I was liberated from prison at the end of eight days. I begged hard to be allowed to remain there, but was not permitted. This interval, short as it was, had done much to recruit my strength and rally my faculties; it served besides to instil into me a calm and patient resolve to depend solely on myself; and effacing, so far as I might, all hopes of tracing out my family, I determined now to deem no labor too humble by which I might earn a livelihood.
I am now speaking of fifty years ago, and the world has made rapid strides since that. The growing necessities of our great population, and the wide field for enterprise offered by our colonies, have combined to produce a social revolution few could have predicted once. The well-born and the tenderly-nurtured have now gone forth in thousands to try their fortunes in far-away lands, to brave hardships and encounter toil that the hard sons of labor themselves are fain to shrink from; but at the time I speak of, this bold spirit had not burst into life,—the world was insolent in its prosperity, and never dreamed of a reverse.
By transcribing letters and papers for one of the officials while in jail, I had earned four shillings; and with this sum, my all in the world, I now found myself following the flood-tide of that host which moves daily along the Strand in London. I had breakfasted heartily before I left the prison, and resolving to hoard up my little treasure, determined to eat nothing more on that day. As I walked along I felt that the air, sharp and frosty as it was, excited and invigorated me. The bright blue sky overhead, the clear outline of every object, the brisk stir and movement of the population, all helped to cheer my spirits, and I experienced a sense of freedom, as that of one who, having thrown off a long-carried burden, is at last free to walk unencumbered. A few hours before I fancied I could have been well satisfied to wear out life within the walls of my prison, but now I felt that liberty compensated for any hardship. The town on that morning presented an aspect of more than ordinary stir and excitement. Men were at work in front of all the houses, on ladders and scaffoldings; huge frameworks, with gaudy paintings, were being hoisted from the roofs, and signs of wonderful preparation of one kind or other were everywhere visible. I stopped to inquire the meaning, and was told, not without a stare of surprise, that London was about to illuminate in joyful commemoration of the treaty of peace just signed with France. I thanked my informant, and moved on. Assuredly there were few in either country who had less reason to be interested in such tidings than myself. I possessed nothing, not even a nationality, that I could safely lay claim to. In the hope of approaching prosperity tomorrow, so forcibly expressed in many an inscription,—in all those devices of enthusiastic patriotism, I had no share. In fact, I was like one of another nation, suddenly dropped in the midst of a busy population, whose feelings, hopes, and aspirations were all new and strange to me.
As I came up to Charing Cross a dense crowd stopped the way, gazing with wondering eyes at a great triumphal arch which spanned the thoroughfare, and whose frail timbers gave but a sorry intimation of the splendor it should exhibit after nightfall. Immense draperies floated from this crazy framework, and vast transparencies displayed in tasteless allegory the blessings of a peace. The enthusiasm of admiration was high among the spectators; doubtless, the happy occasion itself suggested a cordiality of approval that the preparations themselves did not warrant; for at every step in the construction, a hearty cheer would burst forth from the crowd, in recognition of the success of the work. My attention, undisturbed by such emotions, was fixed upon one of the poles of the scaffolding, which, thrown considerably out of its perpendicular, swayed and bent at every step that approached it, and threatened, if not speedily looked to, to occasion some disaster. I pointed this out to one beside me, who as quickly communicated it to another, and in less than a minute after, a panic cry was raised that the scaffold was falling. The crowd fell back in terror, while the men upon the scaffolding, not knowing in what quarter the danger existed, stood in terrified groups, or madly rushed to the ladders to escape. The mad shouts and screams of those beneath added to the confusion, and rendered it impossible to convey warning to those in peril. At this instant a man was seen approaching the weak part of the scaffold, and though at every step he took, the ill-fated pole swerved further and further from the right line, he was utterly unconscious of his danger, and seemed only bent on gaining a rope, which, fastened by one end above, hung down to the porch beneath. Wild cries and yells were raised to warn him of his peril, but, not heeding, nor, perhaps, hearing them, he seized the cord and swung himself free of the scaffold.
In an instant the fabric gave way, and, bending over, came down with a terrible crash of falling beams and splintered timber. It fell so close to where I stood that it struck down an old man with whom I had been conversing the moment before. Strangely too, amidst that dense throng, this was the only serious injury inflicted; but he was struck dead,—at least, he only lingered for the few minutes it took to carry him to a neighboring public-house, where he expired.
“It's old Harry; he always said he'd die at his crossing,” said the publican, as he recognized the features.
“He thought it was them new-fashioned curricles would do for him, though,” said another. “He said so to me last week, for he was getting too old to escape when he saw them coming.”
“Old! I should think he was. He was on that there crossing at the coronation,—a matter of fifty years ago.”
“Say forty, my good friend, and you'll be nigher the mark; but even forty sufficed to leave him well off for the rest of his days, if he had but had prudence to know it.”
As I stood thus listening, I leaned upon the broom which I had taken from the old man's hand when I lifted him up.
