Alexandre Dumas - "The Companions of Jehu"

William Youatt - "The Dog"

Montague Rhodes James - "Ghost Stories of an Antiquary"

Various - "Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 16, July 16, 1870"

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Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

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




Fatigued with the recital of the various petty artifices of this
avaricious and dissipated young laird, we shall now relieve ourselves, by
turning from the history of meanness to that of enthusiasm. The faults of
Forester we hope and wish to see corrected; but who can be interested for
the selfish Archibald Mackenzie?



FORESTER, A CLERK.


We left Forester when he was just going to offer himself as clerk to a
brewer. The brewer was a prudent man; and he sent one of his porters with
a letter to Dr. Campbell, to inform him that a young lad, whom he had
formerly seen in company with Mr. Henry Campbell, and who, he understood,
was the doctor's ward, had applied to him, and that he should be very
happy to take him into his service, if his friends approved of it, and
could properly recommend him. In consequence of Dr. Campbell's answer to
the brewer's letter, Forester, who knew nothing of the application to his
friends, obtained the vacant clerkship. He did not, however, long
continue in his new _situation_. At first he felt happy, when he found
himself relieved from, the vulgar petulance of Miss M'Evoy and her
brother Colin: in comparison with their rude ill-humours, the clerks who
were his companions appeared patterns of civility. By hard experience,
Forester was taught to know, that obliging manners in our companions add
something to the happiness of our lives. "My mind to me a kingdom is,"
was once his common answer to all that his friend Henry could urge in
favour of the pleasures of society; but he began now to suspect, that
separated from social intercourse, his mind, however enlarged, would
afford him but a dreary kingdom.

He flattered himself, that he could make a friend of the clerk who had
found his key: this young man's name was Richardson; he was good-natured,
but ignorant; and neither his education nor his abilities distinguished
him from any other clerk in similar circumstances. Forester invited him
to walk to Arthur's Seat, after the _monotonous_ business of the day was
over, but the clerk preferred walking on holidays in Prince's-street;
and, after several ineffectual attempts to engage him in moral and
metaphysical arguments, our hero discovered the depth of his companion's
ignorance with astonishment. Once, when he found that two of the clerks,
to whom he had been talking of Cicero and Pliny, did not know any thing
of these celebrated personages, he said, with a sigh,

"But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of their soul."

The word _penury_, in this stanza, the clerks at least understood, and it
excited their "noble rage;" they hinted, that it ill became a person, who
did not dress nearly as well as themselves, to give himself such airs,
and to taunt his betters with poverty; they said that they supposed,
because he was an Englishman, as they perceived by his accent, he thought
he might insult Scotchmen as he pleased. It was vain for him to attempt
any explanation; their pride and their prejudices combined against him:
and, though their dislike to him was not so outrageous as that of the
gardener, gentle Colin, yet it was quite sufficient to make him uneasy in
his situation. Richardson was as steady as could reasonably be expected;
but he showed so little desire to have "_the ample page, rich with the
spoils of time_," unrolled to him, that he excited our young scholar's
contempt. No friendships can be more unequal than those between ignorance
and knowledge. We pass over the journal of our hero's hours, which were
spent in casting up and verifying accounts; this occupation, at length he
decided, must be extremely injurious to the human understanding: "All the
higher faculties of my soul," said he to himself, "are absolutely useless
at this work, and I am reduced to a mere machine." But there were many
other circumstances in the _mercantile system_, which Forester had not
foreseen, and which shocked him extremely. The continual attention to
petty gain, the little artifices which a tradesman thinks himself
justifiable in practising upon his customers, could not be endured by his
ingenuous mind. One morning the brewery was in an uncommon bustle; the
clerks were all in motion. Richardson told Forester that they expected a
visit in a few hours from the gauger and the supervisor, and that they
were preparing for their reception. When the nature of these preparations
was explained to Forester; when he was made to understand that the
business and duty of a brewer's clerk was to assist his master in evading
certain clauses in certain acts of parliament; when he found, that to
trick a gauger was thought an excellent joke, he stood in silent moral
astonishment. He knew about as much of the revenue laws as the clerks did
of Cicero and Pliny; but his sturdy principles of integrity could not
bend to any of the arguments, founded on expediency, which were brought
by his companions in their own and their master's justification. He
declared that he must speak to his master upon the subject immediately.
His master was as busy as he could possibly be; and, when Forester
insisted upon seeing him, he desired that he would speak as quickly as he
could, for that he expected the supervisor every instant. Our hero
declared, that he could not, consistently with his principles, assist in
evading the laws of his country. The brewer stared, and then laughed;
assured him that he had as great a respect for the laws as other people;
that he did nothing but what every person in his situation was obliged to
do in their own defence. Forester resolutely persisted in his
determination against all clandestine practices. The brewer cut the
matter short, by saying, he had not time to argue; but that he did not
choose to keep a clerk who was not in his interests; that he supposed the
next thing would be, to betray him to his supervisor.

