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Japhet, In Search Of A Father by Frederick Marryat

F >> Frederick Marryat >> Japhet, In Search Of A Father




And I was happy. I had enjoyment during the day; my profession was, at
all events, liberal. I was dressed and lived as a gentleman, or rather I
should say respectably. I was earning my own livelihood. I was a useful
member of society, and when I retired home to meals, and late at night,
I found, that if Cophagus and his wife had retired, Susannah Temple
always waited up, and remained with me a few minutes. I had never been
in love until I had fallen in with this perfect creature; but my love
for her was not the love of the world; I could not so depreciate her--I
loved her as a superior being--I loved her with fear and trembling. I
felt that she was too pure, too holy, too good for a vain worldly
creature like myself. I felt as if my destiny depended upon her and her
fiat; that if she favoured me, my happiness in this world and in the
next were secured; that if she rejected me, I was cast away for ever.
Such was my feeling for Susannah Temple, who, perfect as she was, was
still a woman, and perceived her power over me; but unlike the many of
her sex, exerted that power only to lead to what was right. Insensibly
almost, my pride was quelled, and I became humble and religiously
inclined. Even the peculiarities of the sect, their meeting at their
places of worship, their drawling, and their quaint manner of talking,
became no longer a subject of dislike. I found out causes and good
reasons for everything which before appeared strange--sermons in stones,
and good in everything. Months passed away--my business prospered--I
had nearly repaid the money advanced by Mr Cophagus. I was in heart and
soul a Quaker, and I entered into the fraternity with a feeling that I
could act up to what I had promised. I was happy, quite happy, and yet
I had never received from Susannah Temple any further than the proofs
of sincere friendship. But I had much of her society, and we were now
very, very intimate. I found out what warm, what devoted feelings were
concealed under her modest, quiet exterior--how well her mind was
stored, and how right was that mind.

Often when I talked over past events, did I listen to her remarks, all
tending to one point, morality and virtue; often did I receive from her
at first a severe, but latterly a kind rebuke, when my discourse was
light and frivolous; but when I talked of merry subjects which were
innocent, what could be more joyous or more exhilarating than her
laugh--what more intoxicating than her sweet smile, when she approved
of my sentiments! and when animated by the subject, what could be more
musical or more impassioned than her bursts of eloquence, which were
invariably followed by a deep blush, when she recollected how she had
been carried away by excitement?

There was one point upon which I congratulated myself, which was, that
she had received two or three unexceptionable offers of marriage during
the six months that I had been in her company, and refused them. At the
end of that period, thanks to the assistance I received from the Friends,
I had paid Mr Cophagus all the money which he had advanced, and found
myself in possession of a flourishing business, and independent. I then
requested that I might be allowed to pay an annual stipend for my board
and lodging, commencing from the time I first came to his house. Mr
Cophagus said I was right--the terms were easily arranged, and I was
independent.

Still my advances with Susannah were slow, but if slow, they were sure.
One day I observed to her, how happy Mr Cophagus appeared to be as a
married man; her reply was, "He is, Japhet; he has worked hard for his
independence, and he now is reaping the fruits of his industry." That is
as much as to say that I must do the same, thought I, and that I have no
business to propose for a wife, until I am certain that I am able to
provide for her. I have as yet laid up nothing, and an income is not a
capital. I felt that whether a party interested or not, she was right,
and I redoubled my diligence.




Chapter LXV

A variety of the Quaker tribe--who had a curious disintegration
of mind and body.


I was not yet weaned from the world, but I was fast advancing to that
state, when a very smart young Quaker came on a visit to Reading. He was
introduced to Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and was soon, as might be expected, an
admirer of Susannah, but he received no encouragement. He was an idle
person, and passed much of his time sitting in my shop, and talking with
me, and being much less reserved and guarded than the generality of the
young men of the sect, I gradually became intimate with him. One day when
my assistant was out he said to me, "Friend Gnow-land, tell me candidly,
hast thou ever seen my face before?"

"Not that I can recollect, friend Talbot."

"Then my recollection is better than yours, and now having obtained thy
friendship as one of the society, I will remind thee of our former
acquaintance. When thou wert Mr N-e-w-land, walking about town with
Major Carbonnell, I was Lieutenant Talbot, of the--Dragoon Guards."

I was dumb with astonishment, and I stared him in the face.

