PART X. CHAPTER I. My uncle's conjecture as to the parentage of Francis Vivian seemed to mea positive discovery. Nothing more likely than that this wilful boy hadformed some headstrong attachment which no father would sanction, andso, thwarted and irritated, thrown himself on the world. Such anexplanation was the more agreeable to me as it cleared up much that hadappeared discreditable in the mystery that surrounded Vivian. I couldnever bear to think that he had done anything mean and criminal, howeverI might believe he had been rash and faulty. It was natural that theunfriended wanderer should have been thrown into a society, theequivocal character of which had failed to revolt the audacity of aninquisitive mind and adventurous temper; but it was natural also thatthe habits of gentle birth, and that silent education which Englishgentlemen commonly receive from their very cradle, should have preservedhis honor, at least, intact through all. Certainly the pride, thenotions, the very faults of the well-born had remained in full force, --why not the better qualities, however smothered for the time? I feltthankful for the thought that Vivian was returning to an element inwhich he might repurify his mind, refit himself for that sphere to whichhe belonged, thankful that we might yet meet, and our present half-intimacy mature, perhaps, into healthful friendship. It was with such thoughts that I took up my hat the next morning to seekVivian, and judge if we had gained the right clew, when we were startledby what was a rare sound at our door, --the postman's knock. My fatherwas at the Museum; my mother in high conference, or close preparationfor our approaching departure, with Mrs. Primmins; Roland, I, and Blanchehad the room to ourselves. "The letter is not for me, " said Pisistratus. "Nor for me, I am sure, " said the Captain, when the servant entered andconfuted him, --for the letter was for him. He took it up wonderinglyand suspiciously, as Glumdalclitch took up Gulliver, or as (ifnaturalists) we take up an unknown creature that we are not quite surewill not bite and sting us. Ah! it has stung or bit you, CaptainRoland; for you start and change color, --you suppress a cry as you breakthe seal; you breathe hard as you read; and the letter seems short--butit takes time in the reading, for you go over it again and again. Thenyou fold it up, crumple it, thrust it into your breast-pocket, and lookround like a man waking from a dream. Is it a dream of pain, or ofpleasure? Verily, I cannot guess, for nothing is on that eagle faceeither of pain or pleasure, but rather of fear, agitation, bewilderment. Yet the eyes are bright, too, and there is a smile on that iron lip. My uncle looked round, I say, and called hastily for his cane and hishat, and then began buttoning his coat across his broad breast, thoughthe day was hot enough to have unbuttoned every breast in themetropolis. "You are not going out, uncle?" "Yes, Yes. " "But are you strong enough yet? Let me go with you. " "No, sir; no. Blanche, come here. " He took the child in his arms, surveyed her wistfully, and kissed her. "You have never given me pain, Blanche: say, 'God bless and prosper you, father!'" "God bless and prosper my dear, dear papa!" said Blanche, putting herlittle hands together, as if in prayer. "There--that should bring me luck, Blanche, " said the Captain, gayly, and setting her down. Then seizing his cane from the servant, andputting on his hat with a determined air, he walked stoutly forth; and Isaw him, from the window, march along the streets as cheerfully as if hehad been besieging Badajoz. "God prosper thee too!" said I, involuntarily. And Blanche took hold of my hand, and said in her prettiest way (and herpretty ways were many), "I wish you would come with us, cousin Sisty, and help me to love papa. Poor papa! he wants us both, --he wants allthe love we can give him. " "That he does, my dear Blanche; and I think it a great mistake that wedon't all live together. Your papa ought not to go to that tower of hisat the world's end, but come to our snug, pretty house, with a gardenfull of flowers, for you to be Queen of the May, --from May to November;to say nothing of a duck that is more sagacious than any creature in theFables I gave you the other day. " Blanche laughed and clapped her hands. "Oh, that would be so nice!But"--and she stopped gravely, and added, "but then, you see, therewould not be the tower to love papa; and I am sure that the tower mustlove him very much, for he loves it dearly. " It was my turn to laugh now. "I see how it is, you little witch, " saidI; "you would coax us to come and live with you and the owls! With allmy heart, so far as I am concerned. " "Sisty, " said Blanche, with an appalling solemnity on her face, "do youknow what I've been thinking?" "Not I, miss--what? Something very deep, I can see, --very horrible, indeed, I fear; you look so serious. " "Why, I've been thinking, " continued Blanche, not relaxing a muscle, andwithout the least bit of a blush--"I've been thinking that I'll be yourlittle wife; and then, of course, we shall all live together. " Blanche did not blush, but I did. "Ask me that ten years hence, if youdare, you impudent little thing; and now, run away to Mrs. Primmins andtell her to keep you out of mischief, for I must say 'Good morning. '" But Blanche did not run away, and her dignity seemed exceedingly hurt atmy mode of taking her alarming proposition, for she retired into acorner pouting, and sat down with great majesty. So there I left her, and went my way to Vivian. He was out; but seeing books on his table, and having nothing to do, I resolved to wait for his return. I hadenough of my father in me to turn at once to the books for company; andby the side of some graver works which I had recommended, I foundcertain novels in French that Vivian had got from a circulating library. I had a curiosity to read these; for except the old classic novels ofFrance, this mighty branch of its popular literature was then new to me. I soon got interested; but what an interest!--the interest that anightmare might excite if one caught it out of one's sleep and set towork to examine it. By the side of what dazzling shrewdness, what deepknowledge of those holes and corners in the human system of which Goethemust have spoken when he said somewhere, --if I recollect right, anddon't misquote him, which I'll not answer for "There is something inevery man's heart which, if we could know, would make us hate him, "--bythe side of all this, and of much more that showed prodigious boldnessand energy of intellect, what strange exaggeration; what mock nobilityof sentiment; what inconceivable perversion of reasoning; what damnabledemoralization! The true artist, whether in Romance or the Drama, willoften necessarily interest us in a vicious or criminal character; but hedoes not the less leave clear to our reprobation the vice or the crime. But here I found myself called upon, not only to feel interest in thevillain (which would be perfectly allowable, --I am very much interestedin Macbeth and Lovelace), but to admire and sympathize with the villanyitself. Nor was it the confusion of all wrong and right in individualcharacter that shocked me the most, but rather the view of societyaltogether, painted in colors so hideous that, if true, instead of arevolution, it would draw down a deluge. It was the hatred, carefullyinstilled, of the poor against the rich; it was the war breathed betweenclass and class; it was that envy of all superiorities which loves toshow itself by allowing