Paul Peabody; or, The Apprentice of the World

Chapter I. An English Eoad-side Inn

IHl. A VEL where you may, live iu Hvast Parisian hotels or Florentine Mpalaces, Venetian halls or Roman Hmansions, there is scarcely out of Hthis country, where comfort is au Hart, and where, as a general rule, Iwe all try to make ourselves com- Hfortable, anything to surpass, for Mt he weary traveller, the aspect of a Hcosey little building, with a swing- Hmgsign-post, bow windows, a horse Htrough, red curtains, and of an Hsvening a burst of rubicund light Ht'roni the ever open or opening Hi our. We are often disposed, as Ha e pass by these attractive resting *=*-:' places, to cease wondering at the weakness of man, who is being eternally tempted to enter and take his glass in defiance of all fore thought, wisdom, and prudence — a triad of influences that, except under peculiar circumstances, should keep a man from tavern life.

But man is a feeble creature. He enters but to quench his thirst, and he remains until he is thereby again forgetful too often of home and the general calls upon his time. However, we moralise not. B PAUL PEABODY: OB, "We wish every man to be happy in his own way, and so that he injures no one, we care not to inquire too nicely into his sources of delight. Happiness is a kaleidoscope of infinite hue. One man finds happiness in scraping together mere lucre, from hour to hour, from day to day, from week to week, from month to month, from year to year, until his nails drop off, or until he sinks exhausted beneath his burthen, which he never has had leisure to become acquainted with. One man finds happiness in lavishly expending that which another has laboriously earned, and in expending it, too, as if he were fearful that the inexorable and grim god should snatch him away while a guinea was unspent, or a solitary wreck left for his successor.

Another finds it in daily labour ; another in tormenting his fellows with visions of horror and fury ; another in persuading his fellow creatures that to be joyous is to be sinful ; while not a few have no mental luxury, save that of proving themselves immaculate and their neighbours every thing but what they should be. How many find pleasure in making their life easy, contented, and pleasant — a genial thing to those around, a joy unto themselves ? But we wander sadly from the Camel and Indian, — so was the road-side inn called. Why it had taken this foreign or outlandish name was a mystery to the vulgar, but not to the initiated. Joseph Bunting was born in Steepleday, the village alluded to, and having in youth been of a roving disposition, had taken, as romantic and idle boys often do, to the sea.

It happened that, after a few preliminary difficulties, Joseph liked his trade, and stuck to it for some time, travelling hither and thither on the surface of the globe, as sailors generally do, without fishing up much other knowledge than that if rum cannot be found in every port, some kind of spirit and tobacco can — with the additional axiom, so dear to Jack's heart, " any port in a storm," which, being translated, may mean a great many things. At thirty, Joseph paid a return visit to his native village. He was hailed as an eighth wonder of the world ; Steepleday having produced but one other seaman in a century, and he was but a waterman, who never came back, and held no rank therefore in village history. ~Now Joseph had been a careful man, and had made money ; besides, he had collected together sundry curiosities, such as shells, pipes, gourds, an elephant's tusk, and a shark's tooth, quite enough to have furnished the village museum, if ever this sober agricultural hamlet had surmised the existence of such a building.

Joseph was well received. His father and mother had been some time dead, Kate Harkness was unmarried, and the Black Boy was to let. THE APPRENTICE OF THE WOULD. 3 Kate Harkness was a little child of ten years old when Joseph Bunting— originally Bantling— went away a boy of eighteen. She was now two-and-twenty, and the prettiest girl in the parish. Hers was an age at which people very often fancy that marriage becomes doubtful in young ladies, though why it should be so we know not, since what may be properly called young women are generally more agreeable than young girls, simply because they are better informed. But Kate, who had been maid to the great school-house, had learned enough to be above a farm labourer, without being rich enough to aspire to be a real farmer's wife ; so, from being too proud and too poor, she did not marry at all.

