Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth
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Maria Edgeworth >> Tales And Novels, Volume 1
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"Go to bed for to-night in my house," said Dr. Campbell; "moderate your
enthusiasm, and reflect coolly upon what has passed."
Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, with a benevolent
smile, as he looked after him, "He wants nothing but a little common
sense. Henry, you must give him a little of yours."
In the morning, Forester first went to inquire how the dancing-master had
slept, and then knocked impatiently at Dr. Campbell's door.
"My father is not awake," said Henry; but Forester marched directly up to
the side of the bed, and, drawing back the curtain with no gentle hand,
cried, with a loud voice, "Dr. Campbell, I am come to beg your pardon. I
was angry when I said you were unjust."
"And I was asleep when you begged my pardon," said Dr. Campbell, rubbing
his eyes.
"The dancing-master's ankle is a great deal better; and I have buried the
poor cat," pursued Forester: "and I hope now, doctor, you'll at least
tell me, that you do not really suspect me of any hand in her death."
"Pray let me go to sleep," said Dr. Campbell, "and _time_ your
explanations a little better."
THE GERANIUM.
The dancing-master gradually recovered from his sprain; and Forester
spent all his pocket-money in buying a new violin for him, as his had
been broken in his fall; his watch had likewise been broken against the
stone steps. Though Forester looked upon a watch as a useless bauble, yet
he determined to get this mended; and his friend Henry went with him for
this purpose to a watchmaker's.
Whilst Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting with the watchmaker
upon the internal state of the bruised watch, Archibald Mackenzie, who
followed them _for a lounge_, was looking over some new watches, and
ardently wished for the finest that he saw. As he was playing with this
fine watch, the watchmaker begged that he would take care not to break
it.
Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used to speak to a
_tradesman_, replied, that if he did break it, he hoped he was able to
pay for it. The watchmaker civilly answered, "he had no doubt of that,
but that the watch was not his property; it was Sir Philip Gosling's, who
would call for it, he expected, in a quarter of an hour."
At the name of Sir Philip Gosling, Archibald quickly changed his tone: he
had a great ambition to be of Sir Philip's acquaintance, for Sir Philip
was a young man who was to have a large fortune when he should come of
age, and who, in the meantime, spent as much of it as possible, with
great _spirit_ and little judgment. He had been sent to Edinburgh for his
education; and he spent his time in training horses, laying bets,
parading in the public walks, and ridiculing, or, in his own phrase,
_quizzing_ every sensible young man, who applied to literature or
science. Sir Philip, whenever he frequented any of the professor's
classes, took care to make it evident to every body present, that he did
not come there to learn, and that he looked down with contempt upon all
who were _obliged_ to study; he was the first always to make any
disturbance in the classes, or, in his elegant language, _to make a row_.
This was the youth of whose acquaintance Archibald Mackenzie was
ambitious. He stayed in the shop, in hopes that Sir Philip would arrive:
he was not disappointed; Sir Philip came, and, with address which lady
Catherine would perhaps have admired, Archibald entered into conversation
with the young baronet, if conversation that might be called, which
consisted of a species of fashionable dialect, devoid of sense, and
destitute of any pretence to wit. To Forester this dialect was absolutely
unintelligible: after he had listened to it with sober contempt for a few
minutes, he pulled Henry away, saying, "Come, don't let us waste our time
here; let us go to the brewery that you promised to show me."
Henry did not immediately yield to the rough pull of his indignant
friend, for at this instant the door of a little back parlour behind the
watchmaker's shop opened slowly, and a girl of about seven years old
appeared, carrying, with difficulty, a flower-pot, in which there was a
fine large geranium in full flower. Henry, who saw that the child was
scarcely able to carry it, took it out of her hands, and asked her,
"Where she would like to have it put?"
"Here, for to-day!" said the little girl, sorrowfully; "but to-morrow it
goes away for ever."
The little girl was sorry to part with this geranium, because "she had
watched it all the winter," and said, "that she was very fond of it; but
that she was willing to part with it, though it was just come into
flower, because the apothecary had told her, that it was the cause of her
grandmother's having been taken ill. Her grandmother lodged," she said,
"in _that_ little room, and the room was very close, and she was taken
ill in the night--so ill, that she could hardly speak or stir; and when
the apothecary came, he said," continued the little girl, "it was no
wonder any body was ill, who slept in such a little close room, with such
a great geranium in it, _to poison the air_. So my geranium must go!"
concluded she with a sigh: "but, as it is for grandmother, I shall never
think of it again."
