Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 54, No. 335, September 1843 by Various

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"You said, sir, yesterday," replied Warton, "that you would take no steps
in our favour, until you had satisfied yourself that we, at least,
deserved your bounty. Had you not said it, I should not have been happy
until I had afforded you all the satisfaction in my power. Heaven knows I
owe it to you! It is to you, sir--"

"Come, my good fellow, remember what I told you. No protestations. Let us
come to the point."

"Thank you, sir--I will. Are you acquainted with London?"

"Tolerably well. What then?"

"You may have heard, sir, of a merchant there of the name of ----"

"Ay have I. One of our first men. Do you know him? Will he give you a
character?"

"He is my uncle, sir--my mother's brother. Apply to him, and he will tell
you I am a plunderer and a villain."

I looked at Mr Warton, somewhat startled by his frank communication, and
waited to hear more.

"It is false--it is false!" continued the speaker emphatically. "I cannot
melt a rock. I cannot penetrate a heart of stone. If I could do so, he
would be otherwise."

"You surprise me!" I exclaimed.

"That I live, sir, is a miracle to myself. That I have not been destroyed
by the misery which I have borne, is marvellous. A giant's strength must
yield before oppression heaped upon oppression. But there, sir"--he added,
pointing to his wife, and struggling for composure--"there has been my
stay, my hope, my incitement; but for her--God bless her"--The wife
motioned him to be silent, and he paused.

"This excitement is too much for him, is it not?" I asked. "Come, Mr
Warton, you are still weak and unwell. I will not distress you now."

"I ask your pardon, sir. Three years' illness, annoyance, irritation,
poverty, have made me what you see me. It has not been so always. I was
vigorous and manly until the flesh gave way, and refused to bear me longer
up. But I will be calm. It is very strange, sir, but even now one look
from her subdues me, and restores me to myself."

"You have received a good education--have you not, Mr Warton?"

"Will you spare an hour, sir, to listen to my history?"

"I should be glad to hear it," I replied, "but it will be as well to wait,
perhaps--"

I looked enquiringly at his wife.

"No, sir," resumed the man, "I am tranquil now. It is a hard task, but I
have strength for it. You shall know every thing. Before you do a second
act of charity, you shall hear of the trials of those whom you have saved
already. You shall be satisfied."

"Well, be it so," I answered. "Proceed, and I will listen patiently."

Warton glanced at his wife, who rose immediately and quitted the room with
her three children. The latter were evidently staggered by the sudden
change in their circumstances, and they stared full in my face until the
latest moment. Being left alone with my new acquaintance, I felt, for a
short time, somewhat ill at ease; but when the poor fellow commenced his
history, my attention was excited, and I soon became wholly engrossed in
his recital, which proved far more strange and striking than I had any
reason to expect.

