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Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience
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Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience

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Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience

My first few days of liberty were passed in planning out the future. I studied the newspapers in hope of meeting something adapted to my capacity; but though in appearance no lack of these, I invariably found some fatal obstacle intervened to prevent my success. At one place, the requirements were beyond my means; at another, the salary was insufficient for bare support; and at one I remember my functions of teacher were to be united with menial offices against which my pride revolted. I resolved to adventure at last, and opened a little school, – an evening school for those whose occupations made the day too valuable to devote any part of it to education.

At the end of some five weeks I had three pupils; hard-working and hard-worked men they were, who, steadily bent upon advancement in life, now entered upon a career of labor far greater than all they had ever encountered.

Two were about to emigrate, and their studies were geography, with some natural history, and whatever I could acquire for them of information about the resources of a certain portion of Upper Canada. The third was a weaver, and desired to learn French in order to read the works of French mathematicians, at that time sparingly translated into English. He was a man of superior intellect, and capable of a high cultivation, but poor to the very last degree. The thirst for knowledge had possessed him exactly as the passion for gambling lays hold of some other men; he lived for nothing else. The defeats and difficulties he encountered but served to brace him to further efforts, and he seemed to forget all his privations and his poverty in the aim of his glorious pursuit.

To keep in advance of him in his knowledge, I found impossible. All that I could do was to aid him in acquiring French, which, strange to say, presented great difficulties to him. He however made me a partaker of his own enthusiasm, and I worked hard and long at pursuits for which my habits of mind and thought little adapted me. I need scarcely say that all this time my worldly wealth made no progress. My scholars were very poor themselves, and the pittance I earned from them I had oftentimes to refuse accepting. Each day showed my little resources growing smaller, and my hopes held out no better prospect for the future.

Was I to struggle on thus to the last, and sink under the pressure? was now the question that kept perpetually rising to my mind. My poverty had now descended to actual misery; my clothes were ragged; my shoes scarcely held together; more than once an entire day would pass without my breaking my fast.

I lost all zest for life, and wandered about in lonely and unfrequented places, in a half-dreamy state, too vague to be called melancholy. My mind, at this time, vacillated between a childish timidity and a species of almost savage ferocity. At some moments tears would steal along my cheeks, and my heart vibrated to the very finest emotions; at others, I was possessed with an almost demoniac fierceness, that seemed only in search of some object to wreak its vengeance upon. A strange impression, however, haunted me through both these opposite states, and this was, that my life was menaced by some one or other, and that I went in hourly peril of assassination. This sense of danger impressed me with either a miserable timidity, or a reckless, even an insolent, intrepidity.

By degrees, all other thoughts were merged in this one, and every incident, no matter how trifling, served to strengthen and confirm it. Fortunately for my reader, I have no patience to trace out the fancies by which I was haunted. I imagined that kings and emperors were in the conspiracy against me, and that cabinets only plotted how to entrap me. I sold the last remnant of my wardrobe and my few remaining books, and quitted my dwelling, to forsake it again for another, after a few days. Grim want was, at length, before me, and I found myself one morning – it was a cold one of December – with only a few pence remaining. It chanced to be one of my days of calmer temperament; for some previous ones I had been in a state bordering on frenzy; and now the reaction had left me weak and depressed, but reasonable.

I went over, to myself, as well as I was able, all my previous life; I tried to recall the names of the few with whom my fate seemed to connect me, and of whose whereabouts I knew nothing; I canvassed in my own mind how much might be true of these stories which I used to hear of my birth and parentage, and whether the whole might not possibly have been invented to conceal some darker history. Such doubts had possibly not assailed me in other times; but now, with broken hopes and shattered strength, they took a bold possession of me. I actually possessed nothing which might serve to confirm my pretension to station. Documents or papers I had none; nor was there, so far as I knew, a living witness to bear testimony to my narrative. In pondering thus I suddenly remembered that, in the letter which I once had addressed to Mr. Pitt, were enclosed some few memoranda in corroboration of my story.

