Frank Harris - "Elder Conklin and Other Stories"

Amelia B. Edwards - "Monsieur Maurice"

Various - "The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. IV, No. 22, Aug., 1859"

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Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales And Novels, Volume 1




"My good genius," said the little boy, pointing to Howard. Howard had
some merit in giving up a good deal of his time to Oliver, because he
knew the value of time, and he had not quite so much as he wished for
himself. The day was always too short for him; every moment was employed;
his active mind went from one thing to another as if it did not know the
possibility of idleness, and as if he had no idea of any recreation but
in a change of employment. Not that he was always poring over books, but
his mind was active, let him be about what he would; and, as his
exertions were always voluntary, there was not that opposition in his
opinion between the ideas of play and work, which exists so strongly in
the imaginations of those school-boys who are driven to their tasks by
fear, and who escape from them to that delicious exercise of their
free-will which they call play.

"Constraint, that sweetens liberty,"

often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false idea to its
nature. Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, and a nameless train of
mistaken notions of pleasure, are often classed, in a young man's mind,
under the general head of _liberty_.

Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled to our notice, when we
want to personify an ill-educated young man, was, in the strictest sense
of the word, a school-boy--a clever school-boy--a good scholar--a good
historian: he wrote a good hand--read with fluency--declaimed at a public
exhibition of Westminster orators with no bad grace and emphasis, and had
always extempore words, if not extempore sense, at command. But still he
was but a school-boy. His father thought him a man, and more than a man.
Alderman Holloway prophesied to his friends that his son Augustus would
be one of the first orators in England. He was in a hurry to have him
ready to enter college, and had a borough secure for him at the proper
age. The proper age, he regretted, that parliament had fixed to
twenty-one; for the alderman was impatient to introduce his young
statesman to the house, especially as he saw honours, perhaps a title, in
the distant perspective of his son's advancement.

Whilst this vision occupied the father's imagination, a vision of another
sort played upon the juvenile fancy of his son--a vision of a gig; for,
though Augustus was but a school-boy, he had very manly ideas--if those
ideas be manly which most young men have. Lord Rawson, the son of the
Earl of Marryborough, had lately appeared to Augustus in a gig. The young
Lord Rawson had lately been a school-boy at Westminster like Augustus: he
was now master of himself and three horses at College. Alderman Holloway
had lent the Earl of Marryborough certain monies, the interest of which
the earl scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman valued himself upon
being a shrewd man; he looked to one of the earl's boroughs as a security
for his principal, and, from long-sighted political motives, encouraged
an intimacy between the young nobleman and his son. It was one of those
useful friendships, one of those fortunate connexions, which some parents
consider as the peculiar advantage of a public school. Lord Rawson's
example already powerfully operated upon his young friend's mind, and
this intimacy was most likely to have a decisive influence upon the
future destiny of Augustus. Augustus was the son of an alderman. Lord
Rawson was two years older than Holloway--had left school--had been at
college--had driven both a curricle and a barouche, and had gone through
all the gradations of coachmanship--was a man, and had _seen the world_.
How many things to excite the ambition of a schoolboy! Augustus was
impatient for the moment when he might "be what he admired." The drudgery
of Westminster, the confinement, the ignominious appellation of _a boy_,
were all insupportable to this _young man_. He had obtained from his
father a promise, that he should leave school in a few months; but these
months appeared to him an age. It was rather a misfortune to Holloway
that he was so far advanced in his Latin and Greek studies, for he had
the less to do at school; his school business quickly despatched, his
time hung upon his hands. He never thought of literature as an amusement
for his leisure hours; he had no idea of improving himself further in
general science and knowledge. He was told that his education was
_nearly_ at an end; he believed it was _quite_ finished, and he was glad
of it, and glad it was so well over. In the idle time that hung upon his
hands, during this intermediate state at Westminster, he heartily
regretted that he could not commence his manly career by learning to
_drive_--to drive a curricle. Lord Rawson had carried him down to
the country, the last summer vacation, in his _dog-cart_, driven
_randem-tandem_. The reins had touched his fingers. The whip had been
committed to his hand, and he longed for a repetition of these pleasures.
From the windows of the house in Westminster, where he boarded, Holloway
at every idle moment lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage, and of
every coachman that passed.

