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Chapter vii. Frank's First Appearance on the Stage of Commerce.

At nine o'clock on the morning of the appointed day I entered the establishment of Messrs. Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. The house was an extensive one—one of the largest of its class in the city of London. The business of the firm was that of wholesale silk, Manchester, Scotch, and general warehousemen. The departments were numerous, and included almost every class of goods suited to the retail trade—drapers—or shippers, either for the home or foreign markets. The entire staff of the house was a large one, though it varied a little in what are called the "flat" or "busy seasons" of the year. Including warehousemen, clerks, youths, and porters, the average number of employés was about two hundred. Of these, about one hundred and thirty were boarded and lodged on the premises. The remaining seventy, which comprised the buyers and heads of the respective departments and the chief clerks, dined and took tea in the house, but resided at their own villas, or in their own apartments, at various distances and in various directions from the house of business, agreeably with their own peculiar fancies or social habits.

Before I had been ten minutes in the warehouse of Messrs. Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, and while waiting page 83to be installed into office, I beheld a practical illustration of the first vital rule of commerce—the chief pivot on which commercial success has ever, in a great measure, depended, and must ever depend. This was the grand principle of action adopted by every first-class establishment in the United Kingdom, viz.,—punctuality. When I entered the warehouse a few minutes before nine, a continuous stream of young and middle-aged men fresh from their homes and families, marched down the centre of the great mercantile depôt, and branched off right and left to their respective departments with all the regularity and precision of a picket of grenadiers who deploy and halt at their allotted stations. When the warehouse clock had sounded the final stroke of nine, the stream of living vessels had ceased to flow. Each of the tributaries of active labor had sent its quota of heads and hands to the central station; that all might there discharge their daily duties, and return for a fresh supply of vigor with which to pursue their wonted course on the morrow.

A few moments after the hour for all to be in their places, a tall shrewd-looking business-like man, marched down the centre of the warehouse, and took up a position commanding a view of the entrance. This gentleman was the general of the establishment. His duties correspond with those of shop-walker in a retail house. He superintends order, notes the arrival and departure of the young men, and does the "polite" to wholesale buyers in a manner quite as agreeable and sometimes more substantial than that displayed by retail dealers towards their equally welcome but less extensive customers. Either by this officer, or the chief of some particular department, a "large buyer" is usually conducted to lunch, dinner, tea, or wine, as the time of day or circumstances of the case might page 84require. But like all head officers in large wholesale establishments, the general, while all-important in his own department, is comparatively useless beyond it. He superintends and sees that the wants of each buyer are supplied, without himself being able to supply them. He knows the class of goods and the variety of the class each department contains, but would be unable to select from such class or classes any particular number, make, or quality of goods enquired for. That is the business of others. The business of the general, or warehouse-walker is to superintend, not to serve.

"Well, my lad, what's your business?" enquired the superintendent, as he discovered me standing in the warehouse waiting the arrival of the junior of the firm.

"Mr. Branch appointed this morning for me to enter my situation, sir."

"Oh! you are one of Mr. Branch's children, are you? Come this way. Here Mr. Fourquarter, here's a little of the raw material for you; see what you can make of it."

In this unceremonious manner I was at once introduced to the largest department in the house, to its buyer and my own immediate master, and to the opening scene in the commercial drama, the first act of which might determine whether success or failure would be the result of the trial.

Alas! how severe are the trials of disposition and temper, by every imaginable mortal test, to which a youth is sometimes subject before he makes himself master of his first commercial or professional position—especially when he becomes the subordinate of rough, spiteful, or heartless seniors. Without that invincible determination that springs from necessity, how often is the heart of youth crushed in its first praiseworthy effort—not through its own fault, but by the harsh treatment of others. I have seen page 85this more than once. For my own part, when I upset the apple-stall in the joyful excitement of the scene in which my first situation had been secured and revelled over, I considered that my troubles were all coming to a close. But here again the imagination had drawn a picture entirely opposed to the reality. My first month of office proved a calendar of disagreeable discoveries. I found the difficulty of securing a situation was now surpassed by the difficulty of keeping it. The troubles and trials encountered in the way to the first step on fortune's ladder were succeeded by others which made it hard, very hard, to hold the footing that cost so much labor to obtain. Fortunately I had no indulgent parents to fall back upon, or I might have lost the position I had gained. Aware of this, I held fast, though more than an average share of the annoyances that usually befel fresh comers or "young flats," as they are called, appeared to be reserved for the "countryman."

