CHAPTER III.
THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.
"Basil, my boy, if you are going to that place, you must take Collinswith you."
"Won't you go yourself, father?"
"I! Is the boy mad!"
"I hope not, sir; only as you took eight reserved seats, I thought...."
"You've no business to think, sir! Seven of those tickets are in thefire."
"For fear, then, you should fancy to burn the eighth, I'll wish yougood-evening!"
So away I darted, called to Collins to follow me, and set off at a briskpace towards the Red Lion Hotel. Collins was our indoor servant; asharp, merry fellow, some ten years older than myself, who desired nobetter employment than to escort me upon such an occasion as thepresent. The audience had begun to assemble when we arrived. Collinswent into the shilling places, while I ensconced myself in the secondrow of reserved seats. I had an excellent view of the stage. There, inthe middle of the platform, stood the conjuror's table--a quaint,cabalistic-looking piece of furniture with carved black legs and a deepbordering of green cloth all round the top. A gay pagoda-shaped canopyof many hues was erected overhead. A long white wand leaned up againstthe wall. To the right stood a bench laden with mysterious jars,glittering bowls, gilded cones, mystical globes, colored glass boxes,and other properties. To the left stood a large arm-chair covered withcrimson cloth. All this was very exciting, and I waited breathlesslytill the Wizard should appear.
He came at last; but not, surely, our dapper little visitor ofyesterday! A majestic beard of ashen gray fell in patriarchal locksalmost to his knees. Upon his head he wore a high cap of some dark fur;upon his feet embroidered slippers; and round his waist a glitteringbelt patterned with hieroglyphics. A long woollen robe of chocolate andorange fell about him in heavy folds, and swept behind him, like atrain. I could scarcely believe, at first, that it was the same person;but, when he spoke, despite the pomp and obscurity of his language. Irecognised the plaintive voice of the little Chevalier.
"_Messieurs et Mesdames_," he began, and took up the wand to emphasizehis discourse; "to read in the stars the events of the future--totransform into gold the metals inferior--to discover the composition ofthat Elixir who, by himself, would perpetuate life, was in past ages theaim and aspiration of the natural philosopher. But they are gone, thosedays--they are displaced, those sciences. The Alchemist and theRosicrucian are no more, and of all their race, the professor ofLegerdemain alone survives. Ladies and gentlemen, my magic he is simple.I retain not familiars. I employ not crucible, nor furnace, nor retort.I but amuse you with my agility of hand, and for commencement I tell youthat you shall be deceived as well as the Wizard of the Caucasus candeceive you."
His voice trembled, and the slender wand shivered in his hand. Was thisnervousness? Or was he, in accordance with the quaintness of his costumeand the amplitude of his beard, enacting the feebleness of age?
He advanced to the front of the platform. "Three things I require," hesaid. "A watch, a pocket-handkerchief and a hat. Is there here among myvisitors any person so gracious as to lend me these trifles? I will notinjure them, ladies and gentlemen. I will only pound the watch in mymortar--burn the _mouchoir_ in my lamp, and make a pudding in the_chapeau_. And, with all this, I engage to return them to theirproprietors, better as new."
There was a pause, and a laugh. Presently a gentleman volunteered hishat, and a lady her embroidered handkerchief; but no person seemedwilling to submit his watch to the pounding process.
"Shall nobody lend me the watch?" asked the Chevalier; but in a voiceso hoarse that I scarcely recognised it.
A sudden thought struck me, and I rose in my place.
"I shall be happy to do so," I said aloud, and made my way round to thefront of the platform.
At the moment when he took it from me, I spoke to him.
"Monsieur Proudhine," I whispered, "you are ill! What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, _mon enfant_," he answered, in the same low tone. "I suffer;_mais il faut se resigner_."
"Break off the performance--retire for half an hour."
"Impossible. See, they already observe us!"
And he drew back abruptly. There was a seat vacant in the front row. Itook it, resolved at all events to watch him narrowly.
Not to detail too minutely the events of a performance which since thattime has become sufficiently familiar, I may say that he carried out hisprogramme with dreadful exactness, and, after appearing to burn thehandkerchief to ashes and mix up a quantity of eggs and flour in thehat, proceeded very coolly to smash the works of my watch beneath hisponderous pestle. Notwithstanding my faith, I began to feel seriouslyuncomfortable. It was a neat little silver watch of foreignworkmanship--not very valuable, to be sure, but precious to me as themost precious of repeaters.
