Preliminary Confessions

These preliminary confessions, or introductory narrative of the youthful adventures which laid the foundation of the writer’s habit of opium-eating in after-life, it has been judged proper to premise, for three several reasons:

These preliminary confessions recount the youthful adventures that laid the foundation for the writer’s later habit of eating opium. It seemed appropriate to introduce them for three reasons:

1. As forestalling that question, and giving it a satisfactory answer, which else would painfully obtrude itself in the course of the Opium Confessions—“How came any reasonable being to subject himself to such a yoke of misery; voluntarily to incur a captivity so servile, and knowingly to fetter himself with such a sevenfold chain?”—a question which, if not somewhere plausibly resolved, could hardly fail, by the indignation which it would be apt to raise as against an act of wanton folly, to interfere with that degree of sympathy which is necessary in any case to an author’s purposes.

1. This anticipates and satisfactorily answers a question that would otherwise intrude painfully during the Opium Confessions. The question is: “How could any reasonable person submit to such a burden of misery? How could anyone voluntarily enter such slavish captivity, knowingly binding themselves with a sevenfold chain?” If the question is not plausibly answered somewhere, it would hardly fail to provoke indignation at such an act of reckless folly. That indignation would interfere with the degree of sympathy an author needs for any purpose.

2. As furnishing a key to some parts of that tremendous scenery which afterwards peopled the dreams of the Opium-eater.

2. Because it provides a key to some of the terrifying scenes that later filled the Opium-eater's dreams.

3. As creating some previous interest of a personal sort in the confessing subject, apart from the matter of the confessions, which cannot fail to render the confessions themselves more interesting. If a man “whose talk is of oxen” should become an opium-eater, the probability is that (if he is not too dull to dream at all) he will dream about oxen; whereas, in the case before him, the reader will find that the Opium-eater boasteth himself to be a philosopher; and accordingly, that the phantasmagoria of his dreams (waking or sleeping, day-dreams or night-dreams) is suitable to one who in that character

3. By creating some personal interest in the person making the confessions, apart from what he confesses. This cannot fail to make the confessions themselves more interesting. If a man “whose talk is of oxen” became an opium-eater, he would probably dream about oxen. That is, if he were not too dull to dream at all. In this case, however, the reader will find that the Opium-eater boasts of being a philosopher. Accordingly, the phantasmagoria of his dreams, whether waking or sleeping, daydreams or night dreams, is suited to someone who, as a philosopher,

For amongst the conditions which he deems indispensable to the sustaining of any claim to the title of philosopher is not merely the possession of a superb intellect in its analytic functions (in which part of the pretensions, however, England can for some generations show but few claimants; at least, he is not aware of any known candidate for this honour who can be styled emphatically a subtle thinker, with the exception of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and in a narrower department of thought with the recent illustrious exception [^2] of David Ricardo) but also on such a constitution of the moral faculties as shall give him an inner eye and power of intuition for the vision and the mysteries of our human nature: that constitution of faculties, in short, which (amongst all the generations of men that from the beginning of time have deployed into life, as it were, upon this planet) our English poets have possessed in the highest degree, and Scottish professors [^3] in the lowest.

For he considers several qualities essential to any claim to the title of philosopher. One is a superb intellect in its analytic abilities. (In this respect, however, England can show few claimants over the past several generations. At least, he knows of no recognized candidate for the honor who can truly be called a subtle thinker, except Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and, in a narrower field of thought, the recent distinguished exception [^2] of David Ricardo.) A philosopher must also possess the moral faculties that give him an inner eye and intuitive insight into the vision and mysteries of human nature. In short, among all the generations of people who have come into life on this planet since time began, our English poets have possessed that combination of faculties in the highest degree, and Scottish professors [^3] in the lowest.

I have often been asked how I first came to be a regular opium-eater, and have suffered, very unjustly, in the opinion of my acquaintance from being reputed to have brought upon myself all the sufferings which I shall have to record, by a long course of indulgence in this practice purely for the sake of creating an artificial state of pleasurable excitement. This, however, is a misrepresentation of my case. True it is that for nearly ten years I did occasionally take opium for the sake of the exquisite pleasure it gave me; but so long as I took it with this view I was effectually protected from all material bad consequences by the necessity of interposing long intervals between the several acts of indulgence, in order to renew the pleasurable sensations. It was not for the purpose of creating pleasure, but of mitigating pain in the severest degree, that I first began to use opium as an article of daily diet. In the twenty-eighth year of my age a most painful affection of the stomach, which I had first experienced about ten years before, attacked me in great strength. This affection had originally been caused by extremities of hunger, suffered in my boyish days. During the season of hope and redundant happiness which succeeded (that is, from eighteen to twenty-four) it had slumbered; for the three following years it had revived at intervals; and now, under unfavourable circumstances, from depression of spirits, it attacked me with a violence that yielded to no remedies but opium. As the youthful sufferings which first produced this derangement of the stomach were interesting in themselves, and in the circumstances that attended them, I shall here briefly retrace them.

I have often been asked how I first became a regular opium-eater. My acquaintances have judged me very unfairly, believing that I brought all the suffering I must describe upon myself. They believe I did so by taking opium for a long time purely to create an artificial state of pleasurable excitement. But this misrepresents my case. It is true that for nearly ten years I occasionally took opium for the exquisite pleasure it gave me. But as long as I took it for pleasure, I was effectively protected from all significant harm. To experience the pleasure again, I had to wait a long time between doses. I first began taking opium daily, not to create pleasure, but to relieve the most severe pain. At twenty-seven, I suffered a powerful attack of a painful stomach condition I had first experienced about ten years earlier. The condition had originally been caused by the extreme hunger I endured as a boy. It lay dormant during the hopeful and abundantly happy years that followed, from eighteen to twenty-four. Over the next three years, it returned at intervals. Now, under unfavorable circumstances and with my spirits depressed, the condition struck with a violence that no remedy but opium could relieve. The suffering in my youth that first caused this stomach disorder was interesting in itself and in its surrounding circumstances. So I will briefly recount it here.

My father died when I was about seven years old, and left me to the care of four guardians. I was sent to various schools, great and small; and was very early distinguished for my classical attainments, especially for my knowledge of Greek. At thirteen I wrote Greek with ease; and at fifteen my command of that language was so great that I not only composed Greek verses in lyric metres, but could converse in Greek fluently and without embarrassment—an accomplishment which I have not since met with in any scholar of my times, and which in my case was owing to the practice of daily reading off the newspapers into the best Greek I could furnish extempore; for the necessity of ransacking my memory and invention for all sorts and combinations of periphrastic expressions as equivalents for modern ideas, images, relations of things, &c., gave me a compass of diction which would never have been called out by a dull translation of moral essays, &c. “That boy,” said one of my masters, pointing the attention of a stranger to me, “that boy could harangue an Athenian mob better than you and I could address an English one.” He who honoured me with this eulogy was a scholar, “and a ripe and a good one,” and of all my tutors was the only one whom I loved or reverenced. Unfortunately for me (and, as I afterwards learned, to this worthy man’s great indignation), I was transferred to the care, first of a blockhead, who was in a perpetual panic lest I should expose his ignorance; and finally to that of a respectable scholar at the head of a great school on an ancient foundation. This man had been appointed to his situation by —— College, Oxford, and was a sound, well-built scholar, but (like most men whom I have known from that college) coarse, clumsy, and inelegant. A miserable contrast he presented, in my eyes, to the Etonian brilliancy of my favourite master; and beside, he could not disguise from my hourly notice the poverty and meagreness of his understanding. It is a bad thing for a boy to be and to know himself far beyond his tutors, whether in knowledge or in power of mind. This was the case, so far as regarded knowledge at least, not with myself only, for the two boys, who jointly with myself composed the first form, were better Grecians than the head-master, though not more elegant scholars, nor at all more accustomed to sacrifice to the Graces. When I first entered I remember that we read Sophocles; and it was a constant matter of triumph to us, the learned triumvirate of the first form, to see our “Archididascalus” (as he loved to be called) conning our lessons before we went up, and laying a regular train, with lexicon and grammar, for blowing up and blasting (as it were) any difficulties he found in the choruses; whilst we never condescended to open our books until the moment of going up, and were generally employed in writing epigrams upon his wig or some such important matter. My two class-fellows were poor, and dependent for their future prospects at the university on the recommendation of the head-master; but I, who had a small patrimonial property, the income of which was sufficient to support me at college, wished to be sent thither immediately. I made earnest representations on the subject to my guardians, but all to no purpose. One, who was more reasonable and had more knowledge of the world than the rest, lived at a distance; two of the other three resigned all their authority into the hands of the fourth; and this fourth, with whom I had to negotiate, was a worthy man in his way, but haughty, obstinate, and intolerant of all opposition to his will. After a certain number of letters and personal interviews, I found that I had nothing to hope for, not even a compromise of the matter, from my guardian. Unconditional submission was what he demanded, and I prepared myself, therefore, for other measures. Summer was now coming on with hasty steps, and my seventeenth birthday was fast approaching, after which day I had sworn within myself that I would no longer be numbered amongst schoolboys. Money being what I chiefly wanted, I wrote to a woman of high rank, who, though young herself, had known me from a child, and had latterly treated me with great distinction, requesting that she would “lend” me five guineas. For upwards of a week no answer came, and I was beginning to despond, when at length a servant put into my hands a double letter with a coronet on the seal. The letter was kind and obliging. The fair writer was on the sea-coast, and in that way the delay had arisen; she enclosed double of what I had asked, and good-naturedly hinted that if I should never repay her, it would not absolutely ruin her. Now, then, I was prepared for my scheme. Ten guineas, added to about two which I had remaining from my pocket-money, seemed to me sufficient for an indefinite length of time; and at that happy age, if no definite boundary can be assigned to one’s power, the spirit of hope and pleasure makes it virtually infinite.

My father died when I was about seven years old, leaving me in the care of four guardians. I was sent to various schools, large and small, and stood out very early for my classical learning, especially my Greek. At thirteen, I wrote Greek easily. By fifteen, my command of the language was so great that I could compose Greek verse in lyric metres. I could also speak Greek fluently and without embarrassment. I have not since met any scholar of my time with that accomplishment. In my case, it came from the daily practice of reading newspapers aloud in the best Greek I could produce extempore. I had to search my memory and imagination for all kinds and combinations of roundabout expressions to convey modern ideas, images, relationships, and so on. That gave me a range of vocabulary that dull translations of moral essays and the like would never have drawn out. “That boy,” said one of my masters, pointing me out to a stranger, “that boy could harangue an Athenian mob better than you and I could address an English one.” The man who honoured me with this praise was a scholar, “and a ripe and a good one.” Of all my tutors, he was the only one I loved or respected. Unfortunately for me, I was transferred first to the care of a fool who lived in constant fear that I would expose his ignorance. As I later learned, this transfer greatly outraged my worthy master. Finally, I was placed under a respectable scholar who headed a great school with an ancient foundation. He had been appointed to his position by —— College, Oxford. He was a sound, well-rounded scholar, but, like most men I have known from that college, he was coarse, clumsy, and inelegant. In my eyes, he made a miserable contrast with the Etonian brilliance of my favourite master. Besides, he could not keep me from noticing, hour by hour, how poor and limited his understanding was. It is a bad thing for a boy to be far ahead of his tutors, whether in knowledge or mental power, and to know it. At least as far as knowledge went, this was true not only of me. The two boys who made up the top form with me knew Greek better than the headmaster did. They were not more elegant scholars, though, nor were they any more inclined to sacrifice to the Graces. When I first entered, I remember, we were reading Sophocles. We three learned members of the top form took constant pleasure in watching our “Archididascalus,” as he loved to be called, study our lessons before we came up to him. With dictionary and grammar book, he laid a careful fuse, so to speak, to blow up and blast any difficulties he found in the choruses. We, meanwhile, never condescended to open our books until it was time to go up. We generally spent our time writing epigrams about his wig or some equally important matter. My two classmates were poor, and their future prospects at university depended on the headmaster’s recommendation. I, however, had a small inheritance, and its income was enough to support me at college. I wanted to be sent there immediately. I pleaded earnestly with my guardians, but to no purpose. One guardian, who was more reasonable and knew more of the world than the others, lived far away. Two of the other three handed all their authority over to the fourth. This fourth guardian was the man I had to deal with. He was a worthy man in his way, but proud, stubborn, and intolerant of any opposition to his will. After a number of letters and meetings, I found that I could hope for nothing from him, not even a compromise. He demanded unconditional submission, so I prepared to take other measures. Summer was now coming on quickly, and my seventeenth birthday was fast approaching. I had sworn to myself that after that day I would no longer be counted among schoolboys. Money was what I chiefly needed, so I wrote to a woman of high rank. Although she was young herself, she had known me since childhood and had recently treated me with great distinction. I asked her to “lend” me five guineas. For more than a week, no answer came, and I was beginning to lose hope. At last a servant put a double letter into my hands, with a coronet on the seal. The letter was kind and obliging. The fair writer was at the seaside, which explained the delay. She enclosed twice what I had asked for and good-naturedly hinted that if I never repaid her, it would not quite ruin her. Now I was ready to carry out my plan. Ten guineas, added to the two or so I had left from my pocket money, seemed enough to last indefinitely. At that happy age, if no definite limit can be set to one’s resources, hope and pleasure make them seem virtually infinite.