virtue only to a blouse, and asserting; that aman must be a rogue if he belong to that rank of society in which, fromthe very gifts of education, from the necessary associations ofcircumstance, roguery is the last thing probable or natural. It was allthis, and things a thousand times worse, that set my head in a whirl, ashour after hour slipped on, and I still gazed, spell-bound, on theseChimeras and Typhons, --these symbols of the Destroying Principle. "PoorVivian!" said I, as I rose at last; "if thou readest these books withpleasure or from habit, no wonder that thou seemest to me so obtuseabout right and wrong, and to have a great cavity where thy brain shouldhave the bump of 'conscientiousness' in full salience!" Nevertheless, to do those demoniacs justice, I had got through timeimperceptibly by their pestilent help; and I was startled to see, by mywatch, how late it was. I had just resolved to leave a line fixing anappointment for the morrow, and so depart, when I heard Vivian's knock, --a knock that had great character in it, haughty, impatient, irregular;not a neat, symmetrical, harmonious, unpretending knock, but a knockthat seemed to set the whole house and street at defiance: it was aknock bullying--a knock ostentatious--a knock irritating and offensive--impiger and iracundus. But the step that came up the stairs did not suit the knock; it was astep light, yet firm--slow, yet elastic. The maid-servant who had opened the door had, no doubt, informed Vivianof my visit, for he did not seem surprised to see me; but he cast thathurried, suspicious look round the room which a man is apt to cast whenhe has left his papers about and finds some idler, on whosetrustworthiness he by no means depends, seated in the midst of theunguarded secrets. The look was not flattering; but my conscience wasso unreproachful that I laid all the blame upon the generalsuspiciousness of Vivian's character. "Three hours, at least, have I been here!" said I, maliciously. "Three hours!"--again the look. "And this is the worst secret I have discovered, "--and I pointed tothose literary Manicheans. "Oh!" said he, carelessly, "French novels! I don't wonder you stayed solong. I can't read your English novels, --flat and insipid; there aretruth and life here. " "Truth and life!" cried I, every hair on my head erect withastonishment. "Then hurrah for falsehood and death!" "They don't please you, --no accounting for tastes. " "I beg your pardon, --I account for yours, if you really take for truthand life monsters so nefast and flagitious. For Heaven's sake, my dearfellow, don't suppose that any man could get on in England, --getanywhere but to the Old Bailey or Norfolk Island, --if he squared hisconduct to such topsy-turvy notions of the world as I find here. " "How many years are you my senior, " asked Vivian, sneeringly, "that youshould play the mentor and correct my ignorance of the world?" "Vivian, it is not age and experience that speak here, it is somethingfar wiser than they, --the instinct of a man's heart and a gentleman'shonor. " "Well, well, " said Vivian, rather discomposed, "let the poor booksalone; you know my creed--that books influence us little one way or theother. " "By the great Egyptian library and the soul of Diodorus! I wish youcould hear my father upon that point. Come, " added I, with sublimecompassion, "come, it is not too late, do let me introduce you to myfather. I will consent to read French novels all my life if a singlechat with Austin Caxton does not send you home with a happier face andlighter heart. Come, let me take you back to dine with us to-day. " "I cannot, " said Vivian, with some confusion; "I cannot, for this day Ileave London. Some other time perhaps, --for, " he added, but notheartily, "we may meet again. " "I hope so, " said I, wringing his hand, "and that is likely, since, inspite of yourself, I have guessed your secret, --your birth andparentage. " "How!" cried Vivian, turning pale and gnawing his lip. "What do youmean? Speak. " "Well, then, are you not the lost, runaway son of Colonel Vivian? Come, say the truth; let us be confidants. " Vivian threw off a succession of his abrupt sighs; and, then, seatinghimself, leaned his face on the table, confused, no doubt, to findhimself discovered. "You are near the mark, " said he, at last, "but do not ask me furtheryet. Some day, " he cried impetuously, and springing suddenly to hisfeet, "some day you shall know all, --yes, some day, if I live, when thatname shall be high in the world; yes, when the world is at my feet!" Hestretched his right hand as if to grasp the space, and his whole facewas lighted with a fierce enthusiasm. The glow died away, and with aslight return of his scornful smile he said: "Dreams yet; dreams! Andnow, look at this paper. " And he drew out a memorandum, scrawled overwith figures. "This, I think, is my pecuniary debt to you; in a few days I shalldischarge it. Give me your address. " "Oh!" said I, pained, "can you speak to me of money, Vivian?" "It is one of those instincts of honor you cite so often, " answered he, coloring. "Pardon me. " "That is my address, " said I, stooping to write, in order to conceal mywounded feelings. "You will avail yourself of it, I hope, often, andtell me that you are well and happy. " "When I am happy you shall know. " "You do not require any introduction to Trevanion?" Vivian hesitated. "No, I think not. If ever I do, I will write forit. " I took up my hat, and was about to go, --for I was still chilled andmortified, --when, as if by an irresistible impulse, Vivian came to mehastily, flung his arms round my neck, and kissed me as a boy kisses hisbrother. "Bear with me!" he cried in a faltering voice; "I did not think to loveany one as you have made me love you, though sadly against the grain. If you are not my good angel, it is that nature and habit are too strongfor you. Certainly some day we shall meet again. I shall have time, inthe mean while, to see if the world can be indeed 'mine oyster, which Iwith sword can open. ' I would be aut Caesar aut nullus! Very littleother Latin know I to quote from! If Caesar, men will forgive me allthe means to the end; if nullus, London has a river, and in every streetone may buy a cord!" "Vivian! Vivian!" "Now go, my dear friend, while my heart is softened, --go before I shockyou with some return of the native Adam. Go, go!" And taking me gently by the arm, Francis Vivian drew me from the room, and re-entering, locked his door. Ah! if I could have left him Robert Hall, instead of those execrableTyphons! But would that medicine have suited his case, or must grimExperience write sterner prescriptions with iron hand? CHAPTER II. When I got back, just in time for dinner, Roland had not returned, nordid he return till late in the evening. All our eyes were directedtowards him, as we rose with one accord to give him welcome; but hisface was like a mask, --it was locked and rigid and unreadable. Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, stood onit, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then asked, -- "Has Blanche gone to bed?" "Yes, " said my mother, "but not to sleep, I am sure; she made me promiseto tell her when you came back. " Roland's brow relaxed. "To-morrow, sister, " said he, slowly, "will you see that she has theproper mourning made for her? My son is dead. " "Dead!" we cried with one voice, and surrounded him with one impulse. "Dead! impossible, --you could not say it so calmly. Dead, --how do youknow? You may be deceived. Who told you? why do you think so?" "I have seen his remains, " said my uncle, with the same gloomy calm. "We will all mourn for him. Pisistratus, you are heir to my name now, as to your father's. Good-night; excuse me, all--all you dear and kindones; I am worn out. " Roland lighted his candle and went away, leavingus thunderstruck; but he came back again, looked round, took up hisbook, open in the favorite passage, nodded again, and again vanished. We looked at each other as if we had seen a ghost. Then my father roseand went out of the room, and remained in Roland's till the night waswell-nigh gone! We sat up, my mother and I, till he returned. Hisbenign face looked profoundly sad. "How is it, sir? Can you tell us more?" My father shook his head. "Roland prays that you may preserve the same forbearance you have shownhitherto, and never mention his son's name to him. Peace be to theliving, as to the dead! Kitty, this changes our plans; we must all goto Cumberland, --we cannot leave Roland thus!" "Poor, poor Roland!" said my mother, through her tears. "And to thinkthat father and son were not reconciled! But Roland forgives him now, --oh, yes, now!" "It is not Roland we can censure, " said my father, almost fiercely; "itis--But enough; we must hurry out of town as soon as we can: Roland willrecover in the native air of his old ruins. " We went up to bed mournfully. "And so, " thought I, "ends one grandobject of my life! I had hoped to have brought those two together. But, alas, what peacemaker like the grave!" CHAPTER III. My uncle did not leave his room for three days; but he was much closetedwith a lawyer, and my father dropped some words which seemed to implythat the deceased had incurred debts, and that the poor Captain wasmaking some charge on his small property. As Roland had said that hehad seen the remains of his son, I took it at first for granted that weshould attend a funeral; but no word of this was said. On the fourthday Roland, in deep mourning, entered a hackney-coach with the lawyer, and was absent about two hours. I did not doubt that he had thusquietly fulfilled the last mournful offices. On his return, he shuthimself up again for the rest of the day, and would not see even myfather. But the next morning he made his appearance as usual, and Ieven thought that he seemed more cheerful than I had yet known him, --whether he played a part, or whether the worst was now over, and thegrave was less cruel than uncertainty. On the following day we all setout for Cumberland. In the interval, Uncle Jack had been almost constantly at the house, and, to do him justice, he had seemed unaffectedly shocked at thecalamity that had befallen Roland. There was, indeed, no want of heartin Uncle Jack, whenever you went straight at it; but it was hard to findif you took a circuitous route towards it through the pockets. Theworthy speculator had indeed much business to transact with my fatherbefore he left town. The Anti-Publisher Society had been set up, and itwas through the obstetric aid of that fraternity that the Great Book wasto be ushered into the world. The new journal, the "Literary Times, "was also far advanced, --not yet out, but my father was fairly in for it. There were preparations for its debut on a vast scale, and two or threegentlemen in black--one of whom looked like a lawyer, and another like aprinter, and a third uncommonly like a Jew--called twice, with papers ofa very formidable aspect. All these preliminaries settled, the lastthing I heard Uncle Jack say, with a slap on my father's back, was, "Fame and fortune both made now! You may go to sleep in safety, foryou leave me wide awake. Jack Tibbets never sleeps!" I had thought it strange that, since my abrupt exodus from Trevanion'shouse, no notice had been taken of any of us by himself or Lady Ellinor. But on the very eve of our departure came a kind note from Trevanion tome, dated from his favorite country seat (accompanied by a present ofsome rare books to my father), in which he said, briefly, that there hadbeen illness in his family which had obliged him to leave town for achange of air, but that Lady Ellinor expected to call on my mother thenext week. He had found amongst his books some curious works of theMiddle Ages, amongst others a complete set of Cardan, which he knew myfather would like to have, and so sent them. There was no allusion towhat had passed between us. In reply to this note, after due thanks onmy father's part, who seized upon the Cardan (Lyons edition, 1663, tenvolumes folio) as a silk-worm does upon a mulberry-leaf, I expressed ourjoint regrets that there was no hope of our seeing Lady Ellinor, as wewere just leaving town. I should have added something on the loss myuncle had sustained, but my father thought that since Roland shrank fromany mention of his son, even by his nearest kindred, it would be hisobvious wish not to parade his affliction beyond that circle. And there had been illness in Trevanion's family! On whom had itfallen? I could not rest satisfied with that general expression, and Itook my answer myself to Trevanion's house, instead of sending it by thepost. In reply to my inquiries, the porter said that all the familywere expected at the end of the week; that he had heard both LadyEllinor and Miss Trevanion had been rather poorly, but that they werenow better. I left my note with orders to forward it; and my woundsbled afresh as I came away. We had the whole coach to ourselves in our journey, and a silent journeyit was, till we arrived at a little town about eight miles from myuncle's residence, to which we could only get through a cross-road. Myuncle insisted on preceding us that night; and though he had writtenbefore we started, to announce our coming, he was fidgety lest the poortower should not make the best figure it could, so he went alone, and wetook our ease at our inn. Betimes the next day we hired a fly-coach--for a chaise could never haveheld us and my father's books--and jogged through a labyrinth ofvillanous lanes which no Marshal Wade had ever reformed from theirprimal chaos. But poor Mrs. Primmins and the canary-bird alone seemedsensible of the jolts; the former, who sat opposite to us wedged amidsta medley of packages, all marked "Care, to be kept top uppermost" (why Iknow not, for they were but books, and whether they lay top or bottom itcould not materially affect their value), --the former, I say, contrivedto extend her arms over those disjecta membra, and griping a window-sillwith the right hand, and a window-sill with the left, kept her seatrampant, like the split eagle of the Austrian Empire: in fact, it wouldbe well nowadays if the split eagle were as firm as Mrs. Primmins! Asfor the canary, it never failed to respond, by an astonished chirp, toevery "Gracious me!" and "Lord save us!" which the delve into a rut, orthe bump out of it, sent forth from Mrs. Primmins's lips, with all theemphatic dolor of the "Ai, ai!" in a Greek chorus. But my father, with his broad hat over his brows, was in deep thought. The scenes of his youth were rising before him, and his memory went, smooth as a spirit's wing, over delve and bump. And my mother, who satnext him, had her arm on his shoulder, and was watching his facejealously. Did she think that in that thoughtful face there was regretfor the old love? Blanche, who had been very sad, and had wept much andquietly since they put on her the mourning, and told her that she had nobrother (though she had no remembrance of the lost), began now to evinceinfantine curiosity and eagerness to catch the first peep of herfather's beloved tower. And Blanche sat on my