Part 5

One of Carter’s Men of Genius lived with him and on him for a period of more than six months. It was amusing always to hear his enthusiasm over this big, blotchy-faced loafer. He bored all his friends by a description of his first meeting him, of his desire to see him again, and of the happy coincidence of their second encounter. Carter was greatly given to prowling about unknown London for the purpose of picking up “effects.” He knew the opium-smoking quarter. He had been in a thieves’ kitchen, and he knew his way to the most disreputable common lodging-houses in the metropolis. He occasionally dropped in at the “White Elephant,” a public-house situated in a slum off Fleet Street, where every night in the week a discussion took place on the events of the day. This discussion was carried on in a hall at the back of the “White Elephant,” and was mainly contributed to by subsidized speakers whose feats of oratory were intended to encourage the ambitious vestryman who smoked his pipe there, or the occasional young barrister who dropped in upon his way to or from the Temple. But the audience generally was made up of solicitors’ clerks, solicitors who had been struck off the Rolls, with here and there a fiery disciple of Bradlaugh from the unsavoury fastnesses of Clerkenwell. It was in this resort that Carter first saw and admired Joseph Addison, the large and very loathsome person who eventually shared his home.

“I tell you,” he would say, “Joseph is the most wonderful chap. By Jove, sir, you should have heard the way he pegged into those Radicals. He made them squirm. I wish old Gladstone had been there to hear him, upon my soul I do.”

Unfortunately it happened that late one night Felix encountered his paragon lying asleep under a bench in St. James’s Park. It is more than probable that the creature was drunk after a day of successful sponging. But his admirer only saw a man full of gifts and faculties suffering from cold and hunger.

“By Gad, old boy,” he said in describing the scene, “I could have cried to see a man, who could talk Sir William Harcourt’s head off, perishing for want of a penny roll.”

So Addison was treated as reverently as if he had been his great namesake, was made free of Carter’s house, was introduced to his studio friends, and was generally rendered a great deal more comfortable than he deserved to be. His appearance was sadly against him. His eyes were shifty and blood-shot; his bushy black whiskers were never submitted to the torture of the comb; his finger nails were invariably dirty, and his expression was that of effrontery struggling with awkwardness. His clothes of seedy black vainly endeavouring to conceal an unwashed shirt seemed as if they had been persistently slept in, and his eyeglass depending from a white string completed the picture of a rakish adventurer.

It is true that these deficiences of attire were gradually ameliorated, and Joseph Addison appeared in the linen and jackets of our friend, to which, however, this hopeless and abominable ale-house ornament managed to impart a debauched and dissipated air. Of this Carter saw nothing. Nor did he consider it extraordinary that the unsightly incubus should drink his brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning, or that he should smoke his Latakia out of his favourite pipes. All these little familiarities he set down as being so many eccentricities of genius.

“What’s a bottle of brandy to me if it makes Joseph talk! I tell you I have heard that man emit epigrams by the hour. He’s a little shy before strangers. But you should hear him when we’re alone. By the lord Harry, Rochfoucauld isn’t in it with him.”

And so Felix Carter, a man of taste, refinement, culture, and genius, worshipped this idol of mud, this tavern sponge, this bar-soiled, gin-soddened impostor. So Titania was enamoured of an ass.

Although it was perfectly true that Joseph Addison never ventured on any epigrams before Carter’s friends, he committed some of them to writing, for the benefit of posterity. These wonderful sentiments Addison’s hand had traced with charcoal on the white-washed walls of the studio, and Carter would point them out with genuine enthusiasm as though they were

—jewels five words long That on the stretched forefinger of all time Sparkle for ever.

Respect and love for Carter induced his associates to affect a great belief in the value of these jewels of thought scrawled on the walls in the most vulgar hand imaginable. That there may be no doubt as to the literary and philosophical value of the gems, I will reproduce them here. On one wall—just where Carter could see it as he painted, was inscribed the legend—

GOD LOVES THE WORKER.

Opposite the entrance to the studio appeared in characters of greater magnitude the intimation—

LABOUR IS PRAYER.

While above the mantel-piece, between two beautiful “studies” from the nude, ran the inscription—

LABOR OMNIA VINCIT.