It is a just remark of Dr. Johnson’s (and, what cannot often be said of his remarks, it is a very feeling one), that we never do anything consciously for the last time (of things, that is, which we have long been in the habit of doing) without sadness of heart. This truth I felt deeply when I came to leave ——, a place which I did not love, and where I had not been happy. On the evening before I left —— for ever, I grieved when the ancient and lofty schoolroom resounded with the evening service, performed for the last time in my hearing; and at night, when the muster-roll of names was called over, and mine (as usual) was called first, I stepped forward, and passing the head-master, who was standing by, I bowed to him, and looked earnestly in his face, thinking to myself, “He is old and infirm, and in this world I shall not see him again.” I was right; I never did see him again, nor ever shall. He looked at me complacently, smiled good-naturedly, returned my salutation (or rather my valediction), and we parted (though he knew it not) for ever. I could not reverence him intellectually, but he had been uniformly kind to me, and had allowed me many indulgences; and I grieved at the thought of the mortification I should inflict upon him.

Dr. Johnson once made a fair observation. And, unlike many of his remarks, this one showed real feeling. He said that we never knowingly do something for the last time without sadness, if we have long been accustomed to doing it. I felt this truth deeply when I came to leave ——, a place I did not love and where I had not been happy. On the evening before I left —— forever, I grieved as the evening service echoed through the old, lofty schoolroom. It was the last time I would hear the service there. That night, when the roll was called, my name was called first, as usual. I stepped forward, passed the headmaster standing nearby, and bowed to him. I looked earnestly at his face, thinking, “He is old and frail, and I will not see him again in this world.” I was right. I never did see him again, and I never will. He looked at me with approval, smiled kindly, and returned my greeting, or rather my farewell. We parted forever, though he did not know it. I could not respect him for his intellect, but he had always been kind to me and had allowed me many privileges. I grieved at the thought of the embarrassment I would cause him.

The morning came which was to launch me into the world, and from which my whole succeeding life has in many important points taken its colouring. I lodged in the head-master’s house, and had been allowed from my first entrance the indulgence of a private room, which I used both as a sleeping-room and as a study. At half after three I rose, and gazed with deep emotion at the ancient towers of ——, “drest in earliest light,” and beginning to crimson with the radiant lustre of a cloudless July morning. I was firm and immovable in my purpose; but yet agitated by anticipation of uncertain danger and troubles; and if I could have foreseen the hurricane and perfect hail-storm of affliction which soon fell upon me, well might I have been agitated. To this agitation the deep peace of the morning presented an affecting contrast, and in some degree a medicine. The silence was more profound than that of midnight; and to me the silence of a summer morning is more touching than all other silence, because, the light being broad and strong as that of noonday at other seasons of the year, it seems to differ from perfect day chiefly because man is not yet abroad; and thus the peace of nature and of the innocent creatures of God seems to be secure and deep only so long as the presence of man and his restless and unquiet spirit are not there to trouble its sanctity. I dressed myself, took my hat and gloves, and lingered a little in the room. For the last year and a half this room had been my “pensive citadel”: here I had read and studied through all the hours of night, and though true it was that for the latter part of this time I, who was framed for love and gentle affections, had lost my gaiety and happiness during the strife and fever of contention with my guardian, yet, on the other hand, as a boy so passionately fond of books, and dedicated to intellectual pursuits, I could not fail to have enjoyed many happy hours in the midst of general dejection. I wept as I looked round on the chair, hearth, writing-table, and other familiar objects, knowing too certainly that I looked upon them for the last time. Whilst I write this it is eighteen years ago, and yet at this moment I see distinctly, as if it were yesterday, the lineaments and expression of the object on which I fixed my parting gaze. It was a picture of the lovely ——, which hung over the mantelpiece, the eyes and mouth of which were so beautiful, and the whole countenance so radiant with benignity and divine tranquillity, that I had a thousand times laid down my pen or my book to gather consolation from it, as a devotee from his patron saint. Whilst I was yet gazing upon it the deep tones of —— clock proclaimed that it was four o’clock. I went up to the picture, kissed it, and then gently walked out and closed the door for ever!

The morning came that would send me out into the world. From that day, my whole life has taken its color in many important ways. I lived in the headmaster’s house. From the time I first arrived, I had been allowed the privilege of a private room. I used it as both a bedroom and a study. At half past three, I rose and gazed with deep emotion at the ancient towers of _____, “dressed in the earliest light.” They were beginning to glow red in the radiant light of a cloudless July morning. I was firm and unwavering in my purpose, but I was anxious about the uncertain dangers and troubles ahead. If I could have foreseen the hurricane and perfect hailstorm of suffering that soon fell upon me, I would have had good reason to be anxious. The deep peace of the morning offered a moving contrast to my anxiety and, to some extent, a remedy for it. The silence was deeper than the silence of midnight. To me, the silence of a summer morning is more moving than any other silence. The light is as broad and strong as it is at noon in other seasons. So a summer morning seems different from full daylight chiefly because people are not yet out and about. The peace of nature and of God’s innocent creatures seems secure and deep only as long as people are absent. Their restless, unquiet spirit is not yet there to disturb its sanctity. I dressed, took my hat and gloves, and lingered a little in the room. For the past year and a half, this room had been my “thoughtful citadel.” Here I had read and studied through all the hours of the night. For the latter part of that time, I had lost my cheerfulness and happiness in the struggle and fever of my conflict with my guardian, though I was made for love and gentle affection. Yet I was also a boy passionately fond of books and devoted to intellectual pursuits. So I could not help enjoying many happy hours amid my general sadness. I wept as I looked around at the chair, the hearth, the writing table, and the other familiar objects. I knew all too surely that I was seeing them for the last time. As I write this, eighteen years have passed. Yet I can still see the features and expression of the object on which I fixed my farewell gaze, as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was a picture of the lovely _____, hanging over the mantelpiece. Its eyes and mouth were so beautiful, and the whole face was so radiant with kindness and divine calm, that I had laid down my pen or book a thousand times to find comfort in it, as a devotee might find comfort in a patron saint. While I was still gazing at the picture, the deep tones of the _____ clock announced four o’clock. I went up to the picture and kissed it. Then I walked quietly out and closed the door forever!

So blended and intertwisted in this life are occasions of laughter and of tears, that I cannot yet recall without smiling an incident which occurred at that time, and which had nearly put a stop to the immediate execution of my plan. I had a trunk of immense weight, for, besides my clothes, it contained nearly all my library. The difficulty was to get this removed to a carrier’s: my room was at an aërial elevation in the house, and (what was worse) the staircase which communicated with this angle of the building was accessible only by a gallery, which passed the head-master’s chamber door. I was a favourite with all the servants, and knowing that any of them would screen me and act confidentially, I communicated my embarrassment to a groom of the head-master’s. The groom swore he would do anything I wished, and when the time arrived went upstairs to bring the trunk down. This I feared was beyond the strength of any one man; however, the groom was a man

Laughter and tears are so intertwined in this life that I still smile when I recall an incident from that time. It nearly stopped me from carrying out my plan immediately. I had an immensely heavy trunk. Besides my clothes, it contained nearly all my library. The difficulty was getting it to a carrier. My room was high up in the house. Worse still, the only way to reach the staircase leading to my part of the building was along a gallery that passed the headmaster’s bedroom door. I was a favorite with all the servants, and I knew any of them would protect me and keep my secret. So I told one of the headmaster’s grooms about my difficulty. He swore he would do anything I asked. When the time came, he went upstairs to bring the trunk down. I feared the trunk was too heavy for any one man to carry. However, the groom was a man

and had a back as spacious as Salisbury Plain. Accordingly he persisted in bringing down the trunk alone, whilst I stood waiting at the foot of the last flight in anxiety for the event. For some time I heard him descending with slow and firm steps; but unfortunately, from his trepidation, as he drew near the dangerous quarter, within a few steps of the gallery, his foot slipped, and the mighty burden falling from his shoulders, gained such increase of impetus at each step of the descent, that on reaching the bottom it trundled, or rather leaped, right across, with the noise of twenty devils, against the very bedroom door of the Archididascalus. My first thought was that all was lost, and that my only chance for executing a retreat was to sacrifice my baggage. However, on reflection I determined to abide the issue. The groom was in the utmost alarm, both on his own account and on mine, but, in spite of this, so irresistibly had the sense of the ludicrous in this unhappy contretemps taken possession of his fancy, that he sang out a long, loud, and canorous peal of laughter, that might have wakened the Seven Sleepers. At the sound of this resonant merriment, within the very ears of insulted authority, I could not myself forbear joining in it; subdued to this, not so much by the unhappy étourderie of the trunk, as by the effect it had upon the groom. We both expected, as a matter of course, that Dr. —— would sally, out of his room, for in general, if but a mouse stirred, he sprang out like a mastiff from his kennel. Strange to say, however, on this occasion, when the noise of laughter had ceased, no sound, or rustling even, was to be heard in the bedroom. Dr. —— had a painful complaint, which, sometimes keeping him awake, made his sleep perhaps, when it did come, the deeper. Gathering courage from the silence, the groom hoisted his burden again, and accomplished the remainder of his descent without accident. I waited until I saw the trunk placed on a wheelbarrow and on its road to the carrier’s; then, “with Providence my guide,” I set off on foot, carrying a small parcel with some articles of dress under my arm; a favourite English poet in one pocket, and a small 12mo volume, containing about nine plays of Euripides, in the other.

and had a back as broad as Salisbury Plain. So he insisted on carrying the trunk down alone. I stood waiting anxiously at the foot of the last flight, wondering what would happen. For a while, I heard him descending slowly and steadily. But as he approached the dangerous spot, only a few steps from the gallery, his foot slipped in his nervousness. The enormous trunk fell from his shoulders and picked up speed with every step. When it reached the bottom, it rolled, or rather leaped, right across the landing. With the noise of twenty devils, it crashed against the Archididascalus’s bedroom door. At first, I thought all was lost. My only chance of getting away, I thought, was to abandon my luggage. But after thinking it over, I decided to wait and see what happened. The groom was extremely alarmed, both for himself and for me. Yet despite his alarm, he found the unfortunate mishap irresistibly funny. He burst into a long, loud, ringing peal of laughter that might have woken the Seven Sleepers. His laughter rang out within earshot of the authority we had just offended. Hearing it, I could not help joining in. What made me laugh was not so much the trunk’s unfortunate blunder as its effect on the groom. We both naturally expected Dr. —— to rush out of his room. Usually, if even a mouse stirred, he sprang out like a mastiff from its kennel. Strangely, though, when the laughter stopped, we could not hear a sound or even a rustle in the bedroom. Dr. —— suffered from a painful complaint that sometimes kept him awake. Perhaps that made his sleep deeper when it did come. Encouraged by the silence, the groom lifted the trunk again and carried it the rest of the way down without mishap. I waited until I saw it loaded onto a wheelbarrow and on its way to the carrier’s. Then, “with Providence my guide,” I set off on foot. Under my arm I carried a small parcel containing some clothes. In one pocket I had a favourite English poet, and in the other a small 12mo volume containing about nine plays by Euripides.

It had been my intention originally to proceed to Westmoreland, both from the love I bore to that country and on other personal accounts. Accident, however, gave a different direction to my wanderings, and I bent my steps towards North Wales.

I had originally planned to go to Westmoreland because I loved the region and for other personal reasons. But chance led me elsewhere, and I headed toward North Wales.

