A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

Basil sat in his chamber writing. A letter lay before him. It was from his mother—the last of many, sent day after day—entreating him to Jericho House. All the world would be there only too glad to show delight upon the occasion; for it was Basil’s birth-day. On that day, he came of age. On that day, he gave a quittance to natural and legal guardians; and became invested with the rights of citizen. On that day, in Basil’s own words, he was free to sit down in Parliament, if he could only find a seat. On that day, he took possession of man’s estate—with his purposes and aspirations, a glorious heritage! And Basil proposed to keep his birth-day in finest state, too, though not at the board of his legal father. And this determination he had again written—had folded and scaled the letter, when the clock struck twelve. Basil rose to his feet at the first stroke, and, with self-communing looks, paused until the hour was told. In that brief space, he had entered into a compact with his heart, and—with uplifted eyes—silently asked for strength to maintain it.

Basil then cast a heap of papers in the flames—letters and other records of his dead, disowned life—and, as he stood leaning at the fireside, watching the destruction of notes and recollections once so treasured; as he looked down upon the curling flames, and now and then tossed back some scattered fragments to the burning heap, he laughed a moment as in contempt of his olden idols—for he had worn some of those things in his bosom, had kissed them with his lips, had read their words, as though he caught their syllables from speaking mouths. And now he laughed; and the next moment a grave look rebuked the levity. The flames went out; the papers were consumed; and casting one look at their ashes, specked with dying fire, Basil went to his rest. He had fulfilled his self-promise; had accomplished his first work. He had, as he purposed, seen his birth-day in alone: in due and solemn state—as he was fain in after-times to avow; with preparation and with ceremony befitting the crowning One-and-Twenty.

Basil rose early on his birth-day. He was up and out; for he feared to be waylaid by his mother and sisters—and he had resolved, and it was hardly the day to begin with weakness, not to be made the show at Jericho House. And he felt anger, pity, that Bessy and her father and mother—the girl so sweet, so gentle; the old man with so cheery and strong a heart; and the wife so soft and patient, with not a frown or angry word for fortune—should be forgotten, cast aside like holiday garments sported and worn out:—that his mother and sisters should do this—should value his love for the daughter of a ruined man, as a mere caprice—a wayward generosity, which, with any other youthful freak, would last its time, and then subside and die—gave him the heart-ache, not unmixed with shame—the sharp shame that comes with blushes for those we love.

Basil, we say, left home early, resolved in his own fashion to celebrate his coming of age. It was the first day he showed to the world,—a citizen. He had determined to strip himself for the race of life, casting aside all needless trappings; all foolish cumbrous pride; all vanities, that at their best bladdery lightness, take much room; and sometimes, make much idle noise. He would start in his path like a runner in his course. But he shall give the history of the day—an odd, curious day for a newly-risen heir—in his own words. He shall give it as he narrated it years after; when the flush of youth had passed from his brow; and in manly maturity of strength and beauty, with some forty years descended with grace and goodness on his head; some forty years hardening his cheek; and looking with sober sweetness from his eyes,—he told the story of his twenty-first birth-day, to his eldest boy aged eighteen.

“It was after this manner, Basil”—for the boy though some time distant from the world, is upon arrival to have his father’s name—“after this manner, boy.

“Up and early through the city to the fields; and there, in the eye of God, my knees upon their kindred clay, my spirit seeking its hoped-for home—I asked a blessing on the day. I prayed that my heart might feel the freshness of life, even as my body felt in every limb the freshness of the morning earth. I prayed that my soul might be lighted, even as my sight, with the glory that from the gates of heaven streamed upon the world. I prayed that I might carry through my days the mingled feelings of that time.—The constant touch of earth that warned me whence I came—the flooding light of heaven that showed me where I’d go.

“And then, Basil, I walked about the fields, and began to school myself—making little moralities by the way—to see nothing common in my path, wheresoever it fell—still to wonder at a blade of grass, with its thousand veins, carrying up and down the nourishing green blood. And then, I would lay down awhile, and listen to the lark—there is a mighty orchestra in fields and woods, if we would but cultivate the ear to attend to the musicians,—listen until my blood throbbed in my ears, and I sprang to the earth, bounding with joy and life. And then, I peeped in and out of hedges, plucking little gentle, bashful flowers, that looked so beautiful in the light, and preached this lesson—one of the many of the day—to him who plucked them; to look tenderly, thoughtfully for humble worth,—the hedge flowers of the world; the very poor relations, but still relations, of the lilies of the field.

“After an hour or two, I felt it must be time for breakfast; and I resolved to take the meal in patriarchal state. And I moreover resolved, on this day, to take a lesson of temperance. So I pitched upon a little bit of a hillock, no higher than a woolsack, with a tall poplar in the middle of it. Well, I lay myself down, and laid my breakfast. Rolls, and butter, a bottle of milk and hard eggs. But the moment I was about to fall to, a bird, perched on the top branch of the tree, piped away, as though giving me especial welcome to his breakfast parlour: pausing to acknowledge the creature’s civility, my breakfast still remained untasted. Just as the music was finished, a miserable woman—a moving bundle of rags—with three children, crawled round a corner of the hedge and paused, and for the moment, seeing my breakfast, looked as though they beheld the Land of Promise (if, indeed, such misery had been ever cheered with the tidings of it).

“And now there were four unexpected guests—four hungry mouths that, without uttering a syllable, had declared for my breakfast. The wretched woman’s eyes shone with an uncomfortable light; a glittering sharpness, as she saw the food. And the children though they never stirred a foot—the bread and butter seemed to drag their hungry heads and shoulders forward. A grand opportunity this for self-discipline. Providence had so ordered it, that I might open my Twenty-First Birth-Day in a goodly and hopeful manner. I gladly acknowledged the occasion; and, at a word, called the woman and her children to the outspread meal—there was not enough for all of us—and yielding my place, departed. It was plain the woman thought me mad. She watched me as I ascended the hill; and—I could see—wondering at the stranger, sat down with her children, doubtless thanking her fortune that had that day sent her a lunatic. And this was my breakfast when I came of age—so began my trial birth-day.

“I made my way back to the town, that I might go on with my lessons: for I determined to study one matter or the other until I returned to bed. I walked in the Park. There was a drill-serjeant at work with a score or so of young recruits; human clods in scarlet livery. It was odd, and in my humour, sad to see with what pains and care the master-man thumped and punched and rapped and rebuked his louting, goggling, shambling, prentices. With what serene stupidity they took a tap upon the knuckles, as though the cane was some light prettiness of office—some radiant peacock’s feather; nought uglier or heavier, descending. Curious, too, to see how contentedly these lumps of men would swallow an oath and curse flung at them, as though the blasphemy and malediction were an expected part and portion of their daily bread. And so these civil babes and sucklings were swathed and bandaged, and set upon their legs, and taught to walk, and shoot, and stab, and—upon severe occasions—to throw firebrands among cottage thatch, and bomb-shells upon consecrated churches. And I thought this a sad sight; spectacle of folly, and crime, and ignorance. And I determined, for my life forward, whenever I heard of glory, to think and speak of it, as an evil in the ornaments of greatness—a harlot in jewels and a crown; and these filched from the transmuted toil of the peasant and the craftsman. And this was the next lesson of my birth-day.