Life in London by Edwin Hodder

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LIFE IN LONDON

OR, THE PITFALLS OF A GREAT CITY

BY EDWIN HODDER, ESQ.

1890.

CONTENTS.

I. THE INTRODUCTION

II. SCHOOL-BOY DAYS

III. STARTING WELL

IV. MEETING A SCHOOL-FELLOW

V. A FARCE

VI. THE LECTURE

VII. GETTING ON IN THE WORLD

VIII. A TEST OF FRIENDSHIP

IX. IN EXILE

X. MAKING DISCOVERIES

XI. THE SICK CHAMBER

CHAPTER I.

THE INTRODUCTION.

Breathless and excited, George Weston came running down a street in
Islington. He knocked at the door of No. 16, and in his impatience,
until it was opened, commenced a tattoo with his knuckles upon the
panels.

"Oh, mother, mother, I have got such splendid news!" he cried, as he
hurried down stairs into the room where Mrs. Weston, with her apron on
and sleeves tucked up, was busy in her domestic affairs. "Such splendid
news!" repeated George. "I have been down to Mr. Compton's with the
letter Uncle Henry gave me, in which he said I wanted a situation, and
should be glad if Mr. Compton could help me; and, sure enough, I was
able to see him, and he is such a kind, fatherly old gentlemen, mother.
I am sure I shall like him."

"Well, George, and what did he say!"

"Oh! I've got ever so much to tell you, before I come to that part. The
office, you know, is in Falcon Court, Fleet Street; such a dismal place,
with the houses all crammed together, and a little space in front, not
more than large enough to turn a baker's bread-truck in. All the windows
are of ground glass, as if the people inside were too busy to see out,
or to be seen; and on every door there are lots of names of people who
have their offices there, and some of them are actually right up at the
top storeys of the houses. Well, I found out the name of Mr. Compton,
and I tapped at a door where 'Clerk's Office' was written. I think I
ought not to have tapped, but to have gone in, for somebody said rather
sharply, 'Come in,' and in I went. An old gentleman was standing beside
a sort of counter, with a lot of heavy books on it, and he asked me what
I wanted. I said I wanted to see Mr. Compton, and had got a letter for
him. He told me to sit down until Mr. Compton was disengaged, and then
he would see me."

"And what sort of an office was it, George? And who was the old
gentleman? The manager, I suppose!"

"I think he was, because he seemed to do as he liked, and all the clerks
talked in a whisper while he was there. I had to wait more than
half-an-hour, and I was able to look round and see all that was going
on. It is a large office, and there were ten clerks seated on
uncomfortable high stools, without backs, poring over books and papers.
I don't think I shall like those clerks, they stared at me so rudely,
and I felt so ashamed, because one looked hard at me, and then whispered
to another: and I believe they were saying something about my boots,
which you know, mother, are terribly down at heel, and so I put one foot
over the other, to try and hide them."

"There was no need of that, George. It did not alter the fact that they
were down at heel; and there is no disgrace in being clothed only as
respectable as we can afford, is there?"

"Not a bit, mother: and I feel so vexed with myself because I knew I
turned red, which made the two clerks smile. But I must go on telling
you what else I saw. The old gentleman seems quite a character--he is
nearly bald, has got no whiskers, wears a big white neckcloth and a tail
coat, and takes snuff every five minutes out of a silver box. Whether he
knows it or not, the clerks are very rude to him: for when he took
snuff, one of them sneezed, or pretended to sneeze, every time, and
another snuffled, as if he were taking snuff too."

"That certainly does not speak well for the clerks," said Mrs. Weston.
"Old gentlemen do have peculiar ways sometimes, but it is not right for
young people to ridicule them."

"No, it is not; and I don't like to see people do a thing behind another
one's back they are afraid to do before his face. When the clerks had to
speak to the old gentleman, they were as civil as possible, and said,
'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir,' to him so meekly, as if they were quite
afraid of him; but after a little while, when he took up his hat and
went out, they all began talking and laughing out loud, although when he
was there, they had only occasionally spoken in low whispers. There was
only one young man, out of the whole lot, who did not join with them,
but kept at his work; and I thought if I got a situation in that office,
I should try and make friends with him."