After wandering about for some time in Denbighshire, Merionethshire, and Carnarvonshire, I took lodgings in a small neat house in B——. Here I might have stayed with great comfort for many weeks, for provisions were cheap at B——, from the scarcity of other markets for the surplus produce of a wide agricultural district. An accident, however, in which perhaps no offence was designed, drove me out to wander again. I know not whether my reader may have remarked, but I have often remarked, that the proudest class of people in England (or at any rate the class whose pride is most apparent) are the families of bishops. Noblemen and their children carry about with them, in their very titles, a sufficient notification of their rank. Nay, their very names (and this applies also to the children of many untitled houses) are often, to the English ear, adequate exponents of high birth or descent. Sackville, Manners, Fitzroy, Paulet, Cavendish, and scores of others, tell their own tale. Such persons, therefore, find everywhere a due sense of their claims already established, except among those who are ignorant of the world by virtue of their own obscurity: “Not to know them, argues one’s self unknown.” Their manners take a suitable tone and colouring, and for once they find it necessary to impress a sense of their consequence upon others, they meet with a thousand occasions for moderating and tempering this sense by acts of courteous condescension. With the families of bishops it is otherwise: with them, it is all uphill work to make known their pretensions; for the proportion of the episcopal bench taken from noble families is not at any time very large, and the succession to these dignities is so rapid that the public ear seldom has time to become familiar with them, unless where they are connected with some literary reputation. Hence it is that the children of bishops carry about with them an austere and repulsive air, indicative of claims not generally acknowledged, a sort of noli me tangere manner, nervously apprehensive of too familiar approach, and shrinking with the sensitiveness of a gouty man from all contact with the οι πολλοι. Doubtless, a powerful understanding, or unusual goodness of nature, will preserve a man from such weakness, but in general the truth of my representation will be acknowledged; pride, if not of deeper root in such families, appears at least more upon the surface of their manners. This spirit of manners naturally communicates itself to their domestics and other dependants. Now, my landlady had been a lady’s maid or a nurse in the family of the Bishop of ——, and had but lately married away and “settled” (as such people express it) for life. In a little town like B——, merely to have lived in the bishop’s family conferred some distinction; and my good landlady had rather more than her share of the pride I have noticed on that score. What “my lord” said and what “my lord” did, how useful he was in Parliament and how indispensable at Oxford, formed the daily burden of her talk. All this I bore very well, for I was too good-natured to laugh in anybody’s face, and I could make an ample allowance for the garrulity of an old servant. Of necessity, however, I must have appeared in her eyes very inadequately impressed with the bishop’s importance, and, perhaps to punish me for my indifference, or possibly by accident, she one day repeated to me a conversation in which I was indirectly a party concerned. She had been to the palace to pay her respects to the family, and, dinner being over, was summoned into the dining-room. In giving an account of her household economy she happened to mention that she had let her apartments. Thereupon the good bishop (it seemed) had taken occasion to caution her as to her selection of inmates, “for,” said he, “you must recollect, Betty, that this place is in the high road to the Head; so that multitudes of Irish swindlers running away from their debts into England, and of English swindlers running away from their debts to the Isle of Man, are likely to take this place in their route.” This advice certainly was not without reasonable grounds, but rather fitted to be stored up for Mrs. Betty’s private meditations than specially reported to me. What followed, however, was somewhat worse. “Oh, my lord,” answered my landlady (according to her own representation of the matter), “I really don’t think this young gentleman is a swindler, because ——” “You don’t think me a swindler?” said I, interrupting her, in a tumult of indignation: “for the future I shall spare you the trouble of thinking about it.” And without delay I prepared for my departure. Some concessions the good woman seemed disposed to make; but a harsh and contemptuous expression, which I fear that I applied to the learned dignitary himself, roused her indignation in turn, and reconciliation then became impossible. I was indeed greatly irritated at the bishop’s having suggested any grounds of suspicion, however remotely, against a person whom he had never seen; and I thought of letting him know my mind in Greek, which, at the same time that it would furnish some presumption that I was no swindler, would also (I hoped) compel the bishop to reply in the same language; in which case I doubted not to make it appear that if I was not so rich as his lordship, I was a far better Grecian. Calmer thoughts, however, drove this boyish design out of my mind; for I considered that the bishop was in the right to counsel an old servant; that he could not have designed that his advice should be reported to me; and that the same coarseness of mind which had led Mrs. Betty to repeat the advice at all, might have coloured it in a way more agreeable to her own style of thinking than to the actual expressions of the worthy bishop.

After wandering for some time through Denbighshire, Merionethshire, and Carnarvonshire, I rented rooms in a small, neat house in B——. I might have stayed there very comfortably for many weeks. Food was cheap in B—— because the surrounding agricultural district had few other markets for its surplus produce. An incident, however, sent me wandering again, although perhaps no offense was intended. I do not know whether my reader has noticed this, but I often have. The proudest class of people in England, or at least the class whose pride is most visible, consists of bishops’ families. Noblemen and their children carry a sufficient announcement of their rank in their titles. Even their names often tell English listeners that they come from distinguished families. This is also true of the children of many untitled families. Sackville, Manners, Fitzroy, Paulet, Cavendish, and dozens of others speak for themselves. Such people therefore find their claims to status already recognized everywhere, except among those whose own obscurity leaves them ignorant of the world: “Not to know them, argues one’s self unknown.” Their manners take on a corresponding tone and character. For every occasion when they need to impress their importance on others, they have a thousand opportunities to soften that impression through acts of courteous condescension. It is otherwise with bishops’ families. For them, making their claims to status known is an uphill struggle. At any given time, only a small proportion of bishops come from noble families. And bishops succeed one another so quickly that the public rarely has time to become familiar with their names. The exception is when a bishop has a literary reputation. As a result, bishops’ children carry themselves with a stern, off-putting air that signals claims others do not generally recognize. They have a kind of noli me tangere, or “do not touch me,” manner. They are nervously afraid of being approached too familiarly. They shrink from all contact with the οι πολλοι, the common people, as sensitively as a man with gout shrinks from being touched. No doubt, a powerful intellect or unusually good nature will protect a man from such weakness. But in general, people will acknowledge the truth of my description. Even if pride has no deeper roots in such families, it is at least more visible in their manners. This way of behaving naturally spreads to their servants and other dependants. My landlady had been a lady’s maid or a nurse in the family of the Bishop of ——. Only recently, she had married and “settled” (as such people put it) for life. In a little town like B——, merely having lived in the bishop’s household gave a person some distinction. My good landlady had rather more than her share of the pride I have described on that account. Her daily talk was all about what “my lord” said and did, how useful he was in Parliament, and how indispensable at Oxford. I bore it all very well. I was too good-natured to laugh in anyone’s face, and I could make generous allowances for an old servant’s chatter. Still, I must have seemed far too unimpressed by the bishop’s importance in her eyes. Perhaps to punish me for my indifference, or possibly by accident, she one day repeated a conversation that indirectly concerned me. She had been to the palace to pay her respects to the family. After dinner, she was summoned into the dining room. While describing how she managed her household, she happened to mention that she had rented out her rooms. The good bishop, it seemed, then took the opportunity to warn her about choosing lodgers. “For,” he said, “you must remember, Betty, that this place is on the main road to the Head. So many Irish swindlers fleeing their debts to England are likely to pass through here. So are many English swindlers fleeing their debts to the Isle of Man.” The advice certainly had reasonable grounds, but it was better kept for Mrs. Betty’s private consideration than reported directly to me. What followed, however, was somewhat worse. “Oh, my lord,” my landlady had answered, according to her own account, “I really don’t think this young gentleman is a swindler, because ——” “You don’t think me a swindler?” I interrupted, in a storm of indignation. “In future, I shall spare you the trouble of thinking about it.” I immediately prepared to leave. The good woman seemed willing to make some concessions. But I fear I used a harsh and contemptuous expression about the learned dignitary himself. This stirred her indignation in turn, and reconciliation became impossible. I was indeed greatly irritated that the bishop had suggested any grounds for suspicion, however indirectly, against someone he had never seen. I thought of telling him what I thought in Greek. That might offer some evidence that I was no swindler. I also hoped it would force the bishop to reply in the same language. If he did, I had no doubt that I could show that, though I was not as rich as his lordship, I was a far better Greek scholar. Calmer thoughts, however, drove this childish plan from my mind. I considered that the bishop was right to advise an old servant. He could not have intended his advice to be reported to me. And the same coarseness of mind that had led Mrs. Betty to repeat it at all might also have colored her account. Her version might have suited her own way of thinking better than the worthy bishop’s actual words.

I left the lodgings the very same hour, and this turned out a very unfortunate occurrence for me, because, living henceforward at inns, I was drained of my money very rapidly. In a fortnight I was reduced to short allowance; that is, I could allow myself only one meal a day. From the keen appetite produced by constant exercise and mountain air, acting on a youthful stomach, I soon began to suffer greatly on this slender regimen, for the single meal which I could venture to order was coffee or tea. Even this, however, was at length withdrawn; and afterwards, so long as I remained in Wales, I subsisted either on blackberries, hips, haws, &c., or on the casual hospitalities which I now and then received in return for such little services as I had an opportunity of rendering. Sometimes I wrote letters of business for cottagers who happened to have relatives in Liverpool or in London; more often I wrote love-letters to their sweethearts for young women who had lived as servants at Shrewsbury or other towns on the English border. On all such occasions I gave great satisfaction to my humble friends, and was generally treated with hospitality; and once in particular, near the village of Llan-y-styndw (or some such name), in a sequestered part of Merionethshire, I was entertained for upwards of three days by a family of young people with an affectionate and fraternal kindness that left an impression upon my heart not yet impaired. The family consisted at that time of four sisters and three brothers, all grown up, and all remarkable for elegance and delicacy of manners. So much beauty, and so much native good breeding and refinement, I do not remember to have seen before or since in any cottage, except once or twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire. They spoke English, an accomplishment not often met with in so many members of one family, especially in villages remote from the high road. Here I wrote, on my first introduction, a letter about prize-money, for one of the brothers, who had served on board an English man-of-war; and, more privately, two love-letters for two of the sisters. They were both interesting-looking girls, and one of uncommon loveliness. In the midst of their confusion and blushes, whilst dictating, or rather giving me general instructions, it did not require any great penetration to discover that what they wished was that their letters should be as kind as was consistent with proper maidenly pride. I contrived so to temper my expressions as to reconcile the gratification of both feelings; and they were as much pleased with the way in which I had expressed their thoughts as (in their simplicity) they were astonished at my having so readily discovered them. The reception one meets with from the women of a family generally determines the tenor of one’s whole entertainment. In this case I had discharged my confidential duties as secretary so much to the general satisfaction, perhaps also amusing them with my conversation, that I was pressed to stay with a cordiality which I had little inclination to resist. I slept with the brothers, the only unoccupied bed standing in the apartment of the young women; but in all other points they treated me with a respect not usually paid to purses as light as mine—as if my scholarship were sufficient evidence that I was of “gentle blood.” Thus I lived with them for three days and great part of a fourth; and, from the undiminished kindness which they continued to show me, I believe I might have stayed with them up to this time, if their power had corresponded with their wishes. On the last morning, however, I perceived upon their countenances, as they sate at breakfast, the expression of some unpleasant communication which was at hand; and soon after, one of the brothers explained to me that their parents had gone, the day before my arrival, to an annual meeting of Methodists, held at Carnarvon, and were that day expected to return; “and if they should not be so civil as they ought to be,” he begged, on the part of all the young people, that I would not take it amiss. The parents returned with churlish faces, and “Dym Sassenach” (no English) in answer to all my addresses. I saw how matters stood; and so, taking an affectionate leave of my kind and interesting young hosts, I went my way; for, though they spoke warmly to their parents in my behalf, and often excused the manner of the old people by saying it was “only their way,” yet I easily understood that my talent for writing love-letters would do as little to recommend me with two grave sexagenarian Welsh Methodists as my Greek sapphics or alcaics; and what had been hospitality when offered to me with the gracious courtesy of my young friends, would become charity when connected with the harsh demeanour of these old people. Certainly, Mr. Shelley is right in his notions about old age: unless powerfully counteracted by all sorts of opposite agencies, it is a miserable corrupter and blighter to the genial charities of the human heart.

I left the lodgings that very hour, and this turned out to be very unfortunate for me. From then on, I lived at inns, which quickly drained my money. Within two weeks, I had to ration myself to one meal a day. Constant exercise and mountain air gave me a keen appetite, and my young stomach soon suffered greatly on this meager diet. The one meal I dared to order was coffee or tea. Eventually, even that was beyond my means. Afterward, for as long as I remained in Wales, I lived on blackberries, rose hips, hawthorn berries, and the like. I also received occasional hospitality in return for small services I had the chance to perform. Sometimes I wrote business letters for cottagers who had relatives in Liverpool or London. More often, I wrote love letters to the sweethearts of young women who had worked as servants in Shrewsbury or other towns on the English border. On all these occasions, I gave my humble friends great satisfaction, and they generally treated me with hospitality. Once, in particular, a family of young people welcomed me for more than three days. They lived near the village of Llan-y-styndw, or some such name, in a secluded part of Merionethshire. Their affectionate, family-like kindness left an impression on my heart that has not faded. At that time, the family consisted of four sisters and three brothers. All were grown up, and all had remarkably elegant and delicate manners. I cannot remember seeing so much beauty and such natural good breeding and refinement in any cottage before or since, except once or twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire. They spoke English, a skill not often found in so many members of one family, especially in villages far from the main road. When I first met them, I wrote a letter about prize money for one of the brothers, who had served aboard an English warship. More privately, I wrote two love letters for two of the sisters. Both were appealing-looking girls, and one was extraordinarily lovely. As they dictated, or rather gave me general instructions, they blushed and became flustered. But it took little insight to see what they wanted. Their letters were to be as kind as proper maidenly pride allowed. I managed to phrase the letters so that both wishes were satisfied. They were as pleased with the way I expressed their thoughts as they were, in their simplicity, astonished that I had discovered those thoughts so readily. The welcome a person receives from the women of a family generally determines the character of the whole visit. In this case, I had carried out my confidential duties as secretary to everyone’s satisfaction. Perhaps I had also amused them with my conversation. They urged me to stay with such warmth that I had little desire to refuse. I slept with the brothers because the only unoccupied bed was in the young women’s room. But in every other respect they treated me with a degree of respect not usually shown to someone with as little money as I had. It was as if my learning were enough to prove that I was of “gentle blood.” I stayed with them for three days and most of a fourth. Their kindness never lessened, and I believe I might have stayed with them until now if their means had matched their wishes. On the last morning, however, I could see from their faces at breakfast that they had unpleasant news to tell me. Soon afterward, one of the brothers explained that their parents had left the day before I arrived. They had gone to an annual Methodist meeting at Carnarvon and were expected home that day. On behalf of all the young people, he begged me not to take offense “if they should not be so civil as they ought to be.” The parents returned with unfriendly faces and answered everything I said with “Dym Sassenach” (no English). I saw how matters stood, so I took an affectionate leave of my kind and interesting young hosts and went on my way. They spoke warmly to their parents on my behalf and often excused the old people’s manner, saying it was “only their way.” Yet I understood easily enough that my skill at writing love letters would recommend me no more to two serious Welsh Methodists in their sixties than would my Greek sapphics or alcaics. What had been hospitality when offered with the gracious courtesy of my young friends would become charity when joined to the harsh manner of the old people. Certainly, Mr. Shelley is right in his views on old age. Unless strongly opposed by all kinds of contrary influences, old age miserably corrupts and blights the kindly affections of the human heart.

