Heart

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If writers will be bound by classic rules, and walk on certain roads
because other folks have gone that way before them, needs must that
ill-starred originality perish from this world's surface, and find
refuge (if it can) in the gentle moon or Sirius. Therefore, let us
boldly trespass from the trodden paths, let us rather shake off the
shackles of custom than hug them as an ornament approved: and,
notwithstanding both parental deaths, seemingly ill-timed for the
happiness of innocence, let us acquiesce in the facts, as plain matters
of history, not dubious thoughts of fiction; and let us gather to the
end any good we can, either from the miserable solitude of a selfish
Dillaway, or from the hearty social circle of our happy married pair.

Need I, sons and daughters, need I record at any length how Maria
mourned for her father? If you now have parents worthy of your love, if
you now have hearts to love them, I may safely leave that theme to your
affections: "now" is for all things "the accepted time," now is the day
for reconciliations: our life is a perpetual now. However unfilial you
may have been, however stern or negligent they, if there is now the will
to bless, and now the heart to love, all is well--well at the last, well
now for evermore--thank Heaven for so glad a consummation. Oh, that my
pen had power to make many fathers kind, many children trustful! Oh,
that by some burning word I could thaw the cold, shame sarcasms, and
arouse the apathetic! Oh that, invoking upon every hearth, whereto this
book may come, the full free blaze of home affections, my labour of love
be any thing but vain, when God shall have blessed what I am writing!

Yes, children, dear Maria did mourn for her father, but she mourned as
those who hope; his life had been forgiven, and his death was as a
saints's: as for her, rich rewarded daughter at the last, one word of
warm acknowledgement, one look of true affection, one tear of deep
contrition, would have been superabundant to clear away all the many
clouds, the many storms of her past home-life: and as for our Maker,
with his pure and spotless justice, faith in the sacrifice had passed
all sin to him, and love of the Redeemer had proved that faith the true
one. How should a daughter mourn for such a soul? With tears of joy;
with sighs--of kindred hopefulness; with happiest resolve to live as he
had died; with instant prayer that her last end be like his.

There is a plain tablet in St. Benet's church, just within the
altar-rail, bearing--no inscription about Lord Mayoralty, Knighthood, or
the Worshipful Company of Stationers--but full of facts more glorious
than every honour under heaven; for the words run thus:

SORROWFUL, YET REJOICING,
A DAUGHTER'S LOVE HAS PLACED THIS TABLET
TO THE MEMORY OF
T H O M A S D I L L A W A Y;
A MAN WHO DIED IN THE FAITH OF CHRIST,
IN THE LOVE OF GOD, AND IN THE HOPE OF HEAVEN.

Noble epitaph! Let us so live, that the like of this may be truth on our
tomb-stones. Seek it, rather than wealth, before honour, instead of
pleasure; for, indeed, those words involve within their vast
significancy riches unsearchable, glory indestructible, and pleasure for
evermore! Hide them, as a string of precious pearls, within the casket
of your hearts.

I had almost forgotten, though Maria never could, another neighbouring
tablet to record the peaceful exit of her mother; however, as this had
been erected by Sir Thomas in his life-time, and was plastered thick
with civic glories and heathen virtues, possibly the transcript may be
spared: there was only one sentence that looked true about the epitaph,
though I wished it had been so in every sense; but, to common eyes, it
had seemed quite suitable to the physical quietude of living Lady
Dillaway, to say, "Her end was peace;" although, perhaps, the husband
little thought how sore that mother's heart was for dear Maria's loss,
how full of anxious doubts her mind about Maria's sin. Poor soul,
however peaceful now that spirit has read the truth, in the hour of her
departure it had been with her far otherwise: her dying bed was as a
troubled sea, for she died of a broken heart.

Yearly, on the anniversaries of their respective deaths, the growing
clan of Clements make a solemn pilgrimage to their grand paternal
shrine, attending service on those days (or the holiday nearest to
them), at St. Benet's Sherehog; and Maria's eyes are very moist on such
occasions; though hope sings gladly too within her wise and cheerful
heart. She does not seem to have lost those friends; they are only gone
before.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE HOUSE OF FEASTING.

