"Amen!" responded the scholar, and continued: "Without waiting to read the contents of his note, I hurried into a tavern, to allay the cravings of hunger, and to warm, or rather thaw, my almost frozen body. But I sickened, and could eat little. I had wanted food until, like a spoiled child, my appetite refused that for which it had yearned. With the still open letter upon my knee, as my joints began to feel the influence of returning heat, I suddenly sank, with my head upon my bosom, into a deep, dreamless sleep; and, being awoke by the rioting of some half-drunken men, I found one of them had made free with the back part of my letter to light his pipe, which had been addressed, after the usual silly and absurd fashion common amongst literary men—who ought rather to set an example in despising vain frivolities—B. Musgrave, Esq. 'I beg your pardon, Squire,' said the fellow, in a tone of irony. 'Here's wishing you a pair of new shoes, and health to wear them, Squire,' said a third, in the same tone, raising a tankard to his lips. And the party broke into a laugh of derision."
"Doctor!" exclaimed the farmer, indignantly, "ye deserved all ye got, if ye didna make a broom o' the bunch o' them, and sweep the house wi' the hair o' their heads."
"I am not remarkable for brooking insults," added Musgrave, "and of that more than one of the company had cause to be convinced. In his letter, the bookseller spoke of my writings as displaying considerable originality and genius. Parts of them, he thought, exhibited marks of being written too hastily, and recommended their omission. He regretted that he durst not hazard their publication; as, unfortunately, too much depended upon patronage, connection, or the influence of a name. He recommended publishing by subscription, and brought forward the example of Pope, Burns, and others, to render the advice palatable, as children receive sweetmeats after acid drugs. He begged to enclose a guinea for two copies to himself; and, wishing me success, he said it would afford him pleasure, by every means in his power, to forward the publication. I will not exhaust your patience by a recital of calamities which a critic, ignorant of their meaning, or ashamed to look back on them, would pronounce vulgar, and in bad taste. Being contented with the luxury of half a bed, for which I paid sixpence, I experienced the truth of the proverb, that 'misery maketh a man acquainted with strange bedfellows.' Beggars, thieves, men of all nations, and of all climes and colours, shared my pillow. But I resolved to husband my guinea, indulging myself with sleeping one night, and wandering the streets the next, alternately. It was in vain, in the meantime, that I used every effort to obtain the situation of assistant-surgeon. In London, more, perhaps, than in any city, appearance is everything; and I carried my own condemnation written on my ruined garments."
"Troth, I have remarked there is some truth in what ye say, doctor," said the farmer; "if a man wishes to prosper, he should never, if possible, appear like a shorn sheep wi' the fleece bare on his back."
"My money," added the scholar, "was again reduced to five shillings; and to ward off the approach of starvation, I was compelled to renounce the comforts of a bed once in forty-eight hours, as a luxury I could no longer afford. The very shoes left my feet with ceaseless wandering. My feet bled as I walked. My hat became shapeless; I was ashamed to look on it. The wind began to sport through my garments, and found loopholes for his sport. My person became like a moving spirit of famine, clothed with poverty, and shivering in a storm. My spirit was not broken, but it was bowed down. Yielding to the hope of despair, I attempted publishing by subscription. The plan may succeed where a man is known, where he has friends to push the subscription for him, or where he has impudence that is proof against insult; but, amongst strangers, it is a hopeless task. I was doomed to endure indignities from ignorant and contemptible menials, who, glancing at my figure, thrust the doors in my face, as on a common beggar! O sir! the recollection haunts me still. It is the only act of my life on which I cannot think without a burning blush coming over my face. I need not say it was unsuccessful. For thirty successive nights I wandered through the streets of this city, exposed to the storms of February and the bleak winds of March, sleeping as I moved along, or standing, and knowing not that I stood, till aroused by the jest of a passing unfortunate, or rudely driven on by the watchman of the night. Ten times in the hour, I would stumble beneath the oppression of sleep to the ground. But I will not detail those days and nights of misery. The scenes I then encountered would provoke a smile and a tear at the same moment. They were a mingling of the ludicrous and the wretched. Yet, to give you but one or two instances out of many:—One cold and weary night, sleep came upon me like death itself. I was wandering along Thames Street, and came to Billingsgate. Porters and oyster-sellers were lounging about the market, some sitting smoking, laughing, or drinking, though it was not an hour past midnight. I sought shelter beneath the sheds, and stretched myself upon one of the tables or benches. But the cold was intense. My very blood seemed freezing. I arose and removed to a corner of the market over the side of the river, and there, there was one of the open shops, stalls, or sheds, the one side of which was screened by a large and loosely-hanging canvas sign, facing the river, of more than six feet square, setting forth the occupant of the stall as fishmonger, oyster-dealer, and so forth. Through the lamplight and starlight, I cast a longing and envious look at the loose and painted canvas. I took it down, and stretched myself upon the bench, spread it over me as a blanket. It was the most comfortable covering I had had for many nights. But scarce had sleep, which pressed heavily upon me, sealed up my eyelids, when I was aroused by a rude hand shaking me by the shoulder, and a ruder voice exclaiming, 'Holloa! who have we got here?' It was the proprietor of the shed. I started—rubbed my eyes—stammered out an apology. A crowd of fishwomen and porters gathered round us. The fishmonger spoke of calling for the police. I expostulated. He offered to hold me. I raised my hand, and I am thankful that his table, which was a fixture, was between him and the river. I rushed through the crowd; and whether the blow which I had lent the fishmonger operated upon their courage and humanity, I cannot tell, but they made way for me. I had not, however, proceeded far, when sleep again became too much for me, and too literally I 'caught myself tripping.' Its influence was irresistible, and St Paul's had not yet chimed the hour of three. I saw a cart standing beneath an open gateway; and, with gratitude in my heart, I lay down on it as a couch of luxury. But there I had not lain long when I was awoke by a person at my side. I started.