Soon after this I contrived, by means which I must omit for want of room, to transfer myself to London. And now began the latter and fiercer stage of my long sufferings; without using a disproportionate expression I might say, of my agony. For I now suffered, for upwards of sixteen weeks, the physical anguish of hunger in various degrees of intensity; but as bitter, perhaps, as ever any human being can have suffered who has survived it. I would not needlessly harass my reader’s feelings by a detail of all that I endured; for extremities such as these, under any circumstances of heaviest misconduct or guilt, cannot be contemplated, even in description, without a rueful pity that is painful to the natural goodness of the human heart. Let it suffice, at least on this occasion, to say that a few fragments of bread from the breakfast-table of one individual (who supposed me to be ill, but did not know of my being in utter want), and these at uncertain intervals, constituted my whole support. During the former part of my sufferings (that is, generally in Wales, and always for the first two months in London) I was houseless, and very seldom slept under a roof. To this constant exposure to the open air I ascribe it mainly that I did not sink under my torments. Latterly, however, when colder and more inclement weather came on, and when, from the length of my sufferings, I had begun to sink into a more languishing condition, it was no doubt fortunate for me that the same person to whose breakfast-table I had access, allowed me to sleep in a large unoccupied house of which he was tenant. Unoccupied I call it, for there was no household or establishment in it; nor any furniture, indeed, except a table and a few chairs. But I found, on taking possession of my new quarters, that the house already contained one single inmate, a poor friendless child, apparently ten years old; but she seemed hunger-bitten, and sufferings of that sort often make children look older than they are. From this forlorn child I learned that she had slept and lived there alone for some time before I came; and great joy the poor creature expressed when she found that I was in future to be her companion through the hours of darkness. The house was large, and, from the want of furniture, the noise of the rats made a prodigious echoing on the spacious staircase and hall; and amidst the real fleshly ills of cold and, I fear, hunger, the forsaken child had found leisure to suffer still more (it appeared) from the self-created one of ghosts. I promised her protection against all ghosts whatsoever, but alas! I could offer her no other assistance. We lay upon the floor, with a bundle of cursed law papers for a pillow, but with no other covering than a sort of large horseman’s cloak; afterwards, however, we discovered in a garret an old sofa-cover, a small piece of rug, and some fragments of other articles, which added a little to our warmth. The poor child crept close to me for warmth, and for security against her ghostly enemies. When I was not more than usually ill I took her into my arms, so that in general she was tolerably warm, and often slept when I could not, for during the last two months of my sufferings I slept much in daytime, and was apt to fall into transient dosings at all hours. But my sleep distressed me more than my watching, for beside the tumultuousness of my dreams (which were only not so awful as those which I shall have to describe hereafter as produced by opium), my sleep was never more than what is called dog-sleep; so that I could hear myself moaning, and was often, as it seemed to me, awakened suddenly by my own voice; and about this time a hideous sensation began to haunt me as soon as I fell into a slumber, which has since returned upon me at different periods of my life—viz., a sort of twitching (I know not where, but apparently about the region of the stomach) which compelled me violently to throw out my feet for the sake of relieving it. This sensation coming on as soon as I began to sleep, and the effort to relieve it constantly awaking me, at length I slept only from exhaustion; and from increasing weakness (as I said before) I was constantly falling asleep and constantly awaking. Meantime, the master of the house sometimes came in upon us suddenly, and very early; sometimes not till ten o’clock, sometimes not at all. He was in constant fear of bailiffs. Improving on the plan of Cromwell, every night he slept in a different quarter of London; and I observed that he never failed to examine through a private window the appearance of those who knocked at the door before he would allow it to be opened. He breaksfasted alone; indeed, his tea equipage would hardly have admitted of his hazarding an invitation to a second person, any more than the quantity of esculent matériel, which for the most part was little more than a roll or a few biscuits which he had bought on his road from the place where he had slept. Or, if he had asked a party—as I once learnedly and facetiously observed to him—the several members of it must have stood in the relation to each other (not sate in any relation whatever) of succession, as the metaphysicians have it, and not of a coexistence; in the relation of the parts of time, and not of the parts of space. During his breakfast I generally contrived a reason for lounging in, and, with an air of as much indifference as I could assume, took up such fragments as he had left; sometimes, indeed, there were none at all. In doing this I committed no robbery except upon the man himself, who was thus obliged (I believe) now and then to send out at noon for an extra biscuit; for as to the poor child, she was never admitted into his study (if I may give that name to his chief depository of parchments, law writings, &c.); that room was to her the Bluebeard room of the house, being regularly locked on his departure to dinner, about six o’clock, which usually was his final departure for the night. Whether this child were an illegitimate daughter of Mr. ——, or only a servant, I could not ascertain; she did not herself know; but certainly she was treated altogether as a menial servant. No sooner did Mr. —— make his appearance than she went below stairs, brushed his shoes, coat, &c.; and, except when she was summoned to run an errand, she never emerged from the dismal Tartarus of the kitchen, &c., to the upper air until my welcome knock at night called up her little trembling footsteps to the front door. Of her life during the daytime, however, I knew little but what I gathered from her own account at night, for as soon as the hours of business commenced I saw that my absence would be acceptable, and in general, therefore, I went off and sate in the parks or elsewhere until nightfall.

Soon afterward, I managed to get to London. I must leave out how I did it for lack of space. Now began the later and fiercer stage of my long suffering. I could call it agony without exaggerating. For more than sixteen weeks, I felt the physical pain of hunger, sometimes more intensely than at others. But it was perhaps as bitter as any human being has ever suffered and survived. I would not needlessly distress my reader by describing everything I endured. Even in description, such extreme suffering cannot be contemplated without painful pity. This is true whatever terrible misconduct or guilt may have brought it on, because of the natural goodness of the human heart. For now, it is enough to say that I lived entirely on a few scraps of bread from one man’s breakfast table. I received even these at uncertain intervals. The man thought I was ill, but did not know I was utterly destitute. During the earlier part of my suffering, I had no home and very seldom slept under a roof. This was generally true in Wales, and always true during my first two months in London. I believe it was mainly this constant exposure to the open air that kept me from dying under my torments. Later, however, the weather grew colder and harsher. My long suffering had also begun to leave me weaker and more exhausted. It was no doubt fortunate, then, that the man whose breakfast table I visited let me sleep in a large, unoccupied house he rented. I call it unoccupied because no household or establishment was kept there. There was no furniture either, except a table and a few chairs. But when I moved in, I found one person already living there. She was a poor, friendless child, apparently ten years old. She looked worn down by hunger, though, and such suffering often makes children look older than they are. From this forlorn child I learned that she had lived and slept there alone for some time before I came. The poor creature was overjoyed to learn that I would now keep her company through the dark hours. The house was large, and without furniture to muffle it, the noise of the rats echoed enormously through the spacious hall and staircase. The abandoned child had real bodily troubles from cold and, I fear, hunger. Yet she had still found time to suffer even more, it seemed, from a fear of ghosts that she had created herself. I promised to protect her against every ghost, but alas, I could offer her no other help. We lay on the floor with a bundle of cursed legal papers for a pillow. Our only covering was a large riding cloak. Later, however, we found an old sofa cover, a small piece of rug, and scraps of other things in an attic. These made us a little warmer. The poor child crept close to me for warmth and protection from her ghostly enemies. When I was no more ill than usual, I held her in my arms. So she was generally reasonably warm and often slept when I could not. During the last two months of my suffering, I slept a great deal in the daytime. I also tended to fall into brief dozes at any hour. But sleep distressed me more than being awake. My dreams were turbulent. They were only less dreadful than the opium dreams I shall describe later. Besides, my sleep was never more than what is called dog-sleep. I could hear myself moaning, and it often seemed that my own voice woke me suddenly. About this time, a hideous sensation began to haunt me as soon as I dozed off. It has returned at various times in my life since then. It was a kind of twitching, apparently somewhere around my stomach, though I do not know exactly where. To relieve it, I had to throw out my feet violently. The sensation came on as soon as I began to sleep, and my effort to relieve it constantly woke me. At last I slept only from exhaustion. As I said before, my growing weakness made me constantly fall asleep and constantly wake again. Meanwhile, the master of the house sometimes came in on us suddenly and very early. Sometimes he did not come until ten o’clock, and sometimes he did not come at all. He lived in constant fear of bailiffs. Going one better than Cromwell, he slept in a different part of London every night. I noticed that whenever anyone knocked, he always examined them through a private window before allowing the door to be opened. He breakfasted alone. Indeed, his tea things could hardly have allowed him to risk inviting a second person. Nor could the amount of food he had. It was usually little more than a roll or a few biscuits bought on his way from wherever he had slept. Or, if he had invited a party, as I once jokingly remarked to him in learned terms, its members would have had to stand in a relation of succession to one another, not of coexistence, as the metaphysicians say. They could not have sat in any relation at all. They would have been like the parts of time, not the parts of space. During his breakfast I generally found a reason to wander in. Then, with as much indifference as I could pretend, I picked up whatever scraps he had left. Sometimes, of course, there were none at all. By doing this I robbed no one but the man himself. I believe he was now and then obliged to send out at noon for an extra biscuit. The poor child, after all, was never allowed into his study. I call it a study, though it was chiefly where he kept his parchments, legal papers, and so on. To her, that room was the Bluebeard room of the house. He always locked it when he left for dinner, about six o’clock, and usually did not return that night. I could not find out whether the child was Mr. ——’s illegitimate daughter or merely a servant. She did not know herself. But she was certainly treated entirely as a lowly servant. As soon as Mr. —— appeared, she went downstairs and brushed his shoes, coat, and so on. Except when she was called to run an errand, she never came up from the gloomy Tartarus of the kitchen and its surroundings until my welcome knock at night brought her little trembling footsteps to the front door. I knew little of her life during the day beyond what she told me at night. As soon as business hours began, I could see that my absence would be welcome. So I generally went away and sat in the parks or elsewhere until nightfall.

But who and what, meantime, was the master of the house himself? Reader, he was one of those anomalous practitioners in lower departments of the law who—what shall I say?—who on prudential reasons, or from necessity, deny themselves all indulgence in the luxury of too delicate a conscience, (a periphrasis which might be abridged considerably, but that I leave to the reader’s taste): in many walks of life a conscience is a more expensive encumbrance than a wife or a carriage; and just as people talk of “laying down” their carriages, so I suppose my friend Mr. —— had “laid down” his conscience for a time, meaning, doubtless, to resume it as soon as he could afford it. The inner economy of such a man’s daily life would present a most strange picture, if I could allow myself to amuse the reader at his expense. Even with my limited opportunities for observing what went on, I saw many scenes of London intrigues and complex chicanery, “cycle and epicycle, orb in orb,” at which I sometimes smile to this day, and at which I smiled then, in spite of my misery. My situation, however, at that time gave me little experience in my own person of any qualities in Mr. ——’s character but such as did him honour; and of his whole strange composition I must forget everything but that towards me he was obliging, and to the extent of his power, generous.

But who and what was the master of the house himself? Reader, he was one of those unusual practitioners in the lower branches of the law. How shall I put it? Either out of prudence or necessity, he denied himself the luxury of an overly delicate conscience. That phrase could be shortened considerably, but that I leave to the reader’s taste. In many walks of life, a conscience is a more expensive burden than a wife or a carriage. People speak of “laying down” their carriages, and I suppose my friend Mr. —— had similarly “laid down” his conscience for a time. No doubt he meant to take it up again as soon as he could afford it. The inner workings of such a man’s daily life would make a very strange picture. That is, if I could allow myself to amuse the reader at his expense. Even with my limited opportunities to observe, I saw many scenes of London intrigue and intricate trickery, “cycle and epicycle, orb in orb.” I sometimes smile at them to this day, and I smiled at them then, despite my misery. My situation at the time, however, gave me little personal experience of any qualities in Mr. ——’s character that did not do him credit. And so I must forget everything else in his strange makeup, remembering only that he was obliging to me and generous as far as he could afford to be.