"He is very tough, your watch, Monsieur," said the Wizard, pounding awayvigorously. "He--he takes a long time ... _Ah! mon Dieu!_"
He raised his hand to his head, uttered a faint cry, and snatched at theback of the chair for support.
My first thought was that he had destroyed my watch by mistake--mysecond, that he was very ill indeed. Scarcely knowing what I did, andquite forgetting the audience, I jumped on the platform to his aid.
He shook his head, waved me away with one trembling hand, made a lasteffort to articulate, and fell heavily to the ground.
All was confusion in an instant. Everybody crowded to the stage; whilstI, with a presence of mind which afterwards surprised myself, made myway out by a side-door and ran to fetch my father. He was fortunately athome, and in less than ten minutes the Chevalier was under his care. Wefound him laid upon a sofa in one of the sitting-rooms of the inn, pale,rigid, insensible, and surrounded by an idle crowd of lookers-on. Theyhad taken off his cap and beard, and the landlady was endeavoring topour some brandy down his throat; but his teeth were fast set, and hislips were blue and cold.
"Oh, Doctor Arbuthnot! Doctor Arbuthnot!" cried a dozen voices at once,"the Conjuror is dying!"
"For which reason, I suppose, you are all trying to smother him!" saidmy father angrily. "Mistress Cobbe, I beg you will not trouble yourselfto pour that brandy down the man's throat. He has no more power toswallow it than my stick. Basil, open the window, and help me to loosenthese things about his throat. Good people, all, I must request you toleave the room. This man's life is in peril, and I can do nothing whileyou remain. Go home--go home. You will see no more conjuring to-night."
My father was peremptory, and the crowd unwillingly dispersed. One byone they left the room and gathered discontentedly in the passage. Whenit came to the last two or three, he took them by the shoulders, closedthe door upon them, and turned the key.
Only the landlady, and elderly woman-servant, and myself remained.
The first thing my father did was to examine the pupil of the patient'seye, and lay his hand upon his heart. It still fluttered feebly, but theaction of the lungs was suspended, and his hands and feet were coldas death.
My father shook his head.
"This man must be bled," said he, "but I have little hope of savinghim."
He was bled, and, though still unconscious, became less rigid They thenpoured a little wine down his throat, and he fell into a passive butpainless condition, more inanimate than sleep, but less positive than astate of trance.
A fire was then lighted, a mattress brought down, and the patient laidupon it, wrapped in many blankets. My father announced his intention ofsitting up with him all night. In vain I begged for leave to share hisvigil. He would hear of no such thing, but turned me out as he hadturned out the others, bade me a brief "Good-night," and desired me torun home as quickly as I could.
At that stage of my history, to hear was to obey; so I took my wayquietly through the bar of the hotel, and had just reached the door whena touch on my sleeve arrested me. It was Mr. Cobbe, the landlord--aportly, red-whiskered Boniface of the old English type.
"Good-evening, Mr. Basil," said he. "Going home, sir?"
/>
"Yes, Mr. Cobbe," I replied. "I can be of no further use here."
"Well, sir, you've been of more use this evening than anybody--let alonethe Doctor--that I must say for you," observed Mr. Cobbe, approvingly."I never see such presence o' mind in so young a gen'leman before.Never, sir. Have a glass of grog and a cigar, sir, before you turn out."
Much as I felt flattered by the supposition that I smoked (which wasmore than I could have done to save my life), I declined Mr. Cobbe'sobliging offer and wished him good-night. But the landlord of the RedLion was in a gossiping humor, and would not let me go.
"If you won't take spirits, Mr. Basil," said he, "you must have a glassof negus. I couldn't let you go out without something warm--particularafter the excitement you've gone through. Why, bless you, sir, when theyran out and told me, I shook like a leaf--and I don't look like a verynervous subject, do I? And so sudden as it was, too, poor littlegentleman!"
"Very sudden, indeed," I replied, mechanically.
"Does Doctor Arbuthnot think he'll get the better of it, Mr. Basil?"
"I fear he has little hope."
Mr. Cobbe sighed, and shook his head, and smoked in silence.
"To be struck down just when he was playing such tricks as themconjuring dodges, do seem uncommon awful," said he, after a time. "Whatwas he after at the minute?--making a pudding, wasn't he, in somegentleman's hat?"
I uttered a sudden ejaculation, and set down my glass of negus untasted.Till that moment I had not once thought of my watch.
"Oh, Mr. Cobbe!" I cried, "he was pounding my watch in the mortar!"
"_Your_ watch, Mr. Basil?"