"That's right, George. I would rather you should not have a situation at
all, than get mixed up with bad companions. But go on, I am so anxious
to hear what Mr. Compton said."

"Well, after half-an-hour, I heard a door in the next room close, and a
table-bell touched, and then the old gentleman, who had by this time
returned, went in Presently he came out again, and said Mr. Compton
would see me. Oh, mother! I felt so funny, you don't know. My mouth got
quite dry, my face flushed, and I couldn't think whatever I should say,
I felt just as I did that day at the school examination, when I had to
make one of the prize speeches. But I got all to rights directly I saw
Mr. Compton. He said, 'Good morning to you--be seated,' in such a nice
way, that I felt at home with him at once."

"And what did you say to him, George?"

"I had learnt by heart what I was going to say, but in the hurry I had
forgotten every word. So I said, 'My name is--' (it's a wonder I did not
say Norval, for I felt a bit bewildered at the sound of my own voice)
'--my name is George Weston, sir, and I have brought you a letter from
my uncle, Mr. Henry Brunton, who knows you, I think.' 'Oh! yes," he
said, 'he knows me very well; and, if I mistake not, this letter is
about you, for he was talking to me about a nephew the other day.' Isn't
that just like Uncle Henry?--he never said anything about that to us,
but he is so good and kind, we are always finding out some of his
generous actions, about which he never speaks. While Mr. Compton was
reading the letter, I had leisure to look at him, and at his room. He is
such a fine-looking old man, just like that picture we saw in the
Academy, last year, of the village squire. He looks as if he were very
benevolent and kind-hearted, and he dresses just like some of the
country gentlemen, with a dark green coat and velvet collar, a frill
shirt, and a little bit of buf. waistcoat seen under his coat, which he
keeps buttoned. He had got lots of books, and papers, and files about,
and sat hi an arm-chair so cosily--in fact, I should not have thought
that nice carpeted room was really an office, if it had not been for the
ground-glass windows. Just as I was thinking why it was the glorious
sunshine is not admitted into offices, Mr. Compton said--"

"What did he say, George? I have waited so patiently to hear."

"He said, 'Well, _Mr_. Weston,'--(he did really call me Mr. Weston,
mother; I suppose he took me for a young man: it is evident he did not
know I was wearing a stick-up shirt collar for the first time in my
life)--'I have read this letter, and am inclined to think I may be able
to do something for you.' That put my 'spirits up,' as poor father used
to say; and I said, 'I'm very glad to hear it, Sir.' So then he told me
that he wanted a junior clerk in his office, who could write quickly, be
brisk at accounts, and make himself generally useful, as the
advertisements in the _Times_ say. I told him I could do all these
things; and he passed me a sheet of paper, to give him a specimen of my
handwriting. I hardly knew what to write, but I fixed upon a passage of
Scripture, 'Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the
Lord.' My hand was so shaky, that all the letters with tails to them had
the queerest flourishes you ever saw. Mr. Compton smiled when I handed
him the sheet of paper--I don't know whether it was at the writing, or
at the quotation, and I wished I had written a passage from Seneca
instead!"

"You did not feel ashamed at having written a part of God's word, did
you, George?"

"No, not ashamed, mother; but I thought it was not business-like, and
seemed too much like a schoolboy."

"I think it was very business-like. It would convey the idea that you
would seek to do your business from the best and highest motives. But
what did Mr. Compton say?"

"He only said he thought the handwriting was good. Then he told me that
he would take me as his clerk, and should expect me to be at my post
next Monday morning, at nine o'clock. 'And now,' he said, 'we must fix
upon a salary; and as your uncle has told me that you are anxious to
maintain yourself, I will give you a weekly sum sufficient for that
purpose; and if you give me satisfaction, I will raise it yearly.' And
what do you think he offered me, mother?"

"I really do not know; perhaps, as you are young, and have never been in
a situation before, he said five shillings a week, although I did not
think you would get any salary at all for the first six months."

"No, mother, more than five shillings; guess again," said George, his
face shining with excited delight.

"Then I will guess seven and sixpence a week," said his mother,
doubtfully, for she thought she had gone too high.

"More than that, mother; guess only once more, for I cannot keep it in
if you are not very quick."

"Then I shall say ten shillings a week, George; but I am afraid I have
guessed too much."