Mr Warton, as well as I can remember, spoke to me as follows:--

"Knowing what you do, sir," he began, "you will smile, and hardly believe
me, when I tell you that the sin of _Pride_ has been my ruin. Yes,
criminal as I was yesterday--beggar as I am to-day--surrounded by every
sign and evidence of want, I confess it to my shame--Pride, has helped to
bring me where I am--Pride, not resulting from the consciousness of blood,
or the possession of dignities and wealth--but pride, founded upon
nothing. I am one of three children. I had two sisters--both are dead. My
father was a workhouse boy, and his parentage was unknown. I told you that
I had little reason to build a self-esteem upon my family descent; yet
there was a period in my life when I would have given all I had in the
world for an honourable pedigree--to know that I had bounding in my veins
a portion of the blood that ages since had fallen to secure a nation's
liberties, or in any way had served to perpetuate its fame. Wealth, simple
wealth, I always regarded with disdain. I revered the well-born. My father
was apprenticed from the workhouse to a maker of watch-springs, living in
Clerkenwell; but after remaining with his master a few months, during
which time he was treated with great severity, he ran away. He obtained a
situation in the establishment of a silk-merchant in the city, and began
life on his own account as helper to the porter of the house. My father,
sir--we may speak well of the departed--had great abilities. He was a
wonderful man--not so much on account of what he accomplished, (and, in
his station, this was not a little,) as for what he proved himself to be,
under every disadvantage that could retard a man struggling through the
world, even from his infancy. His perseverance was remarkable, and he had
a depth of feeling which no ill treatment or vicissitude could diminish.
He must have risen amongst men; for mind is buoyant, and leaps above the
grosser element. He had resolved, in his first situation, to do his duty
strictly, rather to overdo than to fall short of it, and to make himself,
if possible, essential to his employers. He saw, likewise, the advantage
of respectful behaviour, and cheerfulness of temper. Whatever he did, he
did with a good grace, and with a willingness to oblige, that secured for
him the regard of those he served. He was not long in discovering, that it
was impossible for him to advance far with his present amount of
attainment, however sanguine he might be, and resolute in purpose. The
porter's boy might lead in time to the office of porter; but there was no
material rise from this, and the emolument was, at the best, sufficient
only for the necessities of life. He learned that the head of the firm
himself had been originally a servant in the establishment, and had been
promoted gradually from the desk, on account of his industry,
trustworthiness, and skill in figures. Now, honest and industrious my
father knew himself to be, but of skill in figures he had none. He
determined at once to make himself a good accountant, and every leisure
hour was employed thenceforward with that object. At the same time he was
diligent in improving his handwriting, in storing his mind with useful
information, and in preparing himself for any vacancy which might occur at
the desk, when his age would justify him in offering himself to fill it.
He had held his situation for three years, when an accident happened that
materially helped him on. A fire broke out in his master's warehouse. The
gentleman was from home, and nobody was on the premises at the time but
the porter and himself, who lived and slept in the house. It was in the
middle of the night. A fierce wind set in when the flames were at their
highest, and, before morning, the place was a heap of ruins. In the first
alarm, my father remembered that, in the counting-house, a tin box had
been left by his master, which previously had always been carefully locked
away in the iron chest. He was sure that it contained papers of great
value, and that its loss would be severely felt. He determined to secure
it, or, at the least, to make every endeavour. He succeeded, and gained
the treasure almost at the expense of life. He was not mistaken in his
supposition. In the box were deposited documents of the highest importance
to his master; and the latter, delighted with the boy's acuteness, and
grateful for the service, was eager to remunerate him. My father made
known his wishes, and his acquaintance with accounts, and in less than six
months as soon, indeed, as the house was rebuilt--he had his foot on the
first step of the ladder, and took his place amongst the clerks in the
counting-house. Ah, sir! there is nothing like perseverance. My father
knew his powers, and was the man to exert them. He worked at the desk from
morning till night. He gave his heart to his business, and no time was his
which could be given to that. What was the consequence? His less energetic
brethren envied and hated him, but his employer esteemed and valued him.
And he ascended rapidly. It is said that circumstances make the man. I
doubt the truth of this. The highest order of minds controls them, moulds
them to his purposes, and makes them what he will. Time and opportunity
are the crutches of the timid and the helpless. In the course of a few
years, my father became the youngest partner in the firm--the youngest,
but the most active and the most useful. He began to accumulate. He
remained in this position until he reached his thirtieth year, when he
looked abroad for a companion and a home. He proposed as a suitor to the
daughter of his senior partner--a vain and foolish, although a wealthy
man, who had made great plans for his child, and looked for an alliance
with nobility. She, a proud and handsome girl, scorned the approaches of
the silk-merchant, and wondered at his boldness. One word, sir, of her,
before I follow my father in his career. Oh, the vicissitudes of life--the
changes--the sudden rise--the violent fall of men! Well may the player
say, 'The spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.' They do,
they do, what a spectacle for gods is man! The woman, sir this arrogant,
this supercilious damsel, cradled in gold and satin, and bred in the
glossy lap of luxury--died--rotted on a dunghill. Her father gained his
nobleman--she, a paramour. She eloped with a marquis, who deserted her.
She returned to her home, and found it shut against her. She who had
feasted upon the choice morsels of abundance, must, like me, commit crime
for a loaf of bread. She is carried abroad by a new protector, and
strangers bear her to a pauper's grave. This was her fate, sir. But to
return. In consequence of the refusal, a coolness arose between the
partners. An angry word or two took place--a taunt--something too galling