“I 'll give you a matter of ten pounds for it, master,” said a gruff-looking fellow, addressing me, while he touched the broom with his knuckle. “Five down on the nail, and the rest ten shillings a-week. Do you say done?” Before I could collect myself to understand what this offer might mean, a dozen others were crowding around me with a number of similar proposals.
“You don't know the rule amongst these fellows,” said the landlord, addressing me; “but it is this, that whoever touches the broom first after its owner is killed, succeeds to the crossing. It 's yours now, to work or dispose of, as you like best.”
“He 'll never work it,—he does n't know the town,” said one.
“He'd not know Charley Fox from Big Hullescoat the tailor.”
“He 'd splash Colonel Hanyer, and sweep clean for the Duke of Queensberry.”
“And forget to have change for Lord Bute,” cried another,—a sally so generally applauded that it showed a full appreciation of its truthfulness.
“I 'll try it, nevertheless, gentlemen,” said I, addressing the company respectfully; “and if the landlord will only give me credit for half-a-guinea's worth of liquor, we'll drink my accession to office at once.”
This was agreeably received by all, even the landlord, who ushered us into an inner room to enjoy ourselves.
If I had not transgressed too freely already on my reader's patience by details which have no immediate bearing on my own life, I should have been greatly tempted to revive some recollections of that evening,—one of the strangest I ever passed. Assuredly the guild of which I suddenly found myself a member was not one in which I could have either expected laws and regulations, or looked for anything like a rigid etiquette; yet such was precisely the case. The rules, if not many, were imperative, while the requirements to obtain success were considerable. It was not enough to know every remarkable character about town, but you should also have a knowledge of their tone and temper. Some should be dunned with importunity; others never asked for a farthing; a Scotch accent went far with General Dundas; a jest never failed with Mr. Sheridan. Besides this, an unfailing memory for every one who had crossed during the day was indispensable, and if this gift extended to chairs and coaches, all the better was it.
My brethren, I must do them the justice to say, were no niggards of information. To me, perhaps, they felt a sense of exultation in describing the dignity of the craft,—perhaps they hoped to deter me from a career so surrounded with difficulties. They little knew that they were only stimulating the curiosity of one to whom any object or any direction in life was a boon and a blessing. Hardship and neglect had so far altered my appearance that, even had I cared for it, any artificial disguisement was unnecessary. My beard and moustache covered the lower part of my face, and my hair, long and lank, hung heavily on my neck behind. But, were it otherwise, how few had ever known me! There were none to blush for me,—none to feel implicated in what they might have called the disgrace of my position. I reasoned thus,—I went even further, and persuaded myself there was something akin to heroism in thus braving the current of opinion, and stemming the strong tide of the world's prejudice. If this be my fitting station in life, thought I, there is no impropriety in my abiding by it; and if, perchance, I might have worthily filled a higher one, the disgrace is not with me, but with that world that treated me so harshly.
Though all these arguments satisfied me thoroughly as I thought over them, they did not give me the support I had hoped for. When the hour came for me to assume my calling, I am almost ashamed to say how I shrunk from it. I grieve to think how much more easy for me had it been to commit a crime than to go forth, broom in hand, and earn my livelihood! But I was determined to go on, and I did so. The first week or so was absolute misery; I scarcely dared to look any one in the face. If perchance I caught an eye fixed upon me, I imagined I was recognized. I dreaded to utter a word, lest my voice might betray me. I was repeatedly questioned about old Harry, and what had become of him; and I could see, that with all my attempts at disguise, my accent attracted attention, and men looked at me with curiosity, and even suspicion. Is it not strange that there should be more real awkwardness in maintaining a station that one deems below him than in the assumption of a rank as unquestionably above his own? Perhaps our self-love is the cause of it, and that, in our estimate of our own natures, we think nothing too great or too exalted for us.
Be this as it may, my struggles were very painful; and, far from conforming easily to the exigencies of my lot, each day's experience rendered them still harder to me. Two entire days passed over without my having received a farthing. I could not bring myself to ask for payment, and the crowd passed on, unheeding me. Some who seemed prepared with the accustomed mite replaced it in their pockets when they saw what seemed my indifference. One young fellow threw me a penny as he went, but I could not have stooped for it had my life been on the issue. What a wonderful thing is fortune!—or rather, how rarely can we plot for ourselves any combination of circumstances so successful as those that arise from what we deem accident! These that seemed evidences of failure were the first promises of prosperity. My comrades had given me the nickname of “Gentleman Jack.” The sobriquet attracted notice to me and to my habit of never making a demand; and long ere I came to learn the cause, I found myself deriving all the advantage of it. Few now went by without paying; many gave me silver, some even accompanying the gift with a passing salutation, or a word of recognition. Slight as these were, and insignificant, they were far more precious to me than any praises I have ever listened to in my days of prosperity!