Under these circumstances came Joseph Bunting, a handsome sailor, browned by the sun, and with all the usual frank open manner of his class in this country. He and Kate had been playmates in ancient days, so Joe kissed her the day he first saw her, and passed a real India silk handkerchief round her neck. Kitty boxed his ears, and tied the handkerchief in a graceful knot. Three weeks after they were married. We have said the Black Boy was to let. Its owner was an infirm old lady, who had traded therein successfully for fifty years, until the memory of her birth was a myth, and she was herself known as the "Black Boy," except when familiarly addressed as "old girl." She was now deaf and weak of sight, and therefore readily transferred the lease and good-will to Mr. and Mrs. Bunting. Kate had made Joe promise to give up the sea for her sake, and Joe did.

The name of the house was, however, changed. Bunting was an Englishman, and naturally had a taste for foreign art ; so he had a huge sign-post painted, on which was a wonderful animal and an equally apocryphal attempt at a human being. He then called his house the Camel and Indian. The villagers protested, and even talked of a rival undertaking, but Joe persevered. The banner he had erected floated still, and the name remained. As it happened, however, the man was black, and though the new appellation was adopted by the passers by, and by strangers, the oldest and youngest of the inhabitants of Steepleday always called the tavern by the familiar name of the "Black Boy." The village was small,but being situate on the edge of a small common, one side of which was skirted by the high road between two manufac turing towns, it was well suited for tavern purposes.

Carters, tram pers, and even commercial travellers, often took half an hour's rest in the comfortable parlour or humble tap ; and, indeed, it was no strange sight to see a post-chaise, chariot, or other country vehicle halt at the door. There were several sporting gentry in the neighbourhood, too, aud the young gentlemen would come down to see Joe Bunting, who was a merry companion, a good one at a game, and b PAUL PEABODX : OH, no bad adviser in all the details of rabbit warrens, &c, so dear to certain hearts. Joe knew a thing or two ; and a smart Oxford fellow said, "even a few more;" and, ere Joe was thirty-seven, it had become a familiar saying with the fast young men of S , a town four miles off, "let's go and take a snack at Joe's!" Joe prospered, but he did not get proud. He was really very happy.

He had a capital wife, and four juvenile attractions, which combined with his business to make him somewhat of a home bird. And so he went on in life — selling good beer, drinking his fair propor tion, amassing an honest penny, and becoming more and more the oracle of his village. This position he finally attained when Dr. Dewsbury of the great house came in one evening, at eight o'clock, and smoked a pipe in the chimney corner. Dr. Dewsbury was the proprietor of a boarding school for young gentlemen, and from the healthiness of Prior House, and its vicinity to a large town, had a numerous flock placed under his care. He was a little, solemn-looking old man was the Doctor, very learned, an excellent schoolmaster, loved and seared by all his boys ; for in school hours he was inflexible, though neither severe nor unjust, while in playtime he would actually superintend the games without chilling the fun of the boys, or making them wish him away.

There was Mrs. Dewsbury, a stiff-looking woman of middle age, who desired to be thought — and loudly proclaimed herself — a dragon, an iron-crowned monarch, at whose nod all the school ground trembled, but who invariably ended by setting the boys in a roar, and then, after menacing them with every instrument of torture in existence, retired to her secret shades, and there lamented her own weakness to her merry daughters, who were neither ugly, nor ill-tempered, nor vain, nor ridiculous, but downright English girls, very affectionate, very kind to the boys, and polite to the assistants, when those young gentlemen were not presuming or forward. Some men fancy it a duty to make love on all occasions. But girls sometimes liked to be looked on as rational beings, and only wish to be made love to when the man is in earnest.