for my father's pride was spoken, and there was a separation. My father
then commenced business on his own foundation--it is hardly necessary for
me to say with success. He could not but prosper. To fail whilst reason
was left him was impossibility. He soon married. His wife--my mother--was
the daughter of a rich merchant. You know the name, sir. Her brother, my
uncle, bears the same. I told it you just now. There could not have been a
more unfortunate union. My father was full of feeling and noble impulses,
intelligent, active, passionate, and required, if not his own qualities in
a partner, at least a milder reflex of himself--a woman that could
appreciate his nature, encourage, help, support him; a woman, in a word,
with a heart and mind, and both devoted. My mother, unfortunately for her,
for all, had no sympathy for her husband--had nothing to offer him but the
portion which she brought, and the hand which her father bade her give.
She was a cold--must I say it?--unfeeling woman, with little thought
beyond herself, her apparel, and her pleasures. I hope, sir, I shall make
you understand me. It is hard to speak disparagingly of her who gave me
life. Let me be careful that I do her justice. _I_ bring against her no
charge of vice. I believe her _not_ vicious. I ever considered her too
weak to be so. I would have you imagine a woman apathetic and
characterless; her mental powers just equal to providing her with a
becoming garment; her feelings capable, perhaps, of their full expansion
if a stranger moved them with some hollow compliment upon her good taste,
or, easier still, her beauty--for she was not without this dangerous
gift--a lovely image, sir. I have myself, as a boy, often seen a radiance
upon her countenance at such a season, when the pretty gambols of my
infant sister has failed to draw one smile of approbation. The little
sensibility she had waited on a paltry vanity. I may say with truth, that
her children caused her no pain. By a fortunate physical constitution, she
bore the burden of a mother without the pangs that usually attend a
mother's state. In this respect she was considered a remarkable woman by
those who deemed their judgement in such matters sound. Once in the world,
her care was at an end. I have heard, sir--I have read of mother's love. I
can feel what it should be; I can guess what wonders it may work in the
wayward spirit of man; for I longed and yearned for it, but it never came.
My elder sister died when a child of two years. My father was then in the
zenith of his prosperity, and was absorbed in his affairs; yet this
loss--this heavy blow--came upon him like a thunderstroke. Many things
occupied his time, but this alone his mind. Deep sighs would escape him
in the active prosecution of his business, and his cheeks were suffused
with tears as he sped along the city's streets, sacred only to gain and
worldly commerce. He doated on his girls, and to lose one was to lose
half the joy of his existence. The effect of this calamity was otherwise
on my mother; and I revert to the difference in order to make clear to
you their respective natures. My mother wept at the death of her
child--she would not else have been a woman; but as I have seen weak
watery clouds pass across the moon's surface, leaving the planet
untouched and tranquil in their transit, so the thin veil of her sorrows
did not disturb the palpable unconcern--the neutrality of soul that were
behind. One easy flow of tears, and the claim of the departed was
satisfied. In a day, the privation had ceased to be one. Here then, sir,
are the seeds of a wilderness of after woe: my father, overflowing with
affection, and craving, as it were, for sympathy, turning to my mother,
and finding there a blank--nothing to rest upon. 'What is fortune,' says
the poet, 'to a heart yearning for affection, and finding it not? Is it
not as a triumphal crown to the brows of one parched with fever, and
asking for one fresh, healthful draught--_the cup of cold water_?' So it
was here, and hence husband and wife became soon estranged from one
another. The former, busy from hour to hour in his counting-house, had
little time to spare upon his children; the latter, with all her time at
her disposal, took no delight in the task. My sister and I, in our
infancy, were made over to strangers; and from the hands of the nurse we
were transmitted to those of the schoolmistress. When I was old enough, I
was removed from my sister's school, and placed, with a select number of
young gentlemen, under the care of a highly respectable master. It was
here that my pride began to take root. One of my schoolfellows was the
son of a general, another the son of a large landed proprietor, a third
was heir to a peerage, a fourth traced his ancestors to a period when the
soil was yet untrodden by a Norman foot. I was chagrined at my
position--irritated--humbled, but the boys, especially those to whom I
have alluded, behaved towards me with extreme kindness, and whilst I felt
humbled, I did not envy them, because I loved them. I had one advantage,
I was the son of a rich _merchant_, as he was called in the school,
although _I_ knew that title to be one of courtesy only, and I was
ashamed of the little superiority which that advantage gave me. What
cause for pride can there be in the possession of so much dross? You will
smile, sir, when I tell you of the resolution which fixed itself in the
mind of a boy scarcely in his teens. My playfellows were respected on
account of the considerations which I have named. Why should I not be
respected? I vowed that I would become so. And how? For what? For nothing
less, sir, than _myself_; for my own high principle and integrity of
conduct. It is true, sir. There were the sons of a noble ancestry about
me who would condescend to tell a falsehood, the nephew of an officer who
was mean enough to borrow money and not repay it. There were many whose
notions of honour were lax and unbecoming. Had I entertained them, they
must have been fatal to me. Discarding them for ever, and speaking and
acting on all occasions, of trifling or of serious moment, with the most
jealous regard to truth and honesty, I relied upon securing for myself
what my predecessors had failed to leave me--the respect of my
fellow-men, and a good and honourable name. It seems a noble resolution.
I repent it to this hour. It is true that I rose rapidly in the
estimation of my master, and that I was regarded even with deference, as
I grew up, by boys of my own age, and of better standing; but it is no
less true, that, from the moment my determination was made, I became
morbidly anxious for the good opinion of men, painfully alive to
ridicule, and as fearful of the breath of slander or reproach as though
it came loaded with the plagues of Egypt. With such an idiosyncrasy, what
becomes of happiness on earth? But I tire you, sir."

