Oliver Westwood, or overcoming the world

Front matter

OLIVEE WESTWOOD OR, OVERCOMING THE WORLD. EY EMMA JANE WORBOISE, Author of "Father Fabian," " Overdale," " Noblit Born," "Grey and Odd." " The Mouse of Bondage," "Husbands and Wives," etc., £c. " I canno' hide that some have striven, Achievin : calm ; to whom was giv^n The joy that mixes man with Heaven. " Who, rowi g havd against the stream, Saw distant srates oT Eden gleam. And did not dream it was a dream." t JAMES CLARKE AND CO. 13, FLEET STREET. HOEDI.B AMU STOUGHTON, 27, PATEENOSTEE UOW. 1878. CONTENTS. CHAPTES PAGE I. Mt First Impressions 1 H. I Ask for Information 11 III. " Good-night, Mamma ! '' 17 IV. What Happened in Giltspur Street 26 V. The Old Coach Days 40 VI. Queen Elizabeth the Second 51 VII. Polly 64 VJULI. Sunday at Castle Coleshill 73 IX. I Commence my Education 79 X. Polly's Method 87 XI.

The Stool of Repentance 97 XII. In the Summer Twilight 105 XIII. My Diamond Scarf-pin 117 XIV. On Deadman's Hill 12S XV. The End of my First Romance 141 XVI. I Make my Choice of a Profession 150 XVII. I Decline to Act as Proxy 154 XVIII. Strictly Private and Confidential 163 XIX. Wedding Bells 175 XX. Polly Wins the Day 182 XXI. Eival Queens 196 XXIs. "'Will you Walk into my Parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly" 203 XXIII. Mrs. Wray has Hysterics 216 XXIV. The Cat and the Fiddle :_:__! XXV. The Wages of Sin 230 XXVI. "The Peace that Passeth all Understanding" CONTENTS. iv XXVIs. My Proposed Apprenticeship 247 XXVIII. Dr. Birchall's Advice 253 XXIX. A Pushing Trade 265 XXX. The Cathedral Coffee house 276 XXXI. My First Day in London 2_>9 XXXII. In te Domine Speravi 300 XXXIII. At Guy's Hospital 308 XXXIV.

Coming to Life Again 3i3 XXXV. Mrs. Comfort 319 XXXVI. In Pleasant Pastures 336 XXXVII. The Bells 347 XXXVIII. "Fest und Treu" 356 XXXIX. Madame de Peksigny 362 XL. The Bridesmaid 3?6 XLI. Polly Speaks like an Oracle 382 XLII. The Woman of Futurity 399 XLIII. My Enemy 408 XLIV. A Sunday at Islington 420 XLV. Polly's Birthday Letter 431 XLVI. Eiver ! Fiver ! Shining Eiver ! 439 XLVII. The Day After 453 XLVIII. Old Scenes 465 XLIX. Mt Mother's Story 477 L. Lulu and her Family 490 LI. Father and Son 501 LIL I Ask Counsel of My Friends 512 LIII. Afternoon Tea 522 LIV. Family Jars •. 527 LV. Othello at Home 535 LVI. Changes in the Firm 546 LVIL Betrothed 551 LVIII. Married and Settled 559 LIX. "In the Midst of Life we are in Death" 566 LX. Farewell , ,..,.

Chapter I. Mt Fiest Impressions

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; Tbe soul tbat rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar : Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home. ** Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy. But be beholds the light, and whence it flovs J He sees it in his joy ; The youth, who daily from the East Must travel, still is nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended. At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the Ught of common day." Wordsworth. Childhood's first impressions ! How vague, how shadowy, how mysterious they are ! And how difficult it is in after years to discern between that which is actually stereotyped on the memory, and that which we only seem to remember ; to be clear as to that which we do recall, and that which we know only by description.

