“What would she have us to do with her, then?” said Holloway. “Drive on, for I shall be late.”
The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed, “No, master, no! — it’s a sin to leave her upon the road this ways, though she’s no Christian, as we are, poor copper-coloured soul! I was once a stranger myself in Lon’on, without a six-pence to bless myself; so I know what it is, master.”
The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. “Mistress,” said he, “I’d fain see ye safe home, if you could but think of the t’other name of that gardener that you mentioned lodging with; because there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should never find your Paul, as you don’t know neither the name of his street — But I’ll tell ye now all the streets I’m acquainted with, and that’s a many: do you stop me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you’re sadly bruised, and I won’t see ye left this ways on the road.”
He then named several streets: the mulatto woman stopped him at one name, which she recollected to be the name of the street in which the gardener lived. The woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard the street in which he lived named, said she knew this gardener; that he had a large garden about a mile off, and that he came from London early almost every morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she advised the mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, and to send to ask the gardener to come on to the turnpike-house for her in the morning. The postilion promised to go to the gardener’s “by the first break of day.” The woman raised her head to bless him; and the impatient Holloway loudly called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he would not give him one farthing for himself if he did not.
The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept him in pain; but Holloway never measured or estimated his pleasures and his pains; therefore he never discovered that, even upon the most selfish calculation, he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a coach-box for one hour.
It was two o’clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in town, when he was set down at the house at which the stage-coach put up, walked home, got in at his bedchamber window — his bedchamber was upon the ground-floor. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed in his successful frolic. Whilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving again, and again overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his less manly dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school, advancing towards him, at a public examination, with a prize medal in his hand, which turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into the face of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a striking likeness of his tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled upon him; and then changed into the head of little Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just at the instant, Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver’s face close to him, laughing heartily.
“Why,” exclaimed Oliver, “you seized my head with both your hands when I came to waken you: what could you be dreaming of, Charles?”
“I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to have hold of you,” said Howard, laughing; “but I shall not get my medal by dreaming about it. What o’clock is it? I shall be ready in half a second.”
“Ay,” said Oliver, “I wont tell you what o’clock it is till you’re dressed: make haste; I have been up this half hour, and I’ve got every thing ready, and I’ve carried the little table, and all your books, and the pen and ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun shines upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you’ll have a full hour to work, for it’s only half after five.”
At the back of Mrs. Howard’s house there was a little garden; at the end of the garden was a sort of root-house, which Oliver had cleaned out, and which he dignified by the title of the seat. There were some pots of geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard’s permission, by a gardener, who lived next door to her, and who frequently came to work in her garden. Oliver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead leaves, whilst Howard was writing at the little table which had been prepared for him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, on which he was enthusiastically intent: he was translating the little French book which the traveller had given to him; and he was writing an essay for a prize. The young gentlemen at Westminster were engaged in writing essays for a periodical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give a prize medal as the reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of critics, to be chosen from among the boys themselves, should pronounce to be the best composition.
“I won’t talk to you, I won’t interrupt you,” said Oliver to Howard; “but only answer me one question: what is your essay about?”
Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head.
“I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think I shall ever be able to write essays?”
“To be sure,” said Howard; “why not?”
“Ah,” said Oliver, with a sigh, “because I’ve no genius, you know.”
“But,” said Howard, “have not you found out that you could do a great many things that you thought you could not do?”
“Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things which can be done without genius.”
“And what are the things,” replied Howard, “which cannot be done without genius?”
“Oh, a great, great many, I believe,” said Oliver: “you know Holloway said so.”
“But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we? Besides, a great many things may mean any thing, buckling your shoes, or putting on your hat, for instance.”
Oliver laughed at this, and said, “These, to be sure, are not the sort of things that can’t be done without genius.”
“What are the sort of things?” repeated Howard. “Let us, now I’ve the pen in my hand, make a list of them.”
“Take a longer bit of paper.”
“No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What shall I put first? — make haste, for I’m in a hurry.”
“Well — writing, then — writing, I am sure, requires genius.”
“Why?”
“Because I never could write, and I’ve often tried and tried to write something, but I never could; because I’ve no genius for it.”
“What did you try to write?” said Howard.
“Why, letters,” said Oliver: “my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins, desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never can make out a letter, and I’m always sorry when letter-writing day comes; and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find nothing to say. I used always to beg a beginning from somebody; but then, when I’ve got over the beginning, that’s only three or four lines; and if I stretch it out ever so much, it won’t make a whole letter; and what can I put in the middle? There’s nothing but that I am well, and hope they are all well; or else, that I am learning Latin, as you desired, dear uncle, and am forward in my English. The end I can manage well enough, because there’s duty and love to send to every body; and about the post is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your dutiful and affectionate nephew. But then,” continued little Oliver, “this is all nonsense, I know, and I’m ashamed to write such bad letters. Now your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment you sit down to it; and you can write three pages of a nice, long, good letter, whilst I am writing ‘My dear uncle John,’ and that’s what I call having a genius for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you write good letters when you were of my age?”