Now Dr. Dewsbury dearly loved a pipe and a glass, — in strict moderation, be it known ; but he never relished it except in company with another sober smoker and moderate drinker. Mrs. Dewsbury would talk with him, listen to all his new theories of syntax and prosody, aud argue a point at times, but she could not smoke a pipe. Julia and Maria would read Æschylus or Homer to him for hours, but they could not join him in his glass after the boys had gone to bed. The worthy Doctor did not like to encourage his assistant in such unwarrantable dissipation. So the good man was regularly THE APPEENTICE OF THE WORLD. miserable after supper — that is, as miserable as his well-regulated mind could condescend to be. About seven years after the arrival of Joe and of the inaugura tion of the Camel and Indian, Dr. Dewsbury grew serious every evening after supper.

The worthy man seemed struggling between two rival influences, and several times grew so thoughtful that his pipe went out from sheer neglect. It was about three months after this began, and, at the same time, three months after he had tried to write a short treatise on the use of elephants in ancient warfare, that the following conversation passed at the supper table. " That man Joe Bunting — who is — ahem ! — a very decent fellow by the way, allows no late hours or noise — must have seen elephants in his travels," said the Doctor, trying to look very indifferent, but in reality in a state of intense excitement. "Very probable," replied Mrs. Dewsbury gravely, while Julia and Maria gave a startled glance, looked at the unfinished essay, and with difficulty restrained their laughter. "Most probable, — ahem!" continued the Doctor with emphasis, " I should say certainly.

Now, I have great doubts, from what I have seen of elephants, as to how it is possible to guide such huge beasts." " It must be very difficult," said Mrs. D. "Very!" resumed the Doctor. " I should think Joe must have seen one. I should like to ask him." "Edward!" " My love ! " The first was a genuine burst of womanly indignation, the second was a timid deprecation. " A low pot-house ! " added 'Mrs. D " But I never, my dear — never — imagined — I only said, about the elephant you know," stammered the Doctor. " Though," began Mrs. D., as usual when she found no serious opposition, relenting, " Mrs. Bunting is a very decent woman. She was an excellent girl : we never had so good a servant. I think you might ask Bunting in, for the sake of the girl, and ask him about the elephant." " Perhaps he cannot leave his business ?

" hazarded the Doctor. " Then, my dear, why not just give him a call ? He has a parlour ? ' ' "A very respectable room." "Besides, if you were just to smoke your pipe there to-night. You know I don't mind it, Doctor, but my cough is a little teasing, and it does not improve it." " Then, to please you, my dear," said the Doctor tenderly, " I'll just step in and ask Joe how they ride on an elephant." The Doctor did; and Joe had seen an elephant, and tried to : OE, explain how the animal was made a beast of burden. But the Doctor, acute as he was generally, could not comprehend. So he went in, again and again, until regularly after supper the girls began to say — " Papa ! Have you and Mr. Bunting come to an understanding about the elephant yet ? " "No, my dear; that puts me in mind. I must just go in and argue the point with that obstinate Joe." And so, through the instrumentality of the elephant, Dr. Dewsbury for two hours every evening became the respected guest of the Camel and Indian.

Chapter II

A YOUNG HEEO. Paul Peabody regretted no one, young Hicks Smith excepted. But we must enter the school, and explain the meaning of a sen tence which might otherwise appear somewhat mysterious to the general reader. Dr. Dewsbury had many pupils, chiefly boarders. If he took day scholars it was merely from favour to necessitous families. Now, about four years before the opening of our narrative, there came to Prior House a gentleman's servant, in a plain livery. He left a carriage at some distance on the road, and led by the hand a little boy. This boy was in deep mourning, which appeared strange when you looked at his sturdy little figure, his round, expressive and rosy face, his roguish eye, and his important step. He walked along with a sense of his own dignity upon him, and looked up at the powdered footman without alarm.

