Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XII.
Raymond’s story of the School of Misfortune—concluded.
“It was several hours after his arrival at the city before R. had fully recovered his senses. When he was completely restored, and began to make inquiries, he found that all his ship companions had perished. He, who probably cared least for life—he, who had no family, no friends, and who was weary of existence—he only, of all that ship’s company, was the one that survived the tempest!
“There was something in this so remarkable, that it occupied his mind, and caused deep emotions. In the midst of many painful reflections, he could not, however, disguise the fact, that he felt a great degree of pleasure in his delivery from so fearful a death. Again and again he said to himself, ‘How happy, how thankful I feel, at being saved, when so many have been borne down to a watery grave!’ The loss of his property, though it left him a beggar in the world, did not seem to oppress him: the joy of escape from death was to him a source of lively satisfaction; it gave birth to a new feeling—a sense of dependence on God, and a lively exercise of gratitude towards him. It also established in his mind a fact before entirely unknown, or unremarked—that what is called misfortune, is often the source of some of our most exquisite enjoyments. ‘It seems to me,’ said R., in the course of his reflections, ‘that, as gems are found in the dreary sands, and gold among the rugged rocks, and as the one are only yielded to toil, and the other to the smelting of the fiery furnace,—so happiness is the product of danger, suffering, and trial. I have felt more real peace, more positive enjoyment from my deliverance, than I was able to find in the whole circle of voluptuous pleasures yielded by wealth and fashion. I became a wretch, existence was to me a burthen, while I was rich. But, having lost my fortune, and experienced the fear of death, I am happy in the bare possession of that existence which I spurned before.’
“Such were the feelings and reflections of R. for a few days after his escape; but at length it was necessary for him to decide upon some course of action. He was absolutely penniless. Everything had been sunk with the ship. He had no letters of introduction, he had no acquaintances in New York; nor, indeed, did he know any one in all America, save that a brother of his was a clergyman in some part of the United States; but a coldness had existed between them, and he had not heard of him for several years. R. was conscious, too, that this coldness was the result of his own ungenerous conduct; for the whole of his father’s estate had been given to him, to the exclusion of his brother, and he had permitted him to work his own way in life, without offering him the least assistance. To apply to this brother was, therefore, forbidden by his pride; and, beside, he had every reason to suppose that brother to be poor.
“What, then, was to be done? Should he return to England? How was he to get the money to pay his passage? Beside, what was he to do when he got there? Go back to the village where he carried his head so high, and look in the faces of his former dashing acquaintances—acknowledging himself a beggar! This was not to be thought of. Should he seek some employment in America? This seemed the only plan. He began to make inquiries as to what he could find to do. One proposed to him to keep school; another, to go into a counting-room; another, to be a bar-keeper of a hotel. Any of these occupations would have given him the means of living; but R.’s pride was in the way;—pride, that dogs us all our life, and stops up almost every path we ought to follow, persuaded R. that he, who was once a gentleman, ought to live the life of a gentleman; and of course he could not do either of the things proposed.
“But events, day by day, pressed R. to a decision. His landlord, at last, became uneasy, and told him that for what had accrued, he was welcome, in consideration of his misfortunes; but he was himself poor, and he begged him respectfully to make the speediest possible arrangements to give up his room, which he wanted for another boarder. ‘I have been thinking,’ said R. in reply to this, ‘that I might engage in the practice of physic. In early life I was thought to have a turn for the profession.’ This suggestion was approved by the landlord, and means were immediately taken to put it in execution. Dr. R., late of England, was forthwith announced; and in a few weeks he was in the full tide of successful experiment.
“This fair weather, however, did not continue without clouds. Many persons regarded Dr. R. only as one of the adventurers so frequently coming from England to repay the kindness and courtesy of the Yankees with imposition and villany. Various inquiries and stories were got up about him; some having a sprinkling of truth in them, and, for that reason, being very annoying. R., however, kept on his way, paying little heed to these rumors, fancying that, if left to themselves, they would soon die. And such would, perhaps, have been the result, had not a most unfortunate occurrence given matters another turn.
“In the house where R. boarded, several small sums of money, and certain ornaments of some value, were missed by the boarders, from time to time. Suspicions fell upon a French servant in the family; but as nothing could be proved against him, he was retained, and a vigilant watch kept over his actions. Discovering that he was suspected, this fellow determined to turn the suspicion against R.; he, therefore, in the dead of night, took a valuable watch from one of the rooms, and laid it under the pillow of R.’s bed. This was done with such address, that neither the gentleman from whom the watch was stolen, nor R. himself, saw anything of it at the time. The watch was missed in the morning, and the French servant was arrested. But as soon as the chambermaid began to make up R.’s bed, behold, the pilfered watch was there! The French servant was at once released, and R. was arrested, briefly examined, and thrown into prison.
“The circumstances in which he had come to the country now all made against him. The unfavorable rumors that had been afloat respecting him were revived; all the stories of swindlers that had visited the country for twenty years back, were published anew, with embellishments. In short, R. was tried and condemned by the public, while he lay defenceless in prison, and long before his real trial came on. The subject became a matter of some notoriety; the circumstances were detailed in the newspapers. A paragraph noticing these events met the eye of R.’s brother, who was settled as a minister of the gospel in a country parish not far distant, and he immediately came to the city. Satisfying himself by a few inquiries that it was indeed his brother who was involved in difficulty and danger, he went straight to the prison, with a heart overflowing with sympathy and kindness. But pride was still in the way, and R. haughtily repulsed him.
“The pious minister was deeply grieved; but he did not the less seek to serve his brother. He took care to investigate the facts, and became persuaded that the French servant had practised the deception that has been stated; but he was not able to prove it. He employed the best of counsel; but, in spite of all his efforts, and all his sympathy, R. was found guilty, condemned, and consigned to prison.
“Up to this time, the pride of R. had sustained him; but it now gave way. He had borne the loss of fortune, but to be convicted of a low, base theft, was what his spirit could not endure. His health sunk under it, and his reason, for a time, departed. His sufferings during that dark hour, God only knows. He at last recovered his health and his senses, and then he heard, that, on his death-bed, the French servant had confessed his iniquity. It was from the lips of his brother, and under his roof, where he had been removed during his insanity, that R. learnt these events. He was released from prison, and his character was cleared of the imputation of crime.
“From this period R. was an altered man. His pride was effectually quelled; no longer did that disturber of earth’s happiness,—the real serpent of Eden,—remain to keep him in a state of alienation from his brother. The two were now, indeed, as brothers. But there were other changes in R.; his health was feeble, his constitution was broken; his manly beauty had departed, and he was but the wreck of former days. But, strange as it may seem, he now, for the first time, found peace and happiness. He had now tasted of sorrow, and was acquainted with grief. This enabled him to enter into the hearts of other men, to see their sorrows, and to desire to alleviate them. A new world was now open to him; a world of effort, of usefulness, of happiness. In the days of prosperity, he had no cares for anybody but himself; and mere selfishness had left him a wretch while in possession of all the supposed means of bliss. He had now made the discovery,—more important to any human being than that of Columbus,—that pride is the curse of the human race, and humility its only cure; that trial, sorrow, and misfortune are necessary, in most cases, to make us acquainted with our own hearts, and those of our fellow-men; and that true bliss is to be found only in a plan of life which seeks, earnestly and sincerely, the peace and happiness of others.”
Here ended R.’s story of the School of Misfortune; and I had no difficulty in discovering that he had been telling the story of his own life, though he had, in some respects, as I had reason to suppose, departed from its details.
(To be continued.)