Then why did he not return them after the first week’s trial, when Jacob had requested either to have them back or to be paid for them? His lordship had then, as half a dozen of the boys on the Jew’s side were ready to testify, refused to return the watches, declaring they went very well, and that he would keep them as long as he pleased, and pay for them when he pleased, and no sooner.
This plain tale put down the Lord Mowbray. His wit and his party now availed him not; he was publicly reprimanded, and sentenced to pay Jacob for the watches in a week, or to be expelled from the school. Mowbray would have desired no better than to leave the school, but he knew that his mother would never consent to this.
His mother, the Countess de Brantefield, was a Countess in her own right, and had an estate in her own power; — his father, a simple commoner, was dead, his mother was his sole guardian.
“That mother of mine,” said he to us, “would not hear of her son’s being turned out — so I must set my head to work against the head of the head master, who is at this present moment inditing a letter to her ladyship, beginning, no doubt, with, ‘I am sorry to be obliged to take up my pen,’ or, ‘I am concerned to be under the necessity of sitting down to inform your ladyship.’ Now I must make haste and inform my lady mother of the truth with my own pen, which luckily is the pen of a ready writer. You will see,” continued he, “how cleverly I will get myself out of the scrape with her. I know how to touch her up. There’s a folio, at home, of old Manuscript Memoirs of the De Brantefield family, since the time of the flood, I believe: it’s the only book my dear mother ever looks into; and she has often made me read it to her, till — no offence to my long line of ancestry — I cursed it and them; but now I bless it and them for supplying my happy memory with a case in point, that will just hit my mother’s fancy, and, of course, obtain judgment in my favour. A case, in the reign of Richard the Second, between a Jew and my great, great, great, six times great grandfather, whom it is sufficient to name to have all the blood of all the De Brantefields up in arms for me against all the Jews that ever were born. So my little Jacob, I have you.”
Mowbray, accordingly, wrote to his mother what he called a chef-d’oeuvre of a letter, and next post came an answer from Lady de Brantefield with the money to pay her son’s debt, and, as desired and expected, a strong reproof to her son for his folly in ever dealing with a Jew. How could he possibly expect not to be cheated, as, by his own confession, it appeared he had been, grossly? It was the more extraordinary, since he so well recollected the ever to be lamented case of Sir Josseline de Brantefield, that her son could, with all his family experience, be, at this time of day, a dupe to one of a race branded by the public History of England, and private Memoirs of the De Brantefields, to all eternity!
Mowbray showed this letter in triumph to all his party. It answered the double purpose of justifying his own bad opinion of the tribe of Israel, and of tormenting Jacob.
The next Thursday evening after that on which judgment had been given against Mowbray, when Jacob appeared in the school-room, the anti-Jewish party gathered round him, according to the instructions of their leader, who promised to show them some good sport at the Jew’s expense.
“Only give me fair play,” said Mowbray, “and stick close, and don’t let him off, for your lives don’t let him break through you, till I’ve roasted him well.”
“There’s your money,” cried Mowbray, throwing down the money for the watches—”take it — ay, count it — every penny right — I’ve paid you by the day appointed; and, thank Heaven and my friends, the pound of flesh next my heart is safe from your knife, Shylock!”
Jacob made no reply, but he looked as if he felt much.
“Now tell me, honest Jacob,” pursued Mowbray, “honest Jacob, patient Jacob, tell me, upon your honour, if you know what that word means — upon your conscience, if you ever heard of any such thing — don’t you think yourself a most pitiful dog, to persist in coming here to be made game of for twopence? ’Tis wonderful how much your thoroughbred Jew will do and suffer for gain. We poor good Christians could never do as much now — could we any soul of us, think you, Jacob?”
“Yes,” replied Jacob, “I think you could, I think you would.”
Loud scornful laughter from our party interrupted him; he waited calmly till it was over, and then continued, “Every soul of you good Christians would, I think, do as much for a father, if he were in want and dying, as mine is.” There was a silence for the moment: we were all, I believe, struck, or touched, except Mowbray, who, unembarrassed by feeling, went on with the same levity of tone as before: “A father in want! Are you sure now he is not a father of straw, Jacob, set up for the nonce, to move the compassion of the generous public? Well, I’ve little faith, but I’ve some charity — here’s a halfpenny for your father, to begin with.”