That power was not, indeed, very extensive; however, in common with the rats, I sate rent free; and as Dr. Johnson has recorded that he never but once in his life had as much wall-fruit as he could eat, so let me be grateful that on that single occasion I had as large a choice of apartments in a London mansion as I could possibly desire. Except the Bluebeard room, which the poor child believed to be haunted, all others, from the attics to the cellars, were at our service; “the world was all before us,” and we pitched our tent for the night in any spot we chose. This house I have already described as a large one; it stands in a conspicuous situation and in a well-known part of London. Many of my readers will have passed it, I doubt not, within a few hours of reading this. For myself, I never fail to visit it when business draws me to London; about ten o’clock this very night, August 15, 1821—being my birthday—I turned aside from my evening walk down Oxford Street, purposely to take a glance at it; it is now occupied by a respectable family, and by the lights in the front drawing-room I observed a domestic party assembled, perhaps at tea, and apparently cheerful and gay. Marvellous contrast, in my eyes, to the darkness, cold, silence, and desolation of that same house eighteen years ago, when its nightly occupants were one famishing scholar and a neglected child. Her, by-the-bye, in after-years I vainly endeavoured to trace. Apart from her situation, she was not what would be called an interesting child; she was neither pretty, nor quick in understanding, nor remarkably pleasing in manners. But, thank God! even in those years I needed not the embellishments of novel accessories to conciliate my affections: plain human nature, in its humblest and most homely apparel, was enough for me, and I loved the child because she was my partner in wretchedness. If she is now living she is probably a mother, with children of her own; but, as I have said, I could never trace her.

That power was not very extensive, but, like the rats, I lived rent-free. Dr. Johnson recorded that only once in his life had he had as much fruit from a garden wall as he could eat. In the same way, let me be grateful that, on that one occasion, I had as wide a choice of rooms in a London mansion as I could possibly want. All the rooms, from the attics to the cellars, were at our disposal, except the Bluebeard room. The poor child believed that room was haunted. “the world was all before us,” and we could settle down for the night wherever we chose. I have already described the house as a large one. It stands in a prominent spot in a well-known part of London. I have no doubt that many of my readers will have passed it within a few hours of reading this. Whenever business brings me to London, I always visit the house. At about ten o’clock tonight, August 15, 1821, I turned aside from my evening walk down Oxford Street to take a look at it. Today is my birthday. A respectable family now lives there. By the light in the front drawing room, I saw a group gathered, perhaps for tea. They seemed cheerful and happy. To my eyes, this was a wonderful contrast with the darkness, cold, silence, and desolation of the same house eighteen years ago. Then its nightly occupants were a starving scholar and a neglected child. In later years, I tried in vain to find the child. Apart from her circumstances, she was not what people would call an interesting child. She was not pretty, quick to understand, or especially pleasant in her manners. But, thank God! Even then, I did not need the trappings of a novel to win my affection. Plain human nature, in its humblest and most ordinary form, was enough for me. I loved the child because she shared my misery. If she is alive now, she is probably a mother with children of her own. But, as I have said, I could never find her.

This I regret; but another person there was at that time whom I have since sought to trace with far deeper earnestness, and with far deeper sorrow at my failure. This person was a young woman, and one of that unhappy class who subsist upon the wages of prostitution. I feel no shame, nor have any reason to feel it, in avowing that I was then on familiar and friendly terms with many women in that unfortunate condition. The reader needs neither smile at this avowal nor frown; for, not to remind my classical readers of the old Latin proverb, “Sine cerere,” &c., it may well be supposed that in the existing state of my purse my connection with such women could not have been an impure one. But the truth is, that at no time of my life have I been a person to hold myself polluted by the touch or approach of any creature that wore a human shape; on the contrary, from my very earliest youth it has been my pride to converse familiarly, more Socratio, with all human beings, man, woman, and child, that chance might fling in my way; a practice which is friendly to the knowledge of human nature, to good feelings, and to that frankness of address which becomes a man who would be thought a philosopher. For a philosopher should not see with the eyes of the poor limitary creature calling himself a man of the world, and filled with narrow and self-regarding prejudices of birth and education, but should look upon himself as a catholic creature, and as standing in equal relation to high and low, to educated and uneducated, to the guilty and the innocent. Being myself at that time of necessity a peripatetic, or a walker of the streets, I naturally fell in more frequently with those female peripatetics who are technically called street-walkers. Many of these women had occasionally taken my part against watchmen who wished to drive me off the steps of houses where I was sitting. But one amongst them, the one on whose account I have at all introduced this subject—yet no! let me not class the, oh! noble-minded Ann—with that order of women. Let me find, if it be possible, some gentler name to designate the condition of her to whose bounty and compassion, ministering to my necessities when all the world had forsaken me, I owe it that I am at this time alive. For many weeks I had walked at nights with this poor friendless girl up and down Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps and under the shelter of porticoes. She could not be so old as myself; she told me, indeed, that she had not completed her sixteenth year. By such questions as my interest about her prompted I had gradually drawn forth her simple history. Hers was a case of ordinary occurrence (as I have since had reason to think), and one in which, if London beneficence had better adapted its arrangements to meet it, the power of the law might oftener be interposed to protect and to avenge. But the stream of London charity flows in a channel which, though deep and mighty, is yet noiseless and underground; not obvious or readily accessible to poor houseless wanderers; and it cannot be denied that the outside air and framework of London society is harsh, cruel, and repulsive. In any case, however, I saw that part of her injuries might easily have been redressed, and I urged her often and earnestly to lay her complaint before a magistrate. Friendless as she was, I assured her that she would meet with immediate attention, and that English justice, which was no respecter of persons, would speedily and amply avenge her on the brutal ruffian who had plundered her little property. She promised me often that she would, but she delayed taking the steps I pointed out from time to time, for she was timid and dejected to a degree which showed how deeply sorrow had taken hold of her young heart; and perhaps she thought justly that the most upright judge and the most righteous tribunals could do nothing to repair her heaviest wrongs. Something, however, would perhaps have been done, for it had been settled between us at length, but unhappily on the very last time but one that I was ever to see her, that in a day or two we should go together before a magistrate, and that I should speak on her behalf. This little service it was destined, however, that I should never realise. Meantime, that which she rendered to me, and which was greater than I could ever have repaid her, was this:—One night, when we were pacing slowly along Oxford Street, and after a day when I had felt more than usually ill and faint, I requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square. Thither we went, and we sat down on the steps of a house, which to this hour I never pass without a pang of grief and an inner act of homage to the spirit of that unhappy girl, in memory of the noble action which she there performed. Suddenly, as we sate, I grew much worse. I had been leaning my head against her bosom, and all at once I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. From the sensations I then had, I felt an inner conviction of the liveliest kind, that without some powerful and reviving stimulus I should either have died on the spot, or should at least have sunk to a point of exhaustion from which all reäscent under my friendless circumstances would soon have become hopeless. Then it was, at this crisis of my fate, that my poor orphan companion, who had herself met with little but injuries in this world, stretched out a saving hand to me. Uttering a cry of terror, but without a moment’s delay, she ran off into Oxford Street, and in less time than could be imagined returned to me with a glass of port wine and spices, that acted upon my empty stomach, which at that time would have rejected all solid food, with an instantaneous power of restoration; and for this glass the generous girl without a murmur paid out of her humble purse at a time—be it remembered!—when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever be able to reimburse her.

I regret this. But there was another person at that time whom I have since tried much harder to find. I have felt much deeper sorrow at my failure. She was a young woman, one of the unhappy people who earn their living through prostitution. I feel no shame, and have no reason to feel any, in admitting that I was friendly with many women in that unfortunate position. The reader need neither smile nor frown at this admission. I need not remind my classically educated readers of the old Latin proverb, “Sine cerere,” etc. Given how little money I had, they can easily suppose that my relationships with these women could not have been sexual. But the truth is that I have never felt myself tainted by the touch or presence of any human being. On the contrary, from my earliest youth, I have taken pride in talking freely, more Socratio, with everyone I happened to meet, man, woman, or child. This practice encourages knowledge of human nature, kindly feelings, and the frank manner of speaking proper to a man who would be thought a philosopher. For a philosopher should not see through the eyes of that poor, narrow creature who calls himself a man of the world. Such a man is full of narrow, self-interested prejudices based on birth and education. Instead, a philosopher should think of himself as a universal being, equally connected to high and low, educated and uneducated, guilty and innocent. At that time I was, by necessity, a peripatetic, or street walker. So I naturally met more often with those female peripatetics technically called streetwalkers. Many of these women had sometimes defended me against watchmen who wanted to drive me off the steps of houses where I was sitting. But one of them was the reason I brought up this subject at all. Yet no! Let me not place the oh, noble-minded Ann among that class of women. Let me find, if possible, some gentler name for her condition. When all the world had abandoned me, her generosity and compassion met my needs, and I owe my life to her. For many weeks I had walked at night with this poor, friendless girl up and down Oxford Street. We had also rested together on steps and under the shelter of porticoes. She could not have been as old as I was. Indeed, she told me she was not yet sixteen. As I grew interested in her, I gradually learned her simple history by asking questions. Her case was an ordinary one, as I have since had reason to think. If London charities had better adapted their arrangements to meet such cases, the law might more often have been brought in to protect and avenge people like her. But the stream of London charity runs through a channel that is deep and mighty, yet silent and underground. It is not visible or easily accessible to poor, homeless wanderers. And no one can deny that the outward atmosphere and structure of London society are harsh, cruel, and repulsive. In any case, I saw that some of the wrongs done to her could easily have been put right. So I often urged her earnestly to take her complaint to a magistrate. Though she had no friends, I assured her that she would receive immediate attention. English justice, which treated everyone equally, would quickly and fully avenge her against the brutal ruffian who had robbed her of her few possessions. She often promised me that she would go, but kept putting off the steps I suggested. She was so timid and dejected that I could see how deeply sorrow had taken hold of her young heart. And perhaps she was right to think that even the most upright judge and the fairest courts could do nothing to repair the worst wrongs she had suffered. Still, perhaps something could have been done. At last we agreed that in a day or two we would go together before a magistrate, and that I would speak for her. Sadly, we made this agreement on the next-to-last occasion I would ever see her. So I was never to carry out this small service. Meanwhile, the service she did for me was greater than anything I could ever have repaid. It happened one night as we walked slowly along Oxford Street. I had felt more ill and faint than usual that day, and I asked her to turn with me into Soho Square. We went there and sat down on the steps of a house. To this day, whenever I pass it, I feel a pang of grief and silently honor the spirit of that unhappy girl. I do this in memory of the noble act she performed there. Suddenly, as we sat, I grew much worse. I had been leaning my head against her chest. All at once I slipped from her arms and fell backward onto the steps. From what I felt then, I was deeply convinced that I needed something powerful to revive me. Without it, I believed I would either have died there or sunk into such exhaustion that, being friendless, I would soon have had no hope of recovery. At this crisis in my life, my poor orphan companion reached out a saving hand to me. She herself had met with little but harm in this world. She cried out in terror, but ran off into Oxford Street without a moment’s delay. She returned sooner than could be imagined with a glass of port wine and spices. My stomach was empty, and at that time it would have rejected all solid food. The drink restored me instantly. The generous girl paid for the glass without a complaint, out of her meager purse. Remember that she could barely afford the necessities of life, and had no reason to expect that I could ever pay her back.

Oh, youthful benefactress! how often in succeeding years, standing in solitary places, and thinking of thee with grief of heart and perfect love—how often have I wished that, as in ancient times, the curse of a father was believed to have a supernatural power, and to pursue its object with a fatal necessity of self-fulfilment; even so the benediction of a heart oppressed with gratitude might have a like prerogative, might have power given to it from above to chase, to haunt, to waylay, to overtake, to pursue thee into the central darkness of a London brothel, or (if it were possible) into the darkness of the grave, there to awaken thee with an authentic message of peace and forgiveness, and of final reconciliation!

Oh, my young benefactress! How often in the years that followed I stood in lonely places, thinking of you with grief and perfect love. In ancient times, people believed a father’s curse had supernatural power. They believed it would pursue its victim and inevitably come true. How often I wished that a blessing from a heart overwhelmed with gratitude could have the same power. I wished it could be granted power from above to chase you, haunt you, lie in wait for you, and overtake you. It could pursue you into the deepest darkness of a London brothel or, if possible, into the darkness of the grave. There it could awaken you with a true message of peace and forgiveness, and of final reconciliation!

I do not often weep: for not only do my thoughts on subjects connected with the chief interests of man daily, nay hourly, descend a thousand fathoms “too deep for tears;” not only does the sternness of my habits of thought present an antagonism to the feelings which prompt tears—wanting of necessity to those who, being protected usually by their levity from any tendency to meditative sorrow, would by that same levity be made incapable of resisting it on any casual access of such feelings; but also, I believe that all minds which have contemplated such objects as deeply as I have done, must, for their own protection from utter despondency, have early encouraged and cherished some tranquillising belief as to the future balances and the hieroglyphic meanings of human sufferings. On these accounts I am cheerful to this hour, and, as I have said, I do not often weep. Yet some feelings, though not deeper or more passionate, are more tender than others; and often, when I walk at this time in Oxford Street by dreamy lamplight, and hear those airs played on a barrel-organ which years ago solaced me and my dear companion (as I must always call her), I shed tears, and muse with myself at the mysterious dispensation which so suddenly and so critically separated us for ever. How it happened the reader will understand from what remains of this introductory narration.