“I never wrote any letters at your age,” said Howard.
“Oh, how happy you must have been! But then, if you never learned, how comes it that you can write them now? How can you always find something to say?”
“I never write but when I have something to say; and you know, when you had something to say last post about Easter holidays, your pen, Oliver, went scratch, scratch, scratch, as fast as any body’s.”
“So it did,” cried Oliver; “but then the thing is, I’m forced to write when I’ve nothing about the holidays to say.”
“Forced?”
“Yes, because I’m afraid my uncle and cousins should be angry if I didn’t write.”
“I’m sure I’m much obliged,” said Howard, “to my dear aunt, who never forced me to write: she always said, ‘Never write, Charles, but when you like it;’ and I never did. When I had any thing to say, that is, any thing to describe, or any reasons to give upon any subject, or any questions to ask, which I very much wished to have answered, then, you know, I could easily write, because I had nothing to do but to write down just the words which I should have said, if I had been speaking.”
“But I thought writing was quite a different thing from speaking, because, in writing, there must be sentences, and long sentences, and fine sentences, such as there are in books.”
“In some books,” said Howard; “but not in all.”
“Besides,” continued Oliver, “one person’s speaking is quite different from another person’s speaking. Now I believe I make use of a great number of odd words, and vulgar expressions, and bad English, which I learned from being with the servants, I believe, at home. You have never talked to servants, Charles, I dare say, for you have not one of their words.”
“No,” said Charles, “never; and my aunt took a great deal of pains to prevent me from hearing any of their conversation; therefore it was impossible that I should catch—”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of old Paul, the gardener.
“So, Paul,” cried little Oliver, “I’ve been doing your work for you this morning; I’ve watered all the geraniums, and put the Indian corn in the sun; what kept you so late in your bed this fine morning, Paul? — fie, Paul!”
“You would not say fie, master,” replied Paul, “if you knew how early I had been out of my bed, this morning: I was abroad afore sunrise, so I was, master.”
“And why didn’t you come to work then, Paul? You shall not have the watering-pot till you tell me: don’t look so grave about it; you know you must smile when I please, Paul.”
“I can’t smile, just now, master,” said old Paul; but he smiled, and then told Oliver, that “the reason he could not smile was, that he was a little sick at heart, with just coming from the sight of a poor soul who had been sadly bruised by a fall from the top of the stage, which was overturned last night. She was left all night at the pike, and as she had no other friends, she sent for me by a return chay-boy, and I went for her, and brought her home in my covered cart, to my good woman, which she liked, with good reason, better ten to one than the stage. And she’s terribly black and blue, and does not seem quite right in her head, to my fancy.”
“I wish we could do something for her,” said Howard. “As soon as Mr. Russell is up, I’ll ask him to go with us to see her. We will call as we go by to school this morning.”
“But, master,” said the gardener, “I should warn ye beforehand, that mayhap you mayn’t pity her so much, for she’s rather past her best days; and bad must have been her best, for she’s swarthy, and not like one of this country: she comes from over the seas, and they call her a — a — not quite a negro.”
“A mulatto! — I like her the better,” cried Oliver; “for my nurse was a mulatto. I’ll go and waken Mr. Russell this instant, for I’m sure he’ll not be angry.” He ran away to Mr. Russell, who was not angry at being awakened, but dressed himself almost as expeditiously as Oliver wished, and set out immediately with his pupils, delighted to be the companion of their benevolent schemes, instead of being the object of their fear and hatred. Tutors may inspire affection, even though they have the misfortune to be obliged to teach Greek and Latin.
When the boys arrived at the gardener’s, they found the poor mulatto woman lying upon a bed, in a small close room, which was so full of smoke, when they came in, that they could hardly breathe: the little window, that let in but a glimmering light, could not, without difficulty, be opened. The poor woman made but few complaints; she appeared to be most concerned at the thoughts of being a burden to the good old gardener and his wife. She said that she had not been long in England; that she came to London in hopes of finding a family who had been very kind to her in her youth; but that, after inquiry at the house where they formerly lived, she could hear nothing of them. After a great deal of trouble, she discovered that a West India gentleman, who had known her abroad, was now at Bath; but she had spent the last farthing of her money, and she was, therefore, unable to undertake the journey. She had brought over with her, she said, some foreign seeds of flowers, which her young mistress used to be fond of when she was a child, which she had kept till hunger obliged her to offer them to a gardener for a loaf of bread. The gardener to whom she offered them was old Paul, who took compassion upon her distress, lodged her for a week, and at last paid for an outside place for her upon the Bath coach. There was such an air of truth and simplicity in this woman, that Mr. Russell, more experienced than his pupils, believed her story, at once, as implicitly as they did. “Oh,” exclaimed little Oliver, “I have but this half-crown for her: I wish Holloway had but paid me my half-guinea; I’ll ask him for it again to-day; and will you come with us here again, this evening, Mr. Russell, that I may bring it then?”