"Yes, mine--and I have not seen it since. What can have become of it?What shall I do?"
"Do!" echoed the landlord, seizing a candle; "why, go and look for it,to be sure, Mr. Basil. That's safe enough, you may be sure!"
I followed him to the room where the performance had taken place. Itshowed darkly and drearily by the light of one feeble candle. Thebenches and chairs were all in disorder. The wand lay where it hadfallen from the hand of the Wizard. The mortar still stood on the table,with the pestle beside it. It contained only some fragments ofbroken glass.
Mr. Cobbe laughed triumphantly.
"Come, sir," said he, "the watch is safe enough, anyhow. Mounseer onlymade believe to pound it up, and now all that concerns us is tofind it."
That was indeed all--not only all, but too much. We searched everything.We looked in all the jars and under all the moveables. We took the coveroff the chair; we cleared the table; but without success. My watch hadtotally disappeared, and we at length decided that it must be concealedabout the conjuror's person. Mr. Cobbe was my consoling angel.
"Bless you, sir," said he, "don't never be cast down. My wife shalllook for the watch to-morrow morning, and I'll promise you we'll findout every pocket he has about him."
"And my father--you won't tell my father?" I said, dolefully.
Mr. Cobbe replied by a mute but expressive piece of pantomime and tookme back to the bar, where the good landlady ratified all that herhusband had promised in her name.
The stars shone brightly as I went home, and there was no moon. The townwas intensely silent, and the road intensely solitary. I met no one onmy way; let myself quietly in, and stole up to my bed-room in the dark.
It was already late; but I was restless and weary--too restless tosleep, and too weary to read. I could not detach myself from theimpressions of the day; and I longed for the morning, that I might learnthe fate of my watch, and the condition of the Chevalier.
At length, after some hours of wakefulness, I dropped into a profoundand dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
CHAPTER IV.
THE CHEVALIER MAKES HIS LAST EXIT.
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances. _As You Like It._
I was waked by my father's voice calling to me from the garden, and sostarted up with that strange and sudden sense of trouble which most ofus have experienced at some time or other in our lives.
"Nine o'clock, Basil," cried my father. "Nine o'clock--come downdirectly, sir!"
I sprang out of bed, and for some seconds could remember nothing of whathad happened; but when I looked out of the window and saw my father inhis dressing-gown and slippers walking up and down the sunny path withhis hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground, it allflashed suddenly upon me. To plunge into my bath, dress, run down, andjoin him in the garden, was the work of but a few minutes.
"Good-morning, sir," I said, breathlessly.
He stopped short in his walk, and looked at me from head to foot.
"Humph!" said he, "you have dressed quickly...."
"Yes, sir; I was startled to find myself so late."
"So quickly," he continued, "that you have forgotten your watch."
I felt my face burn. I had not a word to answer.
"I suppose," said he, "you thought I should not find it out?"
"I had hoped to recover it first," I replied, falteringly; "but...."
"But you may make up your mind to the loss of it, sir; and serve yourightly, too," interposed my father. "I can tell you, for yoursatisfaction, that the man's clothes have been thoroughly examined, andthat your watch has not been found. No doubt it lay somewhere on thetable, and was stolen in the confusion."
I hung my head. I could have wept for vexation.
My father laughed sardonically.
"Well, Master Basil," he said, "the loss is yours, and yours only. Youwon't get another watch from me, I promise you."
I retorted angrily, whereat he only laughed the more; and then we wentin to breakfast.
Our morning meal was more unsociable than usual. I was too much annoyedto speak, and my father too preoccupied. I longed to inquire after theChevalier, but not choosing to break the silence, hurried through mybreakfast that I might run round to the Red Lion immediately after.Before we had left the table, a messenger came to say that "the conjurorwas taken worse," and so my father and I hastened away together.
He had passed from his trance-like sleep into a state of delirium, andwhen we entered the room was sitting up, pale and ghost-like, mutteringto himself, and gesticulating as if in the presence of an audience.
"_Pas du tout_," said he fantastically, "_pas du tout, Messieurs_--hereis no deception. You shall see him pass from my hand to the _coffre_,and yet you shall not find how he does travel."
My father smiled bitterly.
"Conjurer to the last!" said he. "In the face of death, what a mockeryis his trade!"
Wandering as were his wits, he caught the last word and turned fiercelyround; but there was no recognition in his eye.
