With respect to myself, it would be more a narrative of feelings than of action. My life glided on as did my wherry—silently and rapidly. One day was but the forerunner of another, with slight variety of incident and customers. My acquaintance, as the reader knows, were but few, and my visits occasional. I again turned to my books during the long summer evenings, in which Mary would walk out, accompanied by Tom and other admirers. Mr Turnbull’s library was at my service, and I profited much. After a time reading became almost a passion, and I was seldom without a book in my hand. But although I improved my mind, I did not render myself happier. On the contrary, I felt more and more that I had committed an act of egregious folly in thus asserting my independence. I felt that I was superior to my station in life, and that I had lived with those who were not companions—that I had thrown away, by foolish pride, those prospects of advancement which had offered themselves, and that I was passing my youth unprofitably. All this crowded upon me more and more every day, and I bitterly repented, as the Dominie told me that I should, my spirit of independence—now that it was too late. The offers of Mr Drummond were never renewed, and Mr Turnbull, who had formed the idea that I was still of the same opinion, and who, at the same time, in his afflicted state—for he was a martyr to the rheumatism—naturally thought more of himself and less of others, never again proposed that I should quit my employment. I was still too proud to mention my wishes, and thus did I continue plying on the river, apathetic almost as to gain, and only happy when, in the pages of history or among the flowers of poetry, I could dwell upon times that were past, or revel in imagination. Thus did reading, like the snake which is said to contain in its body a remedy for the poison of its fangs, become, as it enlarged my mind, a source of discontent at my humble situation; but, at the same time, the only solace in my unhappiness, by diverting my thoughts from the present. Pass, then, nearly two years, reader, taking the above remarks as an outline, and filling up the picture from the colours of your imagination, with incidents of no peculiar value, and I again resume my narrative.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
A chapter of losses to all but the reader, though at first Tom works with his wit, and receives the full value of his exertions—We make the very worst bargain we ever made in our lives—We lose our fare, we lose our boat, and we lose our liberty—All loss and no profit—Fair very unfair—Two guineas worth of argument not worth twopence, except on the quarter-deck of a man-of-war.
“Jacob,” said Tom to me, pulling his wherry into the hard, alongside of mine, in which I was sitting with one of Mr Turnbull’s books in my hand; “Jacob, do you recollect that my time is up to-morrow? I shall have run off my seven years, and when the sun rises I shall be free of the river. How much more have you to serve?”
“About fifteen months, as near as I can recollect, Tom.—Boat, sir?”
“Yes; oars, my lad; be smart, for I am in a hurry. How’s tide?”
“Down, sir, very soon; but it’s now slack water. Tom, see if you can find Stapleton.”
“Pooh! never mind him, Jacob, I’ll go with you. I say, Jones, tell old ‘human natur’’ to look after my boat,” continued Tom, addressing a waterman of our acquaintance.