The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Doctor Lonsdale’s plan of tuition was very different from that of Mr. Cane. His was the suaviter in modo, rather than the fortiter in re. He aspired to make his pupils gentlemen as well as good scholars. He never used the cane, but his rebuke was greatly dreaded, and his quiet, sarcastic remarks on a mispronunciation or a vulgarism effectually prevented their repetition. Dignified in manner and deportment, and ever preserving an air of grave courtesy, it would have been impossible to take a liberty with him, and it was never attempted. Doctor Lonsdale was a spare man, with large thoughtful features, and a fine expansive forehead, powdered at the top. He looked like a bishop, and ought to have been one. His voice was peculiarly solemn, and it was quite a treat to hear him read prayers. Under him the boys began to give themselves the airs of young men, wore well-cut coats and well-fitting boots, were very particular about their neck-cloths and about the fashion of their hair, and, above all, wore gloves — refinements never dreamed of in the lower forms, where, sooth to say, we were sad slovens.

  But I must return there for the present, for I am not yet out of Mr. Cane’s clutches. Of course, in a Free School like ours, there were boys of all sorts and all grades, and we got on together pretty well, some herding with one set, some with another; but there was one poor lad, named John Brideoake, with whom, when he first came, none would associate. He was so shabbily attired that we considered ourselves disgraced by his companionship, and made him sit outside the desk amongst the boxes. He was very timid and humble, and submitted to our ill-usage without a murmur. He was rather a small boy, apparently stunted in his growth, and looked very thin and emaciated, as if, in addition to being poorly clad, he was half-starved.

  I am sorry to say we jeered him both about his shabby clothes and his hungry looks, and would not let him rest even when driven from us, but tormented him in various ways, plucking his hair, and fastening him to the seat with cobbler’s wax. We wouldn’t lend him a book if he wanted it; nor answer him if he ventured to speak to us; nor let him come near the fire, though he was perishing of cold; and, of course, he wouldn’t have been allowed to play with us, if he had desired to do so; but this he never attempted, but went straight home to his mother, who, we were informed, was in very poor circumstances. indeed. He worked hard at his lessons, and, though when he first came he was somewhat behindhand, he soon bid fair to outstrip us all. I must say this for Mr. Cane, that he behaved kindly to the poor fellow; took his part against us, rebuked us for our pride, and punished us severely whenever he perceived us tormenting him. This, however, did not serve the lad, but made us use him still more unmercifully. But he never told of us, and for this we secretly respected him. In spite of all these distractions, John Brideoake made great progress, and rose in the class, so that we were obliged to admit him amongst us. Still, he was not of us. He was now just below me, but of course I did not notice him, for, indeed, I was one of the most determined of his opponents. One day, while up before Mr. Cane, I was construing some lines out of Terence, and was at fault for a word, when Brideoake whispered it to me, though he could have taken me down if he had spoken aloud.

  This I thought great presumption on his part, and, as soon as the lesson was over, I said to him, angrily:

  “Take care you never presume to prompt me again, Brideoake. I won’t stand it.”

  “Very well,” he replied meekly.

  In spite of this, he tried again the next day, but I would not attend to him, and he went above me. In a week from that time he was at the head of the class. Now we hated him worse than ever and formed all sorts of combinations against him; but his mildness of manner defeated them all. He would not quarrel with us; but his superior ability was so evident, that Mr. Cane recommended him for promotion to the class above us. We pretended to be glad, and complimented him ironically; but he bore his triumph very meekly, and I think, after all, was sorry to leave us.

  His example did me some good. Not liking to be outdone, I worked so hard that in six weeks I was promoted too, and got away from Mr. Cane and his cane.

  During this interval a change had taken place in my opinions respecting John Brideoake. I felt I had ill-used him, and done him injustice, and I determined to make an apology. At first my pride revolted against this step, but I soon conquered the feeling. When I found myself again beside Brideoake he looked quite pleased to see me, but he didn’t venture to congratulate me. Quite touched by his manner, I held out my hand to him, and he took it very warmly and gratefully. The tears were in his eyes, for he was soft-hearted as a girl, and extremely susceptible of kindness, of which he had experienced so little; for the boys in the new class were just as haughty and reserved towards him as we had been.