Henry Campbell and Forester were both struck with the modest simplicity
of this child's countenance and manner, and they were pleased with the
unaffected generosity with which she gave up her favourite geranium.
Forester noted this down in his mind as a fresh instance in favour of his
_exclusive_ good opinion of the poor. This little girl looked poor,
though she was decently dressed; she was so thin, that her little
cheek-bones could plainly be seen; her face had not the round, rosy
beauty of cheerful health: she was pale and sallow, and she looked in
patient misery. Moved with compassion, Forester regretted that he had no
money to give where it might have been so well bestowed. He was always
_extravagant_ in his generosity; he would often give five guineas where
five shillings would have been enough, and by these means he reduced
himself to the necessity sometimes of refusing assistance to deserving
objects. On his journey from his father's house to Edinburgh, he
lavished, in undistinguishing charity, a considerable sum of money; and
all that he had remaining of this money he spent in purchasing the new
violin for M. Pasgrave. Dr. Campbell absolutely refused to advance his
ward any money till his next quarterly allowance should become due.
Henry, who always perceived quickly what passed in the minds of others,
guessed at Forester's thoughts by his countenance, and forebore to
produce his own money, though he had it just ready in his hand: he knew
that he could call again at the watchmaker's, and give what he pleased,
without ostentation.
Upon questioning the little girl further, concerning her grandmother's
illness, Henry discovered, that the old woman had sat up late at night
knitting, and that, feeling herself extremely cold, she got a pan of
charcoal into her room; that, soon afterwards, she felt uncommonly
drowsy; and when her little grand-daughter spoke to her, and asked her
why she did not come to bed, she made no answer: a few minutes after
this, she dropped from her chair. The child was extremely frightened, and
though she felt it very difficult to rouse herself, she said, she got up
as fast as she could, opened the door, and called to the watchmaker's
wife, who luckily had been at work late, and was now raking the kitchen
fire. With her assistance the old woman was brought into the air, and
presently returned to her senses: the pan of charcoal had been taken away
before the apothecary came in the morning; as he was in a great hurry
when he called, he made but few inquiries, and consequently condemned the
geranium without sufficient evidence. As he left the house, he carelessly
said, "My wife would like that geranium, I think." And the poor old
woman, who had but a very small fee to offer, was eager to give any thing
that seemed to please the _doctor_.
Forester, when he heard this story, burst into a contemptuous exclamation
against the meanness of this and of all other apothecaries. Henry
informed the little girl, that the charcoal had been the cause of her
grandmother's illness, and advised them never, upon any account, to keep
a pan of charcoal again in her bedchamber; he told her, that many people
had been killed by this practice. "Then," cried the little girl,
joyfully, "if it was the charcoal, and not the geranium, that made
grandmother ill, I may keep my beautiful geranium:" and she ran
immediately to gather some of the flowers, which she offered to Henry and
to Forester. Forester, who was still absorbed in the contemplation of the
apothecary's meanness, took the flowers, without perceiving that he took
them, and pulled them to pieces as he went on thinking. Henry, when the
little girl held the geraniums up to him, observed, that the back of her
hand was bruised and black; he asked her how she had hurt herself, and
she replied innocently, "that she had not hurt _herself_, but that her
schoolmistress was a very _strict_ woman." Forester, roused from his
reverie, desired to hear what the little girl meant by a _strict_ woman,
and she explained herself more fully: she said, that, as a favour, her
grandmother had obtained leave from some great lady to send her to a
charity school: that she went there every day to learn to read and work,
but that the mistress of the charity school used her scholars very
severely, and often kept them for hours, after they had done their own
_tasks_, to spin for her; and that she beat them if they did not spin as
much as she expected. The little girl's grandmother then said, that she
knew all this, but that she did not dare to complain, because the
schoolmistress was under the patronage of some of "the grandest ladies in
Edinburgh," and that, as she could not afford to pay for her little
lass's schooling, she was forced to have her taught as well as she could
_for nothing_.
Forester, fired with indignation at this history of injustice, resolved,
at all events, to stand forth immediately in the child's defence; but,
without staying to consider how the wrong could be redressed, he thought
only of the quickest, or, as he said, the most manly means of doing the
business: he declared, that if the little girl would show him the way to
the school, he would go that instant and speak to the woman in the midst
of all her scholars. Henry in vain represented that this would not he a
prudent mode of proceeding.