Not only did the young warehousemen, who were already familiar with the trade, leave me to acquire knowledge as best I could, but in all places and at all times, in business or out of business, "chaff," practical jokes, and occasional injuries were remorselessly and unceasingly heaped on the devoted head of the new comer. By the agency of an unseen hand, a tall and heavy pile of goods would now and then roll over, and in its downward course carry me flat on the floor, to the evident delight of those who had devised and executed the mischief. On one occasion I remember that, on putting on my hat and again removing it, I was smothered from head to foot with flour that had been placed in it. But these and other mischievous games were invariably carried on by junior warehousemen in the temporary absence of the heads of the departments. The sporting young men of the establishment selected for page 86their victims those of their juniors whom they knew would rather be tormented than exiled. Any complaint of their conduct would have ultimately insured the discharge of the reporter instead of the person reported.

The position of an orphan is generally regarded as an unfortunate one. In most cases it may prove to be so. But there are exceptions to this, as to every other current of life by which the human form is carried. Of such exceptions, the writer's early history will furnish one. The melancholy accident, as it is often regarded, of being thrown parentless on the world was one of the most fortunate incidents in my own life. In it, I found a richer legacy than gold or the means of self-indulgence—I found the key to self-dependence, together with a knowledge of the real value of the inheritance, gathered from early experience. God only knows what might have been my position or sphere of life, had my parents lived. Yet I know full well, and may truly aver, that on more than one occasion, I should have abandoned my position in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, if indulgent parents had been alive, and ready to receive their "poor boy" from the commercial school and schooling which only proved for the benefit of the scholar. Reflection was my sole referee and prompter. Here I found it would be wiser to submit to trifling annoyances—wiser to battle against present difficulties, than rashly subject myself to future and greater ones. The former want of a good dinner, with the prospect of remaining poor and fit for nothing, now taught me the worth of a good dinner, with the chance of becoming independent and fit for something. In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, there, was no limit to the number of slices of bread and butter supplied for a youth's breakfast. With the daily recognition of this page 87agreeable fact, I was ever reminded of Mrs. Pepper and the abridgement of my morning meal. The contrast was too striking to escape the memory. I therefore resolved to keep and, if possible, to improve my footing, and thereby lessen its difficulties, in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch—unlike

A Youth Who'd Play, But Wouldn't Work.

Poor Robin Rose! Robin Rose was a youth about my own age. His first situation was in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. Adjoining that in which I was placed stood the department selected by the firm for Robin's opening scene. The day that introduced Robin to the stage of commerce raised the curtain on another débutant in the person of the writer. Our respective parts were cast by the same commercial manager, and differed only in detail. But between the actors the contrast was much greater. The accomplished young townsman had many advantages over the crude young countryman. Education, personal appearance, and knowledge of local customs were each on the side of the Londoner. Against these I possessed but one stronghold—perseverance. Of this, Robin was deficient,—it was his weak point. Although he escaped the annoyances and practical jokes to which I was subject, Robin made troubles for himself. The daily duties of his situation were regarded as so many daily hardships. He would have liked his place in a first-class house, without the work attached to it. The commercial obligations of the establishment were less in keeping with Robin's taste than the domestic and social comforts within the house. He preferred the sitting-room to the wareroom. Evening pleasure suited him better than morning labor.

Robin, moreover, was an especial favorite. But—like page 88his own taste—the favor was rather of social than commercial origin. He was held in higher esteem by the juniors of the establishment than by the chief of his own department—by those who liked an entertaining companion, rather than by one who prized a useful assistant. The lads admired the refinement of Robin's taste in dress, envied the ring that adorned his little finger, applauded to the echo his genial style of telling a story, or singing a song, and ever regarded him as the head of the youthful and social gathering. But the evening and morning pictures told different tales. In one, Robin was the hero; in the other, he was a sluggard. He played "first fiddle" in the first, but no fiddle at all in the second. The same spirit that at night afforded pleasure to those whose praise was worth nothing, provoked, by day, the displeasure of those whose good opinion was worth something. In fine, the delicate hand that displayed a cambric handkerchief to the greatest advantage, was found a very bad hand in the use of a duster, and that sweet voice which charmed the social circle was always out of tune in the march of commerce.

Poor Robin! Robin had indulgent parents. They were told by their "poor boy" that his commercial hardships were unbearable. The parents complained to the firm. The firm replied with a corresponding grievance:—"We have no desire to subject to hardships a youth from whom we receive no benefit. The services of your son being of no value here, your early removal of the same from this establishment will oblige—Fountain, Pillar, and Branch."

