I Have Many A Time Had My
Pot Of Porter Snipped Off Of My Dinner In This Way; And Have Had To
Dine With Dry Lips.
However, I cannot complain.
I rose gradually in the
lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most comfortable
region of literature.
"And pray," said I, "what may you be at present!" "At present," said
he, "I am a regular job writer, and turn my hand to anything. I work up
the writings of others at so much a sheet; turn off translations; write
second-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; compile travels
and voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisms for the newspapers. All
this authorship, you perceive, is anonymous; it gives no reputation,
except among the trade, where I am considered an author of all work,
and am always sure of employ. That's the only reputation I want. I
sleep soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immortal
fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take my word for
it, the only happy author in this world is he who is below the care of
reputation."
The preceding anecdotes of Buckthorne's early schoolmate, and a variety
of peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, gave me a strong
curiosity to know something of his own history. There was a dash of
careless good humor about him that pleased me exceedingly, and at times
a whimsical tinge of melancholy ran through his humor that gave it an
additional relish. He had evidently been a little chilled and buffeted
by fortune, without being soured thereby, as some fruits become
mellower and sweeter, from having been bruised or frost-bitten. He
smiled when I expressed my desire. "I have no great story," said he,
"to relate. A mere tissue of errors and follies. But, such as it is,
you shall have one epoch of it, by which you may judge of the rest."
And so, without any farther prelude, he gave me the following anecdotes
of his early adventures.
BUCKTHORNE, OR THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS.
I was born to very little property, but to great expectations; which is
perhaps one of the most unlucky fortunes that a man can be born to. My
father was a country gentleman, the last of a very ancient and
honorable, but decayed family, and resided in an old hunting lodge in
Warwickshire. He was a keen sportsman and lived to the extent of his
moderate income, so that I had little to expect from that quarter; but
then I had a rich uncle by the mother's side, a penurious, accumulating
curmudgeon, who it was confidently expected would make me his heir;
because he was an old bachelor; because I was named after him, and
because he hated all the world except myself.
He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even in misanthropy, and
hoarded up a grudge as he did a guinea. Thus, though my mother was an
only sister, he had never forgiven her marriage with my father, against
whom he had a cold, still, immovable pique, which had lain at the
bottom of his heart, like a stone in a well, ever since they had been
school boys together. My mother, however, considered me as the
intermediate being that was to bring every thing again into harmony,
for she looked upon me as a prodigy - God bless her. My heart overflows
whenever I recall her tenderness: she was the most excellent, the most
indulgent of mothers. I was her only child; it was a pity she had no
more, for she had fondness of heart enough to have spoiled a dozen!
I was sent, at an early age, to a public school, sorely against my
mother's wishes, but my father insisted that it was the only way to
make boys hardy. The school was kept by a conscientious prig of the
ancient system, who did his duty by the boys intrusted to his care;
that is to say, we were flogged soundly when we did not get our
lessons. We were put into classes and thus flogged on in droves along
the highways of knowledge, in the same manner as cattle are driven to
market, where those that are heavy in gait or short in leg have to
suffer for the superior alertness or longer limbs of their companions.
For my part, I confess it with shame, I was an incorrigible laggard. I
have always had the poetical feeling, that is to say, I have always
been an idle fellow and prone to play the vagabond. I used to get away
from my books and school whenever I could, and ramble about the fields.
I was surrounded by seductions for such a temperament. The school-house
was an old-fashioned, white-washed mansion of wood and plaister,
standing on the skirts of a beautiful village. Close by it was the
venerable church with a tall Gothic spire. Before it spread a lovely
green valley, with a little stream glistening along through willow
groves; while a line of blue hills that bounded the landscape gave rise
to many a summer day dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond.
In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at that school to make me
love my book, I cannot but look back upon the place with fondness.
Indeed, I considered this frequent flagellation as the common lot of
humanity, and the regular mode in which scholars were made. My kind
mother used to lament over my details of the sore trials I underwent in
the cause of learning; but my father turned a deaf ear to her
expostulations. He had been flogged through school himself, and swore
there was no other way of making a man of parts; though, let me speak
it with all due reverence, my father was but an indifferent
illustration of his own theory, for he was considered a grievous
blockhead.
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