A vivid imagination frequently credits its owner with larger, fuller, and more distinct recollections than he has any claim to ; and, as we grow older, the more hazy, the more indistinct, the more confused these childish reminiscences become ; and yet, looking back through the long, dim vista of the fast receding years, with what deep interest, with what tenderness, with what indescribable pathos one regards them ! In thus retracing the way by which onr Father has led us, I think we all — or most of ns, certainly — come to a certain halting-place, about which we are perfectly snre, and which is, indeed, the starting-point, not of our existence, but of onr individual sentient life. All behind is dim, dimmer, and then dark ! — a dream, a vision, lapsing into unconsciousness. All in front is clear and clearer, more and more fully denned : neutral tints and pale outlines in the distance ; deeper shadows, brighter lights, glowing hnes, fresh from memory's palette, in the foreground.

Looking back — as far back as I may — into those long-past days of childhood, the starting-point which I reach, and beyond which I cannot travel, is a national event. The first thing I accurately remember is the death of King George the Fourth. Few who have reached middle-life will ever forget that awful storm which swept over the whole length and breadth of the country on the night of that monarch's demise. As well as I can recollect, it was a close, sultry evening, and, as I was put to bed, the lightning nickered, and the thunder rolled, through a gloomy leaden sky. I was not a timid child, and I was too young to be impressed with the grandeur and awf ulness of the rising tempest ; and so I quickly fell asleep, and woke to find myself being carried downstairs, in some one's arms, several hours afterwards.

We lived in a great house in the City, as far as I can make out, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Cannon Street, and not farfrom Ludgate Hill. I know the first thing I saw in the morning was always the great dome of the Cathedral, which I nsed to fancy waa just outside my window. It was a house of business — whose I do not know : it was full of great bales from top to bottom, but of what they consisted I have not now the least idea. But this I do know, for I found it out long afterwards — my mother MT FIEST IMPRESSIONS. and I were allowed to live in the hnge, dark, dismal house " out of charity," as people say. We were not alone in the vast tenement : there was an old, or probably elderly man, named Jacob, and Deborah, his wife, a pale, grave woman, who worked hard, and was severely pitted with the small pox.

Also Eliza Ann, daughter of the above, as a tombstone would put it ; a tall, thin, colourless, sad-faced, dreary-looking young woman of thirty-five, of whom I had inadvertently heard that she was " crossed in love." Jacob and Deborah had charge of the house. Eliza Ann was a dressmaker by trade, and usually worked at home, though now and then she went out by the day. Besides these human creatures there was a huge mastiff chained in the yard — a fierce beast, which I was persuaded could easily eat me np, if so disposed ; and, therefore, I kept ont of his reach, and never willingly favoured him with my society ; an immense tabby-cat, which pervaded the whole place, and with whom I was on the happiest terms of intimacy ; and a luckless skylark, in a cage — the private property of the love-lorn Eliza Ann.

It was Jacob who carried me downstairs that night, and I naturally wondered where he was taking me, for the living-rooms were all in the upper stories. It seemed so odd to be going down — down — down — I don't know how many flights of stairs, in my little night-gown, in the middle of the night. I thought we must be descending to the cellars ; bnt we stopped short on the groundfloor, and entered a small room, partitioned off from one of the larger warehouses, and having only borrowed lights. But as we crossed the outer apartment, it was all ablaze — or so it seemed to me — with the hot, blinding, electric flame, and for the first time I was frightened, and called out in my childish way, "Mamma! Mamma!" The next minute I was in my mother's arms, and I began to be fully awake. The room we were in was small and rather dirty, and had neither fireplace nor window, on which account it had been selected as a desirable refuge from the perils of the storm.

