You have heard how I visited my cousin in the Prison; how I found him ragged and half starved; and how I gave him five guineas from his wife, which he instantly gambled away. Jenny sent him no more money; nor did she speak of him again; nor did I again visit him; nor did I think upon him. To think of one who had been my life-long enemy served no purpose but to make me angry: even now, after thirty years, when I have long since forgiven this poor deluded wretch, ever running after a Will-o'-the-wisp, I cannot think of what he did for me—how he made it impossible for my father to be reconciled—without a momentary wrath boiling up in my heart. Still, I say, at thinking of my Cousin Matthew the pulse beats quicker; the blood rises to my cheeks; it is like a wound whose scar never vanishes, though it may be hidden away: I would not injure Matthew if he were still living in the world, but I cannot forget. The old rule taught to children was that we must forget and forgive; two boys fight and are reconciled: the master flogs the boy, who is then forgiven and his offence at once forgotten: we all forget and forgive daily: yet some things may not be forgotten: the long years of continued persecution, animosity, misrepresentation and conspiracy against dear life I cannot forget, though I have long since forgiven.
One evening Mr. Ramage came to see me. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have called to tell you what you ought to know. The Alderman, Sir, has I fear, lost his wits: his misfortunes have made him distracted: he now dreams that he is living in a palace, and that his riches have no limit. He buys land; he gives his daughters diamonds; he founds almshouses——'
'If he believes all that, he is surely happy,' I said.
This faithful servant shook his head. 'There is a look in his eyes which belies his words,' he said, 'I would rather see him wretched in his senses than happy without them.'
'How does he live?'
'He has a room on the Master's side; some of his old friends of the City send him a guinea every week: his daughters pass the day with him. He wants for nothing. But, Mr. Will—the change! the change!' and so his eyes filled with tears. 'And he who would have been Lord Mayor—Lord Mayor—next year!'
'How do my cousins treat you?'
'If I was a dog and toothless they could not treat me worse, because I gave that evidence.'
The unfortunate Alderman! This was, indeed, a wretched ending to an honourable career. I suppose that he knew nothing and suspected nothing of what was threatening; and that the news of his wrecked fortunes fell upon him like a thunderbolt. That some of his friends sent him a guinea a week showed that he was pitied rather than blamed for this wreck and ruin of a noble House. Poor old merchant! And this after his Alderman's pride and glory: after being Warden of his Company: after a long partnership in one of the oldest Houses in the City! Fortune, which used to put Kings down and put Kings up, just by a turn of her wheel, now makes rich merchants bankrupt and consigns Aldermen to Debtors' Prisons in order to bring home to all of us—even the humble musician—the uncertainty of human wealth. His wits gone a-wandering! A happiness for him: a thing to be expected, when, at his age, there had fallen upon him the thing which City merchants dread worse than death.
'How can we help him?' I asked.