That gentleman was very solemn and sedate, and spoke only when it was an obvious necessity that he should do so. He had a small box in his other hand, and thus accoutred arrived in a few minutes at the house of Dr. Dewsbury. He rang the bell. The door opened — he set the box down in the passage — told the child to take a seat upon it — thrust a letter into the girl's hand who had answered the bell, and before she had recovered from her astonishment had drawn the door after him and disappeared. The servant-maid shrieked — the boy looked on with profound indifference. "What's the matter, Suky?" cried Mrs. Dewsbury, appearing suddenly in the passage, " and what 's that boy doing there ?" " Oh ! marm — a great fellow — a he-servant, with great eyes, all fish-like— just popped this boy and this box down, and ran away."

THE APPEENTICE OF THE WOULD. "Where do you come from, my boy ?" asked Mrs. Dewsbury, in a gentle tone, advancing to the child, aud patting him on the head. The child raised his head, and looked at her.' His eyes, it was then clear, were beautiful, while the whole expression of his face beamed with suavity, goodness, and confidence. He seemed at once to persuade those who looked at him that he was a being to be loved. How his mother could have sent him from her side seemed a mystery. Perhaps he had no mother. "I don't know," said he, in a soft yet confident tone, speaking with the decision of a boy of twelve ; " I believe I've come to school. But there 's a letter." "Where?" said Mrs. Dewsbury, who listened to the child with considerable astonishment. "I never seed one," exclaimed the girl.

" Vou are mistaken," observed the child, gravely, "you've got it in your hand." " What a fool you must be, Suky," said Mrs. Dewsbury, quickly. " Bless me, marm, I'm all of a heap. Here it is. Well, I never ! Master What's-your-name, I'd better carry up your box." The child made no reply. "Come in, child," said Mrs. Dewsbury, gently. "But what is your name ?" " Paul Peabody," replied the boy, with a sudden and sullen expression, which, had Mrs. Dewsbury observed it, would have excited in her mind a vague surprise and uneasiness that would certainly have added to the difficulties of the situation. But she remarked not the defiant flash of the boy's eye, the angry scowl, the bitter expression of mouth — none did but God, and the boy's own heart. He had a heart, but it was the last time for many years that Paul Peabody ever allowed the secret of his whole exist ence to force its way from the well-spring of life to the surface, which was to remain unrippled until the strong man came to ruffle its waters — not that at that angel-age he knew what he had lost, and what he now suffered.

It was but a dream of sorrow. Still he did know that he had been happy — that a face he missed had smiled upon him, and that since all was dark and gloomy, a road without lights, a dreary mansion of darkness. The change, which had been sudden and violent, had shocked the baby-mind of Paul, and though his recollection was faint and indistinct, yet still did he remember and treasure up the thought. Dr. Dewsbury and his daughters were in the room having their tea. It was about six o'clock, at a time of year when the sun begins to fade away at this hour, leaving nooks aud corners at all events in darkness, — a time when fires just begin, because autumn is not OE, exactly cold but damp— and a fire " looks comfortable ;" the amiable delusion under which persons who are in a hurry to get at winter remove ornaments from bright grates, and replace them by hot coals.

The room was a little carpeted library, cheerful, cosey, aud warm, and inhabited, little Paul saw almost at once, by warm-hearted and pleasant people. "Another young friend," said Mrs. Dewsbury, handing the letter to the Doctor, and showing Paul a chair. "God bless my soul!" exclaimed the Doctor ; " I beg your pardon, my dear— an involuntary exclamation, young gentleman." " It's no matter," said Paul, drily ; " I'm used to swearing." Mrs. Dewsbury sat backward in her chair, and clasped her hands in an agony of horror — the girls looked sorrowfully at the young sinner — the Doctor ceased unfolding the letter, and put on a solemn look and tone. " Master " " Paul Peabody," said the boy, stroking a greyhound that came snuffing round him — with perfect indifference. " Well, Master Paul Peabody," continued the Doctor, gravely, " if you are used to swearing, I am not ; and I hope, if you are coming here, I shall not be under the necessity of punishing you."

