I had left behind in England, thinking that such a valuable object of antiquity should not be recklessly risked.

The police then telegraphed for me to come north—while I was enjoying the canvas-backed ducks of “Maryland, my Maryland,” and nursing my vengeance. I came “up north;” but it was of no use. I never saw Brown of Philadelphia again, or recovered my lost capital.

It had gone where the good, or bad, niggers go; and I only hope “Brown” has gone there too!

This misfortune filled up the measure of my troubles, though they were numerous enough already.

To get employment of a regular character, which became more necessary to me now than ever—was as impossible as it had been all along!

Nobody seemed to want anybody like me, in spite of my being not unskilled in foreign languages, and up to clerk’s work—having not yet forgotten the book-keeping which my crammer had crammed into me for the benefit of the “Polite Letter Writer Commissioners.”

I was not actually in necessity, as I had still sufficient funds left to defray my bare living expenses for some months, with strict economy; but I had not come to America merely to exist! I had left home to make my fortune, I tell you; and, how could I be satisfied at this state of things? I was losing time, day by day; and not approaching one whit nearer to the object of my life!

In addition to these reflections, I had found out the truth of the time-honoured maxim, “coelum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt.”—I might go from the old world to the new; but I could not leave my old memories, my old thoughts behind me!

At first, the novelty of things about me distracted my attention.

I was in a strange country amongst fresh faces, all connected only with the present, so that, I had little time to look back on the past.

Besides, I was hopeful of carving out a new career for myself; and hope is a sworn antagonist to retrospection.

But, as I began to get used to the place and people, never-forgotten scenes and associations came back to mind, which I felt were more difficult to banish now, three thousand miles away, than when I was on the spot with which they had been connected.

Oh! how, bustled about amidst a crowd of unsympathising strangers, to whom our domestic life is only an ideality, I longed for the quiet and charm and love of an English home!

I think that your wanderers and prodigals and black sheep, little though you may believe it, appreciate family union and social ties much more than your steady-going respectables who never stray without the routine circle of upright existence; never err; are never banned as outcasts!

The former look upon “home”—what a world does the very name convey to one who has never known what it is!—much as Moore’s “Peri” regarded Paradise, and as the lost angels may wistfully think of the heaven from which they were expelled. Perhaps they overrate its attributes, imagining, as they do, that it is a blissful state of being, for ever debarred to them; but theydohave such feelings—the dregs, probably, of their bitter nature!

I can speak to the point, for, I was one of this class.

Iwas a prodigal, a black sheep, a wanderer. One on whom Fate had written on his forehead at his birth, “unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,” and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream of regeneration and happiness!

How many a time had I not pictured to myself the home of my longing. Nothing grand or great occurred to me—my old ambitions were dead.

I only wished for a little domain of my own, where someonewould look up to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me with gladness “in sorrow or in rest.” A kingdom of affection, where no angry word should be ever spoken or heard; where peace and love would reign, no matter what befell!

It was a dream:—you are right. I thought so, now, often enough, far away from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as I always had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!

Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. I should “laugh with myself,” as poor Parole d’Honneur used to say!

I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of my returning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest life possible.—“Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!”—they would sneer.—“Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, Mrs Grundy, you must not expect us to believethat! Can the leopard change his spots?”—and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,—“when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he.”—Oh yes, I had little doubt whattheircharitable judgment would be!

Still, the thought of these people’s opinions did not oppress me much; for I knew equally well that, should some freak of Fate endow me with fame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms—ignoring all my former social enormities.—Their tune would be slightly different then!

It would be—“Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, Mrs Grundy, that you always said he would turn out well.—His little fastnesses and Bohemian ways?—Pooh! we won’t speak of those now:—only the hot blood of youth, you know—signs of an ardent disposition—we all have our faults;”—and so on.

No, I was not thinking much of “society’s” opinion; but, of that of others, whose good esteem I really valued.Theybelieved in me still:—was I worthy of it?

I thought not.

