John Halifax, Gentleman

ld I little knew or cared. My father lived his life, mechanical and steady as clock-work, and we two, John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, l

wenty years old, and that John Halifax was—a man: the dif

dignity which the maturity of eighteen may be supposed to confer he had already in possession. Manhood had come to him, both in character and demeanour, not as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly-desired and presumptuously-asserted claim,

eamy mood, as he and I sat in our long-familiar s

e, John, but so it is

nd what

years were flowing, monotonous, dark, and slow,—as they mu

ne specimen of the no

ith every ill mood of mine. And I was grateful, with that deep gratitude we feel to thos

s. Phineas, here goes for a catalogue o

on’t be

:—‘Imprimis,’ as saith Shakspeare—Imprimis, height, full five feet four; a stature hist

chief bone of contention—I hating, he rather admir

, delicate person, but

thank

, rat

mere s

ongated

hn, decided

minute longer. Thank you. To return: Imprimis and finis (I’m grand at Latin now, you see)—long hair, which, since the powder tax, has resu

ms of the divinity of womanhood. They began, and ended—mere dreams. Soon dawned the bare, hard truth, that my character was too feeble and womanish to be likely to win any woman’s reverence or love. Or, even had this been possible, one sickly as I was, stricken with hereditary disease

hn. It had happened some months now, and was quite over and gone, so that I could smile at his fun, and shake at him my “bewitching” black locks, calling him a foolish bo

the tables. How o

Eighteen

how t

hat very creditable altitude, more tall perhaps than graceful, at present; since, like

remember that when I looked at him, and began jocularly

that I said, “Ah! David, yo

to the new world into which he was going forth; the wor

again flung himself down on the grass. “It tells well in the tan-yard. People wou

said to me that now he was no longer dissatisfied with your working at all sorts

ing my duty to myself any more than to my master, if I shirked h

which would often come when I looked at the lad, though he always combated it so strongly, that I often owned m

ster the day before—the subject of which she would not tell me, though she acknowledged it concerned myself. Ever since she had followed me about, very softly, for her, and

lain, and tell him so,” and the like. From these, and from her strange fit of tenderness, I guessed what was looming in the distance—a future which my father constantly held in

o assist, and finally succeed him in his business, and that I set aside every dream of growing up to be a help and comfort to my fath

grave, sweet look—dearer sympathy than any words! Though he added thereto a few, in his own wise way; then

, met at dinner, the subject had passed into se

s eyes frequently resting, with keen observance, upon John Halifax. Could it be that there had recurred to him a hint of mine, given faintly that morning, as faintly as if it had only just entered my mind, instead of having for months continually dwelt there, until a

y-tower. We watched it from the garden, where, Sunday after Sunday, in fine weather, we used to lounge, and talk over all manner of thing

own into his eyes, deepening them into that peculiar look, worth any so-called “handsome eyes;"—“Phineas, I wonder how soon w

nk you

ead of rising tomorrow, and going into the little dark counting-house, and scratching paper from eight till six, shouldn’t I like to break away

r any

sometimes feel the wish to do it. I can’t help it; it’s my Apollyon that I have to fight with—

ght, he looked rather pale. He stretched his hand to help me

sitting meditatively over the fireless hearth-place, sometimes poking the great bow-pot of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did

hn, twice over, befor

ht, lad! Stay! Halifax, what

should come in; I cleared off the we

how thee stand’st, and what further work thou art fi

hn,” whispered I, “you may have y

nned a sweet lazy day under the Midsummer sky, in

ce grown wine for the rosy monks close by, and history avers, were afterwards watered by a darker stream than the blood of grapes. The Vineyards had been a battle-field; and under the long wavy grass, and the roots

tiful everything was! so very still! with the Abbey-tower—always the most picturesque point in our

azy figure beside me, which had considerab

A

wordiness, and never talked but when we had something to say. Often—as on this day—we sat for hours in a pleasant dreaminess, scarcely exchanging a word; neverthe