"I am no traitor!" exclaimed Forester; "I will not stay another instant
with a master who suspects me."

The brewer suffered him to depart without reluctance; but what
exasperated Forester the most was the composure of his friend Richardson
during this scene, who did not even offer to shake hands with him, when
he saw him going out of the house: for Richardson had a good place, and
did not choose to quarrel with his master, for a person whom he now
verily believed to be, as he had originally suspected, insane.

"This is the world!--this is friendship!" said Forester to himself.

His generous and enthusiastic imagination supplied him with eloquent
invectives against human nature, even while he ardently desired to serve
his fellow-creatures. He wandered through the streets of Edinburgh,
indulging himself alternately in misanthropic reflections and benevolent
projects. One instant, he resolved to study the laws, that he might
reform the revenue laws; the next moment, he recollected his own passion
for a desert island, and he regretted that he could not be shipwrecked in
Edinburgh.

The sound of a squeaking fiddle roused Forester from his reverie; he
looked up, and saw a thin, pale man fiddling to a set of dancing dogs,
that he was exhibiting upon the flags, for the amusement of a crowd of
men, women, and children. It was a deplorable spectacle; the dogs
appeared so wretched, in the midst of the merriment of the spectators,
that Forester's compassion was moved, and he exclaimed--

"Enough, enough!--They are quite tired; here are some halfpence!"

The showman took the halfpence; but several fresh spectators were yet to
see the sight; and though the exhausted animals were but little inclined
to perform their antic feats, their master twitched the rope, that was
fastened round their necks, so violently, that they were compelled to
renew their melancholy dance.

Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler's hand, and began an
expostulation, not one word of which was understood by the person to whom
it was addressed. A stout lad, who was very impatient at this
interruption of his diversion, began to abuse Forester, and presently
from words he proceeded to blows.

Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so able a boxer as his
opponent. The battle was obstinately fought on both sides; but, at
length, our young Quixote received what has no name in heroic language,
but in the vulgar tongue is called a black eye; and, covered with blood
and bruises, he was carried by some humane passenger into a neighbouring
house. It was a printer and bookseller's shop. The bookseller treated him
with humanity; and, after advising him not to be so hastily engaged to be
the champion of dancing dogs, inquired who he was, and whether he had any
friends in Edinburgh, to whom he could send.

This printer, from having been accustomed to converse with a variety of
people, was a good judge of the language of gentlemen; and, though there
was nothing else in Forester's manners which could have betrayed him, he
spoke in such good language, that the bookseller was certain that he had
received a liberal education.

Our hero declined telling his history; but the printer was so well
pleased with his conversation, that he readily agreed to give him
employment; and, as soon as he recovered from his bruises, Forester was
eager to learn the art of printing.

"The art of printing," said he, "has emancipated mankind, and printers
ought to be considered as the most respectable benefactors of the human
race."

Always warm in his admiration of every new phantom that struck his
imagination, he was now persuaded that printers' devils were angels, and
that he should be supremely blessed in a printer's office.

"What employment so noble!" said he, as he first took the composing-stick
in his hand; "what employment so noble, as that of disseminating
knowledge over the universe!"



FORESTER, A PRINTER.