But in fact, with our happy married folks an anniversary of some sort is
perpetually recurring: wedding-days, birth-days, and all manner of
festival occasions, worthy (as the old Romans would have said) to be
noted up with chalk, happened in that family of love weekly--almost
daily. They cultivated well the grateful soil of Heart, by a thousand
little dressings and diggings; courting to it the warm sunshine of the
skies, the zephyrs of pleasant recollections, and the genial dews of
sympathy. And very wise were all those labours of delight; for their
sons and their daughters grew up as the polished corners in the temple;
moulded with delicate affections, their moral essence sharp, and clearly
edged with sensitive feelings, as if they had sprung fresh from the
hands of God, their sculptor, and the world had not rubbed off the
master-touches of His chisel. For, in this dull world, we cheat
ourselves and one another of innocent pleasures by the score, through
very carelessness and apathy: courted day after day by happy memories,
we rudely brush them off with this indiscriminating bosom, the stern
material present: invited to help in rendering joyful many a patient
heart, we neglect the little word that might have done it, and
continually defraud creation of its share of kindliness from us. The
child made merrier by your interest in his toy; the old domestic
flattered by your seeing him look so well; the poor, better helped by
your blessing than your penny (though give the penny too); the labourer,
cheered upon his toil by a timely word of praise; the humble friend
encouraged by your frankness; equals made to love you by the expression
of your love; and superiors gratified by attention and respect, and
looking out to benefit the kindly--how many pleasures here for any hand
to gather; how many blessings here for any heart to give! Instead of
these, what have we rife about the world? Frigid compliment--for warmth
is vulgar; reserve of tongue--for it is folly to be talkative;
composure, never at fault--for feelings are dangerous things;
gravity--for that looks wise; coldness--for other men are cold;
selfishness--for every one is struggling for his own. This is all false,
all bad; the slavery chain of custom riveted by the foolishness of
fashion; because there ever is a band of men and women, who have nothing
to recommend them but externals--their looks or their dresses, their
rank or their wealth--and in order to exalt the honour of these, they
agree to set a compact seal of silence on the heart and on the mind;
lest the flood of humbler men's affections, or of wiser men's
intelligence, should pale their tinsel-praise; and the warm and the wise
too softly acquiesce in this injury done to heartiness shamed by the
effrontery of cold calm fools, and the shallow dignity of an empty
presence. Turn the tables on them, ye truer gentry, truer nobility,
truer royalty of the heart and of the mind; speak freely, love warmly,
laugh cheerfully, explain frankly, exhort zealously, admire liberally,
advise earnestly--be not ashamed to show you have a heart: and if some
cold-blooded simpleton greet your social effort with a sneer, repay
him--for you can well afford a richer gift than his whole treasury
possesses--repay him with a kind good-humoured smile: it would have
shamed Jack Dillaway himself. If a man persists to be silent in a crowd
for vanity's sake, instead of sociable, as good company expects, count
him simply for a fool; you will not be far wrong; he remembers the
copy-book at school, no doubt, with its large-text aphorism, "Silence is
wisdom;" and thinking in an easy obedience to gain credit from mankind
by acting on that questionable sentence, the result is what you
perpetually see--a self-contained, self-satisfied, selfish, and reserved
young puppy. Hint to such an incommunicative comrade, that the fashion
now is coming about, to talk and show your wisdom; not to sit in shallow
silence, hiding hard your folly; soon shall you loosen the flood-gates
of his speech; and society will even thank you for it; for, bore as the
chatterer may oft-times be, still he does the frank companion's duty;
and at any rate is vastly preferable to the dull, unwarmed,
unsympathetic watcher at the festal board, who sits there to exhibit his
painted waistcoat instead of the heart that should be in it, and
patiently waits, with a snakish eye and a bitter tongue, to aid
conversation with a sarcasm.

Henry and Maria had many hearty friends to keep their many
anniversaries. They were well enough for wealth, as we may guess without
much trouble; for the knight had left three thousand a-year behind him,
and Maria, as sole heiress, had no difficulty in establishing her claim
to it; but it may be well to put mankind in memory how hospitably, how
charitably, how wisely, and how heartily they stewarded it. I need not
stop to tell of local charities assisted, good societies supported, and
of philanthropic good done by means of their money, both at home and
abroad: nor detail their many dinners, and other festal opportunities,
rivets in the lengthening chain of ordinary friendship: but I do wish to
make honourable mention of one happiest anniversary, which, while it
commemorated fine young Master Harry's birth, rejoiced the many poor of
Lower-Sack street, Islington.

