"And
Heaven's rich instincts in
him grew
As effortless as woodland nooks
Send violets up and paint them blue."
LOWELL.
I do not mean to recount all
the little troubles and annoyances
which thronged upon Tom at
the beginning of this half-year,
in his new character of bear-leader
to a gentle little boy straight
from home. He seemed to himself
to have become a new boy again,
without any of the long-suffering
and meekness indispensable
for supporting that character
with moderate success. From
morning till night he had the
feeling of responsibility on
his mind, and even if he left
Arthur in their study or in
the close for an hour, was
never at ease till he had him
in sight again. He waited for
him at the doors of the school
after every lesson and every
calling-over; watched that
no tricks were played him,
and none but the regulation
questions asked; kept his eye
on his plate at dinner and
breakfast, to see that no unfair
depredations were made upon
his viands; in short, as East
remarked, cackled after him
like a hen with one chick.
Arthur took a long time thawing,
too, which made it all the
harder work; was sadly timid;
scarcely ever spoke unless
Tom spoke to him first; and,
worst of all, would agree with
him in everything - the hardest
thing in the world for a Brown
to bear. He got quite angry
sometimes, as they sat together
of a night in their study,
at this provoking habit of
agreement, and was on the point
of breaking out a dozen times
with a lecture upon the propriety
of a fellow having a will of
his own and speaking out, but
managed to restrain himself
by the thought that he might
only frighten Arthur, and the
remembrance of the lesson he
had learnt from him on his
first night at Number 4. Then
he would resolve to sit still
and not say a word till Arthur
began; but he was always beat
at that game, and had presently
to begin talking in despair,
fearing lest Arthur might think
he was vexed at something if
he didn't, and dog-tired of
sitting tongue-tied.
It was hard
work. But Tom had taken it
up, and meant
to stick to it, and go through
with it so as to satisfy himself;
in which resolution he was
much assisted by the chafing
of East and his other old friends,
who began to call him "dry-nurse," and
otherwise to break their small
wit on him. But when they took
other ground, as they did every
now and then, Tom was sorely
puzzled.
"Tell you what, Tommy," East
would say; "you'll spoil
young Hopeful with too much
coddling. Why can't you let
him go about by himself and
find his own level? He'll never
be worth a button if you go
on keeping him under your skirts."
"Well,
but he ain't fit to fight
his own way yet; I'm
trying to get him to it every
day, but he's very odd. Poor
little beggar! I can't make
him out a bit. He ain't a bit
like anything I've ever seen
or heard of - he seems all
over nerves; anything you say
seems to hurt him like a cut
or a blow."
"That sort of boy's no
use here," said East; "he'll
only spoil. Now I'll tell you
what to do, Tommy. Go and get
a nice large band-box made,
and put him in with plenty
of cotton-wool and a pap-bottle,
labelled 'With care - this
side up,' and send him back
to mamma."
"I think I shall make
a hand of him though," said
Tom, smiling, "say what
you will. There's something
about him, every now and then,
which shows me he's got pluck
somewhere in him. That's the
only thing after all that'll
wash, ain't it, old Scud? But
how to get at it and bring
it out?"
Tom took one
hand out of his breeches-pocket
and stuck it
in his back hair for a scratch,
giving his hat a tilt over
his nose, his one method of
invoking wisdom. He stared
at the ground with a ludicrously
puzzled look, and presently
looked up and met East's eyes.
That young gentleman slapped
him on the back, and then put
his arm round his shoulder,
as they strolled through the
quadrangle together. "Tom," said
he, "blest if you ain't
the best old fellow ever was.
I do like to see you go into
a thing. Hang it, I wish I
could take things as you do;
but I never can get higher
than a joke. Everything's a
joke. If I was going to be
flogged next minute, I should
be in a blue funk, but I couldn't
help laughing at it for the
life of me."
"Brown
and East, you go and fag
for Jones on the
great fives court."
"Hullo, though, that's
past a joke," broke out
East, springing at the young
gentleman who addressed them,
and catching him by the collar.
- "Here, Tommy, catch
hold of him t'other side before
he can holla."