Mr. Supine, Mr. Holloway's tutor, used, at these leisure moments, to
employ himself with practising upon the German flute, and was not sorry
to be relieved from his pupil's conversation. Sometimes it was provoking
to the amateur in music to be interrupted by the exclamations of his
pupil; but he kept his eyes steadily upon his music-book, and contented
himself with recommending a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway's
raptures about horses, and coachmanship, and driving well in hand,
offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both from nature and fashion,
indolent; the trouble of reproving or of guiding his pupil was too much
for him; besides, he was sensible that the task of watching,
contradicting, and thwarting a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway's time of
life, would have been productive of the most disagreeable scenes of
altercation, and could possibly have no effect upon the gentleman's
character, which he presumed was perfectly well formed at this time. Mr.
and Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his improvements. Mr. Supine
was on the best terms imaginable with the whole family, and thought it
his business to keep himself _well_ with his pupil; especially as he had
some secret hope that, through Mr. Holloway's interest with Lord Rawson,
and through Lord Rawson's influence with a young nobleman, who was just
going abroad, he might be invited as a travelling companion in a tour
upon the continent. His taste for music and painting had almost raised
him to the rank of a connoisseur: an amateur he modestly professed
himself, and he was frequently stretched, in elegant ease, upon a sofa,
already in reverie in Italy, whilst his pupil was conversing out of the
window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver of a stagecoach in
the neighbourhood. Young Holloway was almost as familiar with this
coachman as with his father's groom, who, during his visits at home,
supplied the place of Mr. Supine, in advancing his education. The
stage-coachman so effectually wrought upon the ambition of Augustus, that
his desire to learn _to drive_ became uncontrollable. The coachman,
partly by entreaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, was
prevailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could manage it without his
tutor's knowledge, he should ascend to the honours of the box, and at
least have the satisfaction of _seeing some good driving_.

Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at which Mrs. Holloway
was expected, and at which her daughter, Miss Angelina Holloway, was
engaged to perform. Mr. Supine's judicious applause of this young lady's
execution was one of his greatest recommendations to the whole family, at
least to the female part of it; he could not, therefore, decline an
invitation to this concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, and
desired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, adding, with his usual
politeness, that "music was the greatest bore in nature, and especially
Angelina's music." For the night of the concert Holloway had arranged his
plan with the stage-coachman. Mr. Supine dressed, and then practised upon
the German flute, till towards nine o'clock in the evening. Holloway
heard the stage-coach rattling through the street, whilst his tutor was
yet in the middle of a long concerto: the coachman was to stop at the
public-house, about ten doors off, to take up parcels and passengers, and
there he was to wait for Holloway; but he had given him notice that he
could not wait many minutes.

"You may practise the rest without book, in the chair, as you are going
to ---- street, _quite at your ease_, Mr. Supine," said Holloway to his
tutor.

"Faith, so I can, and I'll adopt your idea, for it's quite a novel thing,
and may take, if the fellows will only carry one steady. Good night: I'll
mention your sore throat _properly_ to Mrs. Holloway."

No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely raised upon
the chairmen's shoulders, than his pupil recovered from his sore
throat, ran down to the place where the stage was waiting, seized the
stage-coachman's down-stretched hand, sprang up, and seated himself
triumphantly upon the coach-box.

"Never saw a cleverer fellow," said the coachman: "now we are off."

"Give me the reins, then," said Holloway.

"Not till we are out o'town," said the coachman: "when we get off the
stones, we'll see a little of your driving."

When they got on the turnpike road, Holloway impatiently seized the
reins, and was as much gratified by this coachman's praises of his
driving as ever he had been by the applauses he had received for his
Latin verses. A taste for vulgar praise is the most dangerous taste a
young man can have; it not only leads him into vulgar company, but it
puts him entirely in the power of his companions, whoever they may happen
to be. Augustus Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to all
intents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and gloried in
catching, all his companion's slang, and with his language caught all his
ideas. The coachman talked with rapture of some young gentleman's horses
which he had lately seen; and said that, if he was a gentleman, there was
nothing he should pride himself so much upon as his horses. Holloway, as
he was a gentleman, determined to have the finest horses that could be
had for money, as soon as he should become his own master.