"No, mother, under the mark again. I am to have ten shillings and
sixpence--half a guinea a week! Isn't that splendid? Only fancy, Mr.
George Weston, Junior Clerk to Mr. Compton, at half-a-guinea a week! My
fortune is made; and, depend upon it, mother, we shall get on in the
world now, first-rate. Why, I shall only want--say, half-a-crown a week
for myself, and then there will be all the rest for you. Now don't you
think blind-eyed Fortune must have dropped her bandage this morning, and
have spied me out?"

"No, George; but I think that kind Providence; which has always smiled
upon us when we have been in the greatest difficulties, has once more
shown us that all our ways are in the hands of One who doeth all things
well."

"So do I, mother; and I do hope that this success, which has attended my
journey this morning, may turn out to our real good. I feel it will--we
shall be able to go on now so swimmingly, and I shall be getting a
footing in the world, so that by-and-bye we shan't have a single debt,
or a single care, and you will be growing younger as fast as I grow
older: and then, after a time, we will get a little house in the
country, and finish up our days the happiest couple in the British
dominions."

For the remainder of that day, poor George was in a regular whirl of
excitement. A thousand schemes were afloat in his mind about the future,
of the most improbable kind. His income of half-a-guinea a week was to
do wonders, which were never accomplished by half a score of guineas.
He speculated about the rise in his salary at the end of the year, which
he was determined, if it rested upon his own industry, should not be
less than a pound a week; and then he forgot the first year, and
commenced calculating what he could do, with his increased salary, till,
at last, worn out with scheming, he said,--

"Money is a great bother, after all, mother. I've been calculating all
this day how we can spend my salary; and I am really more perplexed than
if Mr. Compton had said I should not have anything for the first six
months. I can't make ends meet if I attempt to do what I have planned,
that's very certain; so I shall quietly wait till the first Saturday
night comes, and I feel the half-guinea in my hand, and then I shall
better realize what it is worth."

That was a pleasant evening Mrs. Weston and George spent together in
discussing the events of the day, and when it became time to separate
for the night, she said--

"This is one of the happiest days we have spent for a long time, George.
How your poor father would have enjoyed sharing it with us!" and the
widow sighed.

"Mother," said George, "I have thought of poor father so many times
to-day, and I have formed a resolution which I mean to try and keep. He
was a good man. I don't think he ever did anything really wrong--and I
recollect so well what he used to tell me, when I was a boy"--(George
had jumped into manhood in a day, he fancied)--"I mean to take him for a
model; and if I find myself placed in dangers and difficulties, I shall
always ask myself, 'What would father have done if he had been in this
case?' and then I should try and do as he would."

"May you have strength given to you, my deal boy, to carry out every
good resolution! But remember, there is a model which must be taken even
before that of your father. I mean the pure, sinless example of our
Lord; follow this, and adhere to the plain directions of God's word, and
you cannot go wrong. And now, good night; God bless you, my son!"

It was a long time before George went to sleep; again and again the
events of the day came to his memory, and he travelled in thought far
into the future, peering through the mist which hung over unborn time,
and weighing circumstances which might never have a being.

"I shall be quite accustomed to my duties by next Monday," he said to
his mother in the morning; "for I was all night long busy in the office,
counting money, posting books, and when I awoke I was just signing a
deed of partnership in the name of Compton and Weston."

CHAPTER II.

SCHOOL-BOY DAYS.

George Weston was an only son, and, at the time our story commences, was
nearly seventeen years of age. His early years had been spent at home,
under the watchful care of kind and good parents. When he was ten years
old he was sent to a boarding school at Folkestone, and placed in the
charge of Dr. Seaward, a good man, who superintended his education, and,
besides imparting secular instruction, endeavoured to train his
character and make him good as well as clever. George was a sharp,
shrewd boy, a keen observer, who would know the why and the wherefore of
everything, and his lessons always came to him more as an amusement than
a task. He had a horror of being low down in his class, and if he did
not retain his place at the top, it was rarely through inattention or
want of study on his part.