I do not often weep. My thoughts about matters central to human life sink daily, even hourly, a thousand fathoms “too deep for tears.” Also, my stern habits of thought resist the feelings that bring tears. People whose lightheartedness usually protects them from sorrowful reflection lack this resistance. If such feelings happen to arise, their lightheartedness leaves them unable to resist them. But I also believe that all minds that have considered such matters as deeply as I have must have found some comfort. To protect themselves from utter despair, they must early on have encouraged and cherished a calming belief about human suffering. They must have believed that suffering will be balanced in the future and has meanings like those of hieroglyphs. For these reasons, I remain cheerful to this day and, as I have said, I do not often weep. Yet some feelings, though no deeper or more passionate than others, are more tender. These days, I often walk along Oxford Street in the dreamy lamplight. There I hear a barrel-organ playing the tunes that comforted me and my dear companion years ago. I must always call her my dear companion. When I hear those tunes, I shed tears and reflect on the mysterious fate that separated us forever. Our separation was so sudden and came at such a critical moment. The reader will understand how it happened from the rest of this introductory account.

Soon after the period of the last incident I have recorded I met in Albemarle Street a gentleman of his late Majesty’s household. This gentleman had received hospitalities on different occasions from my family, and he challenged me upon the strength of my family likeness. I did not attempt any disguise; I answered his questions ingenuously, and, on his pledging his word of honour that he would not betray me to my guardians, I gave him an address to my friend the attorney’s. The next day I received from him a £10 bank-note. The letter enclosing it was delivered with other letters of business to the attorney, but though his look and manner informed me that he suspected its contents, he gave it up to me honourably and without demur.

Soon after the last incident I described, I met a gentleman from the late king’s household in Albemarle Street. My family had entertained him on several occasions, and he recognized me by my family resemblance. I made no attempt to hide who I was and answered his questions honestly. He gave me his word of honour that he would not betray me to my guardians. I then gave him the address of my friend, the attorney. The next day, I received a £10 banknote from him. The letter containing it was delivered to the attorney along with other business letters. His look and manner told me that he suspected what the letter contained, but he honourably gave it to me without objection.

This present, from the particular service to which it was applied, leads me naturally to speak of the purpose which had allured me up to London, and which I had been (to use a forensic word) soliciting from the first day of my arrival in London to that of my final departure.

The particular use I made of this gift naturally leads me to the purpose that had drawn me to London. I had been pursuing that purpose, to use a legal term, from the day I arrived until my final departure.

In so mighty a world as London it will surprise my readers that I should not have found some means of starving off the last extremities of penury; and it will strike them that two resources at least must have been open to me—viz., either to seek assistance from the friends of my family, or to turn my youthful talents and attainments into some channel of pecuniary emolument. As to the first course, I may observe generally, that what I dreaded beyond all other evils was the chance of being reclaimed by my guardians; not doubting that whatever power the law gave them would have been enforced against me to the utmost—that is, to the extremity of forcibly restoring me to the school which I had quitted, a restoration which, as it would in my eyes have been a dishonour, even if submitted to voluntarily, could not fail, when extorted from me in contempt and defiance of my own wishes and efforts, to have been a humiliation worse to me than death, and which would indeed have terminated in death. I was therefore shy enough of applying for assistance even in those quarters where I was sure of receiving it, at the risk of furnishing my guardians with any clue of recovering me. But as to London in particular, though doubtless my father had in his lifetime had many friends there, yet (as ten years had passed since his death) I remembered few of them even by name; and never having seen London before, except once for a few hours, I knew not the address of even those few. To this mode of gaining help, therefore, in part the difficulty, but much more the paramount fear which I have mentioned, habitually indisposed me. In regard to the other mode, I now feel half inclined to join my reader in wondering that I should have overlooked it. As a corrector of Greek proofs (if in no other way) I might doubtless have gained enough for my slender wants. Such an office as this I could have discharged with an exemplary and punctual accuracy that would soon have gained me the confidence of my employers. But it must not be forgotten that, even for such an office as this, it was necessary that I should first of all have an introduction to some respectable publisher, and this I had no means of obtaining. To say the truth, however, it had never once occurred to me to think of literary labours as a source of profit. No mode sufficiently speedy of obtaining money had ever occurred to me but that of borrowing it on the strength of my future claims and expectations. This mode I sought by every avenue to compass; and amongst other persons I applied to a Jew named D—— [^4]

In a city as vast as London, my readers may be surprised that I found no way to avoid extreme poverty. They may think that at least two options were open to me: seeking help from my family’s friends, or using my youthful talents and learning to earn money. As for the first option, I dreaded one thing more than any other: being taken back by my guardians. I had no doubt that they would use every legal power they had against me. They would go so far as to force me back to the school I had left. Even if I had returned willingly, I would have considered it a disgrace. Forced to return against my own wishes and efforts, I would have suffered a humiliation worse than death. Indeed, it would have ended in my death. I was therefore reluctant to ask for help, even where I was sure of receiving it. I feared giving my guardians any clue that might help them find me. As for London in particular, my father had doubtless had many friends there during his lifetime. But ten years had passed since his death, and I remembered few of them, even by name. I had never seen London before, except once for a few hours, and I did not know even those few friends’ addresses. These difficulties partly discouraged me from seeking help in this way. But the overriding fear I have mentioned discouraged me much more. As for the other option, I am now half inclined to share my reader’s surprise that I overlooked it. I could doubtless have earned enough for my modest needs by correcting Greek proofs, if in no other way. I could have done such work with exemplary accuracy and punctuality. Those qualities would soon have won my employers’ confidence. But even for such a job, I first needed an introduction to a respectable publisher, and I had no way of obtaining one. To tell the truth, however, it had never once occurred to me to think of literary work as a source of income. The only way of obtaining money quickly enough that had occurred to me was to borrow against my future claims and expectations. I tried every possible avenue to obtain money in this way. Among others, I approached a Jew named D—— [^4]

To this Jew, and to other advertising money-lenders (some of whom were, I believe, also Jews), I had introduced myself with an account of my expectations; which account, on examining my father’s will at Doctors’ Commons, they had ascertained to be correct. The person there mentioned as the second son of —— was found to have all the claims (or more than all) that I had stated; but one question still remained, which the faces of the Jews pretty significantly suggested—was I that person? This doubt had never occurred to me as a possible one; I had rather feared, whenever my Jewish friends scrutinised me keenly, that I might be too well known to be that person, and that some scheme might be passing in their minds for entrapping me and selling me to my guardians. It was strange to me to find my own self materialiter considered (so I expressed it, for I doated on logical accuracy of distinctions), accused, or at least suspected, of counterfeiting my own self formaliter considered. However, to satisfy their scruples, I took the only course in my power. Whilst I was in Wales I had received various letters from young friends; these I produced, for I carried them constantly in my pocket, being, indeed, by this time almost the only relics of my personal encumbrances (excepting the clothes I wore) which I had not in one way or other disposed of. Most of these letters were from the Earl of ——, who was at that time my chief (or rather only) confidential friend. These letters were dated from Eton. I had also some from the Marquis of ——, his father, who, though absorbed in agricultural pursuits, yet having been an Etonian himself, and as good a scholar as a nobleman needs to be, still retained an affection for classical studies and for youthful scholars. He had accordingly, from the time that I was fifteen, corresponded with me; sometimes upon the great improvements which he had made or was meditating in the counties of M—— and Sl—— since I had been there, sometimes upon the merits of a Latin poet, and at other times suggesting subjects to me on which he wished me to write verses.

I had introduced myself to this Jew and other moneylenders who advertised, some of whom I believe were also Jews. I told them what I expected to inherit. They examined my father’s will at Doctors’ Commons and confirmed that my account was correct. The person named there as the second son of —— had all the claims I had stated, or even more. But one question remained, as the faces of the Jews made quite clear. Was I that person? It had never occurred to me that anyone might doubt it. When my Jewish friends studied me closely, I had feared instead that they knew all too well who I was. I feared they might be planning to trap me and sell me to my guardians. It seemed strange to find myself, considered materialiter, accused, or at least suspected, of impersonating myself, considered formaliter. That was how I put it, for I delighted in making logically precise distinctions. Still, to satisfy their doubts, I took the only course open to me. While in Wales, I had received several letters from young friends. I showed the moneylenders these letters, which I always carried in my pocket. By then, apart from the clothes I wore, they were almost the only personal belongings I had not disposed of somehow. Most of the letters were from the Earl of ——, who was then my chief, or rather my only, close friend. His letters were dated from Eton. I also had some from his father, the Marquis of ——. Though absorbed in farming, the Marquis had been an Etonian himself. He was also as good a scholar as a nobleman needs to be, and still loved classical studies and young scholars. He had therefore corresponded with me since I was fifteen. Sometimes he wrote about the great improvements he had made or was planning in the counties of M—— and Sl—— since my visit. Sometimes he wrote about the merits of a Latin poet. At other times he suggested subjects on which he wanted me to write verses.

On reading the letters, one of my Jewish friends agreed to furnish me with two or three hundred pounds on my personal security, provided I could persuade the young Earl —— who was, by the way, not older than myself—to guarantee the payment on our coming of age; the Jew’s final object being, as I now suppose, not the trifling profit he could expect to make by me, but the prospect of establishing a connection with my noble friend, whose immense expectations were well known to him. In pursuance of this proposal on the part of the Jew, about eight or nine days after I had received the £10, I prepared to go down to Eton. Nearly £3 of the money I had given to my money-lending friend, on his alleging that the stamps must be bought, in order that the writings might be preparing whilst I was away from London. I thought in my heart that he was lying; but I did not wish to give him any excuse for charging his own delays upon me. A smaller sum I had given to my friend the attorney (who was connected with the money-lenders as their lawyer), to which, indeed, he was entitled for his unfurnished lodgings. About fifteen shillings I had employed in re-establishing (though in a very humble way) my dress. Of the remainder I gave one quarter to Ann, meaning on my return to have divided with her whatever might remain. These arrangements made, soon after six o’clock on a dark winter evening I set off, accompanied by Ann, towards Piccadilly; for it was my intention to go down as far as Salthill on the Bath or Bristol mail. Our course lay through a part of the town which has now all disappeared, so that I can no longer retrace its ancient boundaries—Swallow Street, I think it was called. Having time enough before us, however, we bore away to the left until we came into Golden Square; there, near the corner of Sherrard Street, we sat down, not wishing to part in the tumult and blaze of Piccadilly. I had told her of my plans some time before, and I now assured her again that she should share in my good fortune, if I met with any, and that I would never forsake her as soon as I had power to protect her. This I fully intended, as much from inclination as from a sense of duty; for setting aside gratitude, which in any case must have made me her debtor for life, I loved her as affectionately as if she had been my sister; and at this moment with sevenfold tenderness, from pity at witnessing her extreme dejection. I had apparently most reason for dejection, because I was leaving the saviour of my life; yet I, considering the shock my health had received, was cheerful and full of hope. She, on the contrary, who was parting with one who had had little means of serving her, except by kindness and brotherly treatment, was overcome by sorrow; so that, when I kissed her at our final farewell, she put her arms about my neck and wept without speaking a word. I hoped to return in a week at farthest, and I agreed with her that on the fifth night from that, and every night afterwards, she would wait for me at six o’clock near the bottom of Great Titchfield Street, which had been our customary haven, as it were, of rendezvous, to prevent our missing each other in the great Mediterranean of Oxford Street. This and other measures of precaution I took; one only I forgot. She had either never told me, or (as a matter of no great interest) I had forgotten her surname. It is a general practice, indeed, with girls of humble rank in her unhappy condition, not (as novel-reading women of higher pretensions) to style themselves Miss Douglas, Miss Montague, &c., but simply by their Christian names—Mary, Jane, Frances, &c. Her surname, as the surest means of tracing her hereafter, I ought now to have inquired; but the truth is, having no reason to think that our meeting could, in consequence of a short interruption, be more difficult or uncertain than it had been for so many weeks, I had scarcely for a moment adverted to it as necessary, or placed it amongst my memoranda against this parting interview; and my final anxieties being spent in comforting her with hopes, and in pressing upon her the necessity of getting some medicines for a violent cough and hoarseness with which she was troubled, I wholly forgot it until it was too late to recall her.