Mr. Russell and Howard hired the room for a fortnight in which the mulatto woman was now lying, and paid old Paul, the gardener, for it, promising, at the same time, to supply her with food. The gardener’s wife, at the poor woman’s earnest request, promised that, as soon as she was able to sit up, she would get her some coarse plain work to do.
“But,” said Oliver, “how can she see to work in this smoke? I’m sure it makes my eyes water so that I can hardly bear it, though I have been in it scarcely ten minutes.”
“I wish,” exclaimed Howard, turning to Mr. Russell, “that this chimney could be cured of smoking.”
“Oh, well-a-day,” said the gardener, “we must put up with it as it is, for I’ve had doctors to it, at one time or another, that have cost me a power of money; but, after all, it’s as bad as ever, and my good dame never lights a fire in it this fine spring weather; howsomever, she (pointing to the mulatto woman) is so chilly, coming from a country that, by all accounts, is a hot-house, compared with ours, that she can’t sleep o’ nights, or live o’ days without a small matter of fire, which she’s welcome to, though, you see, it almost fills the house with smoke.”
Howard, during the gardener’s speech, had been trying to recollect where it was that he had lately seen some essay upon smoky chimneys; and he suddenly exclaimed, “It was in Dr. Franklin’s works — was it not, Mr. Russell?”
“What?” said Mr. Russell, smiling.
“That essay upon smoky chimneys which I said I would skip over, the other day, because I had nothing to do with it, and I thought I should not understand. Don’t you remember telling me, sir, that I had better not skip it, because it might, some time or other, be useful to me? I wish I could get the book now; I would take pains to understand it, because, perhaps, I might find out how this poor man’s chimney might be cured of smoking. As for his window, I know how that can be easily mended, because I once watched a man who was hanging some windows for my aunt — I’ll get some sash line.”
“Do you recollect what o’clock it is, my good friend?” said Mr. Russell, holding out his watch to Howard. “We cannot wait till you are perfect master of the theory of smoky chimneys, and the practice of hanging windows; it is time that we should be gone.” Mr. Russell spoke this with an air of raillery, as he usually did, when he was particularly pleased.
As they were going away, Oliver earnestly repeated his request, that Mr. Russell would come again in the evening, that he might have an opportunity of giving the poor woman his half-guinea. Mr. Russell promised him that he would; but he at the same time added, “All charity, my dear Oliver, does not consist in giving money: it is easy for a man to put his hand in his pocket, a
nd take out a few shillings, to give any person in distress.”
“I wish,” said Oliver, “I was able to do more! what can I do? I’ll think of something. Howard, will you think of something that I can do? But I must see about my Latin lesson first, for I had not time to look it over this morning, before I came out.”
When they got back, the business of the day, for some hours, suspended all thoughts of the mulatto woman; but, in the first interval of leisure, Oliver went in search of Mr. Holloway, to ask for his half-guinea. Holloway had a crowd of his companions round him, whom he seemed to be entertaining with some very diverting story, for they were laughing violently when little Oliver first came up to them; but they no sooner perceived him than all their merriment suddenly ceased. Holloway first lowered his voice into a whisper, and then observing that Oliver still stood his ground, he asked him, in his usual peremptory tone, what might be his business? Oliver drew him aside, and asked him to pay him the half-guinea. “The half-guinea?” repeated Holloway: “man, you talk of the half-guinea as if there was but one half-guinea in the world: you shall have the half-guinea, for I hate to be dunned — Stay, I believe I have no half-a-guinea about me: you can’t give me two half-guineas for a guinea, can ye?”
“Me!”
“Well, then, you must wait till I can get change.”
“Must I wait? but I really want it for a particular reason, this evening: I wish you could give it me now — you know you promised; but I don’t like putting people in mind of their promises, and I would not ask you about the money, only that I really want it.”
“Want it! — nonsense: what can you want money for, such a little chap as you? I’ll lay you any wager, your particular reason, if the truth was told, is, that you can’t resist the tart-woman.”
“I can resist the tart-woman,” cried Oliver proudly; “I have a much better use for my money: but I don’t want to boast, neither; only, Holloway, do give me the half-guinea: shall I run and ask somebody to give you two half-guineas for a guinea?”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 376