Jacob, Deborah, and my mother sat on packing-cases ; Eliza Ann was perched upon an unreasonably high office stool, standing in front of a huge desk, fit for the sons of Anak, and awfully splashed 1—2 OLIVER WESTWOOD. with ink. She sat " like Patience on a monument." only she was not " smiling at grief," for she never smiled at anything, and there was no damask on her cheek for concealment or anything else to feed on. I did not like her, and I feared her, though I do not think she was ever unkind to me ; and yet there was something about her which, in spite of myself, drew me towards her, and impelled me to ask her questions, and seek her society. For some reason, which I cannot even now explain, she attracted and interested me incessantly ; and as I sat, half-scared and halfwondering, in my mother's lap, I was watching her sharp, sallow face, and silently asking the subject of her thoughts.

"What did you bring me down for?" I inquired of Jacob, presently. " I brought you down out of the thunder, my lad," he replied. " I thought the top of the house was tumbling in, as I went up the stairs. How sonnd asleep he was ! " The last sentence was addressed to my mother, and Jacob added, " He looked so pretty and so happy, poor little chap, I didn't like to wake him ; but it wasn't safe, leaving him up there. Besides, he might have waked of himself, and been frightened out of his senses. Oh, mercy, there's a flash ! The warehonse is as light as day. Now for it ! " And instantly there came a crashing peal which sounded as if the whole house were falling about onr ears. And before that ceased another and another, louder and louder, and all the world seemed wrapped in flame, which showed even in our remote quarters.

Surely the skies were rending, and the foundations of the solid earth breaking np ! My own opinion was that St. Paul's itself had come to the ground, and I only hoped we should escape being buried in its ruins. Child-like, I was frightened only at the thunder, at the great noise, the rattle overhead, and all around, like a thousand fields of artillery exploding at once, and the strong vibration which jarred and shook the entire building. I rather liked to see the lightning especially subdued as it was in our dim retreat. It seemed to me a very superior sort of fireworks. The thunderbolt, about which I had heard much, I naturally imagined, pro ceeded from the thnnder. I could feel that my mother MT FIRST IMPRESSIONS. trembled, and 1 knew that she was praying silently. Jacob groaned, and clasped his hands.

Deborah cried, ." Oh, Lord, have mercy ! All London's in ruins by this time. Oh, what do it all mean ? " Then Eliza Ann came down from her high stool, and seated herself, like the rest of ns, on an inverted packing case. She replied solemnly, " The day of the Lord is at hand, mother ; we shall never see morning. This is ihe end of the world ! " Hearing which, I set up a great howling. I knew some thing about the Judgment _ Day, for Eliza AnD often read to me from the closing chapters of the Revelation, and I had learned some hymns wrhich described the Second Advent in all its terrors. I shook with fear, and almost wished the house would tumble down and hide me from the dreadful scenes about to be enacted. Had the dead risen yet ? I wondered ; and I pictured to myself the ghastly forms — shrouded skeletons — coming forth from the marble tombs in St. Paul's ; from the crypt into which I had been taken more than once ; from the vaults generally ; and from the vaults and graveyards of the many city churches ronnd about.

I listened for the trumpet to sound ; I held my breath between the thunder-peals to catch the Archangel's voice. To think we had come — really come — to the Last Day ! the Day of Wrath ! the day when heaven and earth should melt away, when the books should be opened, and the dead, both great and small, stand before the white throne ! And where would the Throne be ? I wondered ; and after a moment's reflection, I settled that it would be upon the ruins of the Cathedral. " Shall I have to go ?" I asked my mother, in a whisper. " Go where, dear ?" And she folded her arms more tightly round me. " Go to the Throne — to the Judge ! If this is the end of the world, He must be coming. Or, do you think He is come ?" My mother, I believe, quite thought that the dissolution of nature might be at hand.