The birth-day itself was kept at home with all the honours, in their old
house at Finsbury square; Maria would not leave that house, for old
acquaintance sake. Master Harry, a frank-faced, open-hearted,
curly-headed boy of ten (at least when I dined there, for he has
probably grown older since), was of course the happy hero of the feast,
ably supported by divers joyful brothers and sisters, who had all
contributed to their elder brother's triumph on that day, by the
contribution of their various presents--one a little scent bag, another
a rude drawing, another a book-marker, and so forth, all probably
worthless in the view of selfish calculation, but inestimable according
to the currency of Heart. Half-a-dozen choice old friends closed the
list of company; and a noisy rout of boys and girls were added in the
early evening, full of negus, and sponge-cake, snap-dragon, and
blindman's-buff, with merry music, and a golden-flood of dances and
delight.

We dined early; and, to be very confidential with you, I thought (until
I found out reasons why), that the bill-of-fare upon the table was
inordinately large, not to say vulgar; for the board was overloaded with
solid sweets and savouries: so, in my uncharitable mind, I set all that
down to the uncivilized hospitality asserted of a citizen's feast, and
(for aught I know) still rife in St. Mary Axe and Finsbury square.

Never mind how the dinner passed off, nor how jovially the children kept
it up till near eleven: for I learnt, in an incidental way, what was
regularly done upon the morrow; and I am sure it will gratify my readers
to learn it too, as a trait of considerate kindness which will gladden
man and woman's heart.

On the seventh of April in every year (Harry's birth-day was the sixth),
Henry and Maria used to go on an humble pilgrimage to Lower Sack street,
Islington. Not to shame the poor by fine clothes or their usual
equipage, they sedulously donned on that occasion the same now faded
suits they had worn in their adversity, and made their progress in a
hackney-coach. They would have walked for humility's sake and sympathy,
but that the coach in question was crammed full of eatables and
drinkables, nicely packed up in well-considered parcels, consisting of
the vast _debris_ of yesterday's overwhelming feast, with a sackful of
tea and sugar added. Their pockets also, as I took the liberty of
inquiring at Sack street afterwards, must have been well stored, for
their largess was munificent. Then would they go to that identical
lodgings of years gone by, where they had so struggled with adversity,
now in the happy contrast of wealth and peace and thankfulness to
Heaven, and of joy at doing good. That parlour was right liberally hired
for the day, and all the poor in Sack street were privileged to call,
where Mrs. Clements held her levee. They came in an orderly stream,
clean for the occasion, and full of gratitude and blessings; and, to be
just upon the poor, no impostor had ever been known to intrude upon the
privilege of Sack street. As for dear Maria, she regularly broke down
just as the proceedings commenced, and Henry's manlier hand had to give
away the spoil; whilst Maria sobbed beside him, as if her heart would
break. Then did the good old nurse come in for a cold round of beef,
with tea, sugar, and a sovereign; and the bed-ridden neighbour up-stairs
for jellied soup, and other condiments, with a similar royal climax; and
the cobbler over the way carried off ham and chickens, with apple-puffs
and a bottle of wine: and so some thirty or forty families were
gladdened for the hour, and made wealthy for a week. Altogether they
divided amongst them a coachful of comestibles, and a pocketful of coin.

It would be impertinent in us to intrude so far on privacy, as to record
how Henry and Maria passed much time in prayer and praise on that
interesting anniversary; it is unnecessary too, for in fact they did not
stop for anniversaries to do that sort of thing. Be sure that good
thoughts and good words are ever found preceding good and grateful
deeds. It is quite enough to know that they did God service in doing
good to man.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE END OF THE HEARTLESS.

There is plenty of contrast in this poor book, if that be any virtue.
Let us turn our eyes away from those scenes of love and cheerfulness, of
benevolence and peace. Let us leave Maria in her nursery, hearing the
little ones their lessons; and Henry cutting the leaves of a nice new
book, fresh from the press, while his home-taught son and heir is
playing at pot-hooks and hangers in a copy-book beside him. Let us
recollect their purity of mind, their holiness of motive, and their
happiness of life; these are the victims of false-witness. And how fares
the wretch that would have starved them?

The fate of John Dillaway is at once so tragical, so interesting, and so
instructive, that it will be well for us to be transported for awhile,
and give this rogue the benefit of honest company.

For many months I had seen a sullen lowering fellow, with cropped head,
ironed-legs, and the motley garments of disgrace, driven forth at early
morning with his gang of bad compeers; a slave, toiling till night-fall
in piling cannon-balls, and chipping off the rust with heavy hammers; a
sentinel stood near with a loaded musket; they might not speak to each
other, that miserable gang; hope was dead among them; life had no
delights; they wreaked their silent hatred on those hammered
cannon-balls. The man who struck the fiercest, that sullen convict with
the lowering brow, was our stock-jobber, John Dillaway.