"Yes," continued he, bursting into laughter, "such is the fact. You
have thought, perhaps, that you were the only man of fashion who had
ever been transformed into a Quaker; now you behold another, so no
longer imagine yourself the Phoenix of your tribe."

"I do certainly recollect that name," replied I; "but although, as you
must be acquainted with my history, it is very easy to conceive why I
have joined the society, yet, upon what grounds you can have so done,
is to me inexplicable."

"Newland, it certainly does require explanation; it has been, I assert,
my misfortune, and not my fault. Not that I am not happy. On the
contrary, I feel that I am now in my proper situation. I ought to have
been born of Quaker parents--at all events, I was born a Quaker in
disposition; but I will come to-morrow early, and then, if you will
give your man something to do out of the way, I will tell you my history.
I know that you will keep my secret."

The next morning he came, and as soon as we were alone he imparted to me
what follows.

"I recollect well, Newland, when you were one of the leaders of fashion,
I was then in the Dragoon Guards, and although not very intimate with
you, had the honour of a recognition when we met at parties. I cannot
help laughing, upon my soul, when I look at us both now; but never mind.
I was of course a great deal with my regiment, and at the club. My
father, as you may not perhaps be aware, was highly connected, and all
the family have been brought up in the army; the question of profession
has never been mooted by us, and every Talbot has turned out a soldier
as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. Well, I entered the
army, admired my uniform, and was admired by the young ladies. Before I
received my lieutenant's commission, my father, the old gentleman, died,
and left me a younger brother's fortune of four hundred per annum; but,
as my uncle said, 'It was quite enough for a Talbot, who would push
himself forward in his profession, as the Talbots had ever done before
him.' I soon found out that my income was not sufficient to enable me
to continue in the Guards, and my uncle was very anxious that I should
exchange into a regiment on service. I therefore, by purchase, obtained
a company in the 23rd, ordered out to reduce the French colonies in the
West Indies, and I sailed with all the expectation of covering myself
with as much glory as the Talbots had done from time immemorial. We
landed, and in a short time the bullets and grape were flying in all
directions, and then I discovered, what I declare never for a moment
came into my head before, to wit--that I had mistaken my profession."

"How do you mean, Talbot?"

"Mean why, that I was deficient in a certain qualification, which never
was before denied to a Talbot--courage."

"And you never knew that before?"

"Never, upon my honour; my mind was always full of courage. In my mind's
eye I built castles of feats of bravery, which should eclipse all the
Talbots, from him who burnt Joan of Arc, down to the present day. I
assure you, that surprised as other people were, no one was more
surprised than myself. Our regiment was ordered to advance, and I led
on my company, the bullets flew like hail. I tried to go on, but I could
not; at last, notwithstanding all my endeavours to the contrary, I
fairly took to my heels. I was met by the commanding officer--in fact,
I ran right against him. He ordered me back, and I returned to my
regiment, not feeling at all afraid. Again I was in the fire, again I
resisted the impulse, but it was of no use, and at last, just before the
assault took place, I ran away as if the devil was after me. Wasn't it
odd?"

"Very odd, indeed," replied I, laughing.

"Yes, but you do not exactly understand why it was odd. You know what
philosophers tell you about volition; and that the body is governed by
the mind, consequently obeys it; now, you see, in my case, it was
exactly reversed. I tell you, that it is a fact, that in mind I am as
brave as any man in existence; but I had a cowardly carcass, and what
is still worse, it proved the master of my mind, and ran away with it. I
had no mind to run away; on the contrary, I wished to have been of the
forlorn hope, and had volunteered, but was refused. Surely, if I had not
courage I should have avoided such a post of danger. Is it not so?"

"It certainly appears strange, that you should volunteer for the forlorn
hope, and then run away."

"That's just what I say. I have the soul of the Talbots, but a body
which don't belong to the family, and too powerful for the soul."

"So it appears. Well, go on."

"It was go off, instead of going on. I tried again that day to mount
the breach, and as the fire was over, I succeeded; but there was a mark
against me, and it was intimated that I should have an opportunity of
redeeming my character."

"Well?"

"There was a fort to be stormed the next day, and I requested to lead
my company in advance. Surely that was no proof of want of courage?
Permission was granted. We were warmly received, and I felt that my legs
refused to advance; so what did I do--I tied my sash round my thigh, and
telling the men that I was wounded, requested they would carry me to the
attack. Surely that was courage?"