It was some time before our hero acquired dexterity in his new trade: his
companions formed, with amazing celerity, whole sentences, while he was
searching for letters, which perpetually dropped from his awkward hands:
but he was ashamed of his former versatility, and he resolved to be
steady to his present way of life. His situation, at this printer's, was
far better suited to him than that which he had quitted, with so much
disgust, at the brewer's. He rose early, and, by great industry, overcame
all the difficulties which at first so much alarmed him. He soon became
the most useful journeyman in the office. His diligence and good
behaviour recommended him to his master's employers. Whenever any work
was brought, Forester was sent for. This occasioned him to be much in the
shop, where he heard the conversation of many ingenious men who
frequented it; and he spent his evenings in reading. His understanding
had been of late uncultivated; but the fresh seeds that were now
profusely scattered upon the vigorous soil took root, and flourished.

Forester was just at that time of life when opinions are valued for being
_new_: he heard varieties of the most contradictory assertions in morals,
in science, in politics. It is a great advantage to a young man to hear
opposite arguments, to hear all that can be said upon every subject.

Forester no longer obstinately adhered to the set of notions which he had
acquired from his education; he heard many, whom he could not think his
inferiors in abilities, debating questions which he formerly imagined
scarcely admitted of philosophic doubt. His mind became more humble; but
his confidence in his own powers, after having compared himself with
numbers, if less arrogant, was more secure and rational: he no longer
considered a man as a fool the moment he differed with him in opinion;
but he was still a little inclined to estimate the abilities of authors
by the party to which they belonged. This failing was increased, rather
than diminished, by the company which he now kept.

Amongst the young students who frequented Mr.----'s, the bookseller,
was Mr. Thomas ----, who, from his habit of _blurting_ out strange
opinions in conversation, acquired the name of Tom Random. His head was
confused between politics and poetry; his arguments were paradoxical, his
diction florid, and his gesture something between the spouting action of
a player, and the threatening action of a pugilist.

Forester was caught by the oratory of this genius from the first day he
heard him speak.

Tom Random asserted, that "this great globe, and all that it inhabits,"
must inevitably be doomed to destruction, unless certain ideas of his
own, in the government of the world, were immediately adopted by
universal acclamation.

It was not approbation, it was not esteem, which Forester felt for
his new friend it was for the first week blind, enthusiastic
admiration--every thing that he had seen or heard before appeared to him
trite and obsolete; every person who spoke temperate common sense he
heard with indifference or contempt; and all who were not zealots in
literature, or in politics, he considered as persons whose understandings
were so narrow, or whose hearts were so depraved, as to render them
"unfit to hear themselves convinced."

Those who read and converse have a double chance of correcting their
errors.

Forester most fortunately, about this time, happened to meet with a book
which in some degree counteracted the inflammatory effects of Random's
conversation, and which had a happy tendency to sober his enthusiasm,
without lessening his propensity to useful exertions: this book was the
Life of Dr. Franklin.

The idea that this great man began by being a _printer_ interested
our hero in his history; and whilst he followed him, step by step,
through his instructive narrative, Forester sympathized in his feelings,
and observed how necessary the smaller virtues of order, economy,
industry, and patience were to Franklin's great character and splendid
success. He began to hope that it would be possible to do good to his
fellow-creatures, without overturning all existing institutions.

About this time another fortunate coincidence happened in Forester's
education. One evening his friend, Tom Random, who was printing a
pamphlet, came, with a party of his companions, into Mr.----, the
bookseller's shop, enraged at the decision of a prize in a literary
society to which they belonged.

All the young partisans who surrounded Mr. Random loudly declared that he
had been treated with the most flagrant injustice; and the author himself
was too angry to affect any modesty upon the occasion.

"Would you believe it?" said he to Forester--"my essay has not been
thought worthy of the prize! The medal has been given to the most
wretched, tame, commonplace performance you ever saw. Every thing in this
world is done by corruption, by party, by secret influence!"

At every pause the irritated author wiped his forehead, and Forester
sympathized in his feelings.

In the midst of the author's exclamations, a messenger came with the
manuscript of the prize essay, and with the orders of the society to have
a certain number of copies printed off with all possible expedition.