As the Latinity of this recondite quotation was impeccable, I presume that Mr. Addison had extracted it from Bartlett’s Dictionary of Quotations.

Had it not been for the large heart and simple faith of the artist, one would have been inclined to see nothing in the unholy alliance but its ludicrous side. But knowing how firm was the faith of the victim in his new discovery, there was a dash of pathos in it which checked laughter.

Many attempts were made to expose the fraud. Secret meetings of the admirers of Carter met in adjoining studios. All sorts of conspiracies were set on foot. Most ingenious devices were proposed and unanimously adopted. But they were unavailing. All were frustrated by the unsuspicious nature of Carter, or by the low cunning of the beer-swilling brute who was living in easy idleness on his money. It is generally believed that at this period certain of the younger and more enthusiastic followers of Carter had set on foot a plot for the extermination of Addison, and that his early assassination was by some deemed feasible and desirable.

“I will tell you what it is,” said Carter on one occasion to the most plain-spoken of his friends, “I’ve found out why all you fellows fail to see that Addison is a Man of Genius.”

“And what may the reason be?” asked Plain Speaker.

“You’re all jealous of his ability—that’s what it is.”

“Bah!”

“It’s all very well to say ‘Bah,’” said Carter, waxing enthusiastic as he invariably did on this theme, “but it’s impossible to explain your dislike on any other theory. Joseph is worth a dozen of the fellows who make money by literature in these days. I have written books myself, and ought to know something about it. You’ll find him out one of these days.”

“And so will you,” was Plain Speaker’s response.

Herein Plain Speaker indulged in unconscious prophecy. That which friendly conspirators could not bring about was contrived by the omnipotent finger of Fate.

Felix Carter went to the Isle of Wight to execute a commission for an invalid magnate in that pleasant settlement, and as he was anxious that a trustworthy and gentlemanly person should take charge of his house during his absence, he left his friend and _protégé_, Joseph Addison, in that responsible position. The artist had been about a week at work when he came upon the following gratifying item in one of the London papers:—

“POLICE INTELLIGENCE.

“BOW STREET. A THIEF.—_Joseph Addison_ alias _Ward_, alias _Peters_, 40, was charged before Mr. Flowers with stealing from the waiting-room of the Charing Cross Station a black bag containing jewellery, the property of M. Laurent of Paris. On the prisoner were found a gold watch, an opera-glass, a silver fruit-knife, and a valuable cigar-case. These articles bear the initials ‘F. C.’ The prisoner was remanded for further inquiries.”

“My initials!” sighed Carter.

“Our friend will now get plenty of that labour which he affects to love,” said Plain Speaker.

XII. _A DIGNIFIED DIPSOMANIAC_.

“A MOST remarkable man, sir,” said the Secretary of the Teetotal Union to the President.

“But don’t he strike you as being a trifle—a trifle soiled, eh?” asked the President, glancing down at his own immaculate shirt-cuffs.

“N—no,” replied the Secretary, hesitatingly. “He’s a most dignified man—most dignified. An’ in his dress shoot most impressive.”

“But really, now, Mr. Bottle, I thought, d’ye know, that he rather smelt of beer. Just a little, eh?” suggested the President.

“Beer!” echoed the Secretary, in a tone of mingled astonishment and indignation. “Beer! Why, sir, he’s one of the most ardent spirits engaged in the teetotal cause. He has been one of us for upwards of ten years or more.”

“And before that, eh?”

“He was on the Press.”

“Hum!” observed the President.

“But he’s quite reformed _now_,” answered the Secretary, to the objection implied in the President’s monosyllable.

“And you say he is really eloquent?”

“Remarkably so—_very_, remarkably so. In fact, I may say a puffick J. B. Gough.”

“Has he written in favour of the cause?”

“Largely, sir. His tracks is well known.”

“Then send him in again.”

