Paul Clifford — Complete
Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparelled as becomes the brave,
Old Giaffir sat in his divan:
. . . . . . .
Much I misdoubt this wayward boy
Will one day work me more annoy.
Bride of Abydos.
The learned and ingenious John Schweighaeuser (a name facile to spell
and mellifluous to pronounce) hath been pleased, in that Appendix
continens particulam doctrinae de mente humana, which closeth the volume
of his “Opuscula Academica,” to observe (we translate from memory) that,
“in the infinite variety of things which in the theatre of the world
occur to a man's survey, or in some manner or another affect his body
or his mind, by far the greater part are so contrived as to bring to him
rather some sense of pleasure than of pain or discomfort.” Assuming that
this holds generally good in well-constituted frames, we point out a
notable example in the case of the incarcerated Paul; for although that
youth was in no agreeable situation at the time present, and although
nothing very encouraging smiled upon him from the prospects of the
future, yet, as soon as he had recovered his consciousness, and given
himself a rousing shake, he found an immediate source of pleasure in
discovering, first, that several ladies and gentlemen bore him company
in his imprisonment; and, secondly, in perceiving a huge jug of water
within his reach, which, as his awaking sensation was that of burning
thirst, he delightedly emptied at a draught. He then, stretching
himself, looked around with a wistful earnestness, and discovered a back
turned towards him, and recumbent on the floor, which at the very first
glance appeared to him familiar. “Surely,” thought he, “I know that
frieze coat, and the peculiar turn of those narrow shoulders.” Thus
soliloquizing, he raised himself, and putting out his leg, he gently
kicked the reclining form. “Muttering strange oaths,” the form turned
round, and raising itself upon that inhospitable part of the body in
which the introduction of foreign feet is considered anything but an
honour, it fixed its dull blue eyes upon the face of the disturber of
its slumbers, gradually opening them wider and wider, until they seemed
to have enlarged themselves into proportions fit for the swallowing of
the important truth that burst upon them, and then from the mouth of the
creature issued,--
“Queer my glims, if that be n't little Paul!”
“Ay, Dummie, here I am! Not been long without being laid by the heels,
you see! Life is short; we must make the best use of our time!”
Upon this, Mr. Dunnaker (it was no less respectable a person) scrambled
up from the floor, and seating himself on the bench beside Paul, said in
a pitying tone,--
“Vy, laus-a-me! if you be n't knocked o' the head! Your poll's as bloody
as Murphy's face ven his throat's cut!”
[“Murphy's face,” unlearned reader, appeareth, in Irish phrase,
to mean “pig's head.”]
“'T is only the fortune of war, Dummie, and a mere trifle; the heads
manufactured at Thames Court are not easily put out of order. But tell
me, how come you here?”
“Vy, I had been lushing heavy vet--”
“'Till you grew light in the head, eh,--and fell into the kennel?”
“Yes.”
“Mine is a worse business than that, I fear;” and therewith Paul, in a
lower voice, related to the trusty Dummie the train of accidents which
had conducted him to his present asylum. Dummie's face elongated as
he listened; however, when the narrative was over, he endeavoured such
consolatory palliatives as occurred to him. He represented, first, the
possibility that the gentleman might not take the trouble to appear;
secondly, the certainty that no watch was found about Paul's person;
thirdly, the fact that, even by the gentleman's confession, Paul had not
been the actual offender; fourthly, if the worst came to the worst, what
were a few weeks' or even months' imprisonment?
“Blow me tight!” said Dummie, “if it be n't as good a vay of passing the
time as a cove as is fond of snuggery need desire!”
This observation had no comfort for Paul, who recoiled, with all
the maiden coyness of one to whom such unions are unfamiliar, from a
matrimonial alliance with the snuggery of the House of Correction.
He rather trusted to another source for consolation. In a word, he
encouraged the flattering belief that Long Ned, finding that Paul
had been caught instead of himself, would have the generosity to come
forward and exculpate him from the charge. On hinting this idea to
Dummie, that accomplished “man about town” could not for some time
believe that any simpleton could be so thoroughly unacquainted with the
world as seriously to entertain so ridiculous a notion; and, indeed,
it is somewhat remarkable that such a hope should ever have told its
flattering tale to one brought up in the house of Mrs. Margaret Lobkins.
But Paul, we have seen, had formed many of his notions from books; and
he had the same fine theories of your “moral rogue” that possess the
minds of young patriots when they first leave college for the House of
Commons, and think integrity a prettier thing than office.
Mr. Dunnaker urged Paul, seriously, to dismiss so vague and childish a
fancy from his breast, and rather to think of what line of defence it
would be best for him to pursue. This subject being at length exhausted,
Paul recurred to Mrs. Lobkins, and inquired whether Dummie had lately
honoured that lady with a visit.