The youth was seized, and
dragged, struggling, out of
the quadrangle into the School-house
hall. He was one of the miserable
little pretty white-handed,
curly-headed boys, petted and
pampered by some of the big
fellows, who wrote their verses
for them, taught them to drink
and use bad language, and did
all they could to spoil them
for everything * in this world
and the next. One of the avocations
in which these young gentlemen
took particular delight was
in going about and getting
fags for their protectors,
when those heroes were playing
any game. They carried about
pencil and paper with them,
putting down the names of all
the boys they sent, always
sending five times as many
as were wanted, and getting
all those thrashed who didn't
go. The present youth belonged
to a house which was very jealous
of the School-house, and always
picked out School-house fags
when he could find them. However,
this time he'd got the wrong
sow by the ear. His captors
slammed the great door of the
hall, and East put his back
against it, while Tom gave
the prisoner a shake up, took
away his list, and stood him
up on the floor, while he proceeded
leisurely to examine that document.
*
A kind and wise critic, an
old Rugboean, notes
here in the margin: "The
small friend system was not
so utterly bad from 1841-1847." Before
that, too, there were many
noble friendships between big
and little boys; but I can't
strike out the passage. Many
boys will know why it is left
in.
"Let me out, let me go!" screamed
the boy, in a furious passion. "I'll
go and tell Jones this minute,
and he'll give you both the
- - thrashing you ever had."
"Pretty little dear," said
East, patting the top of his
hat. - "Hark how he swears,
Tom. Nicely brought up young
man, ain't he, I don't think."
"Let me alone, - - you," roared
the boy, foaming with rage,
and kicking at East, who quietly
tripped him up, and deposited
him on the floor in a place
of safety.
"Gently, young fellow," said
he; "'tain't improving
for little whippersnappers
like you to be indulging in
blasphemy; so you stop that,
or you'll get something you
won't like."
"I'll have you both licked
when I get out, that I will," rejoined
the boy, beginning to snivel.
"Two can play at that
game, mind you," said
Tom, who had finished his examination
of the list. "Now you
just listen here. We've just
come across the fives court,
and Jones has four fags there
already - two more than he
wants. If he'd wanted us to
change, he'd have stopped us
himself. And here, you little
blackguard, you've got seven
names down on your list besides
ours, and five of them School-house." Tom
walked up to him, and jerked
him on to his legs; he was
by this time whining like a
whipped puppy. "Now just
listen to me. We ain't going
to fag for Jones. If you tell
him you've sent us, we'll each
of us give you such a thrashing
as you'll remember." And
Tom tore up the list and threw
the pieces into the fire.
"And mind you, too," said
East, "don't let me catch
you again sneaking about the
School-house, and picking up
our fags. You haven't got the
sort of hide to take a sound
licking kindly." And he
opened the door and sent the
young gentleman flying into
the quadrangle with a parting
kick.
"Nice boy, Tommy," said
East, shoving his hands in
his pockets, and strolling
to the fire.
"Worst sort we breed," responded
Tom, following his example. "Thank
goodness, no big fellow ever
took to petting me."
"You'd never have been
like that," said East. "I
should like to have put him
in a museum: Christian young
gentleman, nineteenth century,
highly educated. Stir him up
with a long pole, Jack, and
hear him swear like a drunken
sailor. He'd make a respectable
public open its eyes, I think."
"Think he'll tell Jones?" said
Tom.
"No," said East. "Don't
care if he does."
"Nor I," said
Tom. And they went back to
talk
about Arthur.
The young gentleman had brains
enough not to tell Jones, reasoning
that East and Brown, who were
noted as some of the toughest
fags in the School, wouldn't
care three straws for any licking
Jones might give them, and
would be likely to keep their
words as to passing it on with
interest.
After the above conversation,
East came a good deal to their
study, and took notice of Arthur,
and soon allowed to Tom that
he was a thorough little gentleman,
and would get over his shyness
all in good time; which much
comforted our hero. He felt
every day, too, the value of
having an object in his life
- something that drew him out
of himself; and it being the
dull time of the year, and
no games going about for which
he much cared, was happier
than he had ever yet been at
school, which was saying a
great deal.
The time which Tom allowed
himself away from his charge
was from locking-up till supper-time.
During this hour or hour and
a half he used to take his
fling, going round to the studies
of all his acquaintance, sparring
or gossiping in the hall, now
jumping the old iron-bound
tables, or carving a bit of
his name on them, then joining
in some chorus of merry voices
- in fact, blowing off his
steam, as we should now call
it.