The subject of this conversation—which took place in the Committee Room of the Teetotal Union, in Aldersgate Street, City—stood in an outer chamber, gravely contemplative. All that Mr. Bottle, the Secretary, had urged in favour of his dignified demeanour, was quite justified by his appearance. But the reflections of Alderman Lamb, the President, were also to a great extent borne out by what little of him was visible to the naked eye. Indeed, the remarkable man was a trifle more than soiled. He was very dirty. He might be described as an old-young man. He had curly grey hair, thin and rather distinguished features, a small nervous hand, an imperturbable solemnity of expression, and a dignity of pose worthy the immortal Mr. Turveydrop.

At the bidding of the Secretary, he re-entered the sanctum of the President, to whom he bowed low and impressively. He sat in the chair offered to him, and looked at Mr. Lamb as though he would have said to that worthy Alderman and Spectacle Maker, “Will you have your case disposed of now, or do you wish it sent to the Assizes?”

“Our Mr. Bottle,” began the President, as Mr. Browley, the remarkable man, bowed condescendingly to that functionary, “our Mr. Bottle suggests that you should temporarily fill the place of one of our regular lecturers. A lecture is announced for to-morrow night at the Temperance Hall, New Cut. The remuneration is small—two pounds, in fact. Will you accept the offer?”

“Sir,” replied Mr. Browley, in solemn tones, “you honour me. I accept.”

“_I_,” went on the Alderman, “will be in the chair.”

“You overwhelm me with honours,” replied Mr. Browley, with another obeisance.

“And may I ask,” said the President, “the title of your lecture?”

“With pleasure, sir. Indeed, you have a right to know. I call it an Oration. It is entitled, ‘The Demon Drink.’”

“Capital, capital,” said the Alderman, rubbing his hands as if relishing the idea of being made personally acquainted with the Demon in question; “and you won’t forget the hour—eight o’clock at the Temperance Hall. Good-bye, Mr. Browley; glad to have made your acquaintance.”

But Mr. Browley made no motion of withdrawal. With a slight movement of the right hand he signalled that he was about to speak.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but there is a slight preliminary. I have made it a rule in dealing with religious and philanthropic societies always to extort a small sum in advance as a pledge of good faith. I am not in any want of money, nor do I doubt your ability and willingness to pay it. But I have made it a rule, and I invariably insist on compliance with it. If you will pay me half a sovereign—not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith—I will accept that amount.”

“Certainly, my dear sir. Mr. Bottle, pray let the gentleman have ten shillings, or a sovereign if he wants it.”

“I said _half_ a sovereign,” said the lecturer, impressively.

That sum was handed to him by Mr. Bottle, who took his receipt, and Mr. Browley appeared once more in the outer air.

For a remarkable man with a great interest in the temperance cause, it must be admitted that his first two visits were somewhat singular in their nature. His first visit was to a pawnbroker’s, where he redeemed a dress suit pledged for three shillings, and his next visit was to a public-house, where he called for a pint of bitter and Burton—in a pewter.

“That’s both meat and drink,” he murmured, as he licked his lips. It was evident that the remarkable man spoke from conviction, for he hardly passed a tavern on his way from town to the remoter slums of Islington without eating and drinking after the same fashion—with this slight variation, that at the last half-dozen houses of call he substituted for the beer that decoction which Mr. Eccles alludes to as “cool, refreshing gin.”

He reeled at last into his own street, and staggered into the one room occupied by himself and his wife. He threw the bundle of dress clothes on the bed.

“Maggie! get me that ‘Demon Drink.’ I’m going to deliver the ‘Demon’ to-morrow. D’ye hear?”

“But, John, remember what the doctor said at the hospital. All excitement is so bad for you.”

“Damn the doctors. Produce the ‘Demon,’ d’ye hear?”

And so alternately damning the doctors and demanding the Demon, he sank on the bed and snored the snore of the drunk. She knelt by his side and wept, and—God help her!—prayed. She remembered him, you see, when he returned from College with his University honours thick upon him, and before the Demon had got him—tight.

There was a great audience the next night at the New Cut Hall, and Mr. Browley, in his dress clothes, looked somewhat more presentable than on the previous day. His wife had managed to procure linen, and the worthy Alderman in the chair was quite pleased and encouraged by the improved appearance of the lecturer; though it is true he once whispered to Mr. Bottle that he thought he detected a very strong smell of drink in the room.