Soon after that foretaste of slavery at Woolwich, the ship sailed,
freighted with incarnate crime; her captain was a ruffian; (could he
help it with such cargoes?) her crew, the offscouring of all nations;
and the Chesapeake herself was an old rotten hull, condemned, after one
more voyage, to be broken up; a creaking, foul, unsafe vessel, full of
rats, cockroaches, and other vermin.

The sun glared ungenially at that blot upon the waters, breeding
infectious disease; the waves flung the hated burden from one to the
other, disdainful of her freight of sin; the winds had no commission for
fair sailing, but whistled through the rigging crossways, howling in the
ears of many in that ship, as if they carried ghosts along with them:
the very rocks and reefs butted her off the creamy line of breakers, as
sea-unicorns distorting; no affectionate farewell blessed her departure;
no hearty welcomes await her at the port.

And they sailed many days as in a floating hell, hot, miserable, and
cursing; the scanty meal was flung to them like dog's-meat, and they
lapped the putrid water from a pail; gang by gang for an hour they might
pace the smoking deck, and then and thence were driven down to fester in
the hold for three-and-twenty more. O, those closed hatches by night!
what torments were the kernel of that ship! Suffocated by the heat and
noxious smells; bruised against each other, and by each other's blows,
as the black unwieldy vessel staggered about among the billows, the
wretched mass of human misery wore away those tropical nights in horrid
imprecation; worse than crowded slaves upon the Spanish Main, from the
blister of crime upon their souls, and their utter lack of hopefulness
for ever.

And now, after all the shattering storms, and haggard sufferings, and
degrading terrors of that voyage, they neared the metropolis of sin;
some town on Botany Bay, a blighted shore--where each man, looking at
his neighbour, sees in him an outcast from heaven. They landed in
droves, that ironed flock of men; and the sullenest-looking scoundrel of
them all was John Dillaway.

There were murderers among his gang; but human passions, which had
hurried them to crime, now had left them as if wrecked upon a lee
shore--humbled and remorseful, and heaven's happier sun shed some light
upon their faces: there were burglars; but the courage which could dare
those deeds, now lending strength to bear the stroke of punishment,
enabled them to walk forth even cheerily to meet their doom of labour:
there was rape; but he hid himself, ashamed, vowing better things: fiery
arson, too, was there, sorry for his rash revenge: also, conspiracy and
rebellion, confessing that ambition such as theirs had been wickedness
and folly; and common frauds, and crimes, and social sins; bad enough,
God wot, yet hopeful; but the mean, heartless, devilish criminality of
our young Dagon beat them all. If to be hard-hearted were a virtue, the
best man there was Dillaway.

And now they were to be billeted off among the sturdy colonists as
farm-servants, near a-kin to slaves; tools in the rough hands of men who
pioneer civilization, with all the vices of the social, and all the
passions of the savage. And on the strand, where those task-masters
congregated to inspect the new-come droves, each man selected according
to his mind: the rougher took the roughest, and the gentler, the
gentlest; the merry-looking field farmer sought out the cheerful, and
the sullen backwoods settler chose the sullen. Dillaway's master was a
swarthy, beetled-browed caitiff, who had worn out his own seven years of
penalty, and had now set up tyrant for himself.

As a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, in a stagnant little clearing
of the forest, our convict toiled continually--continually--like
Caliban: all days alike; hewing at the mighty trunk and hacking up the
straggling branches; no hope--no help--no respite; and the iron of
servile tyranny entered into his very soul. Ay--ay; the culprit
convicted, when he hears in open court, with an impudent assurance, the
punishment that awaits him on those penal shores, little knows the
terrors of that sentence. Months and years--yea, haply to gray hairs and
death, slavery unmitigated--uncomforted; toil and pain; toil and sorrow;
toil, and nothing to cheer; even to the end, vain tasked toil. Old
hopes, old recollections, old feelings, violently torn up by the roots.
No familiar face in sickness, no patient nurse beside the dying bed: no
hope for earth, and no prospect of heaven: but, in its varying phases,
one gloomy glaring orb of ever-present hell.