knee, and I shared herimpatience. At last there came in view a church-spire, a church, aplain square building near it, the parsonage (my father's old home), along, straggling street of cottages and rude shops, with a better kindof house here and there, and in the hinder ground a gray, deformed massof wall and ruin, placed on one of those eminences on which the Danesloved to pitch camp or build fort, with one high, rude, Anglo-Normantower rising from the midst. Few trees were round it, and those eitherpoplars or firs, save, as we approached, one mighty oak, --integral andunscathed. The road now wound behind the parsonage and up a steepascent. Such a road, --the whole parish ought to have been flogged forit! If I had sent up a road like that, even on a map, to Dr. Herman, Ishould not have sat down in comfort for a week to come! The fly-coach came to a full stop. "Let us get out, " cried I, opening the door, and springing to the groundto set the example. Blanche followed, and my respected parents came next. But when Mrs. Primmins was about to heave herself into movement, "Papce!" said my father. "I think, Mrs. Primmins, you must remain in, to keep the books steady. " "Lord love you!" cried Mrs. Primmins, aghast. "The subtraction of such a mass, or moles, --supple and elastic as allflesh is, and fitting into the hard corners of the inert matter, --such asubtraction, Mrs. Primmins, would leave a vacuum which no naturalsystem, certainly no artificial organization, could sustain. Therewould be a regular dance of atoms, Mrs. Primmins; my books would flyhere, there, on the floor, out of the window! "'Corporis officium est quoniam omnia deorsum. ' "The business of a body like yours, Mrs. Primmins, is to press all thingsdown, to keep them tight, as you will know one of these days, --that is, if you will do me the favor to read Lucretius, and master that materialphilosophy of which I may say, without flattery, my dear Mrs. Primmins, that you are a living illustration. " These, the first words my father had spoken since we set out from theinn, seemed to assure my mother that she need have no apprehension as tothe character of his thoughts, for her brow cleared, and she said, laughing, -- "Only look at poor Primmins, and then at that hill!" "You may subtract Primmins, if you will be answerable for the remnant, Kitty. Only I warn you that it is against all the laws of physics. " So saying, he sprang lightly forward, and, taking hold of my arm, pausedand looked round, and drew the loud free breath with which we drawnative air. "And yet, " said my father, after that grateful and affectionateinspiration, --"and yet, it must be owned that a more ugly country onecannot see out of Cambridgeshire. " (1) "Nay, " said I, "it is bold and large, it has a beauty of its own. Thoseimmense, undulating, uncultivated, treeless tracts have surely theircharm of wildness and solitude. And how they suit the character of theruin! All is feudal there! I understand Roland better now. " "I hope to Heaven Cardan will come to no harm!" cried my father; "he isvery handsomely bound, and he fitted beautifully just into the fleshiestpart of that fidgety Primmins. " Blanche, meanwhile, had run far before us, and I followed fast. Therewere still the remains of that deep trench (surrounding the ruins onthree sides, leaving a ragged hill-top at the fourth) which made thefavorite fortification of all the Teutonic tribes. A causeway, raisedon brick arches, now, however, supplied the place of the drawbridge, andthe outer gate was but a mass of picturesque ruin. Entering into thecourtyard or bailey, the old castle mound, from which justice had beendispensed, was in full view, rising higher than the broken walls aroundit, and partially over grown with brambles. And there stood, comparatively whole, the Tower or Keep, and from its portals emerged theveteran owner. His ancestors might have received us in more state, but certainly theycould not have given us a warmer greeting. In fact, in his own domainRoland appeared another man. His stiffness, which was a littlerepulsive to those who did not understand it, was all gone. He seemedless proud, precisely because he and his pride, on that ground, were ongood terms with each other. How gallantly he extended, --not his arm, inour modern Jack-and-Jill sort of fashion, but his right hand to mymother; how carefully he led her over "brake, bush, and scaur, " throughthe low vaulted door, where a tall servant, who, it was easy to see, hadbeen a soldier, --in the precise livery, no doubt, warranted by theheraldic colors (his stockings were red!), --stood upright as a sentry. And coming into the hall, it looked absolutely cheerful, --it took us bysurprise. There was a great fireplace, and, though it was still summer, a great fire! It did not seem a bit too much, for the walls were stone, the lofty roof open to the rafters, while the windows were small andnarrow, and so high and so deep sunk that one seemed in a vault. Nevertheless, I say the room looked sociable and cheerful, --thanksprincipally to the fire, and partly to a very ingenious medley of oldtapestry at one end, and matting at the other, fastened to the lowerpart of the walls, seconded by an arrangement of furniture which didcredit to my uncle's taste for the picturesque. After we had lookedabout and admired to our heart's content, Roland took us, not up one ofthose noble staircases you see in the later manorial residences, but alittle winding stone stair, into the rooms he had appropriated to hisguests. There was first a small chamber, which he called my father'sstudy, --in truth, it would have done for any philosopher or saint whowished to shut out the world, and might have passed for the interior ofsuch a column as the Stylites inhabited; for you must have climbed aladder to have looked out of the window, and then the vision of noshort-sighted man could have got over the interval in the wall made bythe narrow casement, which, after all, gave no other prospect than aCumberland sky, with an occasional rook in it. But my father, I think Ihave said before, did not much care for scenery, and he looked roundwith great satisfaction upon the retreat assigned him. "We can knock up shelves for your books in no time, " said my uncle, rubbing his hands. "It would be a charity, " quoth my father, "for they have been very longin a recumbent position, and would like to stretch themselves, poorthings. My dear Roland, this room is made for books, --so round and sodeep! I shall sit here, like Truth in a well. " "And there is a room for you, sister, just out of it, " said my uncle, opening a little, low, prison-like door into a charming room, for itswindow was low and it had an iron balcony; "and out of that is thebedroom. For you, Pisistratus, my boy, I am afraid that it is soldier'squarters, indeed, with which you will have to put up. But never mind;in a day or two we shall make all worthy a general of your illustriousname, --for he was a great general, Pisistratus the First, was he not, brother?" "All tyrants are, " said my father; "the knack of soldiering isindispensable to them. " "Oh! you may say what you please here, " said Roland, in high good humor, as he drew me downstairs, still apologizing for my quarters, and soearnestly that I made up my mind that I was to be put into an oubliette. Nor were my suspicions much dispelled on seeing that we had to leave thekeep, and pick our way into what seemed to me a mere heap of rubbish onthe dexter side of the court. But I was agreeably surprised to find, amidst these wrecks, a room with a