John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

by George E. Sargent

BY not a very large fire, though the day was cold—for it was the end of the year, and there was a black frost without—and in a room rather too large for snug comfort, sat John Tincroft, Benedict.

Add nearly or quite twenty years to the day when we first made his acquaintance as he mounted the Tally-ho coach in Oxford High Street, and we now find him in middle age—a convenient form of expression, by the way, embracing, as it does, the life of a man at any epoch from five-and-thirty to five-and-fifty. We know, however, that John at this time was not much over forty years old; but he looked older, for he was partially bald; and what remained of the covering of his scalp was more than tinged with grey. Moreover, there were lines on his exposed forehead, and elsewhere on his countenance, which betokened the encroachments of time.

He was closely shaven, or would have been, had he performed this part of his toilet duties that morning, which, however, he had not, though the time of day was near noon; and the stubbly bristles on the lower half of his face did not improve its hue or the general expression of his countenance—the first being somewhat sallow, and the second pensive.

Tincroft was clad in dark-coloured garments, of not very modern date, and, to tell the truth, both rusty and threadbare. But then it was a winter morning; and had he been dressed in the height of fashion, there would have been no one to see him, save his wife and the single maid-servant and a house-boy, who made up the full complement of his establishment. So what did it signify how he dressed? John would have argued.

"The full complement of his establishment," we have written; for a few months before the time at which we take up this thread of our story, a grave had been opened to receive poor Mrs. Mark Wilson, of whom we have little to record save that she had ample reason, to the end of her days, to be grateful for the uniform kindness she had so many long years received from her daughter's husband.

Our old friend was seated in an easy-chair, which, being covered with faded chintz, harmonised well enough with the general aspect of everything else in the apartment, for its entire furnishing was ancient, and tending to decay. The carpet was well worn and, in places, threadbare, the dark mahogany chairs were worm-eaten, the very fire-irons were rusty. There were better and more modern furnished rooms in Tincroft House, no doubt. But then what did it matter? One room was as good as another to John; and this was his own room—his study, or library, or both in one; and as far as he himself was concerned, he cared very little where he passed his solitary hours, so that he might have his books in peace and quietness.

John had a good many solitary hours, mostly spent in this shabby room—the charm of which consisted, to him, in the rows of books contained in unglazed bookcases which occupied one entire side of it, and the table in the centre, at which he sometimes sat and wrote. For our friend was enrolled in the honourable guild of authors, having written sundry books which, as the reviewers declared, evinced much labour, a wonderful amount of deep research, and great erudition. It is to be hoped that Tincroft derived satisfaction from this favourable opinion, and from the testimony of his publisher that he was undoubtedly a man of very considerable learning, who had translated a great many classical works, and written a valuable treatise on Oriental literature; for it is certain that, beyond this glorification, he had obtained small profit from the productions of his pen; I am afraid, indeed, that a five-pound note would have covered all the balances ever paid over to him by his bookseller in the Row.

John liked his work, however, and the honour he derived from it; and as he had a moderate income, sufficient for his small wants, independently of his literary earnings, there is reason to believe that he and his flattering publisher were mutually well enough pleased with the arrangement which divided between them, in what proportions the present deponent sayeth not, the "solid pudding" and the "empty praise."

It was well for John Tincroft that he could find pleasure in his lonely pursuit; for after his marriage, he gradually relapsed into his old recluse habits, and was, if there was any difference, more shy and awkward than we found him on our first acquaintance. The result of this was that he had made no friends among his neighbours; and the few of the surrounding gentry who, on his first settling down at Tincroft House, had called to congratulate him on his success in Chancery, and to welcome him home, soon seemed to forget all about him, and turned again to more congenial companionships.

No doubt John's natural shrinking from society partly accounted for this estrangement, and his studious habits were only too likely to increase this retiring disposition, for it is rarely found that a person who, either from choice or necessity, follows a literary occupation for any length of time, shines much in society, even if he does not take a morbid dislike to it. There was another element, however, in Tincroft's case, which more than sufficiently accounted for this feeling.