This process was so congenial
to his temper, and Arthur showed
himself so pleased at the arrangement,
that it was several weeks before
Tom was ever in their study
before supper. One evening,
however, he rushed in to look
for an old chisel, or some
corks, or other article essential
to his pursuit for the time
being, and while rummaging
about in the cupboards, looked
up for a moment, and was caught
at once by the figure of poor
little Arthur. The boy was
sitting with his elbows on
the table, and his head leaning
on his hands, and before him
an open book, on which his
tears were falling fast. Tom
shut the door at once, and
sat down on the sofa by Arthur,
putting his arm round his neck.
"Why, young un, what's
the matter?" said he kindly; "you
ain't unhappy, are you?"
"Oh no, Brown," said
the little boy, looking up
with the great tears in his
eyes; "you are so kind
to me, I'm very happy."
"Why don't you call me
Tom? Lots of boys do that I
don't like half so much as
you. What are you reading,
then? Hang it! you must come
about with me, and not mope
yourself." And Tom cast
down his eyes on the book,
and saw it was the Bible. He
was silent for a minute, and
thought to himself, "Lesson
Number 2, Tom Brown;" and
then said gently, "I'm
very glad to see this, Arthur,
and ashamed that I don't read
the Bible more myself. Do you
read it every night before
supper while I'm out?"
"Yes."
"Well,
I wish you'd wait till afterwards,
and then we'd
read together. But, Arthur,
why does it make you cry?"
"Oh,
it isn't that I'm unhappy.
But at home, while
my father was alive, we always
read the lessons after tea;
and I love to read them over
now, and try to remember what
he said about them. I can't
remember all and I think I
scarcely understand a great
deal of what I do remember.
But it all comes back to me
so fresh that I can't help
crying sometimes to think I
shall never read them again
with him."
Arthur had never spoken of
his home before, and Tom hadn't
encouraged him to do so, as
his blundering schoolboy reasoning
made him think that Arthur
would be softened and less
manly for thinking of home.
But now he was fairly interested,
and forgot all about chisels
and bottled beer; while with
very little encouragement Arthur
launched into his home history,
and the prayer-bell put them
both out sadly when it rang
to call them to the hall.
From this time Arthur constantly
spoke of his home, and above
all, of his father, who had
been dead about a year, and
whose memory Tom soon got to
love and reverence almost as
much as his own son did.
Arthur's father had been the
clergyman of a parish in the
Midland counties, which had
risen into a large town during
the war, and upon which the
hard years which followed had
fallen with fearful weight.
The trade had been half ruined;
and then came the old, sad
story, of masters reducing
their establishments, men turned
off and wandering about, hungry
and wan in body, and fierce
in soul, from the thought of
wives and children starving
at home, and the last sticks
of furniture going to the pawnshop;
children taken from school,
and lounging about the dirty
streets and courts, too listless
almost to play, and squalid
in rags and misery; and then
the fearful struggle between
the employers and men - lowerings
of wages, strikes, and the
long course of oft-repeated
crime, ending every now and
then with a riot, a fire, and
the county yeomanry. There
is no need here to dwell upon
such tales: the Englishman
into whose soul they have not
sunk deep is not worthy the
name. You English boys, for
whom this book is meant (God
bless your bright faces and
kind hearts!), will learn it
all soon enough.
Into such
a parish and state of society
Arthur's father
had been thrown at the age
of twenty-five - a young married
parson, full of faith, hope,
and love. He had battled with
it like a man, and had lots
of fine Utopian ideas about
the perfectibility of mankind,
glorious humanity, and such-like,
knocked out of his head, and
a real, wholesome Christian
love for the poor, struggling,
sinning men, of whom he felt
himself one, and with and for
whom he spent fortune, and
strength, and life, driven
into his heart. He had battled
like a man, and gotten a man's
reward - no silver tea-pots
or salvers, with flowery inscriptions
setting forth his virtues and
the appreciation of a genteel
parish; no fat living or stall,
for which he never looked,
and didn't care; no sighs and
praises of comfortable dowagers
and well-got-up young women,
who worked him slippers, sugared
his tea, and adored him as "a
devoted man;" but a manly
respect, wrung from the unwilling
souls of men who fancied his
order their natural enemies;
the fear and hatred of every
one who was false or unjust
in the district, were he master
or man; and the blessed sight
of women and children daily
becoming more human and more
homely, a comfort to themselves
and to their husbands and fathers.
These things, of course, took
time, and had to be fought
for with toil and sweat of
brain and heart, and with the
life-blood poured out. All
that, Arthur had laid his account
to give, and took as a matter
of course, neither pitying
himself, nor looking on himself
as a martyr, when he felt the
wear and tear making him feel
old before his time, and the
stifling air of fever-dens
telling on his health. His
wife seconded him in everything.