"And then," continued the coachman, "if I was a gentleman born, I'd never
be shabby in the matters of wages and perquisites to them that be to look
after my horses, seeing that horses can't be properly looked after for
nothing."

"Certainly not," agreed the young gentleman:--"my friend, lord Rawson, I
know, has a prodigious smart groom, and so will I, all in good time."

"To be sure," said the coachman; "but it was not in regard to grooms I
was meaning, so much as in regard to a coachman, which, I take it, is one
of the first persons to be considered in a really grand family, seeing
how great a trust is placed in him--(mind, sir, if you please, the turn
at the corner, it's rather sharp)--seeing how great a trust is placed in
him, as I was observing, a good coachman is worth his weight in gold."

Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this observation, for
the conversation was now interrupted by the sound of a postchaise, which
drove rapidly by.

"The job and four!" exclaimed the coachman, with as many oaths "as the
occasion required."

"Why did you let it pass us?" And with enthusiasm which forgot all
ceremony, he snatched the whip from his young companion, and, seizing the
reins, drove at a furious rate. One of the chaise postilions luckily
dropped his whip. They passed the job and four; and the coachman, having
redeemed his honour, resigned once more the reins to Holloway, upon his
promising not to let the job and four get a head of them. The postilions
were not without ambition: the men called to each other, and to their
horses; the horses caught some portion of their masters' spirit, and
began to gain upon the coach. The passengers in the coach put out their
heads, and female voices screamed in vain. All these terrors increased
the sport; till at length, at a narrow part of the road, the rival
coachman and postilions hazarded every thing for precedency. Holloway was
desperate in proportion to his ignorance. The coachman attempted to
snatch the reins, but, missing his grasp, he shortened those of the
off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong way: the coach ran upon a bank,
and was overturned. Holloway was dismayed and silent; the coachman poured
forth a torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend nor foe; the complaints
of the female passengers were so incoherent, and their fears operated so
much upon their imagination, that in the first moments of confusion, each
asserted that she had broken either an arm or a leg, or fractured her
skull.

The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning of the evening, was now
under a cloud, and the darkness increased the impatience of the various
complainers; at length a lantern was brought from the turnpike-house,
which was near the spot where the accident happened. As soon as the light
came, the ladies looked at each other, and after they had satisfied
themselves that no material injury had been done to their clothes, and
that their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to recover from
their terrors, and were brought to allow that all their limbs were in
good preservation, and that they had been too hasty in declaring that
their skulls were fractured. Holloway laughed loudly at all this, and
joined in all the wit of the coachman upon the occasion. The coach was
lifted up; the passengers got in; the coachman and Holloway mounted the
box, when, just as they were setting off, the coachman heard a voice
crying to him to stop. He listened, and the voice, which seemed to be
that of a person in great pain, again called for assistance.

"It's the mulatto woman," said the coachman: "we forgot her in the
bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, and stand at the horses' heads,
whilst I see after her," added the coachman, addressing himself to the
man who had come from the turnpike-house.

"I shan't stir for a _mulatto_, I promise you," said Holloway, brutally:
"she was on the top of the coach, wasn't she? She must have had a fine
hoist!"

The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she had been thrown from the
top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones at the bottom of it. She
had not been able to make herself heard by any body, whilst the ladies'
loud complaints continued; nor had she been able long to call for any
assistance, for she had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered
her senses for many minutes. She was not able to stand; but when the
coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in broken
English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night.

"You shall have an inside place, if you'll pluck up your heart; and
you'll find yourself better with the motion of the coach."

"What, is she hurt--the mulatto woman?--I say, coachy, make haste," cried
Holloway; "I want to be off."

"So do I," said the coachman; "but we are not likely to be off yet:
here's this here poor woman can't stand, and is all over bruises, and
won't get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place."

Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so
rich as himself could be _bought off_ for money, pulled out a handful of
silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting
woman:--"Here's a shilling for every bruise at least, my good
woman:"--but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The
coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left
her, telling the people of the house that a return chaise would call for
her in an hour's time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or
back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway's diversion for the rest of
the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the poor
woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the
accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of ----.
He had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the
job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his
friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won
the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the
coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. "So," said Holloway, "I
must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first
sleep."

Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto; or,
rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the
coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.

The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the chaise-door,
and told Holloway "that he could hardly understand what she said, she
talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out where she
wanted to be carried to."

"Ask the name of some of her friends in town," cried Holloway, "and don't
let her keep us here all night."

"She has no friends, as I can find," replied the postilion, "nor
acquaintance neither."

"Well, whom does she belong to, then?"

"She belongs to nobody--she's quite a stranger in these parts, and
doesn't know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only
knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she says."

"What would she have us to do with her, then?" said Holloway. "Drive on,
for I shall be late."

The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed, "No, master,
no!--it's a sin to leave her upon the road this ways, though she's no
Christian, as we are, poor copper-coloured soul! I was once a stranger
myself in _Lon'on_, without a six-pence to bless myself; so I know what
it is, master."

The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. "Mistress,"
said he, "I'd fain see ye safe home, if you could but think of the
t'other name of that gardener that you mentioned lodging with; because
there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should never find your
Paul, as you don't know neither the name of his street--But I'll tell ye
now all the streets I'm acquainted with, and that's a many: do you stop
me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you're sadly bruised, and I
won't see ye left this ways on the road."

He then named several streets: the mulatto woman stopped him at one name,
which she recollected to be the name of the street in which the gardener
lived. The woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard the street
in which he lived named, said she knew this gardener; that he had a large
garden about a mile off, and that he came from London early almost every
morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she advised the
mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, and to send to ask the
gardener to come on to the turnpike-house for her in the morning. The
postilion promised to go to the gardener's "by the first break of day."
The woman raised her head to bless him; and the impatient Holloway loudly
called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he would not give
him one farthing for himself if he did not.

The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept him in pain; but
Holloway never measured or estimated his pleasures and his pains;
therefore he never discovered that, even upon the most selfish
calculation, he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a
coach-box for one hour.

It was two o'clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in town, when
he was set down at the house at which the stage-coach put up, walked
home, got in at his bedchamber window--his bedchamber was upon the
ground-floor. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed in his
successful _frolic_. Whilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving again,
and again overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his less manly
dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school, advancing
towards him, at a public examination, with a prize medal in his hand,
which turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into the face
of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a striking likeness of his
tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled upon him; and then changed into the
head of little Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just at the
instant, Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver's face close to
him, laughing heartily.

"Why," exclaimed Oliver, "you seized my head with both your hands when I
came to waken you: what could you be dreaming of, Charles?"

"I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to have hold of
you," said Howard, laughing; "but I shall not get my medal by dreaming
about it. What o'clock is it? I shall be ready in half a second."

"Ay," said Oliver, "I wont tell you what o'clock it is till you're
dressed: make haste; I have been up this half hour, and I've got every
thing ready, and I've carried the little table, and all your books, and
the pen and ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun shines
upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you'll have a full hour to
work, for it's only half after five."

At the back of Mrs. Howard's house there was a little garden; at the end
of the garden was a sort of root-house, which Oliver had cleaned out, and
which he dignified by the title of _the seat_. There were some pots of
geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard's permission, by a
gardener, who lived next door to her, and who frequently came to work in
her garden. Oliver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead leaves,
whilst Howard was writing at the little table which had been prepared for
him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, on which he was
enthusiastically intent: he was translating the little French book which
the traveller had given to him; and he was writing _an essay for a
prize_. The young gentlemen at Westminster were engaged in writing essays
for a periodical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give a prize medal as
the reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of critics, to be chosen
from among the boys themselves, should pronounce to be the best
composition.

"I won't talk to you, I won't interrupt you," said Oliver to Howard; "but
only answer me one question: what is your essay about?"

Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head.

"I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning
before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think _I_ shall ever be able to
write essays?"