I doubted myself. Understand, I had no fear of making any new false step in the eyes of the world; or of plunging anew into the dissipations and riotous living of so-called “life,” in return for which I was now eating the husks of voluntary exile: young as I was, I had already learnt a bitter lesson of the hollowness and deception of all this!

It was another dread which haunted me.

The vicar had, without in any way making light of them, condoned my misdeeds, telling me that there was more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner, than for ninety-and-nine just persons that had never offended: while, my darling—she who had the most cause to turn from me, the greatest right to condemn—had forgiven me; and bidden me to look forward to the future, with the hopeful assurance that she was certain that I would never give her reason again to doubt her faith in me.

But, the fatherly affection of the one, the devoted confidence of the other, merited some greater return on my part than mere “uprightness of life,”—in the worldly sense of the expression! Surely, they did?

A man’s words and actions may be above reproach, as far as society is concerned; and yet, he may not have a particle of true religion about him. Both the vicar and Min, however, were earnest Christians. They were deeply religious, without a suspicion of cant or affectation; and they wished me to be so, too. I had promised to pray to please them; but, had I kept my promise? No, I had failed:—my conscience told me so!

As long as things had gone smoothly with me, I believe Ididpray—with the faith that my petitions were heard above; but, when dark days came, God seemed to forsake me, and my prayers were cast back into my own bosom. I might repeat a form of words a thousand times over; still, how could I be said to pray when the spirit was wanting?—It was only a jugglery, like the repeating machine in which the Burmese believe, or the beads of irreligious Catholics.

Min had specially pointed out a text of promise to me in thePsalms, where it is said, “No good thing shall He withhold from them who lead a godly life;” and, I had hoped in it; yet now, when I saw all my plans fail, this text took away my faith. Everything was withheld from me, I thought; therefore I could not lead a godly life, no matter how strenuously I strove to do so. I was outcast and forgotten! I had gone through the “vale of misery;” but I could not “use it as a well;” for my pools were empty! Instead of my Creator directing my “going in the way,” He had left me to stumble forward blindly, until I had fallen into the Slough of Despond,—the sink of unbelief!

How hard it is to find that faith which enables us to pray in the confident belief of our supplications being attended to! I remember once reading a passage in a sermon preached by the Archdeacon of Saint Albans in Westminster Abbey some thirteen years ago, which was now brought to my mind. It was one of a series specially designed “for the working classes,” and entitledThe Prayer of Human Kind. The passage ran as follows:—

“Why do some penitents—penitents really at heart—still groan, and try, by self-infliction and by keeping open their wounds, to appease God, and find no comfort to their souls? Is it not that they have not really taken to their hearts that Godistheir Father in Christ; and that, ‘even as a father pitieth his own children, so is the Lord merciful to them that fear him?’ Had they, by faith, taken this blessed truth to their souls, they might and would, not in hopelessness and dread, but in trust and penitential love, make their wants known as a child to its parent; they would arise, and in humble compunctions, and not desponding trust, say, ‘Father, I have sinned.’ They would carry each trouble to him, and say, ‘Lord, thou knowest me to be set in this strait, or under that temptation; Lord, deliver me.’ ‘Thou seest the longing desire of my heart; Lord, grant it.’ ‘Thou knowest my weakness; Lord, strengthen me.’ They would carry and lay their separate cares before Him, and cast them on Him, knowing that He careth for them. They would ask, knowing that they will receive; knowing that an answer that withholds what is asked for is as real, and frequently a more merciful answer, than one that grants it.”

Ah! That was the faith I could not fathom:—that was why my prayers gave me no comfort, I suppose. And yet, it is said that God, whom rich men find so difficult of approach, manifests Himself to us more in adversity than in prosperity. I could not believe in this myself; for, when I was successful, I really seemed to have faith, and could pray from my heart; while, now, despondent, it appeared hypocrisy on my part to pretend to bend my knees to the Almighty; I felt so despairingly faithless!