I gradually came to know all the celebrities of the town, and be myself known by them. How like a dream does it seem to me, as I think over those days! When Alderman Whitbread would give me a shilling, and Wilkes borrow a crown of me; when Colonel O'Kelly would pay me with a wink, and Sir Philip Francis with a curse; when Baron Geramb, frizzed, moustached, and decorated, lounged lazily along on the arm of Admiral Payne, followed by a gorgeously-equipped chasseur,—a rare sight in those days! Nor is it altogether an old man's prejudice makes me think that the leaders of fashion in those times had more unmistakably the signs of being Grand Seigneurs than the men of our own day.
I have said that the tide of fortune had turned with me, and to an extent scarcely credible. Many days saw my gains above a guinea; once or twice they more than doubled that amount. I have frequently read in newspapers announcements of the fortunes accumulated by men in the very humblest stations,—statements which, with less experience than my own, I might have hesitated to believe; but now I know them to be credible. I know, too, that many of the donors who contemptuously threw their penny as they passed were far poorer than the recipient of their bounty.
If time did not reconcile me to my lot, yet a certain hardihood to brave destiny in any shape fortified me. I reasoned repeatedly with myself on this wise: Fate can scarcely have anything lower in store for me; from this there can be no descent in fortune. If, then, I can here maintain within me the feelings which moved me in happier days, and live unchanged in the midst of what might have been degradation, there is yet a hope that I may emerge to hold a worthy station among my fellow-men.
I will not affirm that this feeling was not heightened by an almost resentful sense of the world's treatment of me,—a feeling which, combat how I would, hourly gained more and more possession of me. To struggle against this growing misanthropy, I formed the resolve that I would devote all my earnings of each Sunday to charity. It was but too easy, in my walk of life, for me to know objects of want and suffering. The little close in which I lived—near Seven Dials—was filled with such; and amongst them I now dispensed the seventh of my gains,—in reality far more, since Sunday almost equalled two entire days in profit. Thus did I vacillate betwixt good and evil influences,—now yielding, now resisting,—but always gaining some little advantage over selfishness and narrow-mindedness, by the training of that best of teachers,—adversity. How my trials might have ended, had the course of my life gone on uninterruptedly, I cannot even guess. Whether the bad might have gained the ascendant, or the good triumphed, I know not. An incident, too slight to advert to, save in its influence upon my fate, suddenly gave another direction to my destiny; and though, as I have said, in itself a mere trifle, yet for its singularity, as well as in its consequences, requires a mention, and shall have—albeit a short one—a chapter of its own.
The incident I am about to relate has not—at least so far as I know—ever been made public. Up to three years ago I could have called a witness to its truth; but I am now the only survivor of those who once could have corroborated my tale. Still, I am not without hope that there are some living who, having heard the circumstances before, will generously exonerate me from any imputation of being the inventor.
This preface may excite in my reader the false expectation of something deeply interesting; and I at once and most explicitly own that I have none such in store for him. It is, I repeat for the third time, an incident only curious from those engaged in it, and only claiming a mention in such a history as mine.
It was on one of the coldest of a cold December days, when a dry north wind, with a blackish sky, portended the approach of a heavy snow-storm, that I was standing at my usual post, with little to occupy me, for the weather for some time previous had been dry and frosty. Habit, and the security that none could recognize me, had at length inured me to my condition; and I was beginning to feel the same indifference about my station that I felt as to my future.
Pride may, in reality, have had much to say to this, for I was proud to think that of the thousands who flowed past me each day I could claim equality with a large share, and perhaps more than equality with many. This pride, too, was somehow fostered by a sense of hope which I could have scarcely credited; for there constantly occurred to me the thought that one day or other I should be able to say: “Yes, my Lord Duke, I have known you these twenty years. I remember having swept the crossing for you in the autumn after the Peace. Ay, ay, Right Honorable Sir, I owe you my gratitude, if only for this that you never passed me without saying, 'Good day, Jack!'”
Was it not strange, too, how fondly I clung to, what importance I attached to, these little passing recognitions; they seemed to me the last remaining ties that bound me to my fellow-men, and that to deny them to me was to declare me an outcast forever. To this hour I feel my thankfulness to those who thus acknowledged me; nor can I even yet conquer an unforgiving memory of some chance, mayhap unintentional, rudeness which, as it were, seemed to stamp my degradation more deeply upon me. Stranger still that I must own how my political bias was decided by these accidental causes; for while the great Tory leaders rarely or never noticed me, the Whigs—a younger and more joyous section in those times—always flung me a passing word, and would even occasionally condescend to listen to my repartee.
I must guard myself from giving way to the memories which are already crowding fast about me. Names, and characters, and events rise up before my mind in myriads, and it is with difficulty I can refrain from embarking on that flood of the past which now sweeps along through my brain. The great, the high-born, the beautiful, the gifted, all dust and ashes now!—they who once filled the whole page of each day's history utterly ignored and forgotten! It is scarcely more than fifty years ago; and yet of all the eloquence that shook the “House,” of all the fascinations that stirred the hearts of princes, of the high ambitions that made men demigods in their time, how much have reached us? Nothing, or less than nothing. A jest or a witticism that must be read with a commentary, or told with an explanation,—the repartee that set the table in a roar, now heard with a cold, half-contemptuous astonishment, or a vacant inquiry “if such were really the wits of those times.”