—eaten slowly and with graceful dignity, in order to make d

is rather dull? Shall we go somewhe

who might own to any age or any occupation. Their dress, especially that of the younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness and homeliness, such as grey ribbed stockings and shining

gentleman of his day,” as loyal folk then entitled the Prince Regent, could not

stage will pass he

h THAT stage. Young gentlemen, excuse our continuing our dessert

edes” he was munching. I declined; but John, out o

se,” he said; “I ha

person who has eaten turnips in your Norton Bury fields—ay, a

of the two wayfarers interposed

end by mentioning his surname; he is a great man now, and might not wish it genera

t I know it has since risen into note among the people of the world. I believe, too, its owner has carried up to the topmost height of celebrity always the gay, ge

you acquainted with my friend, Mr. William Shakspeare, young gentleman?—I must try to fulfil the other duties of existenc

lif

you

etc

who went partnership wi

puzzled, explained that I came from the same old stock as the brothers Phineas and Giles Fletcher. Upon which Mr.

deal of the world,” said John, smili

e something of

see now. What business do you think that Mr. Charles is

shou

h the middle of which ran a little stream down to the meadow’s end, where, fringed and hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed. Here, too, in all directions, the hay-fields lay, either in green swathes, or tedded, or in the luxuriously-scented quiles. The lane was quite populous with waggons and hay-makers—the men in their

ems a crowd down in the meadow; and who is that man st

at? ’Tis Mr. Charles. How he’s talking

hedge, and ran down the slope of the

bare-headed, and his hair hung in graceful curls, well powdered. I only hope he had honestly paid the tax, which we were all then exclaiming against—so fondly does custom cling to deformity. Despite

a field preacher? It seemed like it, especially judging from the sanctified demeanour of the elder and inferior person who accompanied

and decorum. His harangue, though given as a sermon, was strictly and simply a moral essay, such as might have emanated from any professor’s chair. In fact, as

s twice

that gives and

est in the

urthened with a queer constraint, that now and then resulted in an irrepressible twitch of the corners of his fle

, John? Isn’t

raceful action, polished language, and brilliant imagination, came to him as a positive revelation, a

rks and rakes, shook their old heads sagely, as if they understood it all. And when the speaker alluded to the horrors of war—a subject which then came so bitterly home to every heart in Britain—many women melted into sobs

ll not take from any one more than a penny; and then only if they are quite sure they can spare it. Thank you, my worthy man. Thanks, my bonny young

The honest folk trooped off, having no more time to waste, and left the field in possess

companion burst into roars of la

ws—I am not sure that it was only his brows—“

ir,” said John, advanci

ert. “But starvation is—excuse me,—unpleasant; and necessity has no law. It is of vital consequence that I should reach Coltham to

re an

ease your

or pl

frets his hour

is seen n

much to soften both John’s feelings and mine towards the “poor player.” Besides, we had lately been

John; “all the folk here took

theology—only common moral

a moment, and

ut the scheme i

ars ago, as I told you, by John Philip—no, I will not conceal his name, the greatest

reverence. We too had heard—at le

I never saw. He turned “from grave to gay, from lively to severe”—appearing in all phases like the gentleman, the scholar, and

llowed where he led, I always

rook-side. Mr. Charles had washed his face, and his travel-sore, blistered feet, and we

en with the Thane of Fife—who, to-night, is one Johnson, a fell

y, no watch among his worldly possessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he made a near

are treat as ‘Macbeth,’ with—I will not say my humble self—but with that divine Siddons. S

twice before, when the actor urged us to accompany him to Colt

ad, waiting for the coach; “I have money—and—we have so little pleasu

al sense, I cannot say either whether or no it was an absolute crime; therefore, bein

n, save that he was too pleasant a man really to take offence at anything. His conversation w

road I was utterly ignorant of what he meant us

wn fare and that of Yates with their handful of charity-pennies, which caused a few minut

oulders, and looked hard into my face—his

, are yo

at

go to Coltham? Would it do you

with as hurried an affirmative. It was suf

too busy to be out of the tan-yard before midnight. We will be home soon af

over to help me up the coach’s side.

eral miles he hardly spoke