La Mennais says, in hisParoles d’un Croyant, that—

“Il y a toujours des vents brûlants, qui passent sur l’âme de l’homme, et la desséchant. La prière est la rosée qui la rafraîchit.”

And, again,—

“Dieu sait mieux que vous ce dont vous avez besoin, et c’est pour cela qu’il veut que vous le lui demandiez; car Dieu est lui-même votre premier besoin, et prier Dieu, c’est commencer à posséder Dieu.”

The sirocco of sorrow had fanned its hot breath over my soul; but, no grateful spring shower had cooled it through prayer. God, certainly, knows better than we what we should desire; but why does He not instruct us in His wishes?

Perhaps you think this all milk-and-watery talk, and that I do not mean what I say?

But I do. Even those people whom you might think the most unlikely persons to have such thoughts, will have these reflections, so why not speak of them?

Some, I know, believe that all religious conversation should be strictly tabooed in any reference to secular matters. But it seems to me a very delicate faith that will only stand an airing once a week, like your church services on Sundays!Ihave thought of such things, and I’m not ashamed to mention them.

Acting on my mind at the same time—in concert with these religious doubts, and the consciousness of my unlucky fortunes—was a strong feeling of home-sickness, which grew and grew with greater intensity as the months rolled by.

I got so miserable, that, I felt with Shelley—“I could lie down, like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne and yet must bear!”

For what profit did this warring against destiny bring me? Nothing—nothing, but the “vanity and vexation of spirit,” which a more believing soul than mine had apostrophised in agony, ages before I was born.

You may not credit the fact of the Swiss mountaineers pining of what is called “Home-woe,” when banished from their beloved glaciers, the same as Cyrus’s legions suffered fromnostalgia; and, may put down the Frenchman’smaladie du pays, which some expatriated communists are probably experiencing now in New Caledonia, to blatant sentimentality; but they are each and all true expositions of feeling.

We Englishmen are generally prosaic; but some of us have known the terrible yearning which this home-sickness produces in us in foreign lands. The Devonshire shepherd will weep over the recollections which a little daisy will bring back to him of the old country of his childhood, when standing beneath an Australian gum tree. I have seen a Scotchman in America cherish a thistle, as if it were the rarest of plants, from its native associations; and I know of a potted shamrock which was brought all the way across the ocean in an emigrant ship, by an Irish miner, and which now adorns the window of a veranda-fronted cottage at the Pittsburgh mines in Pennsylvania!

Some of usare“sentimental,” you see. I can answer for myself, at least; and I know that the air of “Home, sweet Home,” has affected me quite as much as the “Ranz des Vaches” would appeal to the sensibilities of an Alpine Jödeller!

I got home-sick now. The passion took complete possession of me.

The burning, suffocating heat of the summer “in the States,” caused me to pant after the cool shade of the old Prebend’s walk at Saint Canon’s; and call to mind those inviting lawns and osiered eyots along the Thames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought as Izaak Walton, the vicar’s favourite, had thought before me—that I would cheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams of fortune, all future success, problematical though each and all appeared—

So, I the fields and meadows green may view;And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,Among the daisies and violets blue,Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil;Purple narcissus, like the morning’s rays,Pale gander grass and azure culver keys.

In the gorgeous Indian summer, when the nature of the New World seems to awake, dressing all the trees in fantastic foliage of varied hue, my fancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper that ornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for its leafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld—in the chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet “sumachs” of the western forests.

And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance, home was brought even nearer to me—in connection with all the cherished memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the—bah! What good will it do to you and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection?

I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England—sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket-book—scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of notching his post for the same purpose:—I used to fret and fret, in fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!

And, still, my fortunes did not brighten—notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of “something turning up” on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:—my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger.

I would have borne my troubles much better, I’m certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.

There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to her mother’s wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss Pimpernell’s letters; but what couldtheybe in comparison with letters from Min?—although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to encourage me?

It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle—that first year I passed in America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe, until my dying day.

Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success—so the world wags.

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