What they were exactly, and to what extent they went, I could not recall to memory; but it was enough that they were, in some shape, evidences of that which already to my own mind was assuming the character of a delusion.

To this faint chance I now attached myself with a last effort of desperation. Some clew might possibly be found in these papers to guide my search, and my whole thoughts were now bent upon obtaining them. With this object I sat down and wrote a few most respectful lines to the minister, stating the nature of my request, and humbly excusing myself for the intrusion on his attention. A week passed over, – a week of almost starvation, – and yet no reply reached me. I now wrote again more pressingly than before, adding that my circumstances did not admit of delay, and that if, by any mischance, the papers had been lost or mislaid, I still would entreat his Excellency’s kindness to – I believe I said recall what he could remember of these documents, and thus supply the void left by their loss. This letter shared the same fate as my former one. I wrote a third time, I knew not in what terms, for I wrote late at night, after a day of mad and fevered impatience. I had fasted for nigh two entire days. An intense thirst never ceased to torture me; and as I wandered wildly here and there, my state alternated between fits of cold shuddering, and a heat that seemed to be burning my very vitals. The delusions of that terrible interval were, doubtless, the precursors of actual madness. I bethought me of every torture I had ever heard of, – of all the sufferings martyrdom had ever borne, but to which death came at last as the comforter; but to me no such release seemed possible. I felt as though I had done all that should invoke it. “Want – sickness – suffering – despair, – are these not enough,” I asked myself, – “must guilt and self-murder be added to the terrible list?” And it was, I remember, with a kind of triumphant pride I determined against this. “If mankind reject me,” said I, – “if they make of me an outcast and a victim, on them shall lie all the shame and all the sin. Enough for me the misery, – I will not have the infamy of my death!”

I have said I wrote a third letter; and to make sure of its coming to hand, I walked with it to Hounslow. The journey occupied me more than half the night, for it was day when I arrived. I delivered it into the hands of a servant, and, saying that I should wait for the answer, I sat down upon a stone bench beside the door. Overcome with fatigue, and utterly exhausted, I fell off asleep, – a sound and, strange to say, delicious sleep, with calm and pleasant dreams. From this I was aroused by a somewhat rude shake, and on looking up saw that a considerable number of persons were around me.

“Stand up, my good fellow,” cried a man, who, though in plain clothes and unarmed, proclaimed by his manner of command that he was in authority; “stand up, if you please.”

I made an effort to obey, but sank down again upon the bench, faint and exhausted.

“He wants a drink of water,” cried one.

“He wants summut to eat, – that’s what he wants,” said a laboring man in front of me.

“We’ll take him where he’ll be properly looked after,” said the first speaker. “Just stand back, good people, and leave me to deal with him.” The crowd retired as he spoke, while, coming nearer, he bent down towards me and said, “Is your name Paul Gervois?”

“I have gone by that name,” I replied.

“And is this in your handwriting? – Mind, you need n’t say so if you don’t like; I only ask the question out of curiosity.”

“Yes,” said I, eagerly; “what does Mr. Pitt say? – what reply does he make me?”

“Oh, you ‘ll hear all that time enough. Just try now if you could n’t come along with me as far as the road; I ‘ve a carriage there a-waiting.”

I did my best to rise, but weakness again overcame me, and I could only stammer out a few faint words of excuse.

“Don’t you see that the man is dying?” said some one, half indignantly; but the constable – for such he was – made some rough answer, and then, stooping down, he passed his arm round me, and lifted me to my feet at once. As he half carried, half pushed me along, I tried to obtain an answer to my former question, “What reply had the minister made me?”

“You ‘ll know all that time enough, my good friend,” was all the answer I could obtain, as, assisting me into the carriage, he took his place at my side, and gave the word to proceed “to town.”