  “Brideoake,” I said, “I have behaved very ill to you, but I am heartily ashamed of myself, and beg you to forgive me. You never resented my conduct, as you might have done; and I’m very glad of it now, because I hope we may be good friends in future.”

  “I don’t require any apology, Clitheroe,” he answered; “you have only to say we are friends, to efface all recollection of past unkindness from my mind. Before this, I could not tell you how much I regarded you, nor how grieved I was that you disliked me, or I am sure you would not have acted so. I have borne all annoyances — though some have been hard enough to bear — without repining, and, indeed, have felt endurance to be part of my lot; but I hoped one day to gain the good opinion of my schoolfellows, and chiefly yours, Clitheroe. The day has arrived. You have held out your hand to me, and promised me your friendship. I am quite happy.”

  These words of his cut me to the heart. I wondered how I could have behaved so unkindly to him, and I replied, with much emotion, “You may not blame me, Brideoake, but I severely blame myself. I ought to have known better, and to have recognised in you the merits you really possess, which are far greater than those of any other boy with whom I am acquainted. I shall always respect you, and others shall learn to respect you as I do. If any one attempts to molest you, he shall quarrel with me.”

  “Nay, nay, Clitheroe,” he said; “that would distress me. Be my friend, but do not espouse my quarrels. I could not bear you to be involved in disputes on my account. My wish is to offend no one. Say what you please of me to the others, but let them act as they think proper.”

  “They’ shall learn what a generous-hearted, good fellow you are, Brideoake, and then not one of them but will be as proud of your friendship as I am.”

  And so it proved. I spoke of him in such enthusiastic terms, that instead of shunning him, the boys made up to him, and his gentle and unoffending manners caused him to be beloved by everybody. Besides, he was such an uncommonly clever fellow, that we began to regard him as a prodigy. He made nothing of the most difficult passages in Lucretius or Juvenal; wrote Latin verses with great facility; and his English compositions were much lauded. He was so good-natured and obliging, that we all applied to him when in difficulties; and he would at any time write a theme, or throw off a copy of Latin verses for an idle fellow, during breakfast time.

  As we were now constantly together, John Brideoake acquainted me with his history — at least, with as much of it as he himself knew, for he was not very accurately informed on the subject. His father was a gentleman’s son, who had resided somewhere in Northumberland, but having married against the consent of his family, had been disowned by them, and, after struggling ineffectually against a series of calamities, had died, leaving a widow almost penniless, and burdened with two children — himself and a daughter named Apphia. His mother, he said, was the best of women, but exceedingly proud, and, notwithstanding the extremities to which she had been reduced, would neither apply for assistance to her husband’s relatives, nor to her own, with whom she had also quarrelled. She had determined to bring up her son as a gentleman, no matter what privations she underwent for the purpose, and designed him for the Church. Her straitened means forbade the accomplishment of the scheme in any other way except the one she had adopted. John Brideoake hoped to gain one of the
best exhibitions connected with the school, which would help to defray his expenses at Cambridge, whither he meant to go.

  I was so much interested in the description of his mother and his little sister Apphia, that I begged him to introduce me to them. He coloured up when I made the request, and said he must first ask his mother’s consent. The next day he told me she was very much obliged, but she was unable to receive me.

  “You will excuse her, Clitheroe,” he said; “but I have told you she is extremely proud, and, to speak truth, she is ashamed of our lodgings. We are too poor to receive visitors. Better days may come, when we shall be delighted to welcome you.”

  I pressed him no further.