She had been rather fond of
society, and much admired and
run after before her marriage;
and the London world to which
she had belonged pitied poor
Fanny Evelyn when she married
the young clergyman, and went
to settle in that smoky hole
Turley; a very nest of Chartism
and Atheism, in a part of the
country which all the decent
families had had to leave for
years. However, somehow or
other she didn't seem to care.
If her husband's living had
been amongst green fields and
near pleasant neighbours she
would have liked it better
- that she never pretended
to deny. But there they were.
The air wasn't bad, after all;
the people were very good sort
of people - civil to you if
you were civil to them, after
the first brush; and they didn't
expect to work miracles, and
convert them all off-hand into
model Christians. So he and
she went quietly among the
folk, talking to and treating
them just as they would have
done people of their own rank.
They didn't feel that they
were doing anything out of
the common way, and so were
perfectly natural, and had
none of that condescension
or consciousness of manner
which so outrages the independent
poor. And thus they gradually
won respect and confidence;
and after sixteen years he
was looked up to by the whole
neighbourhood as the just man,
the man to whom masters and
men could go in their strikes,
and in all their quarrels and
difficulties, and by whom the
right and true word would be
said without fear or favour.
And the women had come round
to take her advice, and go
to her as a friend in all their
troubles; while the children
all worshipped the very ground
she trod on.
They had three children, two
daughters and a son, little
Arthur, who came between his
sisters. He had been a very
delicate boy from his childhood;
they thought he had a tendency
to consumption, and so he had
been kept at home and taught
by his father, who had made
a companion of him, and from
whom he had gained good scholarship,
and a knowledge of and interest
in many subjects which boys
in general never come across
till they are many years older.
Just as he reached his thirteenth
year, and his father had settled
that he was strong enough to
go to school, and, after much
debating with himself, had
resolved to send him there,
a desperate typhus fever broke
out in the town. Most of the
other clergy, and almost all
the doctors, ran away; the
work fell with tenfold weight
on those who stood to their
work. Arthur and his wife both
caught the fever, of which
he died in a few days; and
she recovered, having been
able to nurse him to the end,
and store up his last words.
He was sensible to the last,
and calm and happy, leaving
his wife and children with
fearless trust for a few years
in the hands of the Lord and
Friend who had lived and died
for him, and for whom he, to
the best of his power, had
lived and died. His widow's
mourning was deep and gentle.
She was more affected by the
request of the committee of
a freethinking club, established
in the town by some of the
factory hands (which he had
striven against with might
and main, and nearly suppressed),
that some of their number might
be allowed to help bear the
coffin, than by anything else.
Two of them were chosen, who,
with six other labouring men,
his own fellow-workmen and
friends, bore him to his grave
- a man who had fought the
Lord's fight even unto the
death. The shops were closed
and the factories shut that
day in the parish, yet no master
stopped the day's wages; but
for many a year afterwards
the townsfolk felt the want
of that brave, hopeful, loving
parson and his wife, who had
lived to teach them mutual
forbearance and helpfulness,
and had almost at last given
them a glimpse of what this
old world would be if people
would live for God and each
other instead of for themselves.
What has all this to do with
our story? Well, my dear boys,
let a fellow go on his own
way, or you won't get anything
out of him worth having. I
must show you what sort of
a man it was who had begotten
and trained little Arthur,
or else you won't believe in
him, which I am resolved you
shall do; and you won't see
how he, the timid, weak boy,
had points in him from which
the bravest and strongest recoiled,
and made his presence and example
felt from the first on all
sides, unconsciously to himself,
and without the least attempt
at proselytizing. The spirit
of his father was in him, and
the Friend to whom his father
had left him did not neglect
the trust.
After supper that night, and
almost nightly for years afterwards,
Tom and Arthur, and by degrees
East occasionally, and sometimes
one, sometimes another, of
their friends, read a chapter
of the Bible together, and
talked it over afterwards.
Tom was at first utterly astonished,
and almost shocked, at the
sort of way in which Arthur
read the book and talked about
the men and women whose lives
were there told. The first
night they happened to fall
on the chapters about the famine
in Egypt, and Arthur began
talking about Joseph as if
he were a living statesman
- just as he might have talked
about Lord Grey and the Reform
Bill, only that they were much
more living realities to him.