noble casement, commanding the wholecountry, and placed immediately over a plot of ground cultivated as agarden. The furniture was ample, though homely; the floors and wallswell matted; and, altogether, despite the inconvenience of having tocross the courtyard to get to the rest of the house, and being whollywithout the modern luxury of a bell, I thought that I could not bebetter lodged. "But this is a perfect bower, my dear uncle! Depend on it, it was thebower-chamber of the Dames de Caxton, --Heaven rest them!" "No, " said my uncle, gravely, "I suspect it must have been thechaplain's room, for the chapel was to the right of you. An earlierchapel, indeed, formerly existed in the keep tower; for, indeed, it isscarcely a true keep without a chapel, well, and hall. I can show youpart of the roof of the first, and the two last are entire; the well isvery curious, formed in the substance of the wall at one angle of thehall. In Charles the First's time our ancestor lowered his only sondown in a bucket, and kept him there six hours, while a malignant mobwas storming the tower. I need not say that our ancestor himselfscorned to hide from such a rabble, for he was a grown man. The boylived to be a sad spendthrift, and used the well for cooling his wine. He drank up a great many good acres. " "I should scratch him out of the pedigree, if I were you. But pray, have you not discovered the proper chamber of that great Sir Williamabout whom my father is so shamefully sceptical?" "To tell you a secret, " answered the Captain, giving me a sly poke inthe ribs, "I have put your father into it! There are the initialletters W. C. Let into the cusp of the York rose, and the date, threeyears before the battle of Bosworth, over the chimney-piece. " I could not help joining my uncle's grim, low laugh at thischaracteristic pleasantry; and after I had complimented him on sojudicious a mode of proving his point, I asked him how he could possiblyhave contrived to fit up the ruin so well, especially as he had scarcelyvisited it since his purchase. "Why, " said he, "some years ago that poor fellow you now see as myservant, and who is gardener, bailiff, seneschal, butler, and anythingelse you can put him to, was sent out of the army on the invalid list. So I placed him here; and as he is a capital carpenter, and has had avery fair education, I told him what I wanted, and put by a small sumevery year for repairs and furnishing. It is astonishing how little itcost me; for Bolt, poor fellow (that is his name), caught the rightspirit of the thing, and most of the furniture (which you see is ancientand suitable) he picked up at different cottages and farm-houses in theneighborhood. As it is, however, we have plenty more rooms here andthere, --only, of late, " continued my uncle, slightly changing color, "Ihad no money to spare. But come, " he resumed with an evident effort, "come and see my barrack; it is on the other side of the hall, and madeout of what no doubt were the butteries. " We reached the yard, and found the fly-coach had just crawled to thedoor. My father's head was buried deep in the vehicle; he was gatheringup his packages and sending out, oracle-like, various mutteredobjurgations and anathemas upon Mrs. Primmins and her vacuum, which Mrs. Primmins, standing by and making a lap with her apron to receive thepackages and anathemas simultaneously, bore with the mildness of anangel, lifting up her eyes to heaven and murmuring something about "poorold bones, "--though as for Mrs. Primmins's bones, they had been mythsthese twenty years, and you might as soon have found a Plesiosaurus inthe fat lands of Romney Marsh as a bone amidst those layers of flesh inwhich my poor father thought he had so carefully cottoned up his Cardan. Leaving these parties to adjust matters between them, we stepped underthe low doorway and entered Roland's room. Oh! certainly Bolt hadcaught the spirit of the thing; certainly he had penetrated down to thepathos that lay within the deeps of Roland's character. Buffon says, "The style is the man;" there, the room was the man. That nameless, inexpressible, soldier--like, methodical neatness which belonged toRoland, --that was the first thing that struck one; that was the generalcharacter of the whole. Then, in details, there, on stout oak shelves, were the books on which my father loved to jest his more imaginativebrother; there they were, --Froissart, Barante, Joinville, the Mortd'Arthur, Amadis of Gaul, Spenser's Faerie Queene, a noble copy ofStrutt's Horda, Mallet's Northern Antiquities, Percy's Reliques, Pope'sHomer, books on gunnery, archery, hawking, fortification; old chivalryand modern war together, cheek-by-jowl. Old chivalry and modern war! Look to that tilting helmet with the tallCaxton crest, and look to that trophy near it, --a French cuirass--andthat old banner (a knight's pennon) surmounting those crossed bayonets. And over the chimneypiece there--bright, clean, and, I warrant you, dusted daily--are Roland's own sword, his holsters and pistols, yea, thesaddle, pierced and lacerated, from which he had reeled when that leg--I gasped, I felt it all at a glance, and I stole softly to the spot, and, had Roland not been there, I could have kissed that sword asreverently as if it had been a Bayard's or a Sidney's. My uncle was too modest to guess my emotion; he rather thought I hadturned my face to conceal a smile at his vanity, and said, in adeprecating tone of apology: "It was all Bolt's doing, foolish fellow!" (1) This certainly cannot be said of Cumberland generally, one of themost beautiful counties in Great Britain. But the immediate district towhich Mr. Caxton's exclamation refers, if not ugly, is at least savage, bare, and rude. CHAPTER IV. Our host regaled us with a hospitality that notably contrasted hiseconomical thrifty habits in London. To be sure, Bolt had caught thegreat pike which headed the feast; and Bolt, no doubt, had helped torear those fine chickens ab ovo; Bolt, I have no doubt, made thatexcellent Spanish omelette; and, for the rest, the products of thesheepwalk and the garden came in as volunteer auxiliaries, --verydifferent from the mercenary recruits by which those metropolitanCondottieri, the butcher and greengrocer, hasten the ruin of thatmelancholy commonwealth called "genteel poverty. " Our evening passed cheerfully; and Roland, contrary to his custom, wastalker in chief. It was eleven o'clock before Bolt appeared with alantern to conduct me through the courtyard to my dormitory among theruins, --a ceremony which, every night, shine or dark, he insisted uponpunctiliously performing. It was long before I could sleep; before I could believe that but so fewdays had elapsed since Roland heard of his son's death, --that son whosefate had so long tortured him; and yet, never had Roland appeared sofree from sorrow! Was it natural, was it effort? Several days passedbefore I could answer that question, and then not wholly to mysatisfaction. Effort there was, or rather resolute, systematicdetermination. At moments Roland's head drooped, his brows met, and thewhole man seemed to sink. Yet these were only moments; he would rousehimself up, like a dozing charger at the sound of the trumpet, and shakeoff the creeping weight. But whether from the vigor of hisdetermination, or from some aid in other trains of reflection, I couldnot but perceive that Roland's sadness really was less grave and bitterthan it had been, or than it was natural to suppose. He seemed totransfer, daily, more and more, his affections from the dead to thosearound him, especially