  Opposite the school was a shop much frequented by us all. Its owner was an odd character, by name John Leigh. He had served in the early American war, and had lost his right arm at the famous battle of Bunker’s Hill. John was a gruff old fellow, not over civil or obliging, but there were peculiarities about him that made us like him, in spite of his crustiness. He had large, heavy features, and a bulky person. He dressed in a pepper-and-salt coat, of ancient make, which looked as if there were more salt than pepper in the mixture, knee-breeches, not unfrequently besprinkled with flour, and wore buckles in his shoes. His right sleeve was fastened to his breast. His grey hair was taken back from his face and tied in a thick, clubbed pigtail behind. John Leigh knew his customers well: to some boys he would give unlimited credit, to others none at all. Indeed, it was matter of boast with many a lad, and argued well for his resources, if “he had-good tick at John’s.” John’s sweetmeats were excellent; at least we thought so, and we devoured far too many of his macaroons, queen’s cakes, and jumbals, to say nothing of tarts, when fruit was in season, and the daily consumption of hot rolls and butter. John Leigh’s shop was our constant resort. We lounged about it, sat upon the counter or the potato-bins (for John was a general dealer), or the corner of the flour or meal chests, or in the great pair of scales, or wherever we could find a seat, and discussed the politics of the school, and other matters. Even during school-hours we would run across there, and rumours of our goings-on would reach the master’s ears, and search would occasionally be made for us. I recollect an incident of this sort, which occurred while I was under Mr. Cane. Some half-dozen of us were comfortably seated on John’s counter, munching away at a pound of macaroons before us, when we perceived Cane issue from the gate, evidently marching in the direction of the shop. In an instant we all disappeared; some of us diving under the counter, and others hiding where they could. Shortly after, when Cane entered, no one was to be seen except John, close beside whose bulky legs I and two others were lying perdus.

  “I thought some of the boys were here, John?” said Mr. Cane sharply, and glancing round the place.

  “I see none on ‘em, sir,” replied John, in a somewhat surly tone.

  “That’s not a direct answer, John,” rejoined the pedagogue peremptorily. “There are six of my boys out of school — Lathom, Hilton, Frogg, Simpson, Hyde, and Clitheroe. Has any one of them, or have all been here?”

  “I never answers no questions about the young gentlemen as frequents my shop,” said John doggedly.

  “Then I conclude they have been here,” observed Mr. Cane.

  Upon this, we pinched John’s fat legs rather severely, for we thought he might have done something better than this to get us out of the scrape. The pain made him roar out lustily.

  “What’s the matter, John?” asked Mr. Cane, who was going out of the shop.

  “A sudden seizure, sir, that’s all,” returned John; “but you mustn’t go for to imagine, from anything I’ve said, that the young gentlemen has been here, sir. It’s my rule never to speak about ‘em, and I should have given you the same answer whether or no.”

  “Equivocation, you fancy, is not falsehood, I see, John; but give me leave to observe that your standard of morality is rather low. I shall draw my own conclusions,” said Mr. Cane, turning away, and muttering to himself, “I am sure they have been here.”

  Upon which we pinched John’s great calves again, and the veteran angrily ejaculated:

  “Come, I shan’t stand this any longer.”

  “Ha! What’s that? Did I hear aright?” demanded Mr. Cane, stopping short. “The man has been drinking,” he muttered.

  “Be quiet, I say, or I’ll bundle you out o’ th’ shop,” roared John.

  “You’ll do WHAT?” almost screamed Mr. Cane, coming up to him with a countenance full of fury, and twirling his watch-chain as if he would fling it at John’s head. “Did you address those disrespectful — those impertinent observations to me, man?” — .

  We were so delighted at this mistake, that we nearly betrayed ourselves, and with difficulty stifled our laughter.

  “They warn’t addressed to you, sir,” returned John.

  “Then to whom were they addressed?” pursued Mr. Cane. “You affirm no one else is here. I see no one. John — John, I am afraid you are fuddled.”

  “Fuddled — I fuddled! I’d have you to know, Mr. Cane, that I never touches a drop in the morning; and the young gentlemen will bear witness to my sobriety.”

  “What young gentlemen?” demanded Cane.

  Here we slightly admonished John again.