The book was to him, Tom saw,
the most vivid and delightful
history of real people, who
might do right or wrong, just
like any one who was walking
about in Rugby - the Doctor,
or the masters, or the sixth-form
boys. But the astonishment
soon passed off, the scales
seemed to drop from his eyes,
and the book became at once
and for ever to him the great
human and divine book, and
the men and women, whom he
had looked upon as something
quite different from himself,
became his friends and counsellors.
For our purposes, however,
the history of one night's
reading will be sufficient,
which must be told here, now
we are on the subject, though
it didn't happen till a year
afterwards, and long after
the events recorded in the
next chapter of our story.
Arthur, Tom, and East were
together one night, and read
the story of Naaman coming
to Elisha to be cured of his
leprosy. When the chapter was
finished, Tom shut his Bible
with a slap.
"I can't stand that fellow
Naaman," said he, "after
what he'd seen and felt, going
back and bowing himself down
in the house of Rimmon, because
his effeminate scoundrel of
a master did it. I wonder Elisha
took the trouble to heal him.
How he must have despised him!"
"Yes; there you go off
as usual, with a shell on your
head," struck in East,
who always took the opposite
side to Tom, half from love
of argument, half from conviction. "How
do you know he didn't think
better of it? How do you know
his master was a scoundrel?
His letter don't look like
it, and the book don't say
so."
"I don't care," rejoined
Tom; "why did Naaman talk
about bowing down, then, if
he didn't mean to do it? He
wasn't likely to get more in
earnest when he got back to
court, and away from the prophet."
"Well, but, Tom," said
Arthur, "look what Elisha
says to him - 'Go in peace.'
He wouldn't have said that
if Naaman had been in the wrong."
"I don't
see that that means more
than saying, 'You're
not the man I took you for.'"
"No, no; that won't do
at all," said East. "Read
the words fairly, and take
men as you find them. I like
Naaman, and think he was a
very fine fellow."
"I don't," said
Tom positively.
"Well, I think East is
right," said Arthur; "I
can't see but what it's right
to do the best you can, though
it mayn't be the best absolutely.
Every man isn't born to be
a martyr."
"Of course, of course," said
East; "but he's on one
of his pet hobbies. - How often
have I told you, Tom, that
you must drive a nail where
it'll go."
"And how often have I
told you," rejoined Tom, "that
it'll always go where you want,
if you only stick to it and
hit hard enough. I hate half-measures
and compromises."
"Yes, he's a whole-hog
man, is Tom. Must have the
whole animal- hair and teeth,
claws and tail," laughed
East. "Sooner have no
bread any day than half the
loaf."
"I don't know;" said
Arthur - "it's rather
puzzling; but ain't most right
things got by proper compromises
- I mean where the principle
isn't given up?"
"That's just the point," said
Tom; "I don't object to
a compromise, where you don't
give up your principle."
"Not you," said
East laughingly. - "I
know him of old, Arthur, and
you'll find him out some day.
There isn't such a reasonable
fellow in the world, to hear
him talk. He never wants anything
but what's right and fair;
only when you come to settle
what's right and fair, it's
everything that he wants, and
nothing that you want. And
that's his idea of a compromise.
Give me the Brown compromise
when I'm on his side."
"Now, Harry," said
Tom, "no more chaff. I'm
serious. Look here. This is
what makes my blood tingle." And
he turned over the pages of
his Bible and read, "Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abed- nego answered
and said to the king, O Nebuchadnezzar,
we are not careful to answer
thee in this matter. If it
be so, our God whom we serve
is able to deliver us from
the burning fiery furnace,
and he will deliver us out
of thine hand, O king. But
if not, be it known unto thee,
O king, that we will not serve
thy gods, nor worship the golden
image which thou hast set up." He
read the last verse twice,
emphasizing the nots, and dwelling
on them as if they gave him
actual pleasure, and were hard
to part with.
They were
silent a minute, and then
Arthur said, "Yes,
that's a glorious story, but
it don't prove your point,
Tom, I think. There are times
when there is only one way,
and that the highest, and then
the men are found to stand
in the breach."
"There's always a highest
way, and it's always the right
one," said Tom. "How
many times has the Doctor told
us that in his sermons in the
last year, I should like to
know?"
"Well, you ain't going
to convince us - is he, Arthur?
No Brown compromise to-night," said
East, looking at his watch. "But
it's past eight, and we must
go to first lesson. What a
bore!"
So they took down their books
and fell to work; but Arthur
didn't forget, and thought
long and often over the conversation.
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