Rob Roy (3 page)

My father smiled at this reduction of the golden rule to arithmetical form, but instantly proceeded.

‘All this signifies nothing, Frank; you have been throwing away your time like a boy, and in future you must learn to live like a man. I shall put you under Owen's care for a few months, to recover the lost ground.'

I was about to reply, but Owen looked at me with such a supplicatory and warning gesture, that I was involuntarily silent.

‘We will then,' continued my father, ‘resume the subject of mine of the 1st ultimo, to which you sent me an answer which was unadvised and unsatisfactory. So now, fill your glass, and push the bottle to Owen.'

Want of courage—of audacity, if you will—was never my failing. I answered firmly, ‘I was sorry that my letter was unsatisfactory, unadvised it was not; for I had given the proposal his goodness had made me my instant and anxious attention, and it was with no small pain that I found myself obliged to decline it.'

My father bent his keen eye for a moment on me, and instantly withdrew it. As he made no answer, I thought myself obliged to proceed, though with some hesitation, and he only interrupted me by monosyllables.

‘It is impossible, sir, for me to have higher respect for any character than I have for the commercial, even were it not yours.'

‘Indeed!'

‘It connects nation with nation, relieves the wants, and contributes to the wealth of all; and is to the general commonwealth of the civilized world what the daily intercourse of ordinary life is to private society, or rather, what air and food are to our bodies.'

‘Well, sir?'

‘And yet, sir, I find myself compelled to persist in declining
to adopt a character which I am so ill qualified to support.'

‘I will take care that you acquire the qualifications necessary. You are no longer the guest and pupil of Dubourg.'

‘But, my dear sir, it is no defect of teaching which I plead, but my own inability to profit by instruction.'

‘Nonsense; have you kept your journal in the terms I desired?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Be pleased to bring it here.'

The volume thus required was a sort of commonplace book, kept by my father's recommendation, in which I had been directed to enter notes of the miscellaneous information which I had acquired in the course of my studies. Foreseeing that he would demand inspection of this record, I had been attentive to transcribe such particulars of information as he would most likely be pleased with, but too often the pen had discharged the task without much correspondence with the head. And it had also happened, that, the book being the receptacle nearest to my hand, I had occasionally jotted down memoranda which had little regard to traffic. I now put it into my father's hand, devoutly hoping he might light on nothing that would increase his displeasure against me. Owen's face, which had looked something blank when the question was put, cleared up at my ready answer, and wore a smile of hope, when I brought from my apartment, and placed before my father, a commercial-looking volume, rather broader than it was long, having brazen clasps and a binding of rough calf. This looked business-like, and was encouraging to my benevolent well-wisher. But he actually smiled with pleasure as he heard my father run over some part of the contents, muttering his critical remarks as he went on.

‘Brandies—Barils and barricants, also tonneaux.—At Nantz
29—Velles to the barique at Cognac and Rochelle 27—At Bourdeaux
32—Very right, Frank—
Duties on tonnage and custom-house, see Saxby's Tables
—That's not well; you should have transcribed the passage; it fixes the thing in the memory—
Reports outward and inward—Corn debentures—Over-sea Cockets—Linens—Isingham—Gentish—Stock-fish—Titling—Cropling—Lub-fish.
You should have noted that they are all, nevertheless, to be entered as tidings.—How many inches long is a titling?'

Owen, seeing me at fault, hazarded a whisper, of which I fortunately caught the import.

‘Eighteen inches, sir——'

‘And a lub-fish is twenty-four—very right. It is important to remember this, on account of the Portuguese trade.—But what have we here?—
Bourdeaux founded in the year
—
Castle of the Trompette
—
Palace of Gallienus
—Well, well, that's very right too.—This is a kind of waste-book, Owen, in which all the transactions of the day, emptions, orders, payments, receipts, acceptances, draughts, commissions, and advices, are entered miscellaneously.'

‘That they may be regularly transferred to the day-book and ledger,' answered Owen; ‘I am glad Mr. Francis is so methodical.'