Not a word passed between us as we went along; for my part, I was too indifferent to life itself to care whither he was conducting me, or with what object. As well as utter listlessness would permit me to think, I surmised that I had been arrested. Is it not a strange confession, that I felt a sense of pleasure in the thought that I had not been utterly forgotten by the world, and that my existence was recognized, even at the cost of an accusation. I conclude that to understand this feeling on my part, one must have been as forlorn and desolate as I was. I experienced neither fear nor curiosity as to what might be the charge against me; nor was my indifference that of conscious innocence, – it was pure carelessness!

I slept that night in a prison, and ate of prison fare, – ravenously and eagerly too; so much so that the turnkey, compassionating me, fetched me some of his own supper to satisfy my cravings. I awoke the next day with a gnawing sense of hunger, intensely painful, far more so than my former suffering from want. That day, and I believe the two following ones, I spent in durance, and at last was conveyed in the prison-cart to the office of a magistrate.

The court was densely crowded, but the cases called seemed commonplace and uninteresting, – at least so they appeared to me, as I tried in vain to follow them. At length the crier called out the name of Paul Gervois, and it was less the words than the directed looks of the vast assembly, as they all turned towards me, showed that I was the representative of that designation.

My sense of shame at this moment prevented my observing accurately what went forward; but I soon rallied, and perceived that my case was then before the court, and my accuser it was who then addressed the bench.

The effort to follow the speaker, to keep up with the narrative that fell from his lips, was indescribably painful to me. I can compare my struggle to nothing save the endeavor of one with a shattered limb to keep pace with the step of his unwounded comrades. The very murmurs of indignation that at times stirred the auditory, increased this feeling to a kind of agony. I knew that it was all-important I should hear and clearly understand what was said, and yet my faculties were unequal to the effort.

The constable who arrested me came forward next, and spoke as to the few words which passed between us, affirming how I had confessed to a certain letter as being written by myself, and that I alone was to be held responsible for its contents. When he left the table, the judge called on me for my defence. I stared vaguely from side to side, and asked to what charge?

“You have been present, prisoner, during the whole of this examination, and have distinctly heard the allegation against you,” replied he. “The charge is for having written a threatening letter to one of his Majesty’s ministers of state, – a letter which in itself constitutes a grave offence, but is seriously aggravated as being part of a long-pursued system of intimidation, and enforced by menaces of the most extreme violence.”

I was now suddenly recalled to a clearness of comprehension, and able to follow him as he detailed how a certain Mr. Conway – the private secretary of the minister – proved the receipt of the letter in question, as well as two others in the same hand. The last of these – which constituted the chief allegation against me – was then read aloud; and anything more abominable and detestable it would be hard to conceive. After recapitulating a demand for certain documents, – so vaguely worded as to seem a mere invented and trumped-up request, – it went to speak of great services unrewarded, and honorable zeal not only neglected but persecuted. From this – which so far possessed a certain degree of coherency and reason – it suddenly broke off into the wildest and most savage menaces. It spoke of one who held life so cheaply that he felt no sacrifice in offering it up for the gratification of his vengeance.

“Houseless, friendless, and starving; without food, without a name, – for you have robbed me of even that, – I have crawled to your door to avenge myself and die!”

Such were the last words of this epistle; and they ring in my ears even yet, with shame and horror.

“I never uttered such sentiments as these, – words like those never escaped me!” cried I, in an agony of indignation.

“There is the letter,” said the magistrate; “do you deny having written it?”

“It is mine, – it is in my own hand,” muttered I, in a voice scarcely audible; and I had to cling to the dock to save myself from falling.

Of what followed I know nothing, absolutely nothing. There seemed to be a short debate and discussion of some kind; and I could catch, here and there, some chance phrase or word that sounded compassionately towards me. At last I heard the magistrate say, —

“If you tell me, Mr. Conway, that Mr. Pitt does not wish to press the charge, nor do more than protect himself from future molestation, I am willing to admit the prisoner to bail – good and sufficient bail – for his conduct hereafter. In default of this, however, I shall feel bound to commit him.”

Again some discussion ensued, terminated by some one asking me if I could produce the required securities.