Forester disdained prudence, and, trusting securely to the power of his
own eloquence, he set out with the child, who seemed rather afraid to
come to open war with her tyrant. Henry was obliged to return home to his
father, who had usually business for him to do about this time. The
little girl had stayed at home on account of her grandmother's illness,
but all the other scholars were hard at work, spinning in a close room,
when Forester arrived.
He marched directly into the schoolroom. The wheels stopped at once on
his appearance, and the schoolmistress, a raw-boned, intrepid-looking
woman eyed him with amazement: he broke silence in the following words:--
"Vile woman, your injustice is come to light! How can you dare to
tyrannize over these poor children? Is it because they are poor? Take my
advice, children, resist this tyrant, put by your wheels, and spin for
her no more."
The children did not move, and the schoolmistress poured out a torrent of
abuse in broad Scotch, which, to the English ear of Forester, was
unintelligible. At length she made him comprehend her principal
questions--Who he was? and by whose authority he interfered between her
and her scholars? "By nobody's authority," was Forester's answer; "I want
no authority to speak in the cause of injured innocence." No sooner had
the woman heard these words, than she called to her husband, who was
writing in an adjoining room: without further ceremony, they both seized
upon our hero, and turned him out of the house.
The woman revenged herself without mercy upon the little girl whom
Forester had attempted to defend, and dismissed her, with advice never
more to complain of being obliged to spin for her mistress.
Mortified by the ill success of his enterprise, Forester returned home,
attributing the failure of his eloquence chiefly to his ignorance of the
Scotch dialect.
THE CANARY BIRD
At his return, Forester heard, that all Dr. Campbell's family were going
that evening to visit a gentleman who had an excellent cabinet of
minerals. He had some desire to see the fossils; but when he came to the
gentleman's house, he soon found himself disturbed at the praises
bestowed by some ladies in company upon a little canary bird, which
belonged to the mistress of the house. He began to kick his feet
together, to hang first one arm and then the other over the back of his
chair, with the obvious expression of impatience and contempt in his
countenance. Henry Campbell, in the meantime, said, without any
embarrassment, just what he thought about the bird. Archibald Mackenzie,
with artificial admiration, said a vast deal more than he thought, in
hopes of effectually recommending himself to the lady of the house. The
lady told him the history of three birds, which had successively
inhabited the cage before the present occupier. "They all died,"
continued she, "in a most _extraordinary_ manner, one after another, in a
short space of time, in convulsions."
"Don't listen," whispered Forester, pulling Henry away from the crowd who
surrounded the bird-cage; "how can you listen, like that polite
hypocrite, to this foolish woman's history of her _extraordinary_
favourites? Come down-stairs with me, I want to tell you my adventure
with the schoolmistress; we can take a turn in the hall, and come back
before the cabinet of minerals is opened, and before these women have
finished the ceremony of tea. Come."
"I'll come presently," said Henry; "I really want to hear this."
Henry Campbell was not listening to the history of the lady's favourite
birds like a polite hypocrite, but like a good-natured sensible person;
the circumstances recalled to his memory the conversation that we
formerly mentioned, which began about pickled cucumbers, and ended with
Dr. Campbell's giving an account of the effects of some poisons. In
consequence of this conversation, Henry's attention had been turned to
the subject, and he had read several essays, which had informed him of
many curious facts. He recollected, in particular, to have met with the
account[2] of a bird that had been poisoned, and whose case bore a
strong resemblance to the present. He begged leave to examine the cage,
in order to discover whether there were any lead about it, with which the
birds could have poisoned themselves. No lead was to be found: he next
examined whether there were any white or green paint about it; he
inquired whence the water came which the birds had drunk; and he examined
the trough which held their seeds. The lady, whilst he was pursuing these
inquiries, said she was sure that the birds could not have died either
for want of air or exercise, for that she often left the cage open on
purpose, that they might fly about the room. Henry immediately looked
round the room, and at length he observed in an inkstand, which stood
upon a writing table, a number of wafers, which were many of them chipped
round the edges; upon sweeping out the bird-cage, he found a few very
small bits of wafer mixed with the seeds and dust; he was now persuaded
that the birds had eaten the wafers, and that they had been poisoned by
the red lead which they contained; he was confirmed in this opinion, by
being told, that the wafers had lately been missed very frequently, and
it had been imagined that they had been used by the servants. Henry
begged the lady would try an experiment, which might probably save the
life of her new favourite; the lady, though she had never before tried an
experiment, was easily prevailed upon. She promised Henry that she would
lock up the wafers; and he prophesied that her bird would not, like his
predecessors, come to an untimely end. Archibald Mackenzie was vexed to
observe, that knowledge had in this instance _succeeded_ better, even
with a lady, than flattery. As for Forester, he would certainly have
admired his friend Henry's ingenuity, if he had been attending to what
had passed; but he had taken a book, and had seated himself in an
arm-chair, which had been placed on purpose for an old gentleman in
company, and was deep in the history of a man who had been cast away,
some hundred years ago, upon a desert island.