Random snatched up the manuscript, and, with all the fury of criticism,
began to read aloud some of the passages which he disliked.

Though it was marred in the reading, Forester could not agree with his
angry friend in condemning the performance. It appeared to him excellent
writing and excellent sense.

"Print it--print it then, as fast as you can--that is your
business--that's what you are paid for. Every one for himself," cried
Random, insolently throwing the manuscript at Forester; and, as he flung
out of the shop with his companions, he added, with a contemptuous laugh,
"A printer's devil setting up for a critic! He may be a capital judge of
pica and brevier, perhaps--but let not the compositor go beyond his
stick."

"Is this the man," said Forester, "whom I have heard so eloquent in the
praise of candour and liberality? Is this the man who talks of universal
toleration and freedom of opinion, and who yet cannot bear that any one
should differ from him in criticising a sentence? Is this the man who
would have equality amongst all his fellow-creatures, and who calls a
compositor a printer's devil? Is this the man who cants about the
_pre-eminence of mind_ and the _perfections of intellect_, and yet now
takes advantage of his rank, of his _supporters_, of the cry of his
partisans, to bear down the voice of reason?--'Let not the compositor go
beyond his composing-stick!'--And why not? Why should not he be a judge
of writing?" At this reflection, Forester eagerly took up the manuscript,
which had been flung at his feet. All his indignant feelings instantly
changed into delightful exultation--he saw the hand--he read the name of
Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was, "_An Essay on the best
Method of reforming Abuses_." This was the subject proposed by the
society; and Henry had written upon the question with so much moderation,
and yet with such unequivocal decision had shown himself the friend of
rational liberty, that all the members of the society who were not borne
away by their prejudices were unanimous in their preference of this
performance.

Random's declamation only inflamed the minds of his own partisans. Good
judges of writing exclaimed, as they read it, "This is all very fine; but
what would this man be at? His violence hurts the cause he wishes to
support."

Forester read Henry Campbell's essay with all the avidity of friendship;
he read it again and again--his generous soul was incapable of envy; and
whilst he admired, he was convinced by the force of reason.

His master desired that he would set about the essay early in the
morning; but his eagerness for his friend Henry's fame was such, that he
sat up above half the night hard at work at it. He was indefatigable the
next day at the business; and as all hands were employed on the essay, it
was finished that evening.

Forester rubbed his hands with delight, when he had set the name of Henry
Campbell in the title-page--but an instant afterwards he sighed bitterly.

"I am only a printer," said he to himself. "These just arguments, these
noble ideas, will instruct and charm hundreds of my fellow-creatures: no
one will ever ask, 'Who set the types?'"

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Tom Random and two of
his partisans: he was extremely displeased to find that the printers had
not been going on with his pamphlet; his personal disappointments seemed
to increase the acrimony of his zeal for the public good: he declaimed
upon politics--upon the necessity for the immediate publication of his
sentiments, for the salvation of the state. His action was suited to his
words: violent and blind to consequences, with one sudden kick, designed
to express his contempt for the opposite party, this political Alnaschar
unfortunately overturned the form which contained the types for the
newspaper of the next day, which was just going to the press--a newspaper
in which he had written splendid paragraphs.

Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the account which
Franklin, in his history of his own life, gives of the patience with
which he once bore a similar accident. The printers, with secret
imprecations against oratory, or at least against those orators who think
that action is every thing, set to work again to repair the mischief.

Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated himself upon having
finished his hard day's work, when a man from the shop came to inquire
whether three hundred cards, which had been ordered the week before to be
printed off, were finished. The man to whom the order was given had
forgotten it, and he was going home: he decidedly answered, "No; the
cards can't be done till to-morrow: we have left work for this night,
thank God."

"The gentleman says he must have them," expostulated the messenger.

"He _must_ not, he cannot have them. I would not print a card for his
majesty at this time of night," replied the sullen workman, throwing his
hat upon his head, in token of departure.

"What are these cards?" said Forester.

"Only a dancing-master's cards for his ball," said the printer's
journeyman. "I'll not work beyond my time for any dancing-master that
wears a head."