Amongst those with whose appearance I had become familiar were three young men of very fashionable exterior, who always were seen together. They displayed, by the dress of blue coat and buff waistcoat, the distinctive colors of the Whigs; but their buttons more emphatically declared their party in the letters P. F., by which the friends of the Prince then loved to designate themselves. The “Bucks” of that age had one enormous advantage over the Dandies of ours,—they had no imitators. They stood alone and unapproachable in all the glories of tight leathers and low top-boots. No spurious copies of them got currency; and the man of fashion was unmistakable amongst a thousand. The three of whom I have made mention were good specimens of that school, which dated its birth from the early years of the Prince, and by their habits and tone imparted a distinctive character to the party. They dressed well, they looked well, they comported themselves as though life went ever pleasantly with them; and in their joyous air and easy bearing one might read the traits of a set well adapted to be the friends and companions of a young prince, himself passionately devoted to pleasure, and reckless in regard to its price.
I am now speaking of long ago, and have no hesitation in giving the real names of those to whom I allude. One was a captain in the navy, called Payne; the second was a young colonel in the foot-guards, Conway; and the third was an Irishman named O'Kelly, whom they called the Count or the Chevalier, about town, from what cause or with what pretension I never ascertained.
Even in my own narrow sphere of observation it was clear to me that this last exercised a great influence over his companions. The tone of his voice, his air, his every gesture, bespoke a certain degree of dictation, to which the others seemed to lend a willing obedience. It was just that amount of superiority which a greater buoyancy of character confers,—a higher grade of vitality some would call it,—but which never fails through life to make itself felt and acknowledged. The three kept a bachelor house at Kensington, whose fame ran a close rivalry with that of the more celebrated Carlton House. O'Kelly lived below, Conway occupied the drawing-room story, and Payne the third floor; and with one or other of these all the great characters of the Opposition were constant guests. Here, amidst brilliant sallies of wit and loud bursts of laughter, the tactics of party were planned and conned over. While songs went round and toasts were cheered, the subtle schemes of politics were discussed and determined on; and many a sudden diversion of debate that seemed the accident of the moment took its origin in some suggestion that arose in these wild orgies. The Prince himself was a frequent guest, since the character of these meetings allowed of many persons being admitted to his society whose birth and position might not have warranted their being received at his own table; and here also were many presented to him whose station could not have claimed a more formal introduction.
It was rumored that these same meetings were wild and desperate orgies, in which every outrage on morality was practised, and that the spirit of libertinism raged without control or hindrance. I have not of myself any means of judging how far this statement might be correct, but I rather incline to believe it one of those calumnies which are so constantly levelled at any society which assumes to itself exclusiveness and secrecy. They who were admitted there assuredly were not given to divulge what they saw, and this very reserve must have provoked its interpretation.
A truce to these speculations; and now back to my story. I was standing listlessly on the edge of the flag-way, while a long funeral procession was passing. The dreary day and drearier object seemed to harmonize well together. The wheels of the mourning-coaches grated sorrowfully on the half-frozen ground, and the leaden canopy of sky appeared a suitable covering to the melancholy picture. My thoughts were of the very saddest, when suddenly a merry burst of laughing voices broke in upon my ear; and without turning my head, I recognized the three young men of whom I have just spoken, as standing close behind me.
Some jocular allusion to the slow march of the procession had set them a-laughing; and O'Kelly said,—
“Talk as men will about the ills of life, see how tardily they move out of it.”
“That comes of not knowing the road before them,” cried Payne.
“Egad! they might remember, though, that it is a well-worn highway by this time,” chimed in Conway; “and now that poor Dick has gone it, who's to fill his place?”
“No very hard matter,” said O'Kelly. “Take every tenth fellow you 'll meet from this to Temple Bar, and you 'll have about the same kind of intelligence Harvey had. You gave him credit for knowing everything, whereas his real quality was knowing everybody.”
“For that matter, so does Jack here,” cried Conway.
“And capital company he'd be, too, I've no doubt,” added Payne.
A moment of whispering conversation ensued, and O'Kelly said, half aloud,—
“I 'll lay five hundred on it!”
“By Jove! I 'll have no hand in it,” said Conway.
“Nor I neither,” chimed in Payne.
“Courageous allies both,” said O'Kelly, laughing. “Happily I need not such aid,—I 'll do it myself. I only ask you not to betray me.”
Without heeding the protestations they both poured forth, O'Kelly stepped forward and whispered in my ear,—
“Will you dine with me to-morrow, Jack?”
I stared at him in silent astonishment, and he went on:
“I have a wager on it; and if I win, you shall have five guineas for your share; and, to show you my confidence of success, I pay beforehand.”
He opened his purse as he spoke; but I stopped him suddenly with,—
“No need of that, sir; I accept your invitation. The honor alone is enough for me.”