to Blanche and myself. He let it be seen that helooked on me now as his lawful successor, --as the future supporter ofhis name; he was fond of confiding to me all his little plans, andconsulting me on them. He would walk with me around his domains (ofwhich I shall say more hereafter), --point out, from every eminence weclimbed, where the broad lands which his forefathers had owned stretchedaway to the horizon: unfold with tender hand the mouldering pedigree, and rest lingeringly on those of his ancestors who had held martial postor had died on the field. There was a crusader who had followed Richardto Ascalon; there was a knight who had fought at Agincourt: there was acavalier (whose picture was still extant), with fair love-locks, who hadfallen at Worcester, --no doubt the same who had cooled his son in thatwell which the son devoted to more agreeable associations. But of allthese worthies there was none whom my uncle, perhaps from the spirit ofcontradiction, valued like that apocryphal Sir William. And why?Because when the apostate Stanley turned the fortunes of the field atBosworth, and when that cry of despair, "Treason! treason!" burst fromthe lips of the last Plantagenet, "amongst the faithless, " this truesoldier, "faithful found, " had fallen in that lion rush which Richardmade at his foe. "Your father tells me that Richard was a murderer andusurper, " quoth my uncle. "Sir, that might be true or not; but it wasnot on the field of battle that his followers were to reason on thecharacter of the master who trusted them, especially when a legion offoreign hirelings stood opposed to them. I would not have descendedfrom that turncoat Stanley to be lord of all the lands the earls ofDerby can boast of. Sir, in loyalty, men fight and die for a grandprinciple and a lofty passion; and this brave Sir William was payingback to the last Plantagenet the benefits he had received from thefirst!" "And yet it may be doubted, " said I, maliciously, "whether WilliamCaxton the printer did not--" Plague, pestilence, and fire seize William Caxton the printer, and hisinvention too!" cried my uncle, barbarously. "When there were only a few books, at least they were good ones; and nowthey are so plentiful, all they do is to confound the judgment, unsettlethe reason, drive the good books out of cultivation, and draw aploughshare of innovation over every ancient landmark; seduce the women, womanize the men, upset states, thrones, and churches; rear a race ofchattering, conceited coxcombs who can always find books in plenty toexcuse them from doing their duty; make the poor discontented, the richcrotchety and whimsical, refine away the stout old virtues into quibblesand sentiments! All imagination formerly was expended in noble action, adventure, enterprise, high deeds, and aspirations; now a man can but beimaginative by feeding on the false excitement of passions he neverfelt, dangers he never shared, and he fritters away all there is of lifeto spare in him upon the fictitious love--sorrows of Bond Street and St. James's. Sir, chivalry ceased when the Press rose! And to fasten uponme, as a forefather, out of all men who ever lived and sinned, the veryman who has most destroyed what I most valued, --who, by the Lord! withhis cursed invention has well-nigh got rid of respect for forefathersaltogether, --is a cruelty of which my brother had never been capable ifthat printer's devil had not got hold of him!" That a man in this blessed nineteenth century should be such a Vandal, and that my Uncle Roland should talk in a strain that Totila would havebeen ashamed of, within so short a time after my father's scientific anderudite oration on the Hygeiana of Books, --was enough to make onedespair of the progress of intellect and the perfectibility of ourspecies. And I have no manner of doubt that, all the while, my unclehad a brace of books in his pockets, Robert Hall one of them! In truth, he had talked himself into a passion, and did not know what nonsense hewas saying. But this explosion of Captain Roland's has shattered thethread of my matter. Pouff! I must take breath and begin again. Yes, in spite of my sauciness, the old soldier evidently took to me moreand more. And besides our critical examination of the property and thepedigree, he carried me with him on long excursions to distant villageswhere some memorial of a defunct Caxton, a coat of arms, or an epitaphon a tombstone, might be still seen. And he made me pore overtopographical works and county histories (forgetful, Goth that he was, that for those very authorities he was indebted to the repudiatedprinter!) to find some anecdote of his beloved dead! In truth, thecounty for miles round bore the vestigia of those old Caxtons; theirhandwriting was on many a broken wall. And obscure as they all were, compared to that great operative of the Sanctuary at Westminster whom myfather clung to, still, that the yesterdays that had lighted them theway to dusty death had cast no glare on dishonored scutcheons seemedclear, from the popular respect and traditional affection in which Ifound that the name was still held in hamlet and homestead. It waspleasant to see the veneration with which this small hidalgo of somethree hundred a-year was held, and the patriarchal affection with whichhe returned it. Roland was a man who would walk into a cottage, resthis cork leg on the hearth, and talk for the hour together upon all thatlay nearest to the hearts of the owners. There is a peculiar spirit ofaristocracy amongst agricultural peasants: they like old names andfamilies; they identify themselves with the honors of a house, as if ofits clan. They do not care so much for wealth as townsfolk and themiddle class do; they have a pity, but a respectful one, for well-bornpoverty. And then this Roland, too, --who would go and dine in acookshop, and receive change for a shilling, and shun the ruinous luxuryof a hack cabriolet, --could be positively extravagant in hisliberalities to those around him. He was altogether another being inhis paternal acres. The shabby-genteel, half-pay captain, lost in thewhirl of London, here luxuriated into a dignified ease of manner thatChesterfield might have admired. And if to please is the true sign ofpoliteness, I wish you could have seen the faces that smiled uponCaptain Roland as he walked down the village, nodding from side to side. One day a frank, hearty old woman, who had known Roland as a boy, seeinghim lean on my arm, stopped us, as she said bluffly, to take a "geudluik" at me. Fortunately I was stalwart enough to pass muster, even in the eyes of aCumberland matron; and after a compliment at which Roland seemed muchpleased, she said to me, but pointing to the Captain, -- "Hegh, sir, now you ha' the bra' time before you, you maun e'en try andbe as geud as he. And if life last, ye wull too; for there never waur abad ane of that stock. Wi' headskindly stup'd to the least, and lifted manfu' oop to the heighest, --thatye all war' sin ye came from the Ark. Blessin's on the ould name!though little pelf goes with it, it sounds on the peur man's ear like abit of gould!" "Do you not see now, " said Roland, as we turned away, "what we owe to aname, and what to our forefathers? Do you not see why the remotestancestor has a right to our respect and consideration, --for he was aparent? 