It grew intolerable--intolerable; he was beaten, mocked, and almost a
maniac. Escape--escape! Oh, blessed thought! into the wild free woods!
there, with the birds and flowers, hill and dale, fresh air and liberty!
Oh, glad hope--mad hope! His habitual cunning came to his aid; he
schemed, he contrived, he accomplished. The jutting heads of the rivets
having been diligently rubbed away from his galling fetter by a big
stone--a toil of weeks--he one day stood unshackled, having watched his
time to be alone. An axe was in his hand, and the saved single dinner of
pea-bread. That beetled-browed task-master slumbered in the hut; that
brother convict--(why need he care for him, too? every one for himself
in this world)--that kinder, humbler, better man was digging in the
open; if he wants to escape, let him think of himself: John Dillaway has
enough to take care for. Now, then; now, unobserved, unsuspected; now is
the chance! Joy, life, and liberty! Oh, glorious prospect--for this
inland world is unexplored.

He stole away, with panting heart, and fearfully exulting eye; he
ran--ran--ran, for miles--it may have been scores of them--till
night-fall, on the soft and pleasant greensward under those high echoing
woods. None pursued; safe--safe; and deliciously he slept that night
beneath a spreading wattle-tree, after the first sweet meal of freedom.

Next morning, waked up like the starting kangaroos around him (for John
Dillaway had not bent the knee in prayer since childhood), off he set
triumphant and refreshed: his arm was strong, and he trusted in it, his
axe was sharp, and he looked to that for help; he knew no other God. Off
he set for miles--miles--miles: still that continuous high acacia wood,
though less naturally park-like, often-times choked with briars, and
here and there impervious a-head. Was it all this same starving forest
to the wide world's end? He dug for roots, and found some acrid bulbs
and tubers, which blistered up his mouth; but he was hungry, and ate
them; and dreaded as he ate. Were they poisonous? Next to it, Dillaway;
so he hurried eagerly to dilute their griping juices with the mountain
streams near which he slept: the water was at least kindly cooling to
his hot throat; he drank huge draughts, and stayed his stomach.

Next morning, off again: why could he not catch and eat some of those
half-tame antelopes? Ha! He lay in wait hours--hours, near the torrent
to which they came betimes to slake their thirst: but their beautiful
keen eyes saw him askance--and when he rashly hoped to hunt one down
afoot, they went like the wind for a minute--then turned to look at him
afar off, mockingly--poor, panting, baffled creeper.

No; give it up--this savoury hope of venison; he must go despondently on
and on; and he filled his belly with grass. Must he really starve in
this interminable wood! He dreamt that night of luxurious city feasts,
the turtle, turbot, venison, and champagne; and then how miserably weak
he woke. But he must on wearily and lamely, for ever through this
wood--objectless, except for life and liberty. Oh, that he could meet
some savage, and do him battle for the food he carried; or that a dead
bird, or beast, or snake lay upon his path; or that one of those
skipping kangaroos would but come within the reach of his oft-aimed
hatchet! No: for all the birds and flowers, and the free wild woods, and
hill, and dale, and liberty, he was starving--starving; so he browsed
the grass as Nebuchadnezzar in his lunacy. And the famished wretch would
have gladly been a slave again.

Next morning, he must lie and perish where he slept, or move on: he
turned to the left, not to go on for ever; probably, ay, too probably,
he had been creeping round a belt. Oh, precious thought of change! for
within three hours there was light a-head, light beneath the tangled
underwood: he struggled through the last cluster of thick bushes,
longing for a sight of fertile plain, and open country. Who knows? are
there not men dwelling there with flocks and herds, and food and plenty?
Yes--yes, and Dillaway will do among them yet. You envious boughs, delay
me not! He tore aside the last that hid his view, and found that he was
standing on the edge of an ocean of sand--hot yellow sand to the
horizon!

He fainted--he had like to have died; but as for prayer--he only
muttered curses on this bitter, famishing disappointment. He dared not
strike into the wood again--he dared not advance upon that yellow sea
exhausted and unprovisioned: it was his wisdom to skirt the wood; and so
he trampled along weakly--weakly. This liberty to starve is horrible!

Is it, John Dillaway? What, have you no compunctions at that word
starve? no bitter, dreadful recollections? Remember poor Maria, that own
most loving sister, wanting bread through you. Remember Henry Clements,
and their pining babe; remember your own sensual feastings and
fraudulent exultation, and how you would utterly have starved the good,
the kind, the honest! This same bitter cup is filled for your own lips,
and you must drink it to the dregs. Have you no compunctions, man?
nothing tapping at your heart? for you must _starve_!

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