“But you must have a coat, Jack, and ruffles, man.”
“I 'll not disgrace you, sir,—at least, so far as appearance goes,” said I.
He stared at me for a second or two, and then said,—
“By Jove! I was certain of it. Well, seven o'clock is the hour. Kensington,—every one knows the Bird Cage.”
I touched my cap and bowed. He gravely returned my salute, and walked on between his friends, whose loud laughter continued to ring out for a long way down the street.
My first impressions were, I own, the reverse of agreeable, and I felt heart-sick with shame for having accepted the invitation. The very burst of laughter told me in what point of view they regarded the whole incident. I was, doubtless, to be the ignoble instrument of some practical joke. At first I tortured my ingenuity to think how I could revenge myself for the indignity; but I suddenly remembered that I had made myself a willing party to the scheme, whatever it might be. I had agreed to avail myself of the invitation, and should, therefore, accept its consequences.
With what harassing doubts did I rack my suffering brain! At one time, frenzied with the idea of an insult passed upon my wretchedness and poverty; at another, casuistically arguing myself into the belief that, whatever the offence to others, to me there could be none intended. But why revive the memory of a conflict which impressed me with all the ignominy of my station, and made me feel myself, as it were, selected for an affront that could not with impunity have been practised towards another?
I decided not to go, and then just as firmly determined I would present myself. My last resolve was to keep my promise, to attend the dinner-party; to accept, as it were in the fullest sense, the equality tendered to me; and, if I could detect the smallest insult, or even a liberty taken with me, to claim my right to resent it, by virtue of the act which admitted me to their society, and made me for the time then-companion. I am not quite sure that such conduct was very justifiable. I half suspect that the easier and the better course would have been to avoid a situation in which there was nothing to be anticipated but annoyance or difficulty.
My mind once made up, I hastened to prepare for the event, by immediately ordering a handsome dress-suit. Carefully avoiding what might be deemed the impertinence of assuming the colors of party, I selected a claret-colored coat, with steel buttons; a richly-embroidered waistcoat; and for my cravat one of French cambric, with a deep fall of Mechlin lace. If I mention matters so trivial, it is because at the time to which I refer, the modes of dress were made not only to represent the sections of politics, but to distinguish between those who adhered to an antiquated school of breeding and manners, and those who now avowed themselves the disciples of a new teaching. I wished, if possible, to avoid either extreme, and assumed the colors and the style usually worn by foreigners in English society. Like them, too, I wore a sword and buckles; for the latter I went to the extravagance of paying two guineas for the mere hire.
If you have ever felt in life, good reader, what it was to have awaited in anxious expectancy for the day of some great examination whose issue was to have given the tone to all your future destiny, you may form some notion of the state of mental excitement in which I passed the ensuing twenty-four hours. It was to no purpose that I said to myself all that my reason could suggest or my ingenuity fancy; a certain instinct, stronger than reason, more convincing than ingenuity, told me that this was about to be an eventful moment of' my life.
The hour at length arrived; the carriage that was to convey me stood at the door; and as I took a look at myself, full dressed and powdered, in the glass, I remember that my sensations vibrated between the exulting vanity and pride of a gallant about to set out for a fête, and the terrors of a criminal on his way to the block. My head grew more and more confused as I drove along. At moments I thought that all was a dream, and I tried to arouse and wake myself; then I fancied that it was the past was fictitious,—that my poverty, my want, and my hardship were all imaginary; that my real condition was one of rank and affluence. I examined the rich lace of my ruffles, the sparkling splendor of my sword-knot, and said, “Surely these are not the signs of squalid misery and want.” I called to mind my impressions of the world, my memories of life and society, and asked, “Can these be the sentiments of a miserable outcast?” Assuredly, my poor brain was sorely tried to reconcile these strong contradictions; nor do I yet understand how I obtained sufficient mastery over my emotions to present myself at the house of my entertainer.
“What name, sir?” said the obsequious servant, who, with noiseless footsteps, had preceded me to the drawing-room door.
“What name shall I announce, sir?” said he a second time, as, overwhelmed with confusion, I still stood speechless before him. Till that very moment all thought on the subject had escaped me, and I utterly forgot that I was actually without a designation in the world. In all my shame and misery it had been a kind of consolation to me that the name of my father had never been degraded, and that whatever might have been my portion of worldly hardship, the once-honored appellation had not shared in it. To assume it at this instant was too perilous. Another day, one short night, would again reduce me to the same ignominious station; and I should have thus, by a momentary rashness, compromised the greatest secret of my heart. A third time did he ask the same question; and as I stood uncertain and overwhelmed, a quiet foot was heard ascending the stairs, a handsome, bright-looking man came forward, the door was flung open at his approach, and the servant called out, “Mr. Sheridan.” I followed quickly, and the door closed behind us. Hastily passing from Sheridan, O'Kelly came forward to me and shook me cordially by the hand. Thanking me politely for my punctuality, he welcomed me with all the semblance of old friendship.
