I fancied I could read what was passing in his mind, and, at a haphazard, said, “You are contrasting the catalogue with that of your own acquirements, and perhaps asking yourself, to what end all the midnight toil of scholarship? Why have I labored hard, with aching brow and fevered heart, when one with vulgar attainments like these,—the scattered fragments, the crumbs that fall from the table of real knowledge,—can secure a better livelihood and more real independence than myself; and the reason is, mine are marketable wares that find purchasers in every class, and among every gradation of society. 'My lord' must have his courier; so must the rich cotton-spinner or the barrister on his wedding-tour. The wealthy dowager, the blooming widow, the ex-minister travelling for 'distraction' the young heir journeying for dissipation, the prelate, the banker, the ruined duke, the newly enriched mill-owner,—all, however differing in other points, agree in this one want, and must have one who will think for them and speak for them, bargain and bully for them, assert their rank and importance wherever they appear; so that of the obstacles of travel, its difficulties and contrarieties, they should know as little as though their road lay between London and Croydon.”
“Still, it is a puzzle to me,” sighed the young man, “how these people achieve the attainments you speak of. Even a smattering of such knowledge would seem to require both time and study.”
“They have but a smattering,” said I; “yet it is gained exactly in the very school where such small proficiency goes farthest,—'the world'—and which you will one day discover has its sources of knowledge, its tests of ability, ay, and its degrees of honor, marked out as palpably as Oxford and Cambridge. There is this advantage, too, sir, over the university,—the track in which you are to travel is marked out for you; you must not stray to the right or to the left,—while in 'the world' the field of direction is wide, open, and expanded; there's a path for every one, if they 'll only look for it.”
He started as I said these words; and as his cheeks flushed up, he said, “I remember once upon a time hearing those very words from a poor friendless boy in my own country. He was setting out, as he said, to seek his fortune, and his whole stock in life was the hope inspired by that sentiment.”
“And what became of him?”
“I never could learn. He disappeared suddenly; and whether he enlisted into some regiment abroad, or died at home, I never ascertained.”
“Then I can tell you, sir,—he now stands before you, the same whom once you so kindly succored! the houseless, friendless child whom you protected and sheltered. I am Con Cregan.”
It would be difficult to describe the bewilderment of poor Lyndsay as I said this; he sat down, closed his eyes, opened them again, rubbed them, stared at me, tried to speak, and at last, rising up, grasped my hand warmly, and cried, “Then, of course, you remember my name?”
“I could never forget it, Mr. Lyndsay,” said I, affectionately.
This was enough, and he now shook me by both hands with all the warmth of old friendship.