"Trade, Monsieur!" he echoed. "Trade!--you shall not call him trade! Doyou know who I am, that you dare call him trade? _Dieu des Dieux!N'est-ce pas que je suis noble, moi?_ Trade!--when did one of my raceembrace a trade? _Canaille!_ I do condescend for my reasons to take yourmoney, but you shall not call him a trade!"
Exhausted by this sudden burst of passion, he fell back upon his pillow,muttering and flushed. I bent over him, and caught a scattered phrasefrom time to time. He was dreaming of wealth, fancying himself rich andpowerful, poor wretch! and all unconscious of his condition.
"You shall see my Chateaux," he said, "my horses--my carriages.Listen--it is the ringing of the bells. Aha! _le jour viendra--le jourviendra_! Conjuror! who speaks of a conjuror? I never was a conjuror! Ideny it: and he lies who says it! _Attendons_! Is the curtain up? Ah! mytable--where is my table? I cannot play till I have my table._Scelerats! je suis vole! je l'ai perdu! je l'ai perdu_! Ah, what shallI do? What shall I do? They have taken my table--they have taken...."
He burst into tears, moaned twice or thrice, closed his eyes, and fellinto a troubled sleep.
The landlady sobbed. Hers was a kind heart, and the little Frenchman'ssimple courtesy had won her good-will from the
first.
"He had real quality manners," she said, disconsolately. "I do believe,gentlemen, that he had seen better days. Poor as he was, he neverdisputed the price of anything; and he never spoke to me without takingoff his hat."
"Upon my soul, Mistress Cobbe," said my father, "I incline to youropinion. I do think he is not what he seems."
"And if I only knew where to find his friends, I shouldn't care half somuch!" exclaimed the landlady. "It do seem so hard that he should diehere, and not one of his own blood follow him to the grave! Surely hehas some one who loves him!"
"There was something said the other day about a child," mused my father."Have no papers or letters been found about his person?"
"None at all. Why, Doctor, you were here last night when we searched forMaster Basil's watch, and you are witness that he had nothing of thekind in his possession. As to his luggage, that's only a carpet-bag andhis conjuring things, and we looked through them as carefully aspossible."
The Chevalier moaned again, and tossed his arms feebly in his sleep."The proofs," said he. "The proofs! I can do nothing withoutthe proofs."
My father listened. The landlady shook her head.
"He has been going on like that ever since you left, sir," she saidpitifully; "fancying he's been robbed, and calling out about theproofs--only ten times more violent. Then, again, he thinks he is goingto act, and asks for his table. It's wonderful how he takes on aboutthat trumpery table!"
Scarcely had she spoken the words when the Chevalier opened his eyes,and, by a supreme effort, sat upright in his bed. The cold dew rose uponhis brow; his lips quivered; he strove to speak, and only aninarticulate cry found utterance. My father flew to his support.
"If you have anything to say," he urged earnestly, "try to say it now!"
The dying man trembled convulsively, and a terrible look of despair cameinto his wan face.
"Tell--tell" ... he gasped; but his voice failed him, and he could getno further.
My father laid him gently down. There came an interval of terriblesuspense--a moment of sharp agony--a deep, deep sigh--and then silence.
My father laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.
"It is all over," he said; "and his secret, if he had one, is in closerkeeping than ours. Come away, boy; this is no place for you."
* * * * *
CHAPTER V.
IN MEMORIAM.
The poor little Chevalier! He died and became famous.
Births, deaths and marriages are the great events of a country town; theprime novelties of a country newspaper; the salt of conversation, andthe soul of gossip. An individual who furnishes the community with oneor other of these topics, is a benefactor to his species. To be born ismuch; to marry is more; to die is to confer a favor on all the oldladies of the neighborhood. They love a christening and caudle--theyrejoice in a wedding and cake--but they prefer a funeral and black kidgloves. It is a tragedy played off at the expense of the few for thegratification of the many--a costly luxury, of which it is pleasanter tobe the spectator than the entertainer.
Occurring, therefore, at a season when the supply of news wasparticularly scanty, the death of the little Chevalier was a boon toSaxonholme. The wildest reports were bandied about, and the mostextraordinary fictions set on foot respecting his origin and station. Hewas a Russian spy. He was the unfortunate son of Louis XIV and MarieAntoinette. He was a pupil of Cagliostro, and the husband of Mlle.Lenormand. Customers flocked to the tap of the Red Lion as they hadnever flocked before, unless in election-time; and good Mrs. Cobbe hadto repeat the story of the conjuror's illness and death till, like manyother reciters, she had told it so often that she began to forget it. Asfor her husband, he had enough to do to serve the customers and take themoney, to say nothing of showing the room, which proved a vastattraction, and remained for more than a week just as it was left on theevening of the performance, with the table, canopy and paraphernalia ofwizardom still set out upon the platform.