Thus ended the first act in Robin's commercial career. After a brief trial of two months, he was withdrawn from the great mercantile house in which he had been placed. His withdrawal was universally regretted by those youths page 89to whose evening pleasures he had so largely contributed. But the heads of the commercial department, to which Robin had contributed nothing, evinced no corresponding regret for the social loss of the juniors. "Robin's going—let him go," said his seniors in office, on the day of his departure. "Robin's gone—luck go with him," said his seniors on the day after his departure. He had made no impression—or a bad one, if, any—in business, and his name was thus dismissed and forgotten by business men. Yet, a few of his youthful companions, who had enjoyed the pleasantries of his companionship, noted with curiosity, and learned with regret, the career and subsequent fate of one who had been the hero of the sitting-room, and the sluggard of the wareroom:—

In the commercial as in the scientific world, that knowledge, skill, or position which may be the most difficult to secure, is generally of the greatest value when secured; but that which is obtained without labor is often worth nothing. Robin soon found, and for some years kept, a situation in which he had little to do, and as little to learn. Here he found leisure for his idle habits by day, and for the cultivation of his expensive pleasures at night. On the death of his parents, however, he discovered to his sorrow, that idleness and pleasure failed to supply their owner either with board and lodging, clothes, or pocket money. He also found that the master who had accepted his services, without pay, to do next to nothing, was not disposed to retain his services on any other terms.

Poor Robin! For some years the diminished wick of his broken and waning spirit flickered on through a precarious existence. At one time he was waiter at an hotel, at another time he was billiard-marker, then an omnibus conductor; but, more frequently than either, or any thing page 90else, he was the unemployed recipient of favors from those on whom he had either the claim of relationship, or former friendship. The last time I saw him he received from me the sum of two shillings and sixpence, in reply to his declaration—endorced by his appearance—that he stood in want of a dinner. The last I heard of him was in the melancholy report, that, behind the door of the bed-room to which he had retired, he had—in place of his coat—suspended himself. Poor Robin Rose!

The sad career and still more dismal end of Robin Rose furnish a truthful, yet fearful, lesson on the fruit of idleness, arising from seed allowed to germinate in the path of youth. Through an indulgent but mistaken feeling of kindness, parents are apt to favor the views of their sons, by regarding a little work as a great hardship—although to the want of it may be traced many of those baneful evils which give birth to the follies of youth, kindle the vice of manhood, and darken the sorrows of old age. It is a serious mistake—one of common occurrence—to suppose that a situation in which the duties offer leisure for every indulgence, is that which affords the greatest facilities for advancement. If the body be inactive, the mind must be occupied on what is profitable or unprofitable. If idleness be allowed to feed the mind of youth with unwholesome matter, time will only tend to increase and strengthen a taste for what will soon become habitual. How many hundreds, how many thousands, of promising and intelligent youths are at this moment wasting their precious hours in the offices of some petty would-be merchant? Are there not, of the number, many whose duties consist in dusting the office in the morning, entering the names of callers during the day, and returning to their friends with the fruit of their labor—loss of time—page 91at night, and with the brilliant prospect of the same profitable occupation on the morrow?

What a contrast and variety, both in feeling, disposition, and action, does the character of youth display! The large number of youths in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch might have formed an extensive study for the moralist. The varied and opposite features by which their character was developed would have required a skilful hand to embody the same, not owing to the obscurity, but rather to the undisguised prominence of the figures. The peculiar construction, complicated machinery, and different degrees of action of human nature may be more conspicuously seen in youth than at any subsequent period. In youth, nature is revealed in her true colors. That artifice which in manhood assumes so many forms, and is capable of so much deception, is almost a stranger to youth, in which age the natural gentleness or wickedness, gaiety or gravity, of disposition may be seen without disguise.

Yet how frequent are the mistakes which occur in the management of youth—although the most disagreeable characters may often, at an early age, be tempered, if not entirely changed by suitable treatment. Excessive indulgence and excessive severity are the extremes which lead to the ruin of thousands. A self-willed disposition may, for a time, be frightened into submission by force, but will fail to receive any benefit from it. The rod may terrify the spirit, but cannot conquer it. An attempt to grow oranges on the top of Mont Blanc, or to improve an unpromising sapling by throwing hot water on its roots, will scarcely prove more unsuccessful than an endeavour to cultivate meekness in the most stubborn mould of nature by severe treatment.