[Footnote 2: Falconer, on the Poison of Lead and Copper.]
He condescended, however, to put down his book when the fossils were
produced: and, as if he had just awakened from a dream, rubbed his eyes,
stretched himself, and joined the rest of the company. The malicious
Archibald, who observed that Forester had seated himself, through absence
of mind, in a place which prevented some of the ladies from seeing the
fossils, instantly made a parade of his own politeness, to contrast
himself advantageously with the rude negligence of his companion; but
Archibald's politeness was always particularly directed to the persons in
company whom he thought of the most importance. "You can't see there,"
said Forester, suddenly rousing himself, and observing that Dr.
Campbell's daughter, Miss Flora Campbell, was standing behind him; "had
you not better sit down in this chair? I don't want it, because I can see
over your head; sit down." Archibald smiled at Forester's simplicity, in
paying his awkward compliment to the young lady, who had, according to
his mode of estimating, the least pretensions to notice of any one
present. Flora Campbell was neither rich nor beautiful, but she had a
happy mixture in her manners of Scottish sprightliness and English
reserve. She had an eager desire to improve herself, whilst a nice sense
of propriety taught her never to intrude upon general notice, or to
recede from conversation with airs of counterfeit humility. Forester
admired her abilities, because he imagined that he was the only person
who had ever discovered them; as to her manners, he never observed these,
but even whilst he ridiculed politeness he was anxious to find out what
she thought polite. After he had told her all that he knew concerning the
fossils, as they were produced from the cabinet--and he was far from
ignorant--he at length perceived that she knew full as much of natural
history as he did, and he was surprised that a young lady should know so
much, and should not be conceited. Flora, however, soon sunk many degrees
in his opinion; for, after the cabinet of mineralogy was shut, some of
the company talked of a ball, which was to be given in a few days, and
Flora, with innocent gaiety, said to Forester, "Have you learnt to dance
a Scotch reel since you came to Scotland?" "_I!_" cried Forester with
contempt; "do you think it the height of human perfection to dance a
Scotch reel?--then that fine young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie,
will suit you much better than I shall." And Forester returned to his
arm-chair and his desert island.
THE KEY.
It was unfortunate that Forester retired from company in such abrupt
displeasure at Flora Campbell's question, for had he borne the idea of a
Scotch reel more like a philosopher, he would have heard of something
interesting relative to the intended ball, if any thing relative to a
ball could be interesting to him. It was a charity-ball, for the benefit
of the mistress of the very charity-school[3] to which the little girl
with the bruised hand belonged. "Do you know," said Henry to Forester,
when they returned home, "that I have great hopes we shall be able to get
justice done to the poor children? I hope the tyrannical schoolmistress
may yet be punished. The lady, with whom we drank tea yesterday is one of
the patronesses of the charity-school."
[Footnote 3: There is no charity-school of this description in Edinburgh;
this cannot, therefore, be mistaken for private satire.]
"Lady patronesses!" cried Forester; "we need not expect justice from a
lady patroness, depend upon it, especially at a ball; her head will be
full of feathers, or some such things. I prophesy you will not succeed
better than I have."
The desponding prophecies of Forester did not deter Henry from pursuing a
scheme which he had formed. The lady, who was the mistress of the canary
bird, came in a few days to visit his mother, and she told him that his
experiment had succeeded, that she had regularly locked up the wafers,
and that her favourite bird was in perfect health. "And what fee,
doctor," said she, smiling, "shall I give you for saving his life?"