In the midst of these things arose a momentous question--what was thereligion of the deceased, and where should he be buried? As in the oldmiracle plays we find good and bad angels contending for the souls ofthe dead, so on this occasion did the heads of all the Saxonholmechurches, chapels and meeting-houses contend for the body of the littleChevalier. He was a Roman Catholic. He was a Dissenter. He was a memberof the Established Church. He must be buried in the new ProtestantCemetery. He must lie in the churchyard of the Ebenezer Tabernacle. Hemust sleep in the far-away "God's Acre" of Father Daly's Chapel, andhave a cross at his head, and masses said for the repose of his soul.The controversy ran high. The reverend gentlemen convoked a meeting,quarrelled outrageously, and separated in high dudgeon without havingarrived at any conclusion.
Whereupon arose another question, melancholy, ludicrous, perplexing,and, withal, as momentous as the first--Would the little Chevalier getburied at all? Or was he destined to remain, like Mahomet's coffin, forever in a state of suspense?
At the last, when Mr. and Mrs. Cobbe despairingly believed that theywere never to be relieved of their troublesome guest, a vestry wascalled, and the churchwardens brought the matter to a conclusion. Whenhe went round with his tickets, the conjuror called first at theRectory, and solicited the patronage of Doctor Brand. Would he have paidthat compliment to the cloth had he been other than a member of thatreligion "by law established?" Certainly not. The point was clear--couldnot be clearer; so orthodoxy and the new Protestant Cemeterycarried the day.
The funeral was a great event--not so far as mutes, feathers andcarriages were concerned, for the Chevalier left but little worldlygear, and without hard cash even the most deserving must forego "thetrappings and the suits of woe;" but it was a great event, inasmuch asit celebrated the victory of the Church, and the defeat of allschismatics. The rector himself, complacent and dignified, preached thefuneral sermon to a crowded congregation, the following Sunday. Wealmost forgot, in fact, that the little Chevalier had any concern in thematter, and regarded it only as the triumph of orthodoxy.
All was not ended, even here. For some weeks our conjuror continued tobe the hero of every pulpit round about. He was cited as a shininglight, denounced as a vessel of wrath, praised, pitied and calumniatedaccording to the creed and temper of each declaimer. At length thecontroversy languished, died a natural death, and became "alms foroblivion."
Laid to rest under a young willow, in a quiet corner, with a plain stoneat his head, the little Frenchman was himself in course of timeforgotten:--
"Alas! Poor Yorick!"
* * * * *
CHAPTER VI.
POLONIUS TO LAERTES.
Years went by. I studied; outgrew my jackets; became a young man. It wastime, in short, that I walked the hospitals, and passed my examination.
I had spoken to my father more than once upon the subject--spokenearnestly and urgently, as one who felt the necessity and justice of hisappeal. But he put me off from time to time; persisted in looking uponme as a boy long after I had become acquainted with the penalties of therazor; and counselled me to be patient, till patience was well-nighexhausted. The result of this treatment was that I became miserable anddiscontented; spent whole days wandering about the woods; anddegenerated into a creature half idler and half misanthrope. I had neverloved the profession of medicine. I should never have chosen it had Ibeen free to follow my own inclinations: but having diligently fittedmyself to enter it with credit, I felt that my father wronged me in thisdelay; and I felt it perhaps all the more bitterly because my labor hadbeen none of love. Happily for me, however, he saw his error before itwas too late, and repaired it generously.
"Basil," said he, beckoning me one morning into the consulting-room, "Iwant to speak to you."
I obeyed sullenly, and stood leaning up against the window, with myhands in my pockets.
"You've been worrying me, Basil, more than enough these last fewmonths," he said, rummaging among his papers, and spe
aking in a low,constrained voice. "I don't choose to be worried any longer. It is timeyou walked the hospitals, and--you may go."
"To London, sir?"
"No. I don't intend you to go to London."
"To Edinburgh, then, I suppose," said I, in a tone of disappointment.
"Nor to Edinburgh. You shall go to Paris."
"To Paris!"
"Yes--the French surgeons are the most skilful in the world, and Cheronwill do everything for you. I know no eminent man in London from whom Ishould choose to ask a favor; and Cheron is one of my oldestfriends--nay, the oldest friend I have in the world. If you have but twoounces of brains, he will make a clever man of you. Under him you willstudy French practice; walk the hospitals of Paris; acquire the languageand, I hope, some of the polish of the French people. Are yousatisfied?"