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Parents often regard others as the originators of any imperfections which may present themselves in their own children. It is not a thing of rare occurrence for an indulgent parent to attribute to the monitor or commercial instructor of his child, not only the discovery of any bad quality, but, at the same time, to lay the cause entirely at the master's door—although it might have only opened a stronger light on growing evils created or neglected under his own paternal roof. Early impressions on the mind are generally the most permanent. They may, for a time, be partially obscured, or even perverted, by the changes and allurements of life, but their effect is but seldom, if ever, wholly effaced. Virtue being the cultivated vine, rather than a wild and growing instinct of nature, and being ourselves, even in infancy, the creatures of imitation, we are more likely to follow good qualities than to generate them, although in some instances they may be neglected or abandoned in maturity. If the proper principles be not instilled before the youth enters on his commercial career, the chance of their future installation will be small indeed. Although, in the spring of commercial life, opportunities may occur for the improvement of character under various aspects, such opportunities are seldom embraced if a foretaste of what is desirable has not been previously acquired. Should a parent forget at an early period, to prepare in his son's mind the way to a substantial foundation, or omit to cultivate the path by the force of good example, there will be but faint hope of its subsequent formation. Suddenly launched on the world, often among those who introduce evil habits where good ones are not already planted, a youth requires great moral power to cling to what is right where wrong predominates in those around.

Let me here make a passing remark on the salutary page 93effect of good, and the pernicious tendency of unwholesome literature on the mind of youth. The Press of a country may be taken as a faithful type of the people, and England may indeed be envied by other nations, not only in reference to the high character and unbridled freedom of her Press, but also with regard to the corresponding advantages and blessings enjoyed by her people. But the Press is a large family, and large families not unfrequently contain members who are a disgrace to their own kin. It is even so with the Press. There are scavengers in the paths of literature, as in other departments of social science. There are literary reptiles or carnivorous crows whose polluted quills are ever ready to pander to a vitiated taste; writers who—in the words of the Times—"make lust the alpha, and murder the omega of their filthy productions." It is by these that the mind of youth is not only polluted, but frequently led into the mud-pool of reality, past all redemption. If you find a youth good for nothing, or good only for mischief, just make some enquiry respecting his taste for literature. If he has any taste at all on the subject, you will, in nine cases out of ten, find that taste to be a depraved one. I have known several youths—Robin Rose was one—whose early ruin might be partially, if not entirely attributed to the love of horrible, yet at the same time most seductive, and exciting tales of the devil's creation. I thank God that no work of that kind can be ranked among my many offences.

Fortunately, the working classes of the present day need not waste their pence on literary trash, unless they desire to do so. It cannot be said "there is nothing better in the market at the same price." The issue of cheap literature is not now entirely monopolised by the black-feathered tribe. There is no occasion for the artizan or laborer to take page 94his weekly or monthly penny for a sheet of mental poison—always "to-be continued" for the ruin of its victims. So long as the "British Workman," and other publications recommended by the Pure Literature Society, continue to supply matter that tends to purify the morals and elevate the mind, the people have only themselves to blame if they choose those fables that have nothing hut a hellish tendency.

In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, the staff of junior officers was a large one. Including those in each department—ware-room, entering-room, and counting-house—the average number of youths from fourteen to eighteen years of age was about twenty. The school itself is, or rather was during my probation, one that might have furnished subjects for the constant employment of a Hogarth. The varied scenes enacted therein might have been vividly sketched by the masterly pencil of such an artist. They cannot be transcribed, but only alluded to, by the feeble pen of the writer. The meeting of youthful spirits, after the commercial duties of the day, might be compared to a whirlpool or centre of opposite currents,—to which objects of various sizes, dispositions, and degrees had gathered together, and were now, aided by their own buoyancy, being turned round in the most conflicting confusion. Never did priestly conclave of Romans and lay agents, from Pope No-no down to Guy Fawkes, hatch a greater amount of mischief in a given time, than was nightly devised, and often executed, by the youthful disturbers of the peace, of which body the writer was a member. No sooner were the commercial duties of the day at an end, than the games of the evening—whether serious or comic, hurtful or harmless—at once began. True, the machinations of the youthful assembly involved nothing so grave page 95as the ruin of country, the extirpation of state, or the change of creed; but the mischievous games of the desperadoes of the tribe often gave rise to social disorder that proved anything but agreeable to the victim or victims selected for the sport of any particular occasion. Each proposition, however wicked or absurd, that was supported by the majority of the party enforced the silent acquiescence of the opponents, as open hostility or dissent only served to mark the opponent as the next subject to be operated on. The majority carried every scheme—whether of innocent sport, or wanton mischief and cruelty. On one occasion, a youth who had given offence was condemned to be cropped, and a secret committee was accordingly appointed to execute the sentence. Ignorant of the penalty that awaited him, the unconscious culprit—like Samson asleep—was one night deprived of his curly locks—at least, as many of the same as the shearers could sever without disturbing the repose of the slumbering innocent. His appearance at the breakfast table the following morning provoked, as may be imagined, loud or suppressed laughter on the part of all present but the hairless stripling whose grotesque appearance occasioned the merriment. On another occasion, the manager of the establishment had himself aroused the displeasure of the juniors, by the introduction of a few social reforms. For this legitimate exercise of authority, the offender's hat, which hung in the hall, was polluted by the insertion of a quantity of indescribable fifth, which descended on the head of the general as he placed his hat thereon. Neither in this, nor any such act, were the criminals ever discovered. Secrecy was invariably observed. Anything else would have insured either the immediate expulsion of the informer, or the discharge—by the firm—of the entire juvenile staff. In a large establish-page 96ment, the adoption of this alternative is not always convenient.