“Colonel Conway and Payne you are already acquainted with,” said he; “but your long absence from England excuses you for not knowing my other friends. This is Mr. Sheridan,”—we bowed,—“Mr. Malcomb, Captain Seymour, Sir George Begley,” and so on, with two or three more. He made a rapid tour of the party, holding me by the arm as he went, till he approached a chair where a young and very handsome man sat, laughing immoderately at some story another at his side was whispering to him.
“What the devil am I to call you?” said O'Kelley to me in my ear. “Tell me quickly.”
Before I could stammer out my own sense of confusion, the person seated in the arm-chair called out,—
“By Jove! O'Kelly must hear that. Tell him, Wynd-ham.” But as suddenly stopping, he said, “A friend of yours, O'Kelly?”
“Yes, your Royal Highness, a very old and valued friend, whom I have not seen since our school-days. He has been vagabondizing over the whole earth, fighting side by side with I know not how many of your Royal Highness's enemies; and, having made his fortune, has come back to lose it here amongst us, as the only suitable reparation in his power for all his past misconduct.”
“With such excellent intentions, he could not have fallen into better hands than yours, O'Kelly,” said the Prince, laughing; “and I wish all the fellows we have been subsidizing these ten years no worse than to be your antagonists at piquet.” Then, addressing me, he said, “An Irishman, I presume?”
“Yes, your Royal Highness,” said I, bowing deeply.
“He started as an something, or Mac somebody,” said O'Kelly, interrupting; “but having been Don'd in Spain, 'Strissemoed' in Italy, and almost guillotined in France for calling himself Monsieur, he has come back to us without any designation that he dares to call his own.”
“That is exactly what happened to a very well known character in the reign of Charles I.,” said Conway, “who called himself by the title of his last conquest in the fair sex, saying, 'When I take a reputation, I accept all the reproach of the name.'”
“There was another authority,” said Sheridan,—“a fellow who called himself the King of the Beggars, who styled himself each day after the man who gave him most, and died inheriting the name of Bamfield Moore Carew.”
“Carew will do admirably for my friend here, then,” said O'Kelly, “and we 'll call him so henceforth.”
It may be imagined with what a strange rush of emotion I accepted this designation, and laughingly joined in the caprice of the hour. I saw enough to convince me that all around received O'Kelly's story as a mere piece of jest, and that none had any suspicion of my real condition save himself and his two friends. This conviction served to set me much at my ease, and I went down to dinner with far less of constraint than might have been supposed for one in my situation.
I will not disguise the fact that I thought for the first half-hour that every eye was on me, that whatever I did or said was the subject of general remark, and that my manner as I ate, and my tone as I spoke, were all watched and scrutinized. Gradually, however, I grew to perceive that I attracted no more notice than others about me, and that, to all purposes, I was admitted to a perfect equality with the rest.
Conversation ranged freely over a wide field. Politics of every state of Europe, the leading public characters and statesmen, their opinions and habits, the modes of life abroad, literature and the drama, were all discussed, if not always with great knowledge, still with the ready smartness of practised talkers. Anecdotes and incidents of various kinds were narrated, quips and sharp replies abounded; and amidst much cleverness and agreeability, a truly good-humored, convivial spirit leavened the whole mass, and made up a most pleasant party.
So interested had I become in the conversation about me that I did not perceive how, by degrees, I had been drawn on to talk on a variety of subjects which travel had made me familiar with, and to speak of persons of mark and station whom I had met and known. Still less did I remark that I was submitted to a species of examination as to my veracity, and that I was asked for dates, and times, and place, in a manner that might have startled one more susceptible. Warmed with what I may dare to call my success, and heated with wine, I grew bolder; I stigmatized as gross ignorance and folly the policy of the English Government in maintaining a war for what no success could ever bring back again,—the prestige of loyalty, and the respect once tendered to nobility.
I know not into what excesses my enthusiasm may have carried me. Enough when I say that I encountered the most brilliant talkers without fear, and entered the list with all that the day possessed of conversational power, without any sense of faint-heartedness. On such questions as the military system of France, the division of parties in that country, the probable issue to which the struggle pointed, I was, indeed, better informed than my neighbors; but when they came to discuss the financial condition of the French, and what it had been in the late reigns, I at once recalled all my conversations with Law, with every detail of whose system I was perfectly familiar.
Of the anecdotes of that time—a most amusing illustration of society as it then existed—I remembered many; and I had the good fortune to see that the Prince listened with evident pleasure to my recitals; and, at last, it was in the very transport of success I found myself ascending the stairs to the drawing-room, while O'Kelly whispered in my ear,—
“Splendidly done, by Jove! The Prince is going to invite you to Carlton House.”
After coffee was served, the party sat down to play of various kinds,—dice, cards, and backgammon. At the Prince's whist-table there was a vacant place, and I was invited to take it. I had twenty guineas in gold in my pocket. They were my all in the world; but had they been as many millions, I would not have scrupled to risk them at such a moment. There was a strange, almost insane spirit that seemed to whisper to me that nothing could be too bold to adventure—no flight too high—no contrast with my real condition too striking to attempt! They who have braved danger and death to ascend some great glacier, the whole object the one triumphant moment on which they behold the blaze of sunrise, may form some conception of the maddening ecstasy of my sensations.