"I will tell you in a few minutes," replied Henry; and in a few minutes
the little girl and her geranium were sent for, and appeared. Henry told
the lady all the circumstances of her story with so much feeling, and at
the same time with so much propriety, that she became interested in the
cause: she declared that she would do every thing in her power to prevail
upon the other ladies to examine into, the conduct of the schoolmistress,
and to have her dismissed immediately, if it should appear that she had
behaved improperly.
Forester, who was present at this declaration, was much astonished,
that a lady, whom he had seen caressing a canary-bird, could speak
with so much decision and good sense. Henry obtained his fee: he asked
and received permission to place the geranium in the middle of the
supper-table at the ball; and he begged that the lady would take an
opportunity, at supper, to mention the circumstances which he had related
to her; but this she declined, and politely said, that she was sure Henry
would tell the story much better than she could.
"Come out and walk with me," said Forester to Henry, as soon as the lady
was gone. Henry frequently left his occupations with great good-nature,
to accompany our hero in his rambles, and he usually followed the
subjects of conversation which Forester started. He saw, by the gravity
of his countenance, that he had something of importance revolving in his
mind. After he had proceeded in silence for some time along the walk,
under the high rock called Arthur's Seat, he suddenly stopped, and,
turning to Henry, exclaimed, "I esteem you; do not make me despise you!"
"I hope I never shall," said Henry, a little surprised by his friend's
manner; "what is the matter?"
"Leave balls, and lady patronesses, and petty artifices, and supple
address, to such people as Archibald Mackenzie," pursued Forester, with
enthusiasm:
"Who noble ends by noble means pursues--"
"Will scorn canary birds, and _cobble shoes_,"
Replied Henry, laughing; "I see no meanness in my conduct: I do not know
what it is you disapprove."
"I do not approve," said Forester, "of your having recourse to _mean
address_ to obtain justice."
Henry requested to know what his severe friend meant by _address_; but
this was not easily explained. Forester, in his definition of _mean
address_, included all that attention to the feelings of others, all
those honest arts of pleasing, which make society agreeable. Henry
endeavoured to convince him, that it was possible for a person to wish to
please, nay, even to succeed in that wish, without being insincere. Their
argument and their walk continued, till Henry, who, though very active,
was not quite so robust as his friend, was completely tired, especially
as he perceived that Forester's opinions remained unshaken.
"How effeminate you _gentlemen_ are!" cried Forester: "see what it is to
be brought up in the lap of luxury. Why, I am not at all tired; I could
walk a dozen miles further, without being in the least fatigued!"
Henry thought it a very good thing to be able to walk a number of miles
without being fatigued, but he did not consider it as the highest
perfection of human nature. In his friend's present mood, nothing less
could content him, and Forester went on to demonstrate to the weary
Henry, that all fortitude, all courage, and all the manly virtues, were
inseparably connected with _pedestrian indefatigability_. Henry, with
good-natured presence of mind, which perhaps his friend would have called
_mean address_, diverted our hero's rising indignation by proposing that
they should both go and look at the large brewery which was in their way
home, and with which Forester would, he thought, be entertained.
The brewery fortunately turned the course of Forester's thoughts, and,
instead of quarrelling with his friend for being tired, he condescended
to postpone all further debate. Forester had, from his childhood, a habit
of twirling a key, whenever he was thinking intently: the key had been
produced, and had been twirling upon its accustomed thumb during the
argument upon address; and it was still in Forester's hand when they went
into the brewery. As he looked and listened, the key was essential to his
power of attending; at length, as he stopped to view a large brewing vat,
the key unluckily slipped from his thumb, and fell to the bottom of the
vat: it was so deep, that the tinkling sound of the key, as it touched
the bottom, was scarcely heard. A young man who belonged to the brewery
immediately descended by a ladder into the vat, to get the key, but
scarcely had he reached the bottom, when he fell down senseless. Henry
Campbell was speaking to one of the clerks of the brewery when this
accident happened: a man came running to them with the news, "The vat has
not been cleaned; it's full of bad air." "Draw him up, let down a hook
and cords for him instantly, or he's a dead man," cried Henry, and he
instantly ran to the place. What was his terror, when he beheld Forester
descending the ladder! He called to him to stop; he assured him that the
man could be saved without his hazarding his life: but Forester
persisted; he had one end of a cord in his hand, which he said he could
fasten in an instant round the man's body. There was a skylight nearly
over the vat, so that the light fell directly upon the bottom.
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