“Whilst I live, my father shall ask no charity, I hope,” said the son, retreating from the insulting alms which Mowbray still proffered.
“Why now, Jacob, that’s bad acting, out o’ character, Jacob, my Jew; for when did any son of Israel, any one of your tribe, or your twelve tribes, despise a farthing they could get honestly or dishonestly? Now this is a halfpenny — a good halfpenny. Come, Jacob, take it — don’t be too proud — pocket the affront — consider it’s for your father, not for yourself — you said you’d do much for your father, Jacob.”
Jacob’s countenance continued rigidly calm, except some little convulsive twitches about the mouth.
“Spare him, Mowbray,” whispered I, pulling back Mowbray’s arm; “Jew as he is, you see he has some feeling about his father.”
“Jew as he is, and fool as you are, Harrington,” replied Mowbray, aloud, “do you really believe that this hypocrite cares about his father, supposing he has one? Do you believe, boys, that a Jew pedlar can love a father gratis, as we do?”
“As we do!” repeated some of the boys: “Oh! no, for his father can’t be as good as ours — he is a Jew!”
“Jacob, is your father good to you?” said one of the little boys.
“He is a good father, sir — cannot be a better father, sir,” answered Jacob: the tears started into his eyes, but he got rid of them in an instant, before Mowbray saw them, I suppose, for he went on in the same insulting tone.
“What’s that he says? Does he say he has a good father? If he’d swear it, I would not believe him — a good father is too great a blessing for a Jew.”
“Oh! for shame, Mowbray!” said I. And “For shame! for shame, Mowbray!” echoed from the opposite, or, as Mowbray called it, from the Jewish party: they had by this time gathered in a circle at the outside of that which we had made round Jacob, and many had brought benches, and were mounted upon them, looking over our heads to see what was going on.
Jacob was now putting the key in his box, which he had set down in the middle of the circle, and was preparing to open it.
“Stay, stay, honest Jacob! tell us something more about this fine father; for example, what’s his name, and what is he?” “I cannot tell you what he is, sir,” replied Jacob, changing colour, “nor can I tell you his name.”
“Cannot tell me the name of his own father! a precious fellow! Didn’t I tell you ’twas a sham father? So now for the roasting I owe you, Mr. Jew.” There was a large fire in the school-room; Mowbray, by a concerted movement between him and his friends, shoved the Jew close to the fire, and barricadoed him up, so that he could not escape, bidding him speak when he was too hot, and confess the truth.
Jacob was resolutely silent; he would not tell his father’s name. He stood it, till I could stand it no longer, and I insisted upon Mowbray’s letting him off.
“I could not use a dog so,” said I.
“A dog, no! nor I; but this is a Jew.”
“A fellow-creature,” said I.
“A fine discovery! And pray, Harrington, what has made you so tender-hearted all of a sudden for the Jews?”
“Your being so hard-hearted, Mowbray
,” said I: “when you persecute and torture this poor fellow, how can I help speaking?”
“And pray, sir,” said Mowbray, “on which side are you speaking?”
“On the side of humanity,” said I.
“Fudge! On whose side are you?”
“On yours, Mowbray, if you won’t be a tyrant.”
“If! If you have a mind to rat, rat sans phrase, and run over to the Jewish side. I always thought you were a Jew at heart, Harrington.”
“No more a Jew than yourself, Mowbray, nor so much,” said I, standing firm, and raising my voice, so that I could be heard by all.
“No more a Jew than myself! pray how do you make that out?”
“By being more of a Christian — by sticking more to the maxim ‘Do as you would be done by.’”
“That is a good maxim,” said Jacob: a cheer from all sides supported me, as I advanced to liberate the Jew; but Mowbray, preventing me, leaped upon Jacob’s box, and standing with his legs stretched out, Colossus-like, “Might makes right,” said he, “all the world over. You’re a mighty fine preacher, Master Harrington; let’s see if you can preach me down.”
“Let’s see if I can’t pull you down!” cried I, springing forward: indignation giving me strength, I seized, and with one jerk pulled the Colossus forward and swung him to the ground.
“Well done, Harrington!” resounded from all sides. Mowbray, the instant he recovered his feet, flew at me, furious for vengeance, dealing his blows with desperate celerity. He was far my overmatch in strength and size; but I stood up to him. Between the blows, I heard Jacob’s voice in tones of supplication. When I had breath I called out to him, “Jacob! Escape!” And I heard the words, “Jacob! Jacob! Escape!” repeated near me.