"You may punish me as much as you please, Sir," said Paul, still stroking the greyhound, "but you mustn't beat me." There was a gentle, melancholy firmness in the boy's voice, that yet half trembled, which went to the Doctor's heart. Mrs. Dews bury looked at him with tears in her eyes, and the girls drank each a cup of tea in a hurried kind of way, as if it saved the trouble of putting a handkerchief to their eyes. "I never beat my boys," said Dr. Dewsbury; "but what did you mean by saying you were used to swearing?" " Old Phipps, at D , where I came from school, swore at us boys. He tried to make me swear, but he couldn't." The tone, the manner, the firmness was that of an intelligent lad of ten or twelve. All were surprised, and inwardly felt that that child must have suffered and felt much to be so precocious.

"Sit down, Paul!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Give him a cup of tea, Emily." Paul sat down, and took his cup of tea, and seemed quite happy. The two girls placed him between them, and looked after his wants while the Doctor glanced over the letter, from which he first took a fifty-pound note. "Dear, dear me. No father, no mother— poor boy — taken by strangers —family reasons compel his being permanently at school — seud fifty pounds every year, and clothes — very handsome, indeed — THE APPEENTICE OF THE WORLD. 9 wish him to be made one of our family as to meals — certainly he shall — make him feel one of us. God bless me! no signature— quite a strange affair. Rachel, you must be a mother to this boy — read the letter — quite affecting." Aud the worthy man, really very much touched, handed over the letter to Mrs. Dewsbury.

From that hour Paul Peabody was the child of the house. All vied in their endeavours to make him comfortable and happy. His education had been neglected. In fact, he had merely learned to read and write, and that was all. It appeared from his own account — and he was not very willing to speak of the past — that he had for three years — he wasn't sure, it might be one year — been at school in a village with one Phipps, a retired recruiting serjeant, who, in the absence of soldiers, had taken to drilling boys. Being a sharp fellow he obtained pupils, who were taught to read and write by his wife, while he indoctrinated them iu military tactics, and taught them their exercises. He was a drinking, swearing old fellow, and boys learned more harm than good under his direction. But Paul said that he always disliked him, for he beat him once ; and at last, on his sixth birthday, he told some one — he would not say whom — that if he were not put to a better school he would run away.

They listened with astonishment. One day they hazarded a little more. "Do you remember your father?" asked Emily, the elder daughter. " No, Miss," said Paul gently, while his voice quivered with emo tion of the most painful character. "And your mother?" Paul looked up at the anxious countenance of the young girl, with flashing eyes, and a glance of such bitterness, it seemed almost scorn, as is seldom seen in childhood's countenance. It was, however, very hard to tell whether the child felt anger or sorrow. " Yes," however, was his only reply. None inquired any more ; but all wondered at the secret kept so firmly by that little fellow, whose head was ever waking, fermenting, and thinking. He learned with rapidity and ease. His intelligence was rapid and acute. He seemed to study with delight and pleasure.

He never, however, neglected the sports encouraged by Dr. Dews bury. He seemed anxious to get on in every way. As he had a separate room of his own, he was allowed to sit up after supper ; and on these occasions he read out to the ladies. He did it at first as a lesson ; but, at the end of two years, he read to please his friends, who guided him in his selections, and came to love him more and more every day. OR, The boys generally were jealous of him, which was a natural con sequence of his peculiar position ; but they only showed their feeling by little harmless outbreaks, at bottom innocent of much malice. But Mr. Smithers hated him. Mr. Smithers was a poet, whose destiny was against him. In early life, with a view7 to inoculating himself with the sacred virus, he had read Ben Jonson and Fletcher, Shakespeare and Milton, Dryden and Pope, and some few others, until his head was perfectly stored with some of the most valuable literary lore in our language.

But great as was his memory, he was a perfect book of elegant extracts ; he could never do anything but remember. For the life of him he could not invent. The number of poems he wrote of a night in his room was dreadful to consider. They deprived him of his natural rest. But their fate next day was uniform. During the mid-day recreations he invariably found out, on calm reflection, that his fine verses were but those of others, word for word, strung together in some such singular fashion as " When Xerxes poured his millions o'er the land From the vast caverns of his brain burst forth; Mastiffs in gold and silver lined the approach ; And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow ; Hues that tbe pencil emulates in vain." On this point the man was mad at night, when in the solitude of his chamber he felt inspired.