"'Don't be afraid, sir,' said the intruder; 'it is only a poor brother in misfortune!'
"I turned round and glanced at him through the dim light, but scarce could I discover what manner of man he was, till sleep again 'locked up my senses in forgetfulness.' A little after daybreak, I awoke, shivering, my joints stiff, my teeth chattering together, and my whole body a mass of pain. I perceived that my 'poor brother in misfortune' was, or rather I ought to say had been, dressed respectably, yea, even fashionably. He carried with him a portfolio, which even in his sleep he pressed closely beneath his arm. As I arose he awoke; and groaning, he arose also and accompanied me. I know not whether it was mutual wretchedness, or the portfolio beneath his arm, that caused me to feel a regard for him at the first glance; but certain it is I was prepossessed in his favour. We were a couple of strange, miserable-looking characters, as we went drowsily, laggardly, and lamely up Fish Street Hill together. I observed the night-watchmen, who had not left their beat, turned round, and even held up their lanterns—though the morning's light was well advanced—and examined us as we passed. As though our errand or our thoughts were the same, we proceeded towards the Park together; and when the sun arose, he opened his portfolio, and exhibited it to me. He was an artist, and an artist, too, of high promise. His portfolio contained many bold and vigorous pencil sketches, where soul, taste, and a daring hand were exemplified. He had also a number of beautiful pieces in water-colours, which showed that his touch was delicate as well as bold. I took my pencil, and wrote a few lines on the back of one of the Bristol boards on which one of the subjects was sketched, and the artist and I became friends. Neither of us had wherewith to purchase a breakfast; but, in the forenoon, he had to call upon a printseller in the Strand with some of his pieces in water-colours, and we parted with a promise to meet again on the following day. But an accident, which I shall afterwards mention, prevented me from keeping my engagement; and we parted without the one knowing the name of the other. I have not again met with him; but, until this hour, I regret that I learned not the name of a young artist, whom I met with under such circumstances, and whose productions manifested high genius, a correct taste, and a skilful hand. Now, at this period, sir, I should tell you that the greater part of the day was generally spent in attempts to sleep upon the seats in the Park; and, dreadful as the pangs of hunger were, at length (and this is no idle saying), I could have been content to die beneath their rage, to have purchased but one hour of rest and repose. The agony of hunger yields to the agony of sleep."
"And do you really say, doctor," inquired the farmer, "that ye have suffered a' this in a Christian land, even in this city? I hardly think it possible."
"Some may doubt it," replied Robert, earnestly; "but the remembrance of what I have endured will live as a coal of fire in my heart for ever; and the fiftieth part of what I suffered has not been told you. But, sir, before I proceed farther with my story, allow me to go back to another part of my history, and advert to another circumstance. You will remember—it is more than a dozen years ago—a military gentleman, whom we generally called Colonel Forster, took up his residence on the banks of the Esk, a few miles from Longtown. He was, I believe, a lieutenant-colonel in the service of the East India Company."
"I remember him perfectly well, Mr Musgrave," said the farmer, "and know him yet; and, moreover, I also remember that ye was particularly fond of his daughter Bertha, and that it was said that it wasna her beauty ye was in love wi', but her siller; for the colonel was understood to be a perfect nabob, and I have heard that he forbade you to come about the house."