“Do you play at whist? If so, come and join us,” said the Prince.
“Take my purse,” whispered O'Kelly, endeavoring to slip it into my hand as he spoke.
I accepted the invitation; and, without taking any notice of O'Kelly's offer, took my place at the table.
“We play low stakes, too low, perhaps, for you,” said his Royal Highness,—“mere guinea points; but there's Canthorpe, and Sedley, and two or three more, will indulge you in any wager you fancy.”
“Fifty on the rubber, if you like, sir,” said Colonel Canthorpe, a tall, soldier-like man, who stood with his back to the fire.
“If my friend O'Kelly will be my banker for to-night, I shall take your offer.”
Without the slightest hesitation, O'Kelly replied, “To be sure, my boy!” and the game began.
My mastery at the game was soon apparent; and the Prince complimented me by saying,—
“I wish we could discover in what you are deficient; for up to this we have certainly not hit upon it.”
It needed not all this flattery to make me feel almost mad with excitement. I remember little of that scene; but still there is one trait of it fast graven on my memory, to hold its place there forever. It was this: that while I betted largely, and lost freely considerable sums, O'Kelly, who had become the security for my debts, never winced for a moment, nor showed the slightest mark of discomfiture or uneasiness. My demand, in the first instance, was suggested by the not over generous motive of making him pay the penalty he had incurred by having invited me. He has called me his friend before the world, thought I, and if he means this for a cruel jest, it shall at least cost him dearly. In a sort of savage ferocity, I fed myself with thinking of the tortures with which I should afflict him, in return for all the agony and suffering I had myself gone through. He also shall know what it is to act a lie, said I to myself; and with this hateful resolve I sat down to play. His ready acceptance of my proposition, his gentleman-like ease and calm, his actual indifference as I lost, and lost heavily, soon staggered all my reasonings, and routed all my theory. And when at last the Prince, complimenting me on my skill, deplored the ill-luck that more than balanced it, O'Kelly said, gayly,—
“Depend on 't, you'll have better fortune after supper. Come and have a glass of champagne.”
I was now impatient until we were again at the card-table.
All my former intentions were reversed, and I would have given my right hand to have been able to repay my debt to him ere I said “Good night.” Perhaps he read what was passing within me; I almost suspect that he construed aright the restless anxiety that now beset me; for he whispered, as we went back to the drawing-room,—
“You are evidently out of luck. Wait for your revenge on another evening.”
“Now or never,” said I. And so was it in reality. I had secretly determined within myself to try and win back O'Kelly's losses, and if I failed, at once to stand forward and declare myself in my real character. No false shame, no real dread of the ignominy to which I should expose myself should prevent me; and with an oath to my own heart I ratified this compact.
Again we took our places; the stakes were now doubled; and all the excitement of mind was added to the gambler's infatuation. Colonel Canthorpe, who had been for some minutes occupied with his note-book, at last tore out the leaf he had been writing on, and handed it to me, saying,—
“Is that correct?”
The figures were six hundred and fifty,—the amount of my loss.
I simply nodded an assent, and said,—
“We go on, I suppose?”
“We 'll double, if you prefer it,” said he.
“What says my banker?” said I.
“He says, 'Credit unlimited,'” cried O'Kelly, gayly.
“Egad! I wish mine would say as much,” said the Prince, laughing, as he cut the cards for me to deal.
Although I had drunk freely, and talked excitingly, my head became suddenly calm and collected, just as if some great emergency had sufficed to dispel all illusions, and enabled my faculties to assume their full exercise. Of O'Kelly I saw nothing more; he was occupied in an adjoining room; and even this element of anxiety was spared me.
I will not ask my reader to follow me through the vicissitudes of play, nor expect from him any share of interest in a passion which of all others is the most bereft of good, and allied with the very lowest of all motives, and the meanest of all ambitions. Enough that I tell the result. After a long course of defeats and disasters, I rose, not only clear of all my debts, but a winner of two hundred pounds.
The Prince heartily congratulated me on my good fortune, saying that none could better deserve it. He complimented me much on my play, but still more on my admirable temper as a loser,—a quality which, he added, he never could lay claim to.
“I'm a bad beaten man, but you are the very reverse,” said he. “Dine with me on Saturday, and I hope to see how you'll comport yourself as a winner.”
I had but time to bow my humble acknowledgment of this gracious speech, when O'Kelly came up, saying,—
“So Canthorpe tells me you beat him, after all; but I always knew how it would end,—play must and will tell in the long run.”
“Non numen habes si sit Prudentia,—eh, O'Kelly?” said Conway.
“Prudentia means the ace of trumps, then,” said Sheridan.
“Where shall I send you my debt?” said Canthorpe to me, in a whisper. “What's your club?”