After reading the letters, one of my Jewish friends agreed to lend me two or three hundred pounds on my personal security. His condition was that I persuade the young Earl —— to guarantee repayment when we came of age. The Earl, by the way, was no older than I was. I now suppose that the Jew’s real aim was not the small profit he could expect from me. He hoped instead to establish a connection with my noble friend, whose immense expected inheritance was well known to him. In response to the Jew’s proposal, I prepared to go down to Eton about eight or nine days after receiving the £10. I had given nearly £3 of it to my money-lending friend. He claimed he needed to buy stamps so that the legal documents could be prepared while I was away from London. In my heart I thought he was lying, but I did not want to give him an excuse to blame his own delays on me. I had given a smaller sum to my friend the attorney, who acted as lawyer for the money-lenders. He was indeed entitled to it for his unfurnished lodgings. I had spent about fifteen shillings on improving my clothes, though only very modestly. Of what remained, I gave one quarter to Ann. I intended to divide whatever was left with her when I returned. Once these arrangements were made, I set off with Ann towards Piccadilly, soon after six o’clock on a dark winter evening. I intended to take the Bath or Bristol mail coach as far as Salthill. Our route took us through a part of town that has now disappeared entirely, so I can no longer trace its old boundaries. I think it was called Swallow Street. We had plenty of time, however, so we turned left and came to Golden Square. There, near the corner of Sherrard Street, we sat down. We did not want to say goodbye amid the noise and bright lights of Piccadilly. I had told Ann about my plans some time before. Now I assured her again that she would share in any good fortune I might have. I also promised never to forsake her once I had the power to protect her. I fully intended this, as much from affection as from duty. Even without the gratitude that would have made me her debtor for life, I loved her as dearly as a sister. At that moment, my tenderness was seven times greater because I pitied her deep sadness. I seemed to have more reason to be sad, because I was leaving the person who had saved my life. Yet I was cheerful and hopeful, considering how badly my health had suffered. Ann, on the other hand, was parting from someone who had had little means to help her, except through kindness and brotherly treatment. Yet she was overcome with sorrow. When I kissed her at our final farewell, she put her arms around my neck and wept without saying a word. I hoped to return within a week at the latest. I arranged with her that, on the fifth night from then and every night afterwards, she would wait for me at six o’clock near the bottom of Great Titchfield Street. It had been our usual meeting place, a kind of harbor that kept us from missing each other in the great Mediterranean of Oxford Street. I took this and other precautions, but forgot one. Either she had never told me her surname, or I had forgotten it because it seemed unimportant. Girls of humble rank in her unhappy condition generally use only their first names, such as Mary, Jane, or Frances. Unlike novel-reading women with higher pretensions, they do not call themselves Miss Douglas, Miss Montague, and so on. I should now have asked Ann’s surname, since it would have been the surest way to find her later. But I had no reason to think a short separation would make our meetings harder or less certain than they had been for so many weeks. So I had scarcely considered it necessary to ask her name, or put it among the things to remember when we parted. Instead, I spent our last moments comforting her with hopes and urging her to get medicine for her severe cough and hoarseness. I forgot entirely to ask her surname until it was too late to call her back.

It was past eight o’clock when I reached the Gloucester Coffee-house, and the Bristol mail being on the point of going off, I mounted on the outside. The fine fluent motion [^5] of this mail soon laid me asleep: it is somewhat remarkable that the first easy or refreshing sleep which I had enjoyed for some months, was on the outside of a mail-coach—a bed which at this day I find rather an uneasy one. Connected with this sleep was a little incident which served, as hundreds of others did at that time, to convince me how easily a man who has never been in any great distress may pass through life without knowing, in his own person at least, anything of the possible goodness of the human heart—or, as I must add with a sigh, of its possible vileness. So thick a curtain of manners is drawn over the features and expression of men’s natures, that to the ordinary observer the two extremities, and the infinite field of varieties which lie between them, are all confounded; the vast and multitudinous compass of their several harmonies reduced to the meagre outline of differences expressed in the gamut or alphabet of elementary sounds. The case was this: for the first four or five miles from London I annoyed my fellow-passenger on the roof by occasionally falling against him when the coach gave a lurch to his side: and indeed, if the road had been less smooth and level than it is, I should have fallen off from weakness. Of this annoyance he complained heavily, as perhaps, in the same circumstances, most people would; he expressed his complaint, however, more morosely than the occasion seemed to warrant, and if I had parted with him at that moment I should have thought of him (if I had considered it worth while to think of him at all) as a surly and almost brutal fellow. However, I was conscious that I had given him some cause for complaint, and therefore I apologized to him, and assured him I would do what I could to avoid falling asleep for the future; and at the same time, in as few words as possible, I explained to him that I was ill and in a weak state from long suffering, and that I could not afford at that time to take an inside place. This man’s manner changed, upon hearing this explanation, in an instant; and when I next woke for a minute from the noise and lights of Hounslow (for in spite of my wishes and efforts I had fallen asleep again within two minutes from the time I had spoken to him) I found that he had put his arm round me to protect me from falling off, and for the rest of my journey he behaved to me with the gentleness of a woman, so that at length I almost lay in his arms; and this was the more kind, as he could not have known that I was not going the whole way to Bath or Bristol. Unfortunately, indeed, I did go rather farther than I intended, for so genial and so refreshing was my sleep, that the next time after leaving Hounslow that I fully awoke was upon the sudden pulling up of the mail (possibly at a post-office), and on inquiry I found that we had reached Maidenhead—six or seven miles, I think, ahead of Salthill. Here I alighted, and for the half-minute that the mail stopped I was entreated by my friendly companion (who, from the transient glimpse I had had of him in Piccadilly, seemed to me to be a gentleman’s butler, or person of that rank) to go to bed without delay. This I promised, though with no intention of doing so; and in fact I immediately set forward, or rather backward, on foot. It must then have been nearly midnight, but so slowly did I creep along that I heard a clock in a cottage strike four before I turned down the lane from Slough to Eton. The air and the sleep had both refreshed me; but I was weary nevertheless. I remember a thought (obvious enough, and which has been prettily expressed by a Roman poet) which gave me some consolation at that moment under my poverty. There had been some time before a murder committed on or near Hounslow Heath. I think I cannot be mistaken when I say that the name of the murdered person was Steele, and that he was the owner of a lavender plantation in that neighbourhood. Every step of my progress was bringing me nearer to the Heath, and it naturally occurred to me that I and the accused murderer, if he were that night abroad, might at every instant be unconsciously approaching each other through the darkness; in which case, said I—supposing I, instead of being (as indeed I am) little better than an outcast—

It was past eight o’clock when I reached the Gloucester Coffee-house. The Bristol mail-coach was about to leave, so I climbed onto the outside. Its smooth, flowing motion [^5] soon put me to sleep. Remarkably, this was the first easy or refreshing sleep I had enjoyed in some months. It was on the outside of a mail-coach, a bed I now find rather uncomfortable. An incident connected with this sleep helped convince me of something, as hundreds of others did at the time. A man who has never suffered great distress may go through life without personally discovering the possible goodness of the human heart. Or, as I must add with a sigh, its possible vileness. Manners draw such a thick curtain over the features and expressions of people’s natures that an ordinary observer cannot distinguish either extreme or the endless variety between them. Their vast range of harmonies is reduced to the bare differences expressed by the basic notes of a musical scale. This is what happened. For the first four or five miles from London, I annoyed my fellow passenger on the roof. Whenever the coach lurched toward him, I sometimes fell against him. Indeed, if the road had been less smooth and level, I would have fallen off from weakness. He complained bitterly about the annoyance, as perhaps most people would have in the same circumstances. But he complained more sourly than the occasion seemed to warrant. If we had parted then, I would have thought him surly and almost brutal, if I had thought him worth thinking about at all. Still, I knew I had given him some reason to complain. So I apologized and assured him that I would do what I could to stay awake from then on. At the same time, I explained my situation in as few words as possible. I was ill and weak from long suffering, and I could not afford a seat inside the coach. His manner changed instantly when he heard this. Despite my wishes and efforts, I fell asleep again within two minutes of speaking to him. When the noise and lights of Hounslow briefly woke me, I found that he had put his arm around me to keep me from falling off. For the rest of my journey, he treated me with the gentleness of a woman. Eventually, I was almost lying in his arms. This was all the kinder because he could not have known that I was not going all the way to Bath or Bristol. Unfortunately, I did go rather farther than I intended. My sleep was so pleasant and refreshing that I did not fully wake again until the mail-coach suddenly stopped, possibly at a post office. When I asked where we were, I learned that we had reached Maidenhead, six or seven miles beyond Salthill, I think. I got down there. During the half-minute the coach stopped, my friendly companion urged me to go straight to bed. From the brief glimpse I had had of him in Piccadilly, he seemed to be a gentleman’s butler or someone of that rank. I promised to go to bed, though I had no intention of doing so. In fact, I immediately set off on foot, or rather turned back. It must have been nearly midnight by then. But I crept along so slowly that I heard a clock in a cottage strike four before I turned down the lane from Slough to Eton. The air and the sleep had both refreshed me, but I was weary nevertheless. I remember a thought that gave me some comfort in my poverty at that moment. It was obvious enough, and a Roman poet had expressed it prettily. Some time before, a murder had been committed on or near Hounslow Heath. I think I cannot be mistaken in saying that the murdered man’s name was Steele and that he owned a lavender plantation in the neighbourhood. Every step brought me closer to the Heath. It naturally occurred to me that the accused murderer might be out that night. If so, we might at any moment be approaching each other through the darkness without knowing it. In that case, I said to myself, suppose that I, instead of being little better than an outcast, as indeed I am...

were, like my friend Lord ——, heir by general repute to £70,000 per annum, what a panic should I be under at this moment about my throat! Indeed, it was not likely that Lord —— should ever be in my situation. But nevertheless, the spirit of the remark remains true—that vast power and possessions make a man shamefully afraid of dying; and I am convinced that many of the most intrepid adventurers, who, by fortunately being poor, enjoy the full use of their natural courage, would, if at the very instant of going into action news were brought to them that they had unexpectedly succeeded to an estate in England of £50,000 a-year, feel their dislike to bullets considerably sharpened, [^6] and their efforts at perfect equanimity and self-possession proportionably difficult. So true it is, in the language of a wise man whose own experience had made him acquainted with both fortunes, that riches are better fitted

If I were, like my friend Lord ___, widely believed to be the heir to £70,000 a year, what a panic I would be in about my throat at this moment! Of course, Lord ___ was unlikely ever to be in my situation. But the point remains true: great power and possessions make a man shamefully afraid of dying. Many of the boldest adventurers are fortunate enough to be poor, and so enjoy the full use of their natural courage. But I am convinced that their dislike of bullets would grow considerably sharper [^6] if news reached them just as they were going into action. The news would be that they had unexpectedly inherited an English estate worth £50,000 a year. They would find it correspondingly harder to remain perfectly calm and composed. So true is the observation of a wise man whose own experience had taught him about both wealth and poverty: riches are better suited

Paradise Regained.

Paradise Regained.

I dally with my subject because, to myself, the remembrance of these times is profoundly interesting. But my reader shall not have any further cause to complain, for I now hasten to its close. In the road between Slough and Eton I fell asleep, and just as the morning began to dawn I was awakened by the voice of a man standing over me and surveying me. I know not what he was: he was an ill-looking fellow, but not therefore of necessity an ill-meaning fellow; or, if he were, I suppose he thought that no person sleeping out-of-doors in winter could be worth robbing. In which conclusion, however, as it regarded myself, I beg to assure him, if he should be among my readers, that he was mistaken. After a slight remark he passed on; and I was not sorry at his disturbance, as it enabled me to pass through Eton before people were generally up. The night had been heavy and lowering, but towards the morning it had changed to a slight frost, and the ground and the trees were now covered with rime. I slipped through Eton unobserved; washed myself, and as far as possible adjusted my dress, at a little public-house in Windsor; and about eight o’clock went down towards Pote’s. On my road I met some junior boys, of whom I made inquiries. An Etonian is always a gentleman; and, in spite of my shabby habiliments, they answered me civilly. My friend Lord —— was gone to the University of ——. “Ibi omnis effusus labor!” I had, however, other friends at Eton; but it is not to all that wear that name in prosperity that a man is willing to present himself in distress. On recollecting myself, however, I asked for the Earl of D——, to whom (though my acquaintance with him was not so intimate as with some others) I should not have shrunk from presenting myself under any circumstances. He was still at Eton, though I believe on the wing for Cambridge. I called, was received kindly, and asked to breakfast.

I linger over my subject because the memory of those times is deeply interesting to me. But my reader will have no further reason to complain, for I now hurry to the end. I fell asleep on the road between Slough and Eton. Just as dawn was breaking, I woke to the voice of a man standing over me and looking me over. I do not know who he was. He was a sinister-looking fellow, but that did not necessarily mean he had bad intentions. Or, if he did, I suppose he thought no one sleeping outdoors in winter could be worth robbing. If he is among my readers, I must assure him that he was mistaken about me. After a brief remark, he went on his way. I was glad he had disturbed me, because it let me pass through Eton before most people were up. The night had been gloomy and overcast, but toward morning a light frost had set in. The ground and trees were now covered with frost. I slipped through Eton unnoticed. At a small public-house in Windsor, I washed and tidied my clothes as best I could. At about eight o’clock, I headed toward Pote’s. On the way, I met some younger boys and asked them for information. An Etonian is always a gentleman, and despite my shabby clothes, they answered me politely. My friend Lord —— had gone to the University of ——. “All that effort wasted!” I did have other friends at Eton. But a man in distress is not willing to turn to everyone who calls him a friend in prosperous times. On reflection, though, I asked for the Earl of D——. Although I did not know him as intimately as some others, I would not have hesitated to approach him in any circumstances. He was still at Eton, though I believe he was about to leave for Cambridge. I called on him, and he received me kindly and invited me to breakfast.