George was a great favourite with the whole school; he was a merry,
joyous fellow, who always had sunshine in his face and a kind word on
his lips; a ringleader in any harmless fun, and a champion on the side
of all the younger boys who met with oppression or injustice from the
elder classes. At cricket or football, swimming or boating, George had
few superiors; and as he was one of those boys who seem determined,
whatever they do, to do it with all their might, he went heart and soul
into all the spoils with such a zest and earnestness that he acquired
the name of the "Indefatigable." Nor did this name merely apply to his
zeal in sports. There was not in the whole school a more diligent
student than George: there was for him "a time to work and a time to
play," and he never allowed one to trespass upon the other. He would
rather go without a game at cricket for a fortnight than be behindhand
in one of his lessons. The boys would laugh at him for this, but George
could bear to be laughed at on such points, because he knew he was in
the right. "I came to school to learn," he would say, "and I don't see
any fun in making my parents pay heavy fees for me every year to play
cricket at the expense of study." Every boy knew there was wisdom in
this, and they secretly admired George for it, although it condemned
their own conduct, more especially when they had to go to him not
unfrequently, and say, "Weston, I shall get in a scrape with these
lessons to-morrow, unless you can help me a bit with them. Do give me a
leg up, that's a good fellow!" and though George never said "No," he did
sometimes take an opportunity to say, "If you did not waste so much time
in play, you might be independent of any help that I can give."

It was a source of great pleasure to his parents to hear from time to
time, through Dr. Seaward, some good account of his conduct; and when he
returned home at the holiday seasons, generally laden with prizes which
he had victoriously borne off, they did not feel a little proud of their
only son.

George remained at the school at Folkestone for five years, during which
time he rose from the lowest to the highest form. It was the intention
of his parents then to place him in a college for a year or two, in
order to give him in opportunity to complete his education, and have the
means to make a good start in life. But this purpose was frustrated by
an event which happened only a month before George was to have been
removed.

One day, when all the boys were out in the playfield, busily engaged in
marking out boundaries for a game at hockey, Dr. Seaward was seen coming
from the house towards the field. This was an unusual event, as he
rarely interfered with them during play hours. "Something's up," said
the boys; and waited expectantly until the Doctor came up to them.

"Call George Weston," said he; "I want to speak to him."

"Weston! George Weston!" shouted one or two at once; and George came
running up, nothing abashed, for he knew he had done nothing wrong.

"George," said the Doctor, laying a hand on his shoulder, "I want you to
come with me; I have something to tell you;" and they walked together
away from the field.

"What is it, sir? You look pained: I hope I have done nothing to offend
you?"

"No, George," replied the Doctor; "few lads have ever given me so little
cause of offence at any time as you have. But I _am_ pained. I have some
sad news to tell you."

"Sad news for me, sir? Oh, do tell me at once. Is anything the matter at
home?"

"Yes, George; a messenger has just arrived to say that your father has
met with a serious accident; he has been thrown from his chaise, and is
much hurt. The messenger is your uncle, Mr. Brunton; and he desires you
to return at once to London with him."

George waited to hear no more; he bounded away from the Doctor, cleared
the fence which enclosed the garden at a leap, and rushed into the room
where Mr. Brunton was anxiously awaiting him. No tear stood in his eye;
but he was dreadfully pale, and his hands trembled like aspen leaves.
"Oh, uncle!" was all he could say; and, throwing himself into a chair,
he covered his face with his hands.

"Come, George, my boy," said Mr. Brunton, tenderly; "do not give way to
distress. Your poor father is seriously hurt, but he is yet alive. We
have just half an hour to catch the train."

That was enough for George; in a moment he was calm and collected, ran
up to his room to make a few hasty arrangements, and in five minutes was
again with his uncle prepared for the journey.

"Good-bye, Dr. Seaward," he said as he left the house.

"God bless you, my young friend," said the kind-hearted Doctor; "and
grant that you may find His providence better than your fears."

George thought he had never known the train go so slowly as it did
during that long, wearisome journey to London. At last it arrived at
the terminus, and then, jumping into a cab, they were hurried away
towards Stamford Hill as quickly as the horse could travel.

"Now, George," said Mr. Brunton, as they came near their journey's end,
"we know not what may have happened while we have been coming here. Be a
man, and recollect there is one who suffers more than you."

"Do not fear, uncle. I will not add to my mother's grief," was all he
could reply.

We will not pry into that interview between mother and son when they
first met; there is a grief too solemn for a stranger's eye.