"Go on, I beg of you," I answered, deeply interested in the narrative, and
no less surprised at the language and manner of the speaker, both of which
convinced me that he was a man of genius and of education. The whole thing
was a mystery, and I was impatient for the solution and the end. "Do not
fatigue yourself," I continued. "For my own part I listen with the
greatest interest."

"I remember, sir," proceeded Mr Warton, "as if it were yesterday, my first
return home. It was for the midsummer holidays, and gay enough were my
spirits then. All was sunshine and hope. I had not seen my parents for two
years. It seemed as if twenty had passed over my father's head since our
leave-taking. His hair had become blanched, and a settled frown had grown
upon his brow. His forehead was full of lines and wrinkles; his lips were
constantly pressed together; anger was the predominant expression of his
face. The openness of countenance which had so well become him, and which
inspired me even as a child with loving confidence, was chased away, and
disappointment and vexation had seated themselves in its place. He relaxed
for a moment when he saw me, and pressed me, even then, passionately to
his arms; but the clouds soon gathered again, and asserted their right of
possession. I, boylike and apprehensive, concluded that his affairs were
in a disordered state. I had but one thought at the time. I prayed that
misfortune, and not _dishonesty_, might appear to the world as the
occasion of his difficulties. My mother looked younger than ever. She was
dressed with much care, and there was a bloom upon her cheek that would
have adorned a country maiden. Not a line, not a shadow of a line, was
visible on her soft skin--not a tooth had departed from the ivory and
well-formed set. She had retained all that was valueless, and had lost
entirely and irreparably the priceless treasure of her husband's love. At
supper-time, on the very first evening of my arrival, I was made
thoroughly aware of the fearful change which, in so short a time, had come
over the spirit of our home. Joy, I knew, had long since fled from it--now
peace had been startled, and there was discord, nothing but discord, at
the hearth. My father drew his chair to the table, in the sullen and angry
temper which I have told you was visible on his countenance at our
meeting. It seemed at first as though he had received offence elsewhere,
and was resolved to remain discomforted. I could not understand it, but I
was awed by his frown, and sat in terror. In a few minutes, the flame
burst forth. My father required a silver spoon. There was one within arm's
reach of him. 'But why was it not _before_ him?' He repeated the question
again and again, until he forced an answer, which gave him no
satisfaction, but provoked fresh rage. Then came insipid remonstrances
from my mother, foolish argument--passionless, but not on that account
less irritating, allusions to the past. There was little incitement
required, and a word from her lips scarcely worth noticing was sufficient
to maintain a quarrel for an hour. To a stranger, the scene would have
been lamentable; to me, their child, it was sad and sickening indeed. I
have no terms to express to you the fierceness of my father's anger. By
degrees, he lost all mastery over himself; he used the most opprobrious
epithets, and, but for me, he would have struck her. For three hours this
state of things continued, and at midnight they withdrew, to retire to
separate beds, and separate rooms.

"'And all this,' said my mother as she closed her door--'all this for the
sake of a paltry spoon!' Ah! poor woman, could she but have understood how
guiltless of offence was that said spoon, she would have learnt the secret
of her troubles; but we are not all physicians, sir, and we do not trouble
ourselves concerning the _seat_ of our complaint, whilst its effects are
killing us with pain. It was evident that every spark of affection was
extinguished in my father's breast, that his disposition was soured, and
that, cause or no cause, misery must be our daily bread. I could not sleep
that night, and I rose from my bed in the morning, determined to speak
boldly to my father on what had taken place. I loved him--child never
loved parent better--and I knew I could speak respectfully--
affectionately--yes, and solemnly to him; for, God bless him--he was proud
of me, and he listened with regard to my words--on account of my little
education, already so superior to his own. I was better able to
remonstrate with him, because I had taken no part in the contest which I
had witnessed, further than placing myself between them when _his_ rage
seemed to have robbed him of reason.

"I stepped into his bed-room before he quitted it.

"Father"--said I.

"'What? Edgar,' he replied kindly, 'what can I do for you?'

"I had arranged in my mind the words which I proposed to utter, but they
vanished suddenly, and I could do nothing but weep.

"My father, sir, was the strangest of men. Indeed, since his alienation
from his wife, the most unaccountable. Rude and violent as he could be to
her--he was the tenderest, the most anxious of fathers. He turned pale as
death when he saw me in tears, and entreated me to tell him what I
suffered. I gained confidence from his anxiety, and spoke.