“He's only just arrived in town,” interrupted O'Kelly; “but I intend to put him up for Brooke's on Wednesday, and will ask you to second him. You 're on the committee, I think?”
“Yes; and I 'll do it with great pleasure,” said Canthorpe.
“I'll settle your score for you,” said O'Kelly to Canthorpe; and now, with much handshaking and cordiality, the party broke up.
“Don't go for a moment,” said O'Kelly to me, as he passed to accompany the Prince downstairs. I sat down before the fire in the now deserted room, and, burying my head between my hands, I endeavored to bring my thoughts to something like order and discipline. It was to no use; the whirlwind of emotions I had endured still raged within me, and I could not satisfy myself which of all my characters was the real one. Was I the outcast, destitute and miserable? or was I the friend of the high-born, and the associate of a Prince? Where was this to end? Should I awake to misery on the morrow, or was madness itself to be the issue to this strange dream? Heaven forgive me if I almost wished it might be so, and if in my abject terror I would have chosen the half-unconscious existence of insanity to the sense of shame and self-upbraiding my future seemed to menace!
While I sat thus, O'Kelly entered, and, having locked the door after him, took his place beside me. I was not aware of his presence till he said,—
“Well, Jack, I intended to mystify others; but, by Jove! it has ended in mystifying myself. Who the devil are you? What are you?”
“If I don't mistake me, you are the man to answer that question yourself. You presented me not alone to your friends, but to your Prince; and it is but fair to infer that you knew what you were about.”
He stared at me steadily without speaking. I saw the state of confusion and embarrassment from which he suffered, and I actually revelled in the difficulty in which I had placed him. I perceived all the advantage of my position, and resolved to profit by it.
“One thing is quite evident,” said I, calmly and collectedly, like a man who weighed all his words, and spoke with deep deliberation,—“one thing is quite evident, you could scarcely have presumed to take such a liberty with your Prince as to present to him, and place at the same table with him, a man whom you picked up from the streets,—one whose very station marked him for an outcast, whose exterior showed his destitution. This, I conclude, you could not have dared to do; and yet it is in the direct conviction that such was my position yesterday, I sit here now, trying to reconcile such inconsistency, and asking myself which of us two is in the wrong.”
“My good friend,” said O'Kelly, with a deliberation fully the equal of my own, and in a way that, I must confess, somewhat abashed me,—“my good friend, do not embarrass yourself by any anxieties for me. I am quite able and ready to account for my actions to any who deem themselves eligible to question them.”
“From which number,” said I, interrupting, “you would, of course, infer that I am to be excluded?”
“By no means,” said he, “if you can satisfy me to the contrary. I shall hold myself as responsible to you as to any one of those gentlemen who have just left us, if you will merely show me sufficient cause.”
“As how, for instance?” asked I.
“Simply by declaring yourself the rightful possessor of a station and rank in life for which your habits and manners plainly show you to be fitted. Let me be convinced that you have not derogated from this by any act unworthy of a man of honor—”
“Stop, sir,” said I. “By what right do you dare to put me on my trial? Of your own free will you presumed to ask for my companionship. You extended to me an equality which, if not sincere, was an insult.”
“Egad! if you be really a gentleman, your reasons are all good ones,” said O'Kelly. “I own, too, frankly, I intended my freak as the subject of a wager. If I be caught in my own toils, I must only pay the penalty.”
“And give me satisfaction?”
“That is what I mean,” replied he, bowing.
“Then you have done it already,” said I, rising. “I ask for no more than the frank and manly readiness with which you acknowledge that poverty is no disqualification to the assertion of an honorable pride, and that the feeling of a gentleman may still throb in the heart of a ragged man.”
“You are surely not going to leave me this way,” said he, catching my hand in both his own. “You'll tell me who you are,—you 'll let me know at least something of you.”
“Not now, at all events,” said I. “I'm not in a mood to encounter more at present. Good night. Before I leave you, however, I owe it, as some return for your hospitality, to say that I shall not hazard your credit with your Prince,—I do not mean to accept his invitation. You must find the fitting apology, for I shall leave England to-morrow, in all likelihood for years,—at all events, for a period long enough to make this incident forgotten. Good-bye.”
“By Jove! I 'll never forgive myself if we part in this fashion,” said O'Kelly. “Do—as a proof of some regard, or at least of some consideration for me—do tell me your real name.”
“Carew,” said I, calmly.
“No, no; that was but a jest. I ask in all earnestness and sincerity; tell me your name.”
“Jasper Carew,” said I, again; and before he could collect himself to reply, I had reached the door, and, with a last “good-night,” I passed out, and left him.
I could not bring myself to return to my miserable lodging again. I felt as if a new phase of life had opened on me, and that it would be an act of meanness to revert to the scenes of my former obscurity. I entered a hotel, and ordered a room. My appearance and dress at once exacted every respect and attention. A handsome chamber was immediately prepared for me; and just as day was breaking, I fell off into a deep sleep which lasted till late in the afternoon.