'Honor your parents': the law does not say, 'Honor yourchildren!' If a child disgrace us, and the dead, and the sanctity ofthis great heritage of their virtues, --the name; if he does--" Rolandstopped short, and added fervently, "But you are my heir now, --I have nofear! What matter one foolish old man's sorrows? The name, thatproperty of generations, is saved, thank Heaven, --the name!" Now the riddle was solved, and I understood why, amidst all his naturalgrief for a son's loss, that proud father was consoled. For he was lesshimself a father than a son, --son to the long dead. From every gravewhere a progenitor slept, he had heard a parent's voice. He could bearto be bereaved, if the forefathers were not dishonored. Roland was morethan half a Roman; the son might still cling to his householdaffections, but the Lares were a part of his religion. CHAPTER V. But I ought to be hard at work preparing myself for Cambridge. Thedeuce! how can I? The point in academical education on which I requiremost preparation is Greek composition. I come to my father, who, onemight think, was at home enough in this. But rare indeed it is to finda great scholar who is a good teacher. My dear father, if one is content to take you in your own way, therenever was a more admirable instructor for the heart, the head, theprinciples, or the taste, --when you have discovered that there is someone sore to be healed, one defect to be repaired; and you have rubbedyour spectacles, and got your hand fairly into that recess between yourfrill and your waistcoat. But to go to you cut and dry, monotonously, regularly, book and exercise in hand; to see the mournful patience withwhich you tear yourself from that great volume of Cardan in the veryhoneymoon of possession; and then to note those mild eyebrows graduallydistend themselves into perplexed diagonals over some false quantity orsome barbarous collocation, till there steal forth that horrible Papce!which means more on your lips than I am sure it ever did when Latin wasa live language, and Papce a natural and unpedantic ejaculation!--no, Iwould sooner blunder through the dark by myself a thousand times thanlight my rushlight at the lamp of that Phlegethonian Papce! And then my father would wisely and kindly, but wondrous slowly, erasethree fourths of one's pet verses, and intercalate others that one sawwere exquisite, but could not exactly see why. And then one asked why;and my father shook his head in despair, and said, "But you ought tofeel why!" In short, scholarship to him was like poetry; he could no more teach ityou than Pindar could have taught you how to make an ode. You breathedthe aroma, but you could no more seize and analyze it than, with theopening of your naked hand, you could carry off the scent of a rose. Isoon left my father in peace to Cardan and to the Great Book, --whichlast, by the way, advanced but slowly; for Uncle Jack had now insistedon its being published in quarto, with illustrative plates, and thoseplates took an immense time, and were to cost an immense sum, --but thatcost was the affair of the Anti-Publisher Society. But how can I settleto work by myself? No sooner have I got into my room--penitus ab orbedivisus, as I rashly think--than there is a tap at the door. Now it ismy mother, who is benevolently engaged upon making curtains to all thewindows (a trifling superfluity that Bolt had forgotten or disdained), and who wants to know how the draperies are fashioned at Mr. Trevanion's, --a pretence to have me near her, and see with her own eyesthat I am not fretting; the moment she hears I have shut myself up in myroom, she is sure that it is for sorrow. Now it is Bolt, who is makingbookshelves for my father, and desires to consult me at every turn, especially as I have given him a Gothic design, which pleases himhugely. Now it is Blanche, whom, in an evil hour, I undertook to teachto draw, and who comes in on tiptoe, vowing she'll not disturb me, andsits so quiet that she fidgets me out of all patience. Now, and muchmore often, it is the Captain, who wants me to walk, to ride, to fish. And, by St. Hubert (saint of the chase) bright August comes, and thereis moorgame on those barren wolds; and my uncle has given me the gun heshot with at my age, --single-barrelled, flint lock; but you would nothave laughed at it if you had seen the strange feats it did in Roland'shands, --while in mine, I could always lay the blame on the flint lock!Time, in short, passed rapidly; and if Roland and I had our dark hours, we chased them away before they could settle, --shot them on the wing asthey got up. Then, too, though the immediate scenery around my uncle's was so bleakand desolate, the country within a few miles was so full of objects ofinterest, --of landscapes so poetically grand or lovely; and occasionallywe coaxed my father from the Cardan, and spent whole days by the marginof some glorious lake. Amongst these excursions I made one by myself to that house in which myfather had known the bliss and the pangs of that stern first-love whichstill left its scars fresh on my own memory. The house, large andimposing, was shut up, --the Trevanions had not been there for years, --the pleasure-grounds had been contracted into the smallest possiblespace. There was no positive decay or ruin, --that Trevanion would neverhave allowed; but there was the dreary look of absenteeship everywhere. I penetrated into the house with the help of my card and half-a-crown. I saw that memorable boudoir, --I could fancy the very spot in which myfather had heard the sentence that had changed the current of his life. And when I returned home, I looked with new tenderness on my father'splacid brow, and blessed anew that tender helpmate who in her patientlove had chased from it every shadow. I had received one letter from Vivian a few days after our arrival. Ithad been re-directed from my father's house, at which I had given him myaddress. It was short, but seemed cheerful. He said that he believedhe had at last hit on the right way, and should keep to it; that he andthe world were better friends than they had been; that the only way tokeep friends with the world was to treat it as a tamed tiger, and haveone hand on a crowbar while one fondled the beast with the other. Heenclosed me a bank-note, which somewhat more than covered his debt tome, and bade me pay him the surplus when he should claim it as amillionnaire. He gave me no address in his letter, but it bore thepostmark of Godalming. I had the impertinent curiosity to look into anold topographical work upon Surrey, and in a supplemental itinerary Ifound this passage: "To the left of the beech wood, three miles fromGodalming, you catch a glimpse of the elegant seat of Francis Vivian, Esq. " To judge by the date of the work, the said Francis Vivian mightbe the grandfather of my friend, his namesake. There could no longer beany doubt as to the parentage of this prodigal son. The long vacation was now nearly over, and all his guests were to leavethe poor Captain. In fact, we had made a considerable trespass on hishospitality. It was settled that I was to accompany my father andmother to their long-neglected Penates, and start thence for Cambridge. Our parting was sorrowful, --even Mrs. Primmins wept as she shook handswith Bolt. But Bolt, an old soldier, was of course a lady's man. Thebrothers did not shake hands only, --they fondly embraced, as brothers ofthat time of life rarely do nowadays, except on the stage. And Blanche, with one arm round my mother's neck and one round mine, sobbed in myear: "But I will be your little wife, I will. " Finally, the fly-coachonce more received us all, --all but poor Blanche, and we looked roundand missed her. CHAPTER VI. Alma Mater! Alma Mater! New-fashioned folks, with their large theoriesof education, may find