By this time a slight reaction to my state of debility had set in, – that fevered condition in which passion assumed the ascendant; and I answered, haughtily, —

“Bail for whom? Is it for him to whom they refused bread that they will go surety? Look at these rags, sir, – see these wasted arms, – hear this voice, hoarse as it is with hunger, – and ask yourself who could pledge himself for such misery?”

He uttered some commonplaces – at least so they sounded to me – about there being no necessary connection between want and crime; but I stopped him short, saying, —

“Then you have never fasted, sir, – never known what it was to struggle against the terrible temptations that arise in a famished heart; to sink down upon a bed of straw, and think of the thousands at that moment in affluence, and think of them with hate! No link between want and crime! None, for they are one. Want is envy – want is malice. Its evil counsellors are everywhere, – in the plash of the wave at midnight; in the rustle of the leaves in a dark wood; in the chamber of the sick man: wherever guilt can come, a whispering voice will say, ‘Be there!’”

Some friendly bystander here counselled me to calm myself, and not aggravate my position by words of angry impatience. The air of sympathy touched me, and I said no more.

I was committed to prison – remanded, I believe they said – to be called up at some future day, when further inquiries had been made into my mode of life and habits. The sentence – so well as I could understand it – was not a severe one, – imprisonment without labor or any other penalty. I was told that I had reason to be grateful! but gratitude was then at a low ebb within me; for whatever moralists may say, it is an emotion that never thrives on misery. As I was led away, I overheard some comments that were passed upon me. One called me mad, and pitied me; another said I was a practised impostor, far too leniently dealt with; a third classed me with the vile herd of those who live by secret crimes, and hoped for some stringent act against such criminals.

There was not one to ask, Why has he done this thing? and how shall others be saved from his example?

They who followed me with looks of contempt and aversion never guessed that the prison was to me a grateful home; that if the strong door shut out liberty, it excluded starvation too; and that if I could not stray at will through the green lanes, yet my footsteps never bore me to the darksome pond where the black depth whispered – oblivion!

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE STREETS

I was liberated from prison at the end of eight days. I begged hard to be allowed to remain there, but was not permitted. This interval, short as it was, had done much to recruit my strength and rally my faculties; it served besides to instil into me a calm and patient resolve to depend solely on myself; and effacing, so far as I might, all hopes of tracing out my family, I determined now to deem no labor too humble by which I might earn a livelihood.

I am now speaking of fifty years ago, and the world has made rapid strides since that. The growing necessities of our great population, and the wide field for enterprise offered by our colonies, have combined to produce a social revolution few could have predicted once. The well-born and the tenderly-nurtured have now gone forth in thousands to try their fortunes in far-away lands, to brave hardships and encounter toil that the hard sons of labor themselves are fain to shrink from; but at the time I speak of, this bold spirit had not burst into life, – the world was insolent in its prosperity, and never dreamed of a reverse.

By transcribing letters and papers for one of the officials while in jail, I had earned four shillings; and with this sum, my all in the world, I now found myself following the flood-tide of that host which moves daily along the Strand in London. I had breakfasted heartily before I left the prison, and resolving to hoard up my little treasure, determined to eat nothing more on that day. As I walked along I felt that the air, sharp and frosty as it was, excited and invigorated me. The bright blue sky overhead, the clear outline of every object, the brisk stir and movement of the population, all helped to cheer my spirits, and I experienced a sense of freedom, as that of one who, having thrown off a long-carried burden, is at last free to walk unencumbered. A few hours before I fancied I could have been well satisfied to wear out life within the walls of my prison, but now I felt that liberty compensated for any hardship. The town on that morning presented an aspect of more than ordinary stir and excitement. Men were at work in front of all the houses, on ladders and scaffoldings; huge frameworks, with gaudy paintings, were being hoisted from the roofs, and signs of wonderful preparation of one kind or other were everywhere visible. I stopped to inquire the meaning, and was told, not without a stare of surprise, that London was about to illuminate in joyful commemoration of the treaty of peace just signed with France. I thanked my informant, and moved on. Assuredly there were few in either country who had less reason to be interested in such tidings than myself. I possessed nothing, not even a nationality, that I could safely lay claim to. In the hope of approaching prosperity tomorrow, so forcibly expressed in many an inscription, – in all those devices of enthusiastic patriotism, I had no share. In fact, I was like one of another nation, suddenly dropped in the midst of a busy population, whose feelings, hopes, and aspirations were all new and strange to me.