But bright day always undeceived him, and the melancholy fact was forced upon him that he was not yet inspired. It then struck him, that, like Don Quixote, he wanted a mistress to elevate and purify his thoughts. At ouce he fell in love with Emily Dewsbury, a merry girl of sixteen, when Paul Pea body was nine. But Emily was Paul's private tutor. He learned so readily that he had rather to be retarded than pushed on, and so he was given over to the young girl to be kept back. The natural conse quence was that Paul was a kind of guardian, detestable to Smithers, who looked upon him now as the main cause of his want of in spiration. But Hicks Smith and Paul Peabody were great friends.

Chapter III. Of Hicks Smith And Othees

Hicks SiiiTH was a day scholar. His mother was a lone woman ■who lived in a cottage half-a-mile away on the high road, and took in one lodger — the long sexton — to make her house lively, and keep down her expenses. Mrs. Smith had been better off. She was a THE APPEENTICE OF THE WORLD. tradesman's daughter, who had married her father's apprentice, be cause he was handsome. He proved a wild spendthrift ; and, when he had got as much money from his family as he could, went away, and was heard of no more. He left her a son, of the age of Paul, and with this boy she went to live near Steepleday. Her father, who had a large family, gave her a regular weekly pittance, and she managed, by taking in sewing, to live. She took a cottage, and let the upper room. It happened that the sexton, who was also a market-gardener, had a plot of ground near her house, and took a fancy to live there.

He was a long man of about forty, neither ugly nor handsome — one of those faces that look made to be pummeled, or to serve as blocks just to wear a hat. Mrs. Smith rather liked him, and people said it would end in a marriage. People were very much mistaken. Mrs. Smith had very good reasons for not marrying again, even if she had been sure that her husband had departed this life. One night, about ten o'clock, when the wind blew, and the rain poured, and the lightning flashed, Mrs. Smith sat alone in her par lour. There was a fire, a very small fire, that had been neglected, and had nearly gone out ; and there was a supper for two on a small table ; but whether Mrs. Smith intended sharing her meal with the cat that lay at her feet, or the owl which perched on the chimney-piece, appeared doubtful.

The room was one of those slovenly parlours, which peculiarly belong to the idle and improvident classes. The hearth was dirty — there was a huge pile of cinders in the grate — there was a black kettle on the hob, while around were broken chairs, barren of cane or rush, which were uncomfortable to sit in, and were suggestive of taking a seat and never giving it up. The walls had been prettily papered, but dirt and smoke had almost wholly concealed their pristine beauty, while whole yards hung down at a time, flapping in concert with the owl's wings. Mrs. Smith looked at the owl, and the owl looked at her, but neither indulged in the luxury of speech. The owl was pondering, we suppose, bird of wisdom as he was, on the chances of the next meal. Mrs. Smith was lost in a dream, to judge by her countenance, of no very pleasant character.

She was about thirty, or a little more — fair, with somewhat of a flushed face, auburn hair, and little restless eyes, that made you uneasy to see them. Her mouth was large and determined. As she sat, with one hand supporting her chin, her brow compressed, her eyebrows knit, her once handsome face looked positively ugly. Pretty Jane Wheeler was ugly Mrs. Smith. The secret was in the change from happiness to misery, from ease to suffering, and — OE, "It must be— it shall be," she muttered, and rising she sought a cupboard, took a bottle, filled a glass brimful of a white liquid, and drank it off. That was the reason why Jane Wheeler and Jane Smith resembled not each other. " I have suffered long enough— it shall be— why should my child be poor, wretched, miserable, driven, like his father, to wander the earth in search of fortune ?