"Most undoubtedly so. It was like a Talbot."

"We were at the foot of the breach; when the shot flew about me, I
kicked and wrestled so, that the two men who carried me were obliged to
let me go, and my rascally body was at liberty. I say unfortunately, for
only conceive, if they had carried me wounded up the breach, what an
heroic act it would have been considered on my part; but fate decided it
otherwise. If I had lain still when they dropped me, I should have done
well, but I was anxious to get up the breach, that is, my mind was so
bent; but as soon as I got on my legs, confound them if they didn't run
away with me, and then I was found half a mile from the fort with a
pretended wound. That was enough; I had a hint that the sooner I went
home the better. On account of the family I was permitted to sell out,
and I then walked the streets as a private gentleman, but no one would
speak to me. I argued the point with several, but they were obstinate,
and would not be convinced; they said that it was no use talking about
being brave, if I ran away."

"They were not philosophers, Talbot."

"No; they could not comprehend how the mind and the body could be at
variance. It was no use arguing--they would have it that the movements
of the body depended upon the mind, and that I had made a mistake--and
that I was a coward in soul as well as body."

"Well, what did you do?"

"Oh, I did nothing! I had a great mind to knock them down, but as I knew
my body would not assist me, I thought it better to leave it alone.
However, they taunted me so, by calling me fighting Tom, that my uncle
shut his door upon me as a disgrace to the family, saying, he wished the
first bullet had laid me dead--very kind of him;--at last my patience
was worn out, and I looked about to find whether there were not some
people who did not consider courage as a _sine quae non_. I found that
the Quakers' tenets were against fighting, and therefore courage could
not be necessary, so I have joined them, and I find that, if not a good
soldier, I am, at all events, a very respectable Quaker; and now you
have the whole of my story--and tell me if you are of my opinion."

"Why, really it's a very difficult point to decide. I never heard such
a case of disintegration before. I must think upon it."

"Of course, you will not say a word about it, Newland."

"Never fear, I will keep your secret, Talbot. How long have you worn
the dress?"

"Oh, more than a year. By-the-bye, what a nice young person that
Susannah Temple is. I've a great mind to propose for her."

"But you must first ascertain what your body says to it, Talbot,"
replied I, sternly. "I allow no one to interfere with me, Quaker or not."

"My dear fellow, I beg your pardon, I shall think no more about her,"
said Talbot, rising up, as he observed that I looked very fierce. "I
wish you a good morning. I leave Reading to-morrow. I will call on you,
and say good-bye, if I can;" and I saw no more of Friend Talbot, whose
mind was all courage, but whose body was so renegade.




Chapter LXVI

I fall in with Timothy.


About a month after this, I heard a sailor with one leg, and a handful
of ballads, singing in a most lachrymal tone,

"Why, what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping? A tear is a pleasure,
d'ye see, in its way"--

"Bless your honour, shy a copper to Poor Jack, who's lost his leg in the
sarvice. Thanky, your honour," and he continued,

"It's nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping, But they who can't
pity--why I pities they. Says the captain, says he; I shall never forget
it, Of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham,"

"Back your maintopsail, your worship, for half a minute, and just assist
a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars--"'Tis a furious
lion.' Long life to your honour--'In battle so let it--'

"'Tis a furious lion, in battle so let it; But duty appeased--but duty
appeased--

"Buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on
his knee in the dog-watch--

"But duty appeased'tis the heart of a lamb."

I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the
English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence
of his country. I always have, and as I heard the poor disabled fellow
bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or
execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some
halfpence to give him. When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he
entered the shop. "Here, my good fellow," said I, "although a man of
peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;" and I put
the money to him.

"May your honour never know a banyan day," replied the sailor; "and a
sickly season for you, into the bargain."

"Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others," replied I.

The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for,
until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.

"What are you looking at?" said I.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed he. "It is--yet it cannot be!"

"Cannot be! what, friend?"

He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came
in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. "Japhet--I have found
you at last!" exclaimed he, faintly.

"Good Heaven! who are you?"

He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it,
and I beheld Timothy. In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in
his arms. "Is it possible," exclaimed I, after a short silence on both
sides, "that I find you, Timothy, a disabled sailor?"

"Is it possible, Japhet," replied Timothy, "that I find you a
broad-brimmed Quaker?"

"Even so, Timothy. I am really and truly one."