But, instead of escaping, he stood stock still, reiterating his prayer to be heard: at last he rushed between us — we paused — both parties called to us, insisting that we should hear what the Jew had to say.
“Young Lord — ,” said he, “and dear young gentleman,” turning to me, “let poor Jacob be no more cause now, or ever, of quarrel between you. He shall trouble you never more. This is the last day, the last minute he will ever trouble you.”
He bowed. Looking round to all, twice to the upper circle, where his friends stood, he added, “Much obliged — for all kindness — grateful. Blessings! — Blessings on all! — and may—”
He could say no more; but hastily taking up his box, he retired through the opening crowd. The door closed after him. Both parties stood silent for a moment, till Mowbray exclaimed, “Huzza! Dutton for ever! We’ve won the day. Dutton for Thursday! Huzza! Huzza! Adieu! Adieu! — Wandering Jew!”
No one echoed his adieu or his huzzas. I never saw man or boy look more vexed and mortified. All further combat between us ceased, the boys one and all taking my part and insisting upon peace. The next day Mowbray offered to lay any wager that Jacob the Jew would appear again on the ensuing Thursday; and that he would tell his father’s name, or at least come provided, as Mowbray stated it, with a name for his father. These wagers were taken up, and bets ran high on the subject. Thursday was anxiously expected — Thursday arrived, but no Jacob. The next Thursday came — another, and another — and no Jacob!
When it was certain that poor Jacob would appear no more — and when his motive for resigning, and his words at taking leave were recollected — and when it became evident that his balls, and his tops, and his marbles, and his knives, had always been better and more reasonable than Dutton’s, the tide of popularity ran high in his favour. Poor Jacob was loudly regretted; and as long as schoolboys could continue to think about the same thing, we continued conjecturing why it was that Jacob would not tell us his father’s name. We made many attempts to trace him, and to discover his secret; but all our inquiries proved ineffectual: we could hear no more of Jacob, and our curiosity died away.
Mowbray, who was two or three years my senior, left school soon afterwards. We did not meet at the university; he went to Oxford, and I to Cambridge.
CHAPTER IV.
When the mind is full of any one subject, that subject seems to recur with extraordinary frequency — it appears to pursue or to meet us at every turn: in every conversation that we hear, in every book we open, in every newspaper we take up, the reigning idea recurs; and then we are surprised, and exclaim at these wonderful coincidences. Probably such happen every day, but pass unobserved when the mind is not intent upon similar ideas, or excited by any strong analogous feeling.
When the learned Sir Thomas Browne was writing his Essay on the Gardens of Cyrus, his imagination was so possessed by the idea of a quincunx, that he is said to have seen a quincunx in every object in nature. In the same manner, after a Jew had once made an impression on my imagination, a Jew appeared wherever I went.
As I was on my road to Cambridge, travelling in a stagecoach, whilst we were slowly going up a steep hill, I looked out of the window, and saw a man sitting under a hawthorn-bush, reading very intently. There was a pedlar’s box beside him; I thought I knew the box. I called out as we were passing, and asked the man, “What’s the mile-stone?” He looked up. It was poor Jacob. The beams of the morning sun dazzled him; but he recognized me immediately, as I saw by the look of joy which instantly spread over his countenance. I jumped out of the carriage, saying that I would walk up the hill, and Jacob, putting his book in his pocket, took up his well-known box, and walked along with me. I began, not by asking any question about his father, though curiosity was not quite dead within me, but by observing that he was grown very studious since we parted; and I asked what book he had been reading so intently. He showed it to me; but I could make nothing of it, for it was German. He told me that it was the Life of the celebrated Mendelssohn, the Jew. I had never heard of this celebrated man. He said that if I had any curiosity about it, he could lend me a translation which he had in his pack; and with all the alacrity of good-will, he set down the box to look for the book.
“No, don’t trouble yourself — don’t open it,” said I, putting my hand on the box. Instantly a smile, and a sigh, and a look of ineffable kindness and gratitude from Jacob, showed me that all the past rushed upon his heart.
“Not trouble myself! Oh, Master Harrington,” said he, “poor Jacob is not so ungrateful as that would come to.”