I perceived myself getting so fast into favour, that I began to fear the consequence would be my father's more obstinate perseverance in his resolution that I must become a merchant; and, as I was determined on the contrary, I began to wish I had not, to use my friend Mr. Owen's phrase, been so methodical. But I had no reason for apprehension on that score; for a blotted piece of paper dropped out of the book, and, being taken up by my father, he interrupted a hint from Owen, on the propriety of securing loose memoranda with a little paste, by exclaiming, ‘To the memory of Edward the Black Prince—What's all this?—verses!—By
Heaven, Frank, you are a greater blockhead than I supposed you!'

My father, you must recollect, as a man of business, looked upon the labour of poets with contempt; and as a religious man, and of the dissenting persuasion, he considered all such pursuits as equally trivial and profane. Before you condemn him, you must recall to remembrance how too many of the poets in the end of the seventeenth century had led their lives and employed their talents. The sect also to which my father belonged, felt, or perhaps affected, a puritanical aversion to the lighter exertions of literature. So that many causes contributed to augment the unpleasant surprise occasioned by the ill-timed discovery of this unfortunate copy of verses. As for poor Owen, could the bob-wig which he then wore have uncurled itself, and stood on end with horror, I am convinced the morning's labour of the friseur would have been undone, merely by the excess of his astonishment at this enormity. An inroad on the strong-box, or an erasure in the ledger, or a missummation in a fitted account, could hardly have surprised him more disagreebly. My father read the lines sometimes with an affection of not being able to understand the sense,—sometimes in a mouthing tone of mock heroic,—always with an emphasis of the most bitter irony, most irritating to the nerves of an author.

‘“O for the voice of that wild horn,

  On Fontarabian echoes borne,

  The dying hero's call,

  That told imperial Charlemagne,

  How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain

  Had wrought his champion's fall.”

‘Fontarabian echoes!'
continued my father, interrupting himself; ‘the Fontarabian Fair would have been more to the purpose.—
Paynim?
—What's Paynim?—Could you not say
Pagan as well, and write English, at least, if you must needs write nonsense?—

‘ “Sad over earth and ocean sounding,

And England's distant cliffs astounding,

Such are the notes should say

How Britain's hope, and France's fear,

Victor of Cressy and Poitier,

In Bourdeaux dying lay.”

‘Poitiers, by the way, is always spelt with an
s,
and I know no reason why orthography should give place to rhyme.—

‘ “Raise my faint head, my squires,” he said,

“And let the casement be displayed,

That I may see once more

 The splendour of the setting sun

 Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne,

And Blaye's empurpled shore.”

‘Garonne
and
sun
is a bad rhyme. Why, Frank, you do not even understand the beggarly trade you have chosen.

‘“Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep,

His fall the dews of evening steep,

As if in sorrow shed.

So soft shall fall the trickling tear,

When England's maids and matrons hear

Of their Black Edward dead.”

‘“And though my sun of glory set,

Nor France, nor England shall forget

The terror of my name;

And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,

New planets in these southern skies,

Through clouds of blood and flame.”

A cloud of flame is something new—Good-morrow, my masters all, and a merry Christmas to you!—Why, the bellman writes better lines.' He then tossed the paper from him
with an air of superlative contempt, and concluded,— ‘Upon my credit, Frank, you are a greater blockhead than I took you for.'

What could I say, my dear Tresham?—There I stood, swelling with indignant mortification, while my father regarded me with a calm but stern look of scorn and pity; and poor Owen, with uplifted hands and eyes, looked as striking a picture of horror as if he had just read his patron's name in the Gazette. At length I took courage to speak, endeavouring that my tone of voice should betray my feelings as little as possible.

‘I am quite aware, sir, how ill qualified I am to play the conspicuous part in society you have destined for me; and luckily, I am not ambitious of the wealth I might acquire. Mr. Owen would make a much more effective assistant.' I said this in some malice, for I considered Owen as having deserted my cause a little too soon.

‘Owen?' said my father—‘The boy is mad, actually insane. And, pray, sir, if I may presume to enquire, having coolly turned me over to Mr. Owen, (although I may expect more attention from any one than from my son,) what may your own sage projects be?'

‘I should wish, sir,' I replied, summoning up my courage, ‘to travel for two or three years, should that consist with your pleasure; otherwise, although late, I would willingly spend the same time at Oxford or Cambridge.'