As I came up to Charing Cross a dense crowd stopped the way, gazing with wondering eyes at a great triumphal arch which spanned the thoroughfare, and whose frail timbers gave but a sorry intimation of the splendor it should exhibit after nightfall. Immense draperies floated from this crazy framework, and vast transparencies displayed in tasteless allegory the blessings of a peace. The enthusiasm of admiration was high among the spectators; doubtless, the happy occasion itself suggested a cordiality of approval that the preparations themselves did not warrant; for at every step in the construction, a hearty cheer would burst forth from the crowd, in recognition of the success of the work. My attention, undisturbed by such emotions, was fixed upon one of the poles of the scaffolding, which, thrown considerably out of its perpendicular, swayed and bent at every step that approached it, and threatened, if not speedily looked to, to occasion some disaster. I pointed this out to one beside me, who as quickly communicated it to another, and in less than a minute after, a panic cry was raised that the scaffold was falling. The crowd fell back in terror, while the men upon the scaffolding, not knowing in what quarter the danger existed, stood in terrified groups, or madly rushed to the ladders to escape. The mad shouts and screams of those beneath added to the confusion, and rendered it impossible to convey warning to those in peril. At this instant a man was seen approaching the weak part of the scaffold, and though at every step he took, the ill-fated pole swerved further and further from the right line, he was utterly unconscious of his danger, and seemed only bent on gaining a rope, which, fastened by one end above, hung down to the porch beneath. Wild cries and yells were raised to warn him of his peril, but, not heeding, nor, perhaps, hearing them, he seized the cord and swung himself free of the scaffold.

In an instant the fabric gave way, and, bending over, came down with a terrible crash of falling beams and splintered timber. It fell so close to where I stood that it struck down an old man with whom I had been conversing the moment before. Strangely too, amidst that dense throng, this was the only serious injury inflicted; but he was struck dead, – at least, he only lingered for the few minutes it took to carry him to a neighboring public-house, where he expired.

“It’s old Harry; he always said he’d die at his crossing,” said the publican, as he recognized the features.

“He thought it was them new-fashioned curricles would do for him, though,” said another. “He said so to me last week, for he was getting too old to escape when he saw them coming.”

“Old! I should think he was. He was on that there crossing at the coronation, – a matter of fifty years ago.”

“Say forty, my good friend, and you’ll be nigher the mark; but even forty sufficed to leave him well off for the rest of his days, if he had but had prudence to know it.”

As I stood thus listening, I leaned upon the broom which I had taken from the old man’s hand when I lifted him up.

“I ‘ll give you a matter of ten pounds for it, master,” said a gruff-looking fellow, addressing me, while he touched the broom with his knuckle. “Five down on the nail, and the rest ten shillings a-week. Do you say done?” Before I could collect myself to understand what this offer might mean, a dozen others were crowding around me with a number of similar proposals.

“You don’t know the rule amongst these fellows,” said the landlord, addressing me; “but it is this, that whoever touches the broom first after its owner is killed, succeeds to the crossing. It ‘s yours now, to work or dispose of, as you like best.”

“He ‘ll never work it, – he does n’t know the town,” said one.

“He’d not know Charley Fox from Big Hullescoat the tailor.”

“He ‘d splash Colonel Hanyer, and sweep clean for the Duke of Queensberry.”

“And forget to have change for Lord Bute,” cried another, – a sally so generally applauded that it showed a full appreciation of its truthfulness.

“I ‘ll try it, nevertheless, gentlemen,” said I, addressing the company respectfully; “and if the landlord will only give me credit for half-a-guinea’s worth of liquor, we’ll drink my accession to office at once.”

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