"Then you are less disguised than I am," replied Timothy, kicking off
his wooden leg, and letting down his own, which had been tied up to his
thigh, and concealed in his wide blue trousers. "I am no more a sailor
than you are, Japhet, and since you left me have never yet seen the
salt water, which I talk and sing so much about."

"Then thou hast been deceiving, Timothy, which I regret much."

"Now I do perceive that you are a Quaker," replied Tim; "but do not
blame me until you have heard my story. Thank God, I have found you at
last. But tell me, Japhet, you will not send me away--will you? If your
dress is changed, your heart is not. Pray answer me, before I say
nything more. You know I can be useful here."

"Indeed, Timothy, I have often wished for you since I have been here,
and it will be your own fault if I part with you. You shall assist me
in the shop; but you must dress like me."

"Dress like you! have I not always dressed like you? When we started
from Cophagus's, were we not dressed much alike? did we not wear
spangled jackets together? did I not wear your livery, and belong to
you? I'll put on anything, Japhet--but we must not part again."

"My dear Timothy, I trust we shall not; but I expect my assistant here
soon, and do not wish that he should see you in that garb. Go to a small
public-house at the farther end of this street, and when you see me
pass, come out to me, and we will walk out into the country, and
consult together."

"I have put up at a small house not far off, and have some clothes
there; I will alter my dress and meet you. God bless you, Japhet."

Timothy then picked up his ballads, which were scattered on the floor,
put up his leg, and putting on his wooden stump, hastened away, after
once more silently pressing my hand.

In half an hour my assistant returned, and I desired him to remain in
the shop, as I was going out on business. I then walked to the appointed
rendezvous, and was soon joined by Tim, who had discarded his sailor's
disguise, and was in what is called a shabby genteel sort of dress.
After the first renewed greeting, I requested Tim to let me know what
had occurred to him since our separation.

"You cannot imagine, Japhet, what my feelings were when I found, by your
note, that you had left me. I had perceived how unhappy you had been for
a long while, and I was equally distressed, although I knew not the
cause. I had no idea until I got your letter, that you had lost all your
money; and I felt it more unkind of you to leave me then, than if you
had been comfortable and independent. As for looking after you, that I
knew would be useless; and I immediately went to Mr Masterton, to take
his advice as to how I should proceed. Mr Masterton had received your
letter, and appeared to be very much annoyed. 'Very foolish boy,' said
he, 'but there is nothing that can be done now. He is mad, and that is
all that can be said in his excuse. You must do as he tells you, I
suppose, and try the best for yourself. I will help you in any way that
I can, my poor fellow,' said he, 'so don't cry.' I went back to the
house and collected together your papers, which I sealed up. I knew that
the house was to be given up in a few days. I sold the furniture, and
made the best I could of the remainder of your wardrobe, and other
things of value that you had left; indeed, everything, with the
exception of the dressing-case and pistols, which had belonged to Major
Carbonnell, and I thought you might perhaps some day like to have them."

"How very kind of you, Timothy, to think of me in that way! I shall
indeed be glad; but no--what have I to do with pistols or silver
dressing-cases now? I must not have them, but still I thank you all
the same."

"The furniture and everything else fetched L430, after all expenses were
paid."

"I am glad of it, Timothy, for your sake; but I am sorry, judging by your
present plight, that it appears to have done you but little good."

"Because I did not make use of it, Japhet. What could I do with all that
money? I took it to Mr Masterton, with all your papers, and the
dressing-case and pistols;--he has it now ready for you when you ask for
it. He was very kind to me, and offered to do anything for me; but I
resolved to go in search of you. I had more money in my pocket when you
went away than I generally have, and with the surplus of what you left
for the bills, I had twelve or fourteen pounds. So I wished Mr Masterton
good-bye, and have ever since been on my adventures in search of my
master."

"Not master, Timothy, say rather of your friend."

"Well, of both if you please, Japhet; and very pretty adventures I have
had, I assure you, and some very hair-breadth escapes."

"I think, when we compare notes, mine will be found most eventful,
Timothy; but we can talk of them, and compare notes another time.
At present, whom do you think I am residing with?"

"A Quaker, I presume."

"You have guessed right so far: but who do you think that Quaker is?"

"There I'm at fault."

"Mr Cophagas."

At this intelligence Timothy gave a leap in the air, turned round on his
heel, and tumbled on the grass in a fit of immoderate laughter.