People then somehow associated Christ's coming with terrific thunder storms. Ah, well ! if there was much foolishness in those days, there was also a good deal of simple faith, which we, who have found out that we inherit all the ages, OLIVEE WESTWOOD. sadly lack. Mamma whispered back to me, "If He is come, so much the better. We need not be afraid of Jesus Christ." " Ah ! it is Jesus Christ," I replied, greatly relieved. " Oh no, I am not afraid of Him ; but I thought it was God." From which remark you will perceive that my theology was extremely imperfect. I had somehow got to regard the " gentle Jesus " of my bed-time hymn as entirely separate from the dreadful God, who might at any moment send me to the " everlasting pains " of which another hymn told me. I felt quite comforted to think that it was Jesus whom I should have to confront ; and while I was making up my mind what I should say to Him, I fell asleep, and, when I awoke, I was in my own bed in the attic, where I usually slept, and the sun was shining, and the great dome, untouched, unshaken, stood up against the intense blue summer sky.

So, then, the world had not come to an end ! the storm was over, and nothing par ticular had happened ; the morning looked just like any other morning, and I hastily scrambled out of bed to satisfy myself that the Cathedral was all right. As I did so, an awful voice smote on my ear. The deep sound filled the air, its echoes lingered long, its reverberations died away within the room ; and, as I listened, it came again, booming solemnly from the nearer cupola of St. Paul's. It was the great bell, which I had never heard before, which tolls only for the royal dead. I had scarcely begun to put on my socks when Eliza Ann entered. I looked at her inquisitively, and she looked at me. " Well ? " said I, interrogatively. "Well," responded she; "do you hear the bell, Oliver?" " Yes ; but, Eliza Ann, the world is going on just the same ; I hear the rattle in the streets, and there's a man crying, ' Cherry ripe ! ' " " Yes, the world is going on," she answered, " but who can say how soon it will be over ? — it can't last much longer ; it is so wicked.

But something has happened." " Oh ! what ? " I cried, as I struggled into my little shirt, which was too small for me. MT FIRST IMPRESSIONS. " The King is dead ! " I was not so much impressed as might have been ex pected, for kings were kings in those days ; and she man whose motto was not " Church and King " was supposed to be in a very bad way indeed, and tending to perdition. " Will it matter much to us ?" was my selfish rejoinder ; " can't we do without a King ? " " Certainly not," repUed Eliza Ann, frowning down my incipient Republicanism ; " but we need not trouble our selves ; there is another King." " Who is he ? " " William the Fourth, the late King's brother ; and we have a Queen now ; her name is Adelaide. There will be grand doings at Court when the mourning is over ; and there will be a coronation in Westminster Abbey, and the city will be illuminated at night ; it will be a fine sight."

Of course, I had never heard the trite saying, " Le roi est mort ! Vive le roi!" or if I had, I should not have understood it, for I knew not then, nor for long after wards, a single word of any language save my own, which I spoke, I am afraid, with a sad Cockney twang ; but I quite realised the spirit of the words, and entered into them; only, having a laudable desire for information, I wanted to know a little more. " But, Eliza Ann, how did this man William come to be King?" " He came according to rule — he was next to the throne. King George never had but one daughter, and she died, so his brother takes the crown." " Oh ! he took it ; it was not given to him ? " " He took it, because it was his right." " Did he take it the very moment his brother died ? " " Yes ; that very moment ! Directly the breath went out of King George, he was King William."

Whereat I pondered, picturing to myself the Duke of Clarence walking up to the bedside of the dead King, taking off his crown — which I supposed he wore day and night, sick and sorry, sad and merry — and putting it upon his own head. And I decided in my own mind that it was not a nice thing to do ; he might have waited a few days, I thought, and postponed his kingship a little longer. OLIVER WESTWOOD. I felt sorry for the poor dead King, who could not see the beautiful June sunshine any more, and who could wear his crown no longer. All of a sudden, a bright idea struck me ; I was familiar with the figures and metaphors of Holy Writ, and I remembered something about the crowns and palms of the saints in glory. " Ah ! " I said. " But he will have a crown in heaven, won't he — a crown of gold ?