Mr. Dunnaker replied that he had, though with much difficulty, appeased
her anger against him for his supposed abetment of Paul's excesses, and
that of late she had held sundry conversations with Dummie respecting
our hero himself. Upon questioning Dummie further, Paul learned the good
matron's reasons for not evincing that solicitude for his return which
our hero had reasonably anticipated. The fact was, that she, having no
confidence whatsoever in his own resources independent of her, had not
been sorry of an opportunity effectually, as she hoped, to humble
that pride which had so revolted her; and she pleased her vanity by
anticipating the time when Paul, starved into submission, would gladly
and penitently re-seek the shelter of her roof, and, tamed as it were by
experience, would never again kick against the yoke which her matronly
prudence thought it fitting to impose upon him. She contented herself,
then, with obtaining from Dummie the intelligence that our hero was
under MacGrawler's roof, and therefore out of all positive danger to
life and limb; and as she could not foresee the ingenious exertions of
intellect by which Paul had converted himself into the “Nobilitas” of
“The Asinaeum,” and thereby saved himself from utter penury, she
was perfectly convinced, from her knowledge of character, that the
illustrious MacGrawler would not long continue that protection to the
rebellious protege which in her opinion was his only preservative from
picking pockets or famishing. To the former decent alternative she knew
Paul's great and jejune aversion; and she consequently had little fear
for his morals or his safety, in thus abandoning him for a while
to chance. Any anxiety, too, that she might otherwise have keenly
experienced was deadened by the habitual intoxication now increasing
upon the good lady with age, and which, though at times she could be
excited to all her characteristic vehemence, kept her senses for the
most part plunged into a Lethean stupor, or, to speak more courteously,
into a poetical abstraction from the things of the external world.
“But,” said Dummie, as by degrees he imparted the solution of the dame's
conduct to the listening ear of his companion,--“but I hopes as how ven
you be out of this 'ere scrape, leetle Paul, you vill take varning, and
drop Meester Pepper's acquaintance (vich, I must say, I vas alvays a
sorry to see you hencourage), and go home to the Mug, and fam grasp the
old mort, for she has not been like the same cretur ever since you vent.
She's a delicate-'arted 'oman, that Piggy Lob!”
So appropriate a panegyric on Mrs. Margaret Lobkins might at another
time have excited Paul's risible muscles; but at that moment he really
felt compunction for the unceremonious manner in which he had left her,
and the softness of regretful affection imbued in its hallowing colours
even the image of Piggy Lob.
In conversation of this intellectual and domestic description, the night
and ensuing morning passed away, till Paul found himself in the awful
presence of Justice Burnflat. Several cases were disposed of before his
own; and among others Mr. Duminie Dunnaker obtained his release, though
not without a severe reprimand for his sin of inebriety, which no doubt
sensibly affected the ingenuous spirit of that noble character. At
length Paul's turn came. He heard, as he took his station, a general
buzz. At first he imagined it was at his own interesting appearance;
but raising his eyes, he perceived that it was at the entrance of the
gentleman who was to become his accuser.
“Hush,” said some one near him, “'t is Lawyer Brandon. Ah, he's a 'cute
fellow! it will go hard with the person he complains of.”
There was a happy fund of elasticity of spirit about our hero; and
though he had not the good fortune to have “a blighted heart,”--a
circumstance which, by the poets and philosophers of the present day,
is supposed to inspire a man with wonderful courage, and make him
impervious to all misfortunes,--yet he bore himself up with wonderful
courage under his present trying situation, and was far from
overwhelmed, though he was certainly a little damped, by the observation
he had just heard.
Mr. Brandon was, indeed, a barrister of considerable reputation, and
in high esteem in the world, not only for talent, but also for a great
austerity of manners, which, though a little mingled with sternness and
acerbity for the errors of other men, was naturally thought the more
praiseworthy on that account; there being, as persons of experience
are doubtless aware, two divisions in the first class of
morality,--imprimis, a great hatred for the vices of one's neighbour;
secondly, the possession of virtues in one's self.
Mr. Brandon was received with great courtesy by Justice Burnflat; and
as he came, watch in hand (a borrowed watch), saying that his time
was worth five guineas a moment, the justice proceeded immediately to
business.
Nothing could be clearer, shorter, or more satisfactory than the
evidence of Mr. Brandon. The corroborative testimony of the watchman
followed; and then Paul was called upon for his defence. This
was equally brief with the charge; but, alas! it was not equally
satisfactory. It consisted in a firm declaration of his innocence.
His comrade, he confessed, might have stolen the watch; but he humbly
suggested that that was exactly the very reason why he had not stolen
it.
“How long, fellow,” asked Justice Burnflat, “have you known your
companion?”
“About half a year.”
“And what is his name and calling?” Paul hesitated, and declined to
answer.
“A sad piece of business!” said the justice, in a melancholy tone, and
shaking his head portentously.
The lawyer acquiesced in the aphorism, but with great magnanimity
observed that he did not wish to be hard upon the young man. His youth
was in his favour, and his offence was probably the consequence of evil
company. He suggested, therefore, that as he must be perfectly aware of
the address of his friend, he should receive a full pardon if he would
immediately favour the magistrate with that information. He concluded by
remarking, with singular philanthropy, that it was not the punishment of
the youth, but the recovery of his watch, that he desired.
Justice Burnflat, having duly impressed upon our hero's mind the