"Cophagus!--a Quaker!" cried he at last. "Oh! I long to see him. Snuffle,
snuffle--broad brims--wide skirts--and so on. Capital!"

"It is very true, Timothy, but you must not mock at the persuasion."

"I did not intend it, Japhet, but there is something to me so ridiculous
in the idea. But," continued Timothy, "is it not still stranger, that,
after having separated so many years, we should all meet again--and that
I should find Mr Cophagus--an apothecary's shop--you dispensing
medicines--and I--as I hope to be--carrying them about as I did before.
Well, I will row in the same boat, and I will be a Quaker as well as you
both."

"Well, we will now return, and I will take you to Mr Cophagus, who will,
I am sure, be glad to see you."

"First, Japhet, let me have some Quaker's clothes--I should prefer it."

"You shall have a suit of mine, Timothy, since you wish it; but recollect
it is not at all necessary, nor indeed will it be permitted that you
enter into the sect without preparatory examination as to your fitness
for admission."

I then went to the shop, and sending out the assistant, walked home and
took out a worn suit of clothes, with which I hastened to Timothy. He put
them on in the shop, and then walking behind the counter, said, "This is
my place, and here I shall remain as long as you do."

"I hope so, Timothy; as for the one who is with me at present, I can
easily procure him other employment, and he will not be sorry to go, for
he is a married man, and does not like the confinement."

"I have some money," said Timothy, taking out of his old clothes a dirty
rag, and producing nearly twenty pounds. "I am well off, you see."

"You are, indeed," replied I.

"Yes, there is nothing like being a sailor with one leg, singing ballads.
Do you know, Japhet, that sometimes I have taken more than a _pound_ a
day since I have shammed the sailor?"

"Not very honestly, Tim."

"Perhaps not, Japhet; but it is very strange,
and yet very true, that when honest I could make nothing, and when I
deceived, I have done very well."




Chapter LXVII

Timothy commences his narrative of his search after Japhet.


I could not help calling to mind that the same consequences as Timothy
related in the last chapter had occurred to me during my eventful career;
but I had long considered that there was no excuse for dishonesty, and
that, in the end, it would only lead to exposure and disgrace. I went
home early in the evening to introduce Timothy to Mr Cophagus, who
received him with great kindness, and agreed immediately that he ought
to be with me in the shop. Timothy paid his respects to the ladies, and
then went down with Ephraim, who took him under his protection. In a few
days, he was as established with us as if he had been living with us for
months. I had some trouble, at first, in checking his vivacity and turn
for ridicule; but that was gradually effected, and I found him not only
a great acquisition, but, as he always was, a cheerful and affectionate
companion. I had, during the first days of our meeting, recounted my
adventures, and made many inquiries of Timothy relative to my few
friends. He told me that from Mr Masterton he had learnt that Lady de
Clare and Fleta had called upon him very much afflicted with the contents
of my letter--that Lord Windermear also had been very much vexed and
annoyed--that Mr Masterton had advised him to obtain another situation
as a valet, which he had refused, and, at the same time, told him his
intention of searching for me. He had promised Mr Masterton to let him
know if he found me, and then bade him farewell.

"I used to lie in bed, Japhet," continued Timothy, "and think upon the
best method of proceeding. At last, I agreed to myself, that to look for
you as you looked after your father, would be a wild-goose chase, and
that my money would soon be gone; so I reflected whether I might not
take up some roving trade which would support me, and, at the same time,
enable me to proceed from place to place. What do you think was my first
speculation? Why, I saw a man with a dog harnessed in a little cart,
crying dog's meat and cat's meat, and I said to myself, 'Now there's the
very thing--there's a profession--I can travel and earn my livelihood.'
I entered into conversation with him, as he stopped at a low
public-house, treating him to a pot of beer; and having gained all I
wanted as to the mysteries of the profession, I called for another pot,
and proposed that I should purchase his whole concern, down to his knife
and apron. The fellow agreed, and after a good deal of bargaining, I
paid him three guineas for the _set out_ or _set up_, which you please.
He asked me whether I meant to hawk in London or not, and I told him no,
that I should travel the country. He advised the western road, as there
were more populous towns in it. Well, we had another pot to clench the
bargain, and I paid down the money and took possession, quite delighted
with my new occupation. Away I went to Brentford, selling a bit here and
there by the way, and at last arrived at the very bench where we had sat
down together and eaten our meal."

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