"'Father,' I said, 'you must not be angry with me for speaking boldly.
Poor mother! you will kill her--you do not treat her well. I am sure
nothing could justify all you said and did last night. You called her
cruel names. It is not right. I am certain it is not.'

"'Edgar,' said my father, frowning as he went on, 'be silent. You are a
child, and I love you. I will do any thing for your happiness. I forbid
you to speak to me of your mother.'

"'But if you love me,' I answered quickly, 'you ought to love my mother,
too. Oh! do, dear father--do be kind and loving to her.'

"'Edgar,' exclaimed my parent passionately, 'you are very young now--you
will be older if you live, and then I can speak to you as a friend. You
cannot understand me now. She has broken your father's heart--she has
rendered me the most miserable of men. I would I could speak to you, dear
Edgar but this tongue will perhaps be cold and immovable before you can
understand the tale. I am wretched, wretched, indeed!'

"My father was overcome. He could not himself refrain from tears. I felt
deeply for him, and would have given any thing to hear this secret cause
of grief. But his expressions kept me silent; and I clasped his hands in
pity.

"'Edgar,' he continued in a loud voice, and speaking through his tears,
'listen to my words. They are sacred. Receive them as you would my dying
syllables. You may be distant when the blow falls which divides us. Edgar,
I implore you, when you become a man, to let one consideration only guide
you in your selection of a partner. Mark me--only one--see that she has a
heart--a _virtuous_ heart--and that it be yours entire. Despise wealth--
beauty--family--look to nothing but that. Would to Heaven that I had!--
Edgar--your happiness--your salvation, every thing, depends upon it. I
have lost all--I am crushed and ruined; but do you, dear child, learn
wisdom from your father's wreck.'

"He said no more. I could not answer him, for my heart was choked. In a
few minutes he bade me, in a quiet tone, retire to the breakfast room; and
shortly afterwards he made his own appearance there, looking as moodily
and cross when he beheld my mother, as when he had encountered her at
supper on the night before.

"Now, sir, I am ashamed to confess to you--but I have asked you to hear my
history--and you shall hear the truth in the teeth of shame--that all my
sympathy was, from this hour, towards my father, and against my mother. It
may be wrong--wicked--but I could not control the strong feeling within
me. His words had left a powerful impression upon my mind. His tone, his
tears--his man's tears--stamped those words with truth, and I believed him
wronged. In what way I knew not--nor did I care. It was sufficient for me
to hear it, as I did, from his lips, and to be told that it was not
possible to reveal more. Besides, sir, I have already intimated to you
that there was little tenderness in my mother's heart for me. She was
cold, indifferent, and had never had part in all my little joys and
griefs. My father, even with his heavy fault--a fault almost pardoned, as
I believed; by the provocation--watched my boyish steps, and rejoiced with
me in my well-doing. Nothing had interest for me which was not important
to him. He encouraged me in learning. He grudged no money that could be
spent in my improvement--he had no joy so great as that which waited on my
desire for knowledge. He had been to me a playmate, counsellor, friend,
whenever his slender opportunities permitted him to escape to me; and
evidences of the most devoted affection had disturbed my youthful heart
with an emotion too deep for utterance in the silence and solitude of my
schoolboy hours. Yes--right or wrong--by necessity--my sympathy was all
for him. And to convince you, sir, that my feelings were enlisted in his
cause, irrespectively of self, without the most distant view to my own
interest, I have but to refer to the life which I passed under his roof,
until I left it, to return, for a second time, to the enjoyments and
consolations--as they were always--of my school. Although his affection
for me was unbounded, it was not long before I perceived, with bitterness
and trouble, that it was impossible for him to save me from the fury of a
temper which he had no longer power to govern. I could read, or I believed
I could, his inmost soul, and I could see the hourly struggle for
forbearance and self-control. It was in vain. If his passion obtained the
rein for an instant--it was wild--away--beyond his reach--and he thought
not, in the paroxysm, of the sufferer, whose smile he would not have
ruffled in the season of sobriety and quiet. I did not fail again and
again to remonstrate on behalf of my mother--for the scene which I have
described to you became an endless one; but perceiving at length that
representation added only fuel to the fire, I desisted. My lively habits
soon appeared to be unsuited to the new order of things. My father would
once have smiled with enjoyment at some piece of boyish mischief which now
roused him to anger, and before excuse could be offered, or pardon
asked--the severest chastisement--I cannot tell how severe, was inflicted
on my flesh."

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