Mr. Browley was in due course presented to the large and highly expectant audience. And it must be admitted that rarely had an audience the opportunity of listening to an oration of such force and vigour. The whole figure of the lecturer seemed to change, his face glowed, the assumption of _hauteur_ left him as he assailed the drink Demon and portrayed his victims. Now a torrent of applause followed some well-aimed hit at the vendors of drink, and now some pathetic anecdote drew tears from the eyes of his auditors. The Alderman was enchanted, and applauded vociferously; now agreeing with his secretary, that Mr. Browley was indeed a very remarkable man.

Presently the lecturer proceeded to deal with the awful disease which turns the habitual drunkard into a dangerous maniac. He described the progress and effect of _delirium tremens_. His eyes now flashed wildly as he portrayed to the affrighted audience devils from the pit of hell; and goblin forms and pursuing shapes of beast and reptile. His body swayed to and fro: he spoke in gasps; his mouth seemed parched and hot. Now his eye-balls appeared to shoot from his head, and his arms were moved in front of him as if to ward off the creatures of his fancies. The effect was electrical. The audience rose at him, and followed his effort with long-continued applause.

In the middle of it all the lecturer’s face appeared to grow livid, his eyes fixed, and his limbs stiff. He placed his left hand to his temple, and with his stretched forefinger pointed in front of him. Then he moaned as a wild animal moans in pain, and fell backward on the platform. A wild shriek burst from the back of the hall as his wife rushed forward, jumped upon the platform, and threw herself on the prostrate body.

A doctor arrived in due course.

“Drunk?” inquired Mr. Bottle, when he had examined him.

“No. Dead!” answered the physician.

XIII. “_OLD BOOTS_.”

ABOUT five years ago, on days when the sun shone warmly, an old man might have been observed taking the air in Kennington Park. He was one of those seedy and aimless old gentlemen usually described as having seen better days. He was generally supposed to have been engaged in the City in early life, and to live upon a small pension tendered to him out of the generosity of his old employers. He lived in humble apartments in a street which ran off the Camberwell New Road, and he attended twice on Sundays the conventicle of a strict sect of Dissenters, by whose minister he was much respected, although his small means prevented his subscribing liberally to the chapel funds.

In Kennington Park he was treated with less respect—the geniuses of that famous resort having christened him “Old Boots,” in friendly recognition of the very disreputable manner in which he was shod, and the fact that his boots were never subjected to the necessary operations of the blacking brush.

Accompanying him in his walks was his only daughter, a maiden of nineteen or twenty years—a sparkling brunette, who, by her talent as an amateur milliner, was enabled out of very poor materials to dress herself becomingly and even with taste. She appeared quite devoted to the old gentleman, and many who saw them at once admired her for her filial affection, and also deplored the fact that a young woman so elegant and amiable should have her chances of matrimony spoiled by the caprice of an old man.

For, although Mr. Lowndes—that was the old gentleman’s name—attended his religious duties with great regularity, he was shy of making acquaintances, and reticent with a few whom chance had forced upon his society. And this by such people of the world as vegetate in Camberwell was put down to his selfishness. He was unwilling, they said, to give his daughter a chance of marrying, not because his love for her was great, but because he did not wish to lose so invaluable a nurse.

In this they did “Old Boots” a grievous wrong, for he loved Jessie better than anything else in the world.

Among the very few whose acquaintance the Lowndes family had made was a Mr. Evelyn Jones, a clerk in a bank in the City. This exemplary young gentleman belonged to the same conventicle as Mr. Lowndes, was a teacher in the Sunday-school, and bade fair to become a bright and shining light in the City. But these circumstances would not in themselves have led to a friendship. The fact is that he lodged in the same house as the superannuated City man and his daughter, and was in the habit of purchasing out of his own small means certain delicacies which the old man was too poor to provide. Evelyn was a frank, unsuspicious youth, and was permitted sometimes to join his fellow-lodgers for half-an-hour of an evening, when it was quite apparent that his pleasure was contributed to rather by the presence of Jessie than by the highly-improving conversation of her parent.

“How much do you think a man could afford to marry on?” he asked, during one of these visits.

