“Mr. S——, for that was the name of the master of the library, received me with an air of encouraging benevolence, and finding that I could read and write English tolerably well, he gave me a manuscript to copy, which he was preparing for the press. I worked hard, and made, as I fancied, a beautiful copy; but the printers complained of my upright French hand, which they could not easily decipher:—I began to new-model my writing, to please the taste of my employers; and as I had sufficient motives to make me take pains, I at last succeeded. I found it a great advantage to be able to read and write the English language fluently; and when my employers perceived my education had not been neglected, and that I had some knowledge of literature, their confidence in my abilities increased. I hope you will not think me vain if I add, that I could perceive my manners were advantageous to me. I was known to be a gentleman’s son; and even those who set but little value upon manners seemed to be influenced by them, without perceiving it. But, without pronouncing my own eulogium, let me content myself with telling you my history.
“I used often, in carrying my day’s work to the printer’s, to pass through a part of the town of Bristol which has been allotted to poor emigrants, and there I saw a variety of little ingenious toys, which were sold at a high price, or at a price which appeared to me to be high. I began to consider that I might earn money by invention, as well as by mere manual labour; but before I gave up any part of my time to my new schemes, I regularly wrote as much each day as was sufficient to maintain me. Now it was that I felt the advantage of having been taught, when I was a boy, the use of carpenters’ tools, and some degree of mechanical dexterity. I made several clumsy toys, and I tried various unsuccessful experiments, but I was not discouraged. One day I heard a dispute near me about some trinket—a toothpick-case, I believe—which was thought by the purchaser to be too highly priced; the man who made it repeatedly said, in recommendation of the toy—‘Why, sir, you could not know it from tortoise-shell.’
“I, at this instant, recollected to have seen, at the Rummer, a great heap of broken shells, which the cook had thrown aside, as if they were of no value. Upon inquiry, I found that there was part of the inside shell which was thought to be useless—it occurred to me that I might possibly make it useful. The good-natured landlord ordered that all this part of the shells should be carefully collected and given to me. I tried to polish it for many hours in vain. I was often tempted to abandon my project—there was a want of finish, as the workmen call it, in my manufacture, which made me despair of its being saleable. I will not weary you with a history of all my unsuccessful processes; it was fortunate for me, my dear mother, that I remembered one of the principles which you taught me when I was a child, that it is not genius, but perseverance, which brings things to perfection. I persevered, and though I did not bring my manufacture to perfection, I actually succeeded so far as to make a very neat-looking box out of my refuse shells. I offered it for sale—it was liked: I made several more, and they were quickly sold for me, most advantageously, by my good friend, Mr. S——. He advised me to make them in the shape of netting-boxes; I did so, and their sale extended rapidly.
“Some benevolent lady, about this time, raised a subscription for me; but as I had now an easy means of supporting myself, and as I every day beheld numbers of my countrymen, nearly in the condition in which I was when I first went to the Rummer, I thought it was not fit to accept of the charitable assistance, which could be so much better bestowed upon others. Mr. S—— told me, that the lady who raised the contribution, so far from being offended, was pleased by my conduct in declining her bounty, and she undertook to dispose of as many of my netting-boxes as I could finish. She was one of the patronesses of a repository in London, which has lately been opened, called the ‘Repository for Ingenious Works.’ When she left Bristol, she desired Mr. S—— to send my boxes thither.
“My little manufacture continued to prosper—by practice I grew more and more expert, and I had no longer any fears that I should not be able to maintain myself. It was fortunate for me that I was obliged to be constantly employed: whenever I was not actually at hard work, whenever I had leisure for reflection, I was unhappy.
“A friend of Mr. S——, who was going to London, offered to take me with him—I had some curiosity to see this celebrated metropolis, and I had hopes of meeting with some of my friends amongst the emigrants in this city—amongst all the emigrants at Bristol there was not one person with whom I had been acquainted in France.
“Impelled by these hopes, I quitted Bristol, and arrived a few weeks ago in London. Mr. S—— gave me a direction to a cabinet-maker in Leicester Fields, and I was able to pay for a decent lodging, for I was now master of what appeared to me a large sum of money—seven guineas.
“Some time after I came to town, as I was returning from a visit to an emigrant, with whom I had become acquainted, I was stopped at the corner of a street by a crowd of people—a mob, as I have been taught to call it, since I came to England—who had gathered round a blind man, a little boy, and a virago of a woman, who stood upon the steps before a print-shop door. The woman accused the boy of being a thief. The boy protested that he was innocent, and his ingenuous countenance spoke strongly in his favour. He belonged to the blind man, who, as soon as he could make himself heard, complained bitterly of the damage which had been done to his dulcimer. The mob, in their first fury, had broken it. I was interested for the man but more for the boy. Perhaps, said I to myself, he has neither father nor mother!
“When the woman, who was standing yet furious at the shop-door, had no more words for utterance, the little boy was suffered to speak in his own defence. He said, that, as he was passing by the open window of the print-shop, he put his hand in to give part of a bun which he was eating to a little dog, who was sitting on the counter, near the window; and who looked thin and miserable, as if he was half-starved. ‘But,’ continued the little boy, ‘when I put the bun to the dog’s mouth, he did not eat it; I gave him a little push to make him mind me, and he fell out of the window into my hands; and then I found that it was not a real dog, but only the picture of a dog, painted upon pasteboard. The mistress of the shop saw the dog in my hand, and snatched it away, and accused me of being a thief; so then, with the noise she made, the chairmen, who were near the door, came up, and the mob gathered, and our dulcimer was broken, and I’m very sorry for it.’ The mistress of the print-shop observed, in a loud and contemptuous tone, ‘that all this must be a lie, for that such a one as he could not have buns to give away to dogs!’—Here the blind man vindicated his boy, by assuring us that ‘he came honestly by the bun—that two buns had been given to him about an hour before this time by a young gentleman, who met him as he was coming out of a pastry-cook’s shop.’ When the mob heard this explanation, they were sorry for the mischief they had done to the blind man’s dulcimer; and, after examining it with expressions of sorrow, they quietly dispersed. I thought that I could perhaps mend the dulcimer, and I offered my services; they were gladly accepted, and I desired the man to leave it at the cabinet-maker’s, in Leicester Fields, where I lodged. In the meantime the little boy, whilst I had been examining the dulcimer, had been wiping the dirt from off the pasteboard dog, which, during the fray, had fallen into the street—‘Is it not like a real dog?’ said the boy, ‘Was it not enough to deceive any body?’
“It was, indeed, extremely like a real dog—like my dog, Caesar, whom I had taken care of from the time I was five years old, and whom I was obliged to leave at our house in Paris, when I was dragged to prison. The more I looked at this pasteboard image, the more I was convinced that the picture must have been drawn from the life. Every streak, every spot, every shade of its brown coat I remembered. Its extreme thinness was the only circumstance in which the picture was unlike my Caesar. I inquired from the scolding woman of the shop how she came by this picture—‘Honestly,’ was her laconic answer; but when I asked whether it were to be sold, and when I paid its price, the lady changed her tone; no longer considering me as the partisan of the little boy, against whom she was enraged, but rather looking upon me as a customer, who had paid too much for her goods, she condescended to inform me that the dog was painted by one of the poor French emigrants, who lived in her neighbourhood. She directed me to the house, and I discovered the man to be my father’s old servant Michael. He was overjoyed at the sight of me; he was infirm, and unequal to any laborious employment; he had supported himself with great difficulty by painting toys, and various figures of men, women, and animals, upon pasteboard. He showed me two excellent figures of French poissardes, and also a good cat, of his doing;—but my Caesar was the best of his works.