He who was esteemed the most "odd," the most "singular," the most "eccentric" member of that Old Corporation, lingered long after its demise; and by the popularity of his character, as the only radical alderman of the Old, became a town councillor, and eventually a mayor, under the New municipal institution. How rife were the stories of his furious attacks upon the "self-elect" of the olden time!—and what a rich hue of the burlesque was thrown around the pictures that were given of him in daily conversation! Yet, who did not, in spite of his slenderness of intellect, love him for his incorruptible honesty, and, above all, for his unfailing benevolence? Oh! there was not a human being,—beggar, pauper, distressed stranger, or townsman,—who ever went from his door unrelieved; nor could he pass, in the street, a fellow-creature whose appearance led him to suppose he had found a real sufferer, but he must inquire into it, even unsolicited. The abhorrent enactments of the New Poor Law,—how he hated them!—and how staggered he felt in his reforming faith, when the "liberal" administration urged the passing of the strange Malthusian measure! "I cannot understand it!" he would exclaim, in the hearing of the numerous participants in his English hospitality; "I never thought that Reform was to make the poor more miserable, and the poorest of the poor the most miserable: it is a mystery to me! Surely it is a mistake in Lord Grey and Lord Brougham!" So the good old man thought and said; but he did not live to see the "liberal" lawmakers either correct their mistake, or acknowledge that they had made one,—though agonised thousands pealed that sad truth in their ears!
NED WILCOM;
A STORY OF A FATHER'S SACRIFICE OF HIS CHILD AT THE SHRINE OF MAMMON.
"Sirrah! you have nothing to do but to get on in the world. You may do that, if you will. The way is open for you, as it was for me; so get up to London, and try. There's twenty pounds for you: I'll give you twenty thousand, as soon as you show me one thousand of your own; but I won't give you another farthing till you prove to me that you know the value of money, and can get it yourself. And mark me, sir! if you haven't the nouse to make something out in the world, you shall live and die a beggar, for me; for I'll leave all I have to your sisters, and cut you off with a shilling. There, sir! there's your road! Good morning!"
And so saying, Mr. Ned Wilcom, senior, pushed Mr. Ned Wilcom, junior, his only son, out of his counting-house, and shut the door upon him. That was an awkward way for a rich Leeds merchant to receive a son on the completion of his apprenticeship as a draper, and at the early age of twenty. Yet it was no worse than young Ned expected. Nor did it break his heart, as it would have broken the heart of a lad who had been more tenderly nurtured. Ned Wilcom never saw his father occupied with any other thought, act, employ, or pleasure, but what pertained to money-getting; nor ever heard his father pass an encomium on any human character in his life, save on such as succeeded in piling together large fortunes from small beginnings, or enriched themselves by outwitting their neighbours. From the age of nine to sixteen, he had only seen his father twice a year—Midsummer and Christmas; and having lost his mother when a mere infant, he never knew or felt the softening influences of maternal affection. The artificial life of a boarding-school, during those seven years, infused a good deal of craft, and nearly as large a measure of heartlessness, into Ned's nature—for it was not originally of such tendencies. The master and ushers were hypocrites and tyrants, only differing in grade; and if there were a lad with a little more gentleness, humanity, and openness about him than the rest, Ned observed that he soon "went to the wall" among his school-fellows. And so, with one influence or other, Ned Wilcom left school with the firm persuasion that the world was a general battle-field, where the weak and the virtuous were destined to become the prey of the strong and the crafty; and, all things considered, Ned resolved to take sides with the winning party.
Such were Ned's resolves at sixteen; and they were by no means changed in their direction, or weakened in their vigour, by an apprenticeship in a dashing and aspiring draper's shop in Liverpool during the succeeding four years. To that sea-port he was accompanied, per coach, by his father; whose parting words then were, that he was to remember that "he was going to be taught how to make money, the only thing worth learning;" and, until he received the summary benediction already rehearsed, Ned did not see his father again. It is true, he received from home a half-yearly letter, but it never harped on more than one string, and that was the old one; so that, drawing his inferences from these premises, Ned Wilcom was not surprised to be dismissed in five minutes, with twenty pounds, and to have the counting-house door shut in his face by his own father.