Here let me stop for a moment to check my reader from any erroneous conclusions. Because I have had occasion incidentally to speak of various patrician friends, it must not be supposed that I have myself any pretension to rank and high blood. I thank God that I have not. I am the son of a plain English merchant, esteemed during his life for his great integrity, and strongly attached to literary pursuits (indeed, he was himself, anonymously, an author). If he had lived it was expected that he would have been very rich; but dying prematurely, he left no more than about £30,000 amongst seven different claimants. My mother I may mention with honour, as still more highly gifted; for though unpretending to the name and honours of a literary woman, I shall presume to call her (what many literary women are not) an intellectual woman; and I believe that if ever her letters should be collected and published, they would be thought generally to exhibit as much strong and masculine sense, delivered in as pure “mother English,” racy and fresh with idiomatic graces, as any in our language—hardly excepting those of Lady M. W. Montague. These are my honours of descent, I have no other; and I have thanked God sincerely that I have not, because, in my judgment, a station which raises a man too eminently above the level of his fellow-creatures is not the most favourable to moral or to intellectual qualities.

Let me pause here to prevent my reader from drawing the wrong conclusion. I have mentioned various aristocratic friends in passing. But no one should suppose that I claim any high rank or noble birth myself. I thank God that I do not. I am the son of an ordinary English merchant. During his life, he was respected for his great integrity and deeply interested in literature (indeed, he was himself an anonymous author). Had he lived, he was expected to become very rich. But he died young, leaving only about £30,000 to be divided among seven claimants. I may speak with honour of my mother, who was even more gifted. She made no claim to the name or honours of a literary woman. But I would venture to call her an intellectual woman, which many literary women are not. If her letters are ever collected and published, I believe they will generally be thought to show great strength and masculine sense. They will also be thought to express that sense in pure “mother English,” lively and fresh with idiomatic graces. I believe they would compare with any letters in our language, hardly excepting those of Lady M. W. Montague. These are the honours of my family background. I have no others, and I have sincerely thanked God for that. In my judgment, a position that raises a man too far above his fellow human beings is not the most favourable to moral or intellectual qualities.

Lord D—— placed before me a most magnificent breakfast. It was really so; but in my eyes it seemed trebly magnificent, from being the first regular meal, the first “good man’s table,” that I had sate down to for months. Strange to say, however, I could scarce eat anything. On the day when I first received my £10 bank-note I had gone to a baker’s shop and bought a couple of rolls; this very shop I had two months or six weeks before surveyed with an eagerness of desire which it was almost humiliating to me to recollect. I remembered the story about Otway, and feared that there might be danger in eating too rapidly. But I had no need for alarm; my appetite was quite sunk, and I became sick before I had eaten half of what I had bought. This effect from eating what approached to a meal I continued to feel for weeks; or, when I did not experience any nausea, part of what I ate was rejected, sometimes with acidity, sometimes immediately and without any acidity. On the present occasion, at Lord D-’s table, I found myself not at all better than usual, and in the midst of luxuries I had no appetite. I had, however, unfortunately, at all times a craving for wine; I explained my situation, therefore, to Lord D——, and gave him a short account of my late sufferings, at which he expressed great compassion, and called for wine. This gave me a momentary relief and pleasure; and on all occasions when I had an opportunity I never failed to drink wine, which I worshipped then as I have since worshipped opium. I am convinced, however, that this indulgence in wine contributed to strengthen my malady, for the tone of my stomach was apparently quite sunk, and by a better regimen it might sooner, and perhaps effectually, have been revived. I hope that it was not from this love of wine that I lingered in the neighbourhood of my Eton friends; I persuaded myself then that it was from reluctance to ask of Lord D——, on whom I was conscious I had not sufficient claims, the particular service in quest of which I had come down to Eton. I was, however unwilling to lose my journey, and—I asked it. Lord D——, whose good nature was unbounded, and which, in regard to myself, had been measured rather by his compassion perhaps for my condition, and his knowledge of my intimacy with some of his relatives, than by an over-rigorous inquiry into the extent of my own direct claims, faltered, nevertheless, at this request. He acknowledged that he did not like to have any dealings with money-lenders, and feared lest such a transaction might come to the ears of his connexions. Moreover, he doubted whether his signature, whose expectations were so much more bounded than those of ——, would avail with my unchristian friends. However, he did not wish, as it seemed, to mortify me by an absolute refusal; for after a little consideration he promised, under certain conditions which he pointed out, to give his security. Lord D—— was at this time not eighteen years of age; but I have often doubted, on recollecting since the good sense and prudence which on this occasion he mingled with so much urbanity of manner (an urbanity which in him wore the grace of youthful sincerity), whether any statesman—the oldest and the most accomplished in diplomacy—could have acquitted himself better under the same circumstances. Most people, indeed, cannot be addressed on such a business without surveying you with looks as austere and unpropitious as those of a Saracen’s head.

Lord D—— set a magnificent breakfast before me. It really was magnificent, but it seemed three times as grand to me. It was the first regular meal, the first “good man’s table,” I had sat down to for months. Strangely, though, I could hardly eat anything. On the day I first received my £10 banknote, I had gone to a baker’s shop and bought two rolls. Six weeks or two months earlier, I had gazed at that very shop with desperate longing. Remembering it was almost humiliating. I remembered the story about Otway and feared that eating too quickly might be dangerous. But I had no need to worry. My appetite had completely failed, and I became sick before I had eaten half of what I had bought. For weeks afterward, whenever I ate anything approaching a meal, I continued to feel sick. When I did not feel nauseated, I sometimes brought up part of what I had eaten. Sometimes it was acidic. At other times it came up immediately, without any acidity. On this occasion, at Lord D——’s table, I found myself no better than usual. Surrounded by luxuries, I had no appetite. Unfortunately, however, I always craved wine. So I explained my situation to Lord D—— and briefly told him about my recent suffering. He expressed great compassion and called for wine. The wine gave me momentary relief and pleasure. Whenever I had the opportunity, I never failed to drink it. I worshipped wine then as I have since worshipped opium. I am convinced, however, that drinking wine helped make my illness worse. My stomach seemed to have lost all its strength. With a better diet, it might have recovered sooner, and perhaps completely. I hope it was not my love of wine that kept me lingering near my Eton friends. At the time, I persuaded myself that I was reluctant to ask Lord D—— for the particular favor I had come to Eton seeking. I knew I had no sufficient claim on him. Yet I did not want my journey to be wasted, so I asked him. Lord D——’s kindness was boundless. In my case, it had perhaps been guided more by compassion for my condition and his knowledge of my close friendship with some of his relatives than by any strict inquiry into my own direct claims on him. Even so, he hesitated at my request. He admitted that he did not like dealing with money-lenders. He feared that word of such a transaction might reach his family and associates. He also doubted whether his signature would carry any weight with my unchristian friends. His prospects were much more limited than those of ——. Still, he did not seem to want to humiliate me with an outright refusal. After some thought, he promised to guarantee the loan under certain conditions, which he explained. Lord D—— was not yet eighteen at the time. But I have often recalled the good sense and caution he showed on that occasion, along with his great courtesy. His courtesy had the grace of youthful sincerity. I have often doubted whether any statesman, however old and skilled in diplomacy, could have handled the situation better. Indeed, most people, when approached about such a matter, look you over as sternly and forbiddingly as a Saracen’s head.

Recomforted by this promise, which was not quite equal to the best but far above the worst that I had pictured to myself as possible, I returned in a Windsor coach to London three days after I had quitted it. And now I come to the end of my story. The Jews did not approve of Lord D——’s terms; whether they would in the end have acceded to them, and were only seeking time for making due inquiries, I know not; but many delays were made, time passed on, the small fragment of my bank-note had just melted away, and before any conclusion could have been put to the business I must have relapsed into my former state of wretchedness. Suddenly, however, at this crisis, an opening was made, almost by accident, for reconciliation with my friends; I quitted London in haste for a remote part of England; after some time I proceeded to the university, and it was not until many months had passed away that I had it in my power again to revisit the ground which had become so interesting to me, and to this day remains so, as the chief scene of my youthful sufferings.

The promise comforted me again. It was not quite as good as the best outcome I had imagined, but far better than the worst. Three days after leaving London, I returned there in a Windsor coach. And now I come to the end of my story. The Jews did not approve of Lord D——’s terms. I do not know whether they would eventually have accepted them and were only waiting to make proper inquiries. But there were many delays, and time passed. The small remainder of my banknote had just run out. Before the matter could be settled, I would have fallen back into my former misery. Suddenly, however, at this critical moment, a chance to reconcile with my friends arose almost by accident. I hurried away from London to a remote part of England. After some time, I went to university. Many months passed before I was able to revisit the place that had become so important to me. It remains important to me to this day, as the main scene of my youthful suffering.

Meantime, what had become of poor Ann? For her I have reserved my concluding words. According to our agreement, I sought her daily, and waited for her every night, so long as I stayed in London, at the corner of Titchfield Street. I inquired for her of every one who was likely to know her, and during the last hours of my stay in London I put into activity every means of tracing her that my knowledge of London suggested and the limited extent of my power made possible. The street where she had lodged I knew, but not the house; and I remembered at last some account which she had given me of ill-treatment from her landlord, which made it probable that she had quitted those lodgings before we parted. She had few acquaintances; most people, besides, thought that the earnestness of my inquiries arose from motives which moved their laughter or their slight regard; and others, thinking I was in chase of a girl who had robbed me of some trifles, were naturally and excusably indisposed to give me any clue to her, if indeed they had any to give. Finally as my despairing resource, on the day I left London I put into the hands of the only person who (I was sure) must know Ann by sight, from having been in company with us once or twice, an address to ——, in ——shire, at that time the residence of my family. But to this hour I have never heard a syllable about her. This, amongst such troubles as most men meet with in this life, has been my heaviest affliction. If she lived, doubtless we must have been some time in search of each other, at the very same moment, through the mighty labyrinths of London; perhaps even within a few feet of each other—a barrier no wider than a London street often amounting in the end to a separation for eternity! During some years I hoped that she did live; and I suppose that, in the literal and unrhetorical use of the word myriad, I may say that on my different visits to London I have looked into many, many myriads of female faces, in the hope of meeting her. I should know her again amongst a thousand, if I saw her for a moment; for though not handsome, she had a sweet expression of countenance and a peculiar and graceful carriage of the head. I sought her, I have said, in hope. So it was for years; but now I should fear to see her; and her cough, which grieved me when I parted with her, is now my consolation. I now wish to see her no longer; but think of her, more gladly, as one long since laid in the grave—in the grave, I would hope, of a Magdalen; taken away, before injuries and cruelty had blotted out and transfigured her ingenuous nature, or the brutalities of ruffians had completed the ruin they had begun.

Meanwhile, what had become of poor Ann? I have saved my final words for her. As we had agreed, I looked for her every day. I also waited for her every night at the corner of Titchfield Street, for as long as I stayed in London. I asked everyone who might know her about her. During my final hours in London, I used every means I could think of to trace her, as far as my limited resources allowed. I knew the street where she had lodged, but not the house. At last I remembered her telling me that her landlord had mistreated her. That made it likely that she had left those lodgings before we parted. She had few acquaintances. Besides, most people thought my eager inquiries sprang from motives they laughed at or regarded lightly. Others thought I was chasing a girl who had robbed me of a few small things. Naturally and understandably, they were reluctant to give me any clue to her whereabouts, if they had one. Finally, in desperation, I tried one last thing on the day I left London. I gave an address in ——, in ——shire, where my family lived at the time, to someone I was sure knew Ann by sight. This person had been with us once or twice. But to this day I have never heard a word about her. Of the troubles that most people meet with in this life, this has been my greatest sorrow. If she lived, we must have spent some time looking for each other at the same moment, through the vast maze of London. Perhaps we even came within a few feet of each other. A barrier no wider than a London street can often end in a separation for eternity! For some years I hoped that she did live. And I suppose I can say, using the word myriad literally and without exaggeration, that on my visits to London I have looked into many, many myriads of women's faces, hoping to find her. I would recognize her among a thousand if I saw her for a moment. Though she was not beautiful, she had a sweet expression and a distinctive, graceful way of holding her head. As I have said, I looked for her with hope. That was true for years, but now I would be afraid to see her. Her cough, which distressed me when we parted, is now a comfort to me. I no longer wish to see her. Instead, I find more comfort in thinking of her as someone long since laid in the grave. I hope she lies in the grave of a Magdalen, taken away before harm and cruelty had erased and transformed her innocent nature, or before the brutality of ruffians had completed the ruin they had begun.

[The remainder of this very interesting article will be given in the next number.—ED.]

[The rest of this very interesting article will appear in the next issue. Editor.]