Happily, not only the scenes just alluded to, but most of those of a similar character, are numbered with the things of the past. In social reform, much has been accomplished during the last forty years. That time has nearly elapsed since I entered on the duties of my first commercial situation in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. Mercantile establishments had not then—as now—well-stocked libraries for the mental and moral improvement of the inmates. In that day, masters who were not themselves advanced in anything but commercial knowledge, failed to display that solicitude which is now evinced by employers for the intellectual advancement of the employés. To furnish the pocket, not the mind, was the chief object of business men. The higher branches of learning were then deemed useless appendages in a young warehouseman's education, because the cost of ensuring their possession would have involved an outlay for which there was no certainty of a profitable return. If £ s. d. be still the dominant features in the world, young people are, at least, impressed with the advantages that may arise from a knowledge of the arts and sciences. If, in many cases, the arts and sciences have done little more for the fathers and grand-fathers of the present generation than satisfy them of their utility, the aged members of the community evince a laudable desire to impart to their sons what was denied in the early stages of their own career. If number one be still found, and will still be found, the leading figure in the way of the world, there is at present an evident and growing endeavour to refine, and give a greater degree of finish to the picture

In this allusion to the advantages of a suitable education page 97for each and every class of society, the writer does not wish to be misunderstood. If social reformers of former days neglected to impress on parents and employers the benefits that would accrue from having their sons and servants mentally qualified for their respective positions in life, some of our modern philanthropists seem desirous of rushing to the opposite extreme. They would not only have people educated for positions beyond those designed for them, but, in many cases, they lead the ignorant to suppose that education is to do everything for them. Such assurances are not only illusory, but dangerous. If by the application of mental knowledge to natural talent or genius, certain poor men have become, as others may become, great and eminent, it is absurd to argue, by the same rule, that education would develop in the many what nature has given only to the few. Education may perfect the shoot, but cannot plant the seed of genius. Those who would make mechanics and artizans classical scholars, or invest cooks and kitchen-maids with drawing-room accomplishments, are not social reformers, but social revolutionists. They would destroy law and order, and disturb the peace of society rather than consolidate it. Servants who acquire a superficial knowledge of what they are not qualified, either by nature or position to practise, are themselves seldom satisfied with their own situation in life, and seldom satisfy those whom they engage to serve.

Even so with young people who beguile themselves on another subject—a reliance on others, instead of on themselves. The poor mechanic who has learned to read and write and to do a little in vulgar fractions, and who complacently believes himself to be a man of letters, is no more an object of self-delusion than that youth who places his trust in the reputed wealth of friend or relative, either for page 98his own permanent advancement, or for a position of future independence. The simple circumstance of a lad being blessed with wealthy or independent parents cannot, in itself, be a misfortune, although a greater misfortune can scarcely befall a youth than to make his own knowledge of such wealth or independence an excuse for inactivity or idleness. This declaration is founded on personal observation. I look around me for the old and middle-aged men who, nearly forty years ago, played—with the writer—their youthful parts in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. What were the prospects of those young men then? What is the position of these old men now? Of about two-thirds of the staff, I am unable to speak. We are either separated by death, divided by country, or lost to memory through change of occupation, or change of appearance. But one-third, or about seven of my warehouse companious are still before me. Three of the number are not only independent, but very wealthy men—one of them a millionaire. The remaining four are anything but independent. One is, or rather was a few weeks since, in the wine trade, and has, in his time, been in a variety of other trades; another—a fine grey-headed, well-educated, old man—is canvasser and collector for the proprietors of a metropolitan publication; another is in a very small, but has been in a very large way of business; and the last of the number is often recognised at the corner of a certain street in the city. He never fails to recognise any old friend or acquaintance, of whom he is ever ready to receive anything in the shape of a gratuity, from sixpence to a sovereign.