Within a week after his arrival in London, Ned Wilcom found a situation; and it was one to his heart's content—as he told his father in a letter of five lines, for he knew his parent too well to trouble him with a longer epistle. The lad's ambition could only have been more highly gratified by a reception into the establishment of Swan and Edgar, in the Quadrant, or the superb "Waterloo House" in Cockspur Street, for he had obtained a place in that immensest of show-shops which attracts the stranger crowds in St. Paul's Churchyard, where the business was of a less select nature than in the two rival first-rate shops at the West End, and was therefore a more fitting field for the exercise of such knowledge and tact as Ned had acquired in Liverpool. And all went on exceedingly well with Ned for several weeks. It is true, the discipline of the establishment was somewhat more rigorous than in the house he had quitted; but he was prepared to expect it. He was compelled to "look sharp about him;" but he had heard in the country that that would be the case. The matter of vianding, the exact minute of remaining out in the evening, the amount of exertion and energy in discharging his duties, all was so exactly defined, measured, and timed, that to a mere raw apprentice from the country, or to one whose mind was less determinately girt up to make his way, the situation would have seemed any thing but pleasant. Ned, however, felt quite at home, for he had yoked his will to his necessities; and in lieu of indulging the slightest disposition to grumble at his lot, set success before himself, and determined to achieve it. With a mind so fully made up, a handsome figure, a winning address, and a fair portion of natural shrewdness, Ned was sure to conduct himself in such a way as to please his employers. In fact, in the course of a dozen or fifteen weeks, he became the decided favourite with the manager of the concern, and, of course, experienced proportionate pecuniary advancement.
But a woeful change awaited Ned Wilcom, despite these fair prospects. His eagerness to succeed had urged him to stretch his powers beyond their strength, and his resolve to economise, so as to win the means of early independence, induced him to deny himself too rigidly of under-clothing, and the consequence was, that a nervous lassitude and a severe cold at once attacked him. He bore up some days; but was a little shocked to observe a change of look in the manager, and to overhear a little whispering by way of comment on his lack of energy. Five days had passed; but on the morning of the sixth, it was with extreme difficulty he rose from bed, and so lethargic were his faculties, that he felt it utterly impossible to put on appearances of excessive complaisance, or to display the customary grimaces of civility. Towards noon, excessive pains in the head and chest drove him from the shop; and, without saying a word to any one, he sought his sleeping-room, and threw himself on his bed. Here he was found in a state of insensibility, in the course of half an hour was undressed, and put into bed. Ned refused the cool offers of extra diet made him, when he came to his senses; and when visited by the manager, said he had no doubt he would be quite well by the next morning. The manager elevated his brows, said he hoped so, and walked away immediately.
When the morning came, however, the youth was so weak that he felt he would be utterly incapable of exertion if he went down stairs; yet he would have attempted it, had not one who had been much longer in the establishment than himself—though Ned had passed him by, in preferment—stepped into his bed-room, and most pressingly persuaded him not to think of going down. So Ned put off his half resolve to go down, and threw himself again on the bed. But what was his surprise, grief, and disgust, on seeing this very individual step again into his room in the course of five minutes, to announce with the most marble coldness of look, that the manager desired Mr. Wilcom would get up and make out his account—for it was against rule for any one to remain on the establishment who was unable to attend to business. "Immediately," was the only word the messenger added, turning back as he was about to quit the room, and then departing with a wicked sneer upon his face. Poor Ned! he felt he was in a hard case; but his native pride was too great to permit him to weep, or give way. Indignation strung his nerves for the nonce; he bounced up—dressed himself—though he trembled like one in the palsy—made out his account—went down stairs, and presented it—was paid, by the manager's order—and quitted the premises, in the lapse of fifteen minutes.