"More than satisfied, sir," I replied, eagerly.
"You shall not want for money, boy; and you may start as soon as youplease. Is the thing settled?"
"Quite, as far as I am concerned."
My father rubbed his head all over with both hands, took off hisspectacles, and walked up and down the room. By these signs he expressedany unusual degree of satisfaction. All at once he stopped, looked mefull in the face, and said:--
"Understand me, Basil. I require one thing in return."
"If that thing be industry, sir, I think I may promise that you shallnot have cause to complain,"
My father shook his head.
"Not industry," he said; "not industry alone. Keep good company, my boy.Keep good hours. Never forget that a gentleman must look like agentleman, dress like a gentleman, frequent the society of gentlemen. Tobe a mere bookworm is to be a drone in the great hive. I hate adrone--as I hate a sloven."
"I understand you, father," I faltered, blushing. "I know that of lateI--I have not...."
My father laid his hand suddenly over my mouth.
"No confessions--no apologies," he said hastily. "We have both been toblame in more respects than one, and we shall both know how to be wiserin the future. Now go, and consider all that you may require foryour journey."
Agitated, delighted, full of hope, I ran up to my own room, locked thedoor, and indulged in a delightful reverie. What a prospect had suddenlyopened before me! What novelty! what adventure! To have visited Londonwould have been to fulfil all my desires; but to be sent to Paris was toreceive a passport for Fairyland!
That day, for the first time in many months, I dressed myself carefully,and went down to dinner with a light heart, a cheerful face, and anunexceptionable neckcloth.
As I took my place at the table, my father looked up cheerily and gaveme a pleased nod of recognition.
Our meal passed off very silently. It was my father's maxim that no mancould do more than one thing well at a time--especially at table; so wehad contracted a habit which to strangers would have seemed even moreunsociable than it really was, and gave to all our meals an air morepenitential than convivial. But this day was, in reality, a festiveoccasion, and my father was disposed to be more than usually agreeable.When the cloth was removed, he flung the cellar-key at my head, andexclaimed, in a burst of unexampled good-humor:--
"Basil, you dog, fetch up a bottle of the particular port!"
Now it is one of my theories that a man's after-dinner talk takes muchof its weight, color, and variety from the quality of his wines. Agenerous vintage brings out generous sentiments. Good fellowship,hospitality, liberal politics, and the milk of human kindness, may beuncorked simultaneously with a bottle of old Madeira; while a pint ofthin Sauterne is productive only of envy, hatred, malice, and alluncharitableness. We grow sententious on Burgundy--logical onBordeaux--sentimental on Cyprus--maudlin on Lagrima Christi--and wittyon Champagne.
Port was my father's favorite wine. It warmed his heart, cooled histemper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive. Leaningback complacently in his easy-chair, with the glass upheld between hiseye and the window, he discoursed to me of my journey, of my prospectsin life, and of all that I should do and avoid, professionallyand morally.
"Work," he said, "is the panacea for every sorrow--the plaster for everypain--your only universal remedy. Industry, air, and exercise are ourbest physicians. Trust to them, boy; but beware how you publish theprescription, lest you find your occupation gone. Remember, if you wishto be rich, you must never seem to be poor; and as soon as you stand inneed of your friends, you will find yourself with none left. Be discreetof speech, and cultivate the art of silence. Above all things, betruthful. Hold your tongue as long as you please, but never open yourlips to a lie. Show no man the contents of your purse--he would eitherdespise you for having so little, or try to relieve you of the burdenof carrying so much. Above all, never get into debt, and never fall inlove. The first is disgrace, and the last is the devil! Respectyourself, if you wish others to respect you; and bear in mind that theworld takes you at your own estimate. To dress well is a duty one owesto society. The man who neglects his own appearance not only degradeshimself to the level of his inferiors, but puts an affront upon hisfriends and acquaintances."
"I trust, sir," I said in some confusion, "that I shall never incur thelast reproach again."
"I hope not, Basil," replied my father, with a smile. "I hope not. Keepyour conscience clean and your boots blacked, and I have no fear of you.You are no hero, my boy, but it depends upon yourself whether you becomea man of honor or a scamp; a gentleman or a clown. You have, I see,registered a good resolution to-day. Keep it; and remember thatPandemonium will get paved without your help. There would be noindustry, boy, if there was no idleness, and all true progress beginswith--Reform."
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 3