“You’re only too grateful,” said I; “but walk on — keep up with me, and tell me how your affairs are going on in the world, for I am much more interested about them than about the life of the celebrated Mendelssohn.”
Is that possible! said his looks of genuine surprised simplicity. He thanked me, and told me that he was much better in the world than formerly; that a good friend of his, a London jeweller of his own tribe, who had employed him as a pedlar, and had been satisfied with his conduct, had assisted him through his difficulties. This was the last time he should go his rounds in England as a pedlar; he said he was going into another and a much better way of business. His friend, the London jeweller, had recommended him to his brother, a rich Israelite, who had a valuable store in Gibraltar, and who wanted a young man to assist him, on whom he could entirely depend. Jacob was going out to Gibraltar in the course of the next week. “And now, Mr. Harrington,” said he, changing his tone and speaking with effort, as if he were conquering some inward feeling, “now it is all over, Mr. Harrington, and that I am leaving England, and perhaps may never see you again; I wish before I take leave of you, to tell you, sir, who my father was — was, for he is no more. I did not make a mystery of his name merely to excite curiosity, as some of the young gentlemen thought, nor because I was ashamed of my low birth. My father was Simon the old clothes-man. I knew you would start, Mr. Harrington, at hearing his name. I knew all that you suffered in your childhood about him, and I once heard you say to Lord Mowbray who was taunting you with something about old Simon, that you would not have that known, upon any account, to your school-fellows, for that they would plague you for ever. From that moment I was determined that I would
never be the cause of recalling or publishing what would be so disagreeable to you. This was the reason why I persisted in refusing to tell my father’s name, when Lord Mowbray pressed me so to declare it before all your school-fellows. And now, I hope,” concluded he, “that Mr. Harrington will not hate poor Jacob, though he is the son of—”
He paused. I assured him of my regard: I assured him that I had long since got rid of all the foolish prejudices of my childhood. I thanked him for the kindness and generosity he had shown in bearing Mowbray’s persecution for my sake, and in giving up his own situation, rather than say or do what might have exposed me to ridicule.
Thanking me again for taking, as he said, such a kind interest in the concerns of a poor Jew like him, he added, with tears in his eyes, that he wished he might some time see me again: that he should to the last day of his life remember me, and should pray for my health and happiness, and that he was sorry he had no way of showing me his gratitude. Again he recurred to his box, and would open it to show me the translation of Mendelssohn’s Life; or, if that did not interest me, he begged of me to take my choice from among a few books he had with him; perhaps one of them might amuse me on my journey, for he knew I was a reading young gentleman.
I could not refuse him. As he opened the packet of books, I saw one directed to Mr. Israel Lyons, Cambridge. I told Jacob that I was going to Cambridge. He said he should be there in a few days, for that he took Cambridge in his road; and he rejoiced that he should see me again. I gave him a direction to my college, and for his gratification, in truth, more than for my own, I borrowed the magazine containing the life of Mendelssohn, which he was so anxious to lend me. We had now reached the coach at the top of the hill; I got in, and saw Jacob trudging after me for some time; but, at the first turn of the road, I lost sight of him, and then, as my two companions in the coach were not very entertaining, one of them, a great fat man, being fast asleep and snoring, the other, a pale spare woman, being very sick and very cross, I betook myself to my magazine. I soon perceived why the life of Mendelssohn had so deeply interested poor Jacob. Mendelssohn was a Jew, born like himself in abject poverty, but, by perseverance, he made his way through incredible difficulties to the highest literary reputation among the most eminent men of his country and of his age; and obtained the name of the Jewish Socrates. In consequence of his early, intense, and misapplied application in his first Jewish school, he was seized at ten years old with some dreadful nervous disease; this interested me, and I went on with his history. Of his life I should probably have remembered nothing, except what related to the nervous disorder; but it so happened, that, soon after I had read this life, I had occasion to speak of it, and it was of considerable advantage in introducing me to good company at Cambridge. A few days after I arrived there, Jacob called on me: I returned his book, assuring him that it had interested me very much. “Then, sir,” said he, “since you are so fond of learning and learned men, and so kind to the Jews, there is a countryman of mine now at Cambridge, whom it will be well worth your while to be acquainted with; and who, if I may be bold enough to say so, has been prepossessed in your favour, by hearing of your humanity to poor Jacob.”
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