" "No," replied Eliza Ann, with emphasis. "He was a bad man, and he is not gone to heaven." " Then is he gone to — to the other dreads ul place ? " I shrank from saying "hell," it sounded so dreadful; but my companion was not so squeamish. "Yes," she answered unfalteringly; "he is gone to hell ! He died impenitent. Kings and beggars fare alike in the next world. God is no respecter of persons. Every man mnst receive the reward of his own doings." " But perhaps he did repent, Eliza Ann, and said nothing about it ; only God knew," I urged. " Perhaps," she said hesitatingly ; " but I don't think it is at all likely. He was a bad man — a very bad man; and was the ruin of many a poor creature. There, don't ta k any more, child ; I'm waiting to wash your face." Which she accordingly did, and got so much soap into my eyes that I began to cry, and in my own small wrongs forgot the fate of departed majesty.

Though for many and many a day, and long after the general mourning was over, I thought pitifully of poor King George, of whose present abode I could get no satisfactory account. How old was I ? do you ask. I was just five years old, and if you think I was too young to concern myself with the eternal doom of kings, please to remember that I was that sad, paradoxical mingling of precocity and back wardness which children who are brought up entirely with grown people generally are. I thought of many things of which a healthy-minded child does not and cannot think. At the same time, I was ignorant of much with which children of five and of average intellect are supposed to be acquainted. Nature, when she is thwarted, is sure to take her revenge in some way. I cannot remember that up to this time I had ever MT FIRST IMPRESSIONS. spoken to any child, nor am I sure that I wished for a companion of my own age.

London was the world, I fancied ; and my mother, Jacob, Deborah, and Eliza Ann were the most important people living. I used to tell all my private thoughts to the big cat, and we got on most amicably. I really think Tom was as fond of me as I of him, and that is saying a great deal. From that time, which is so fixed in my memory, I began to observe and to remember things pretty clearly, and I suppose my mind must have expanded rapidly. I often went out in the summer evenings with Jacob, when the bustle of the day was over. Sometimes he took me down the river in a little boat, and sometimes we loitered about on London Bridge, watching the small craft beneath as it shot the gloomy arches ; or, when the sunset hour came, gazing enraptured on the glorified river, with its crimson and golden waters, its gilded barges, and its shining palaces on either bank.

The barges were foul enough, I knew, and the palaces were only grim, dingy warehouses. But what did that matter ? They looked far otherwise in that rich red light of eve. I have been far over land and sea since that time ; but, at the risk of being laughed at for Cockney partialities, I here declare that I never saw any more beautiful sight than I used to see from London Bridge at fall of day in the month of September, and perhaps in the last week of August. I see it now — the shining river, glowing and widening like a celestial stream, under a deep blue firmament, all flecked with rosy cloudlets. I see the golden sails, and the diamond and ruby-tipped spray as it falls in showers from the golden oars. Under the shadow of the buildings the water is dark and solemn ; the last gleam of mellow sunset falls on the roofs and chimneys of the great city, and high over all hangs the mighty dome, with its burning cross flashing upwards, till it seems to touch the blood-red banners oi the sky !

I had never seen the country ; I had seen but very few trees or flowers ; the parks were not kept as they are now, and flowers were not hawked about the streets at a penny a bunch. I always thought of the heavenly Jerusalem as a sort of glorified London, and I am not sure that the notion has even yet deserted me ! Now and then my mother took me to the service in the Cathedral, and as time passed on I used to go there by myself. The traffic of the streets was nothing to what it is now, and I had all the instinct of a city child in steering clear of wheels and horses' feet. I wonder the vergers let me remain, such a wee mite as I was ; but seeing, I suppose, that I com ported myself with all gravity and decorum, they never interfered. My mother seemed to have been failing in health from the period of my birth.