Mr. Weston was still alive, and that was all that could be said. The
doctors had pronounced his case beyond human skill, and had intimated
that there were but a few hours for him on earth.

As George stood beside the bed of his dying father, the tears which had
been long pent up came pouring thick and fast down his cheek.

"Don't give way to sorrow, George," said his father, in a low voice, for
he had difficulty in speaking; "it will be only a little while before we
meet again; for what is life but a vapour, which soon vanisheth away?"

"Oh, father, it is so sudden, so sudden!" sobbed George.

"Therefore, my boy, remember that at all times there is but a step
between us and death; and if for us to live is Christ, then to die is
gain. Make that your motto through life, my dear boy, 'For me to live is
Christ.'"

That night the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl was broken, and
the spirit of Mr. Weston returned to God who gave it. "Precious in the
eyes of the Lord is the death of His saints."

Never did a mother more realize the joy of possessing the unbounded love
of an affectionate son, than did Mrs. Weston during those melancholy
days between the death and the funeral of her husband, "Cheer up, dear
mother," he would say; "God is the father of the fatherless, and the
husband of the widow, and did not _He_ say 'to die is gain'?"

George and Mr. Brunton followed the remains of the good man to their
last resting-place; and then the body was lowered to the grave "in the
sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection."

Mr. Weston had not been a rich man, nor had he been a far-seeing,
provident man. He had moved in comfortable circumstances, with an income
only sufficient to pay his way in the world, and had made but scanty
provision for the future. At the time of his sudden death, his affairs
were in anything but a satisfactory state; and it was found that it
would be impossible for his widow to live in the same comfortable style
she had formerly done.

After all his accounts were wound up, it was seen that she would only
have a sufficient sum of money, even if invested in the best possible
manner, to keep her in humble circumstances. She determined therefore to
leave her house at Stamford Hill, and take a smaller one in Islington,
and let some of the rooms to boarders.

Mr. Brunton acted the part of a kind brother in all her difficulties; he
was never wearied in advising her, and on him principally devolved all
the necessary arrangements for her removal. Everything he did was with
such delicacy and refinement that, although his hand was daily and
hourly felt, it was never seen.

One evening, shortly before leaving the locality in which they had lived
so many years, George and his mother walked together to the cemetery
where Mr. Weston had been buried, to pay a farewell visit to that
hallowed spot. They had been too much reduced in circumstances to have a
stone placed over the grave where he lay, and they were talking about it
as they journeyed along, saying, how the very first money they could
afford should be expended for that purpose. What was their surprise to
find a handsome stone raised above the spot, bearing these words:--

_Sacred to the Memory of_
MR. GEORGE WESTON,
Who departed this life, Feb. 18th, 18--, aged 46 years.

* * * * *

"For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."

Tears of grateful joy stood in their eyes as they recognized another
token of the kind, tender love of Mr. Brunton.

The bereavement and change of fortune were borne by the widow with that
fortitude which is only shown by the true Christian. It was hard, very
hard, to begin the world again; to be denied the pleasure of allowing
George to go to college and complete his studies; and to bear the
struggles and inconveniences of poverty. But Mrs. Weston knew that vain
regrets would never alter the case; the Lord had given, the Lord had
taken away, and from her heart she could say cheerfully, "Blessed be
the name of the Lord."

George had not been idle. Every hour in which he was not occupied for or
with his mother, he was diligently engaged in prosecuting his studies,
and preparing himself for the time when he should be able to procure a
situation. Mr. Brunton had not been anxious for him to enter upon one at
once; he knew how lonely the widow would be without her son, and
therefore he did not take any steps to obtain for George a situation.
But when a twelvemonth had passed, and the keenness of sorrow had worn
off, he mentioned the matter to his friend Mr. Compton; with what
success we have seen in the first chapter.

CHAPTER III.

STARTING WELL.

Never did days drag along more heavily than those which elapsed between
the interview with Mr. Compton, and the morning when George was to enter
upon his new duties. Every day the office was a subject of much
conversation; and neither George nor his mother ever seemed to weary in
talking over his plans and purposes. George wrote a long letter to Mr.
Brunton, telling him of the successful issue of his application to Mr.
Compton, and thanking him in the most hearty way for all his kindness.
The next day Mr. Brunton replied to George's letter as follows:--

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