The messenger then said, that he was desired to ask for the manuscript
card.

This card was hunted for all over the room; and, at last, Forester found
it under a heap of refuse papers: his eye was caught with the name of his
old friend, Monsieur Pasgrave, the dancing-master, whom he had formerly
frightened by the skeleton with the fiery eyes.

"I will print the cards for him myself; I am not at all tired," cried
Forester, who was determined to make some little amends for the injury
which he had formerly done to the poor dancing-master. He resolved to
print the cards for nothing, and he stayed up very late to finish them.
His companions all left him, for they were in a great hurry to see, what
in Edinburgh is a rare sight, the town illuminated.

These illuminations were upon account of some great naval victory.

Forester, steady to Monsieur Pasgrave's cards, did what no other workman
would have done; he finished for him, on this night of public joy, his
three hundred cards. Every now and then, as he was quietly at work, he
heard the loud huzzas in the street: his waning candle sunk in the
socket, as he had just packed up his work.

By the direction at the bottom of the cards, he learned where M. Pasgrave
lodged, and, as he was going out to look at the illuminations, he
resolved to leave them himself at the dancing-master's house.



THE ILLUMINATIONS.


The illuminations were really beautiful. He went up to the Castle,
whence he saw a great part of the Old Town, and all Prince's-street,
lighted up in the most splendid manner. He crossed the Earth-mound into
Prince's-street. Walking down Prince's-street, he saw a crowd of people
gathered before the large illuminated window of a confectioner's shop. As
he approached nearer, he distinctly heard the voice of Tom Random, who
was haranguing the mob. The device and motto which the confectioner
displayed in his window displeased this gentleman, who, beside his
public-spirited abhorrence of all men of a party opposite to his own, had
likewise private cause of dislike to this confectioner, who had refused
him his daughter in marriage.

It was part of Random's new system of political justice to revenge his
own quarrels.

The mob, who are continually, without knowing it, made the instruments of
private malice, when they think they are acting in a public cause,
readily joined in Tom Random's cry of "Down with the motto! Down with the
motto!"

Forester, who, by his lesson from the dancing dogs, had learned a little
prudence, and who had just printed Henry Campbell's Essay on the best
Means of reforming Abuses, did not mix with the rabble, but joined in the
entreaties of some peaceable passengers, who prayed that the poor man's
windows might be spared. The windows were, notwithstanding, demolished
with a terrible crash, and the crowd, then alarmed at the mischief they
had done, began to disperse. The constables, who had been sent for,
appeared. Tom Random was taken into custody. Forester was pursuing his
way to the dancing-master's, when one of the officers of justice
exclaimed, "Stop!--stop him!--he's one of 'em: he's a great friend of Mr.
Random: I've seen him often parading arm in arm in High-street with him."

This, alas! was too true: the constables seized Forester, and put him,
with Tom Random, and the ringleader of the riot, into a place of
confinement for the night.

Poor Forester, who was punished for the faults of his former friend and
present enemy, had, during this long night, leisure for much wholesome
reflection upon the danger of forming imprudent intimacies. He resolved
never to walk again in High-street arm in arm with such a man as Tom
Random.

The constables were rather hasty in the conclusion they drew from this
presumptive evidence.

Our hero, who felt the disgrace of his situation, was not a little
astonished at Tom Random's consoling himself with drinking instead of
philosophy. The sight of this enthusiast, when he had completely
intoxicated himself, was a disgusting but useful spectacle to our
indignant hero. Forester was shocked at the union of gross vice and rigid
pretensions to virtue: he could scarcely believe that the reeling,
stammering idiot whom he now beheld was the same being from whose lips he
had heard declamations upon the _omnipotence of intellect_--from whose
pen he had seen projects for the government of empires.

The dancing-master, who, in the midst of the illuminations, had regretted
that his cards could not be printed, went early in the morning to inquire
about them at the printer's.

The printer had learnt that one of his boys was taken up amongst the
rioters: he was sorry to find that Forester had gotten himself into such
a scrape: but he was a very cautious snug man, and he did not choose to
interfere: he left him quietly to be dealt with according to law.

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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