‘In the name of common sense! was the like ever heard? —to put yourself to school among pedants and Jacobites, when you might be pushing your fortune in the world! Why not go to Westminster or Eton at once, man, and take to Lilly's Grammar and Accidence, and to the birch, too, if you like it?'

‘Then sir, if you think my plan of improvement too late, I would willingly return to the Continent.'

‘You have already spent too much time there to little purpose, Mr. Francis.'

‘Then I would choose the army, sir, in preference to any other active line of life.'

‘Choose the d—1,' answered my father, hastily, and then checking himself— ‘I profess you make me as great a fool as you are yourself.—Is he not enough to drive one mad, Owen?'—Poor Owen shook his head, and looked down. ‘Hark ye, Frank,' continued my father, ‘I will cut all this matter very short—I was at your age when my father turned me out of doors, and settled my legal inheritance on my younger brother. I left Osbaldistone Hall on the back of a broken-down hunter, with ten guineas in my purse. I have never crossed the threshold again, and I never will. I know not, and I care not, if my fox-hunting brother is alive, or has broken his neck; but he has children, Frank, and one of them shall be my son if you cross me farther in this matter.'

‘You will do your pleasure,' I answered, rather, I fear, with more sullen indifference than respect, ‘with what is your own.'

‘Yes, Frank, what I have
is
my own, if labour in getting, and care in augmenting, can make a right of property; and no drone shall feed on my honeycomb. Think on it well; what I have said is not without reflection, and what I resolve upon I will execute.'

‘Honoured sir—dear sir,' exclaimed Owen, tears rushing into his eyes, ‘you are not wont to be in such a hurry in transacting business of importance. Let Mr. Francis run up the balance before you shut the account; he loves you, I am sure; and when he puts down his filial obedience to the
per contra,
I am sure his objections will disappear.'

‘Do you think I will ask him twice,' said my father sternly, ‘to be my friend, my assistant, and my confident?
—to be a partner of my cares and of my fortune?—Owen, I thought you had known me better.'

He looked at me as if he meant to add something more, but turned instantly away, and left the room abruptly. I was, I own, affected by this view of the case, which had not occurred to me; and my father would probably have had little reason to complain of me, had he commenced the discussion with this argument.

But it was too late. I had much of his own obduracy of resolution, and Heaven had decreed that my sin should be my punishment, though not to the extent which my transgression merited. Owen, when we were left alone, continued to look at me with eyes which tears from time to time moistened, as if to discover before attempting the task of intercessor, upon what point my obstinacy was most assailable. At length he began with broken and disconcerted accents,—‘O L—d, Mr. Francis!—Good Heavens, sir!—My stars, Mr. Osbaldistone!—that I should ever have seen this day—and you so young a gentleman, sir—For the love of Heaven! look at both sides of the account—Think what you are going to lose—a noble fortune, sir—one of the finest houses in the City, even under the old firm of Tresham and Trent, and now Osbaldistone and Tresham—You might roll in gold, Mr. Francis—And, my dear young Mr. Frank, if there was any particular thing in the business of the house which you disliked, I would' (sinking his voice to a whisper) ‘put it in order for you termly, or weekly, or daily, if you will—Do, my dear Mr. Francis, think of the honour due to your father, that your days may be long in the land.'

‘I am much obliged to you, Mr. Owen,' said I,—‘very much obliged indeed; but my father is best judge how to bestow his money. He talks of one of my cousins—let him dispose of his wealth as he pleases, I will never sell my liberty for gold.'

‘Gold, sir?—I wish you saw the balance-sheet of profits at last term—It was in five figures—five figures to each partner's sum total, Mr. Frank—And all this is to go to a Papist, and a north-country booby, and a disaffected person besides—It will break my heart, Mr. Francis, that have been toiling more like a dog than a man, and all for love of the firm.—Think how it will sound, Osbaldistone, Tresham, and Osbaldistone—or, perhaps, who knows,' (again lowering his voice,) ‘Osbaldistone, Osbaldistone, and Tresham, for our Mr. Osbaldistone can buy them all out.'