She was always more or less of an invalid. I do not know that she had any decided malady ; but she was what people call " delicate." Her appetite was slender, and very Httle exertion tired her, and in the autumn of that year (1830) I noticed that her breath was often very short, and that she frequently held her hand to her left side. She must have been very pretty — scarcely beautiful, perhaps, but pretty, with the prettiness of a very fair complexion, large blue eyes, delicate, refined features, and a wealth of glossy, hght brown hair, which fell in masses of ringlets round her shoulders when she let it down. Generally speaking, she wore it in a fashion which has been common enough since then ; at least, it prevailed before the stupid craze for chignons and waterfalls set in. It was all drawn back from her face, and confined behind in a black silk net.

I liked her best so ; but Eliza Ann used to find fanlt with the stylo, and urged her to wear cannon curls in front, and turn up her back hair into a high coronet or bow, such as was the mode just then. We were very poor; we lived plainly, and dressefl shabbily. We shared the sitting-room and kitchen of the Halkets (the surname of Jacob and Deborah) ; but we had a large attic bedroom to ourselves, which also served as our private parlour in the summer-time. Of course it never occurred to me to ask how we came to be there, for we clearly were not connected with the house in the way of business, as were Jacob and Deborah, who had their duties, and were really hired servants of the firm. Children take most things for granted, at least such things as they are accustomed to ; and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that my mother and I should Hve in that dull City I ASE FOE INFORMATION. lane, at the top of the huge house, with Mr. and Mrs. Halket and their daughter for companions.

I had never known any other home, and with childhood's happy care lessness I never dreamed that a time would come when I might call it home no longer. That time was nearer than any one suspected, though I fancy my mother began to have forebodings, as the autumn days wore away into the early winter, which came earHer than usual that year.

Chapter II

, I ASK FOE INFORMATION, The first time that I began to perceive there was some thing unusual about our mode of life, and something in myself different from other children, was one Advent Sunday evening. I had been to the Cathedral by myself to afternoon service, my mother being too unwell to go out. In the morning I had accompanied Eliza Ann to a dismal little conventicle in Cats' Alley, which must have been somewhere in that labyrinth of narrow streets and tortuous lanes between Cannon Street and the Poultry, which once occupied the space now known as Queen Victoria Street. Of what denomination these good people were I am sure I cannot guess ; they had their doctrines or dogmas, I know, for I often heard Eliza Ann descant upon them to my mother, and to her own parents, who were of no persuasion at all ; but what they believed, or what they professed, — these Cats' Alley Christians, — I have not the least idea ; I only know they prayed long and loud, and groaned awfully, and said " Amen " in the middle of the prayer.

There had been so much groaning that morning, and such interminable prayers, and such a weariful long ser mon, that after dinner I excused myself when again invited to Cats' Alley, and said I was going to the Cathedral, where they did not groan ; where the service was music, prayers and all ; and where the sermon came to an end soon after it had fairly commenced ! Eliza Ann opined that my mother was letting me run down the broad road which leads to destruction ; but she knew it was useless to re monstrate, so she went off to Cats' Alley with her hymn book tightly swathed in her pocket-handkerchief ; and I went off to the Cathedral with my mother's Prayer-book, which, however, I could not read, only it looked so proper to carry it. It was a lovely afternoon, though we were so near the end of the year ; and I set off so early that I reached the church before the bell had commenced to toll.

I walked round outside, paying my devotions to the great dome which I loved and reverenced so much. It was very strange ; but looking at it always made me feel inclined to join my hands and say, " Our Father which art in heaven." Then I went inside, and as soon as the choir gates were opened, I entered and took my usual place on one of the benches, and opened my Prayer-book, and, like a little hypocrite, pretended to be reading it. On the same bench sat a little girl, rather older than myself, and very nicely dressed. She always seemed to me quite a young lady ; and she was generally accompanied by an elderly person, her attendant. But this afternoon she came alone, and when service was over she and I looked at each other, at first bashfully, and then confidently. We had known each other for months by sight ; and at last, as we stood under the great dome in the dim twilight of the winter afternoon, we spoke.