“It depends,” replied Mr. Lowndes, “on the man; but more especially upon the woman. But why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve got a rise of ten pounds to-day.”

“And what, may I ask,” went on the old man, “does that make your salary?”

“Ninety pounds a-year,” replied Evelyn, with a flush of honest pride.

The old man smiled and shook his head.

“Isn’t that enough to keep a house on—a very _small_ house, you know?”

The old man shook his head again.

“And how much _would_ be enough?” queried the youth.

“I don’t think any young couple should commence housekeeping on less than a thousand a-year.”

Evelyn looked in blank amazement at his host.

“A thousand a-year!” he exclaimed.

“That was the amount I mentioned,” replied the old gentleman, with some asperity.

“But I shall never make such an income,” he said, in great despondency.

“Then you should never get married,” added the philosopher, calmly. Feeling, however, that he had been a little too harsh in his manner, he went on,—

“But you must not despair. Much money is made in the City by honesty and application. Be industrious, my young friend, and be honest. Heaven has rewarded other City men for the illustration of these qualities; Heaven may reward you. And now good evening. Jessie and I have some private business to transact.”

Poor Jones was dreadfully cast down by this interview. Because, truth to tell, he had fallen in love with the patient and beautiful lady who attended so assiduously on her broken-down father. And he had thus artfully contrived to obtain from the old gentleman a general opinion on the subject of matrimony. The result of his investigations was that he came to regard Mr. Lowndes as a perfect monster of selfishness.

“He guessed at what I was driving,” said Evelyn to himself, when he gained his own room. “He suspects that I want to marry Jessie, and has put a thousand a-year upon her as his price for making the sacrifice.”

Now, Evelyn Jones had been bred in the country, and had imbibed certain old-fashioned notions on the matter of courtship from his parents. He would have considered it a dishonourable act on his part to approach Jessie with an offer of marriage without having first consulted her only surviving parent. He inferred from a hundred little signs that she was not indifferent to him. But his highly moral training prevented his taking advantage of these circumstances to press his suit.

“I wish she had a mother,” he sighed; “I’d soon talk her over. And to hear that selfish old paragon talking of a thousand pounds! I’ll be bound he never had so much money in his whole life.”

Depressed spirits are but temporary afflictions with the young and sanguine. What appears at first to be an overmastering despair clears off. “Hope springs eternal” in the lover’s breast. And in a week’s time Evelyn Jones had recovered his equanimity, and determined once more to address “Old Boots” on the subject nearest to his heart. He purchased a pound of grapes and a bottle of port, and having returned to the suburban delights of his apartments off the Camberwell New Road, he watched the door of his fellow-lodger until he saw Miss Lowndes disappear to the lower regions to consult with her landlady.

This was his opportunity. He knocked at the door of Mr. Lowndes, and was bidden in short and querulous tones to enter. He presented his gifts to the old man, who, under the circumstances, could not do less than request him to remain. The port was opened—and so was the conversation. At first it meandered lightly among generalities. But eventually the young man “plucked up a spirit,” as the phrase hath it.

“D’you remember, Mr. Lowndes, my talking to you on the subject of matrimony?”

“I do,” answered the other, curtly.

“Well, _I_ am in love. _I_ want to marry.”

“And I say again, that on ninety pounds a-year it would be idiotcy.”

“But,” persisted the ardent Jones, “she is so good, such a clever housekeeper that I think she could make ninety pounds a-year go very far indeed.”

“And who, may I ask, is this paragon?”

“Oh! Mr. Lowndes, forgive me—pity me. I love your daughter.”

Mr. Jones, in all the scenes which his lively imagination had conjured up as likely to follow his proposal, did not imagine that which really occurred. Lowndes jumped from his chair; he became erect, his eyes flashed as he cried,—

“You scoundrel! You fool! Have you breathed word of this to her?”

“Not a word, upon my soul.”

“Old Boots” sank back into his chair, apparently much relieved.

“Then don’t,” he said, menacingly. “Tomorrow I will leave this. Do not attempt to follow us. The consequences be on your own head if you do.”

At that moment the door of the sitting-room opened, and two men entered, followed by Jessie, pale and alarmed.

One of the men spoke,—