To their own unaided exertions in early life, two out of the commercial trio of wealthy gentlemen just named are entirely indebted for their present independent position. Their friends were too poor to assist them with anything page 99but good advice. The parents of the third were in a respectable way of business, and probably started their son when, on his own account, he entered on the path to fortune. The last four gentlemen alluded to could boast, and did boast, of friends and relations in good or easy circumstances. These facts tell their own tale, without comment. "The 'old uns' have plenty of money, why should I work?" In this Observation—which I have often heard—may he found the key to the present position of the four gentlemen just referred to. The reader may naturally enquire, "to which of the two classes mentioned does the writer himself belong?" The answer is, "To neither." Although I had neither parent nor friend to ease the struggles of a somewhat arduous and varied career, I am neither wealthy nor entirety independent. But, thank God, I am contented, not only contented, but happy. I might have been richer without being happier; but the reason I am not richer than I am cannot be traced to the want of opportunities. The veil that covers the loss or neglect of such opportunities will be raised for the reader in due time. At present it is necessary, for a moment, to return to the first stage in the warehouseman's career, in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch.

Before I had been three months in my situation, the difficulties and annoyances by which I was at first surrounded had diminished both in number and magnitude. The buyer or head of my department, who—speaking symbolically—had favored me with a greater number of kicks than kisses, began to relax the severity of his treatment. When he found his pupil attentive, industrious, and, if not an apt scholar, at least, anxious to learn, he gradually changed the tone of his commands and corrections from bitter notes of anger to gentle admonitions, and page 100from gentle admonitions to words of kindness and encouragement. Gaining strength with the senior in office, I lessened the opposition and annoyance of juniors who are ever ready to take advantage of, rather than to relieve the embarrassment of a new comer or commercial novice. I endeavoured to give all the satisfaction my limited knowledge of business would allow, and, at the same time, to increase the amount of knowledge by which greater satisfaction might be given. The endeavour was recognised and acknowledged. One morning, when all the young men in the department were engaged, and after a successful attempt, on my part, to supply the wants of a customer, the senior, in his rough, business-like way, said, "well done young-un; you'll do. Remember, the governor has got his eye on you." Although immensely pleased, after my early doubts and fears, to hear from the head of my department that I should "do," I was altogether at a loss to know how the governor—a term always applied to one of the firm—could have his "eye on me." Not only had neither of the governors spoken to me since the day when my engagement was closed with Mr. Branch, but I had not seen them, except in an occasional and hasty walk through the wareroom, on their way to or from the counting-house. From the following incidents, however, I subsequently, for a moment, supposed that it was quite possible for governors to have their eyes where they are not themselves seen.

Although treated with greater consideration in business than at first, I was not yet free from annoyance out of business. Each inmate of the house had small, but separate beds. I had two bed-room companions. They had been, and continued to be, my relentless tormentors. But practical joke players sometimes carry their fun beyond the forbearance of those on whom they play, and a little too far page 101for their own enjoyment. It was so here. Having one night retired to bed and fallen asleep before the arrival of my peace-destroyers, I was shortly afterwards awoke, partly by a shivering sensation through the system, and partly by the loud laughter of my tormentors, one of whom stood near my head with the jug from which he had been pouring cold water down my back. Consciousness was no sooner restored me, than I was suddenly invested with a power for action such as I never before, and have never since felt, and such as, I trust, I may never again feel. A vivid recollection of the forbearance with which I had suffered former indignities at once floated on the memory, and made the present insult the signal for a terrific explosion of suppressed anger. The electric flash that fired the spirit was so instantaneous, that between the conception and execution of a desire for retributive justice there was no time for reflection. In a moment I was out of bed; in another moment I was engaged in administering to the culprit a personal chastisement as severe as was ever received by one youth from the hands of another. He was finally left almost breathless, but not altogether bruiseless, on the bed he had saturated with water, while I took possession of the dry one he intended for himself.

Young wags are generally young cowards. One of the present was, and the other was not an exception to the rule. The twin culprit who had been equally guilty with the brother who had executed the watery design of the pair, not only abandoned his comrade during the pugilistic encounter, but hastily sneaked into his bed before he was half undressed