fault with thee. But a true Spartan mother thouart: hard and stern as the old matron who bricked up her son Pausanius, bringing the first stone to immure him, --hard and stern, I say, to theworthless, but full of majestic tenderness to the worthy. For a young man to go up to Cambridge (I say nothing of Oxford, knowingnothing thereof) merely as routine work, to lounge through three yearsto a degree among the (Greek word), --for such an one Oxford Streetherself, whom the immortal Opium-Eater hath so direly apostrophized, isnot a more careless and stony-hearted mother. But for him who willread, who will work, who will seize the rare advantages proffered, whowill select his friends judiciously, --yea, out of that vast ferment ofyoung idea in its lusty vigor choose the good and reject the bad, --thereis plenty to make those three years rich with fruit imperishable, threeyears nobly spent, even though one must pass over the Ass's Bridge toget into the Temple of Honor. Important changes in the Academical system have been recently announced, and honors are henceforth to be accorded to the successful disciples inmoral and natural sciences. By the side of the old throne of Mathesisthey have placed two very useful fauteuils a la Voltaire. I have noobjection; but in those three years of life it is not so much the thinglearned as the steady perseverance in learning something that isexcellent. It was fortunate, in one respect, for me that I had seen a little of thereal world, --the metropolitan, --before I came to that mimic one, --thecloistral. For what were called pleasures in the last, and which mighthave allured me, had I come fresh from school, had no charm for me now. Hard drinking and high play, a certain mixture of coarseness andextravagance, made the fashion among the idle when I was at theUniversity, console Planco, --when Wordsworth was master of Trinity; itmay be altered now. But I had already outlived such temptations, and so, naturally, I wasthrown out of the society of the idle, and somewhat into that of thelaborious. Still, to speak frankly, I had no longer the old pleasure in books. Ifmy acquaintance with the great world had destroyed the temptation topuerile excesses, it had also increased my constitutional tendency topractical action. And, alas! in spite of all the benefit I had derivedfrom Robert Hall, there were times when memory was so poignant that Ihad no choice but to rush from the lonely room haunted by temptingphantoms too dangerously fair, and sober Town the fever of the heart bysome violent bodily fatigue. The ardor which belongs to early youth, and which it best dedicates to knowledge, had been charmed prematurelyto shrines less severely sacred. Therefore, though I labored, it waswith that full sense of labor which (as I found at a much later periodof life) the truly triumphant student never knows. Learning--thatmarble image--warms into life, not at the toil of the chisel, but theworship of the sculptor. The mechanical workman finds but the voicelessstone. At my uncle's, such a thing as a newspaper rarely made its appearance. At Cambridge, even among reading men, the newspapers had their dueimportance. Politics ran high; and I had not been three days atCambridge before I heard Trevanion's name. Newspapers, therefore, hadtheir charms for me. Trevanion's prophecy about himself seemed about tobe fulfilled. There were rumors of changes in the Cabinet. Trevanion'sname was bandied to and fro, struck from praise to blame, high and low, as a shuttlecock. Still the changes were not made, and the Cabinet heldfirm. Not a word in the "Morning Post, " under the head of "fashionableintelligence, " as to rumors that would have agitated me more than therise and fall of governments; no hint of "the speedy nuptials of thedaughter and sole heiress of a distinguished and wealthy commoner:" onlynow and then, in enumerating the circle of brilliant guests at the houseof some party chief, I gulped back the heart that rushed to my lips whenI saw the names of Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion. But amongst all that prolific progeny of the periodical Press, remoteoffspring of my great namesake and ancestor (for I hold the faith of myfather), where was the "Literary Times"? What had so long retarded itspromised blossoms? Not a leaf in the shape of advertisements had yetemerged from its mother earth. I hoped from my heart that the wholething was abandoned, and would not mention it in my letters home, lest Ishould revive the mere idea of it. But in default of the "LiteraryTimes" there did appear a new journal, a daily journal too, --a tall, slender, and meagre stripling, with a vast head, by way of prospectus, which protruded itself for three weeks successively at the top of theleading article, with a fine and subtle body of paragraphs, and thesmallest legs, in the way of advertisements, that any poor newspaperever stood upon! And yet this attenuated journal had a plump andplethoric title, --a title that smacked of turtle and venison; analdermanic, portly, grandiose, Falstaflian title: it was called TheCapitalist. And all those fine, subtle paragraphs were larded out withrecipes how to make money. There was an El Dorado in every sentence. To believe that paper, you would think no man had ever yet found aproper return for his pounds, shillings, and pence; you would turn upyour nose at twenty per cent. There was a great deal about Ireland, --not her wrongs, thank Heaven! but her fisheries; a long inquiry what hadbecome of the pearls for which Britain was once so famous; a learneddisquisition upon certain lost gold mines now happily re-discovered; avery ingenious proposition to turn London smoke into manure, by a newchemical process; recommendations to the poor to hatch chickens in ovenslike the ancient Egyptians; agricultural schemes for sowing the wastelands in England with onions, upon the system adopted near Bedford, --netproduce one hundred pounds an acre. In short, according to that paper, every rood of ground might well maintain its man, and every shilling be, like Hobson's money-bag, "the fruitful parent of a hundred more. " Forthree days, at the newspaper room of the Union Club, men talked of thisjournal: some pished, some sneered, some wondered; till an ill-naturedmathematician, who had just taken his degree, and had spare time on hishands, sent a long letter to the "Morning Chronicle, " showing up moreblunders, in some article to which the editor of "The Capitalist" hadspecially invited attention, than would have paved the whole island ofLaputa. After that time, not a soul read "The Capitalist. " How long itdragged on its existence I know not; but it certainly did not die of amaladie de langueur. Little thought I, when I joined in the laugh against "The Capitalist, "that I ought rather to have followed it to its grave, in black crape andweepers, --unfeeling wretch that I was! But, like a poet, O"Capitalist"! thou Overt not discovered and appreciated and prized andmourned till thou Overt dead and buried, and the bill came in for thymonument. The first term of my college life was just expiring when I received aletter from my mother, so agitated, so alarming, --at first reading sounintelligible, --that I could only see that some great misfortune hadbefallen us; and I stopped short and dropped on my knees to pray for thelife and health of those whom that misfortune more specially seemed tomenace; and then, towards the end of the last blurred sentence, readtwice, thrice, over, --I could cry, "Thank Heaven, thank Heaven! it isonly, then, money after all!"