"To be sure," said Howard; "why not?"

"Ah," said Oliver, with a sigh, "because I've no genius, you know."

"But," said Howard, "have not you found out that you could do a great
many things that you thought you could not do?"

"Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things
which can be done without genius."

"And what _are_ the things," replied Howard, "which cannot be done
without genius?"

"Oh, a great, _great_ many, I believe," said Oliver: "you know Holloway
said so."

"But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we?
Besides, a _great many things_ may mean any thing, buckling your shoes,
or putting on your hat, for instance."

Oliver laughed at this, and said, "These, to be sure, are not the sort of
things that can't be done without genius."

"What are the sort of things?" repeated Howard. "Let us, now I've the pen
in my hand, make a list of them."

"Take a longer bit of paper."

"No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What
shall I put first?--make haste, for I'm in a hurry."

"Well--writing, then--writing, I am sure, requires genius."

"Why?"

"Because I never could write, and I've often tried and tried to write
something, but I never could; because I've no genius for it."

"What did you try to write?" said Howard.

"Why, letters," said Oliver: "my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins,
desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never can
make out a letter, and I'm always sorry when letter-writing day comes;
and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find nothing to
say. I used always to beg _a beginning_ from somebody; but then, when
I've got over the beginning, that's only three or four lines; and if I
stretch it out ever so much, it won't make a whole letter; and what can I
put in the middle? There's nothing but that _I am well, and hope they are
all well_; or else, _that I am learning Latin, as you desired, dear
uncle, and am forward in my English_. The end I can manage well enough,
because there's duty and love to send to every body; and about _the post
is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your dutiful and
affectionate nephew_. But then," continued little Oliver, "this is all
nonsense, I know, and I'm ashamed to write such bad letters. Now your pen
goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment you sit down to it; and
you can write three pages of a nice, long, good letter, whilst I am
writing '_My dear uncle John_,' and that's what I call having a genius
for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you write good letters
when you were of my age?"

If you think books have dumbed down …
Alison Flood: Today we can take our laptops on the road, but could we use them to produce On The Road?

Kerouac's On the Road manuscript travels to the Midlands

John Crace swallows a very thirsty volume

Documentary to lay bare 'Narnia Code'

He wrote it in just three weeks, furiously and loudly tap-tap-tapping away on his typewriter on 12ft long reels of paper so that he did not have to stop, just writing writing writing fuelled only, he said, by coffee…

It became one of the most important American novels of the last century and yesterday the original manuscript - a scroll taped together with eight reels of paper - of Jack Kerouac's On The Road was unfurled in the UK for the first time.
Fifty years after the novel which more or less defined the Beat generation, was published in Britain, the Barber Institute in Birmingham is showing what is now one of the most valuable literary manuscripts in existence as part of its exhibition Jack Kerouac: Back On the Road.

The exhibition's curator Professor Dick Ellis said there had been a lot of competition to get the scroll which is itself spending a lot of time on the move, having toured a string of US cities and hitting the road to Rome once this show is over. "We're very excited indeed," he said. "This is an iconic manuscript. It is a record of the huge effort Kerouac put into composing it. It was 20 days of typing 6,500 words a day, flat out, in spontaneous composition. He wanted to record things with the most possible accuracy using the spontaneous technique. His typewriter became a compositional instrument.

"Truman Capote once accused Kerouac of typing rather than writing, I would say he was learning the ability of using the typewriter like a jazz instrument, like a saxophone. He also had an incredible memory. And he had great speed at typing, he became a lightning typist. He came to be able to use a typewriter in a way that has not been seen before or since. Kerouac said he wrote fast because the road was fast."

About 22 of the scroll's 120ft will be on display in a specially built cabinet and while visitors will have to slightly tilt their heads, Ellis believes they will get a much deeper knowledge of what Kerouac was all about. It comes to Birmingham courtesy of Jim Irsay, owner of the Indianapolis Colts, who bought it for $2.4m (£1.6m) in 2001 before agreeing to a tour. Of course, in the published novel, there are paragraph breaks but in the scroll, there are none. Kerouac did not have the time. The exhibition runs until January 28.

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