  “The young rascals, I mean,” he roared, stamping with rage and pain. “I wish they were all at the devil — and you at their back,” he added to Mr. Cane, forgetting himself in the blindness of his wrath.

  “It is evident you are not yourself, John,” said the preceptor; “that is the only excuse I can make for you. At some more fitting moment I shall endeavour to reason you out of the sinful and pernicious course you are pursuing. Drink in the morning. Faugh! John.”

  With this he departed, muttering to himself, and was scarcely out of hearing than we jumped up, and saluted John with a roar of laughter worthy of Homer’s heroes. But the hero of Bunker’s Hill did not join in the Homeric merriment. His legs had been pinched black and blue, as if by wicked elves; and he had been told he was fuddled! Fuddled, forsooth! He who had never drunk anything to speak of since he left Boston. He wished he had never taken the shop — never seen the school — never dealt with any of us. He would go away, that he would. His exasperation rose to the highest pitch when he discovered that Hyde-who was a very mischievous lad — while lying behind the counter, had taken the opportunity of rubbing out the scores chalked upon a board placed there. On making this discovery, John seized the offender, held him between his legs, pummelled him soundly with his one arm, and only released him on his promise to pay the whole score, which was pretty heavy in amount. We then ran back to school, and our morning’s amusement was concluded with a sound caning.

  Notwithstanding John’s indignant declaration, he showed no disposition to abandon his shop, and no particular objection to the continuance of our custom. He soon forgot his grievances, or rather they were effaced by new ones, for we were perpetually playing him tricks. We wanted him to tell us how he lost his arm; but he always seemed shy of the subject, till one afternoon, when he was in good humour, and a good lot of us were assembled together, helping ourselves to cakes and confectionery, we thought we might get it out of him, and made the attempt accordingly.

  “You’ll be a soldier like your father, I suppose, Clitheroe?” observed Simpson.

  “No, I won’t,” I replied.

  “You’re afraid of losing an arm, like John Leigh?” remarked Hyde.

  “Perhaps I am,” I answered. “But John seems scarcely to miss his limb. Hand me some figs, old fellow. And now, suppose you tell us how you got rid of your fin?”

  “Ay, ay, tell us all about it, John,” the others chorused.

  “Well,” he replied, “it’s a long story altogether; but I’ll cut it as short as I can.” (We signified our approval, and he went on.) “The battle of Bunker’s Hill, you must know, was fought many years ago, almost afore your fathers was thought of, young gentlemen, on the 17th of June, 1775; and though
I oughtn’t to speak disrespectfully of my commanding officers, yet I must say it was their fault entirely that we didn’t give them Yankees twice the drubbing we did give ‘em, as you shall hear. Well, the troubles had just begun in Americay, which ended in the great war, and a large body of troops had been collected by the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts; British blood had been spilt by the colonists at the fight of Lexington; and Boston, of which General Gage was governor, was blockaded; and a pity it was we hadn’t some one more competent and determined than Gage for a governor, as the first outbreak might have been checked, and no more mischief done. Well, war to extremities was resolved on by our government, and more troops was sent over under the command of Major-General Howe, including some companies of grenadiers, amongst whom I was, and we landed at Boston towards the end of May. The time was now come when we might have read them saucy Yankees a lesson, and given them such a dressing as Mr. Cane sometimes gives his misbehaved boys—”

  “Don’t be personal, John,” Simpson cried.

  “Howsomever, our generals took it mighty easy, and seemed resolved to let ’em go any lengths afore they’d fire a gun to stop ‘em. Well, you must know, Boston’s a very fine city, and is built on a peninsula connected with the mainland by a narrow neck, which was strongly fortified by old Gage. Opposite Boston, and only separated from it by a narrow channel, called Charles Biver, about as wide as the Thames at Lunnun, and now crossed, I believe, by a bridge, but quite open in my time, is another peninsula, on which stands the suburb of Charlestown, and at the back of it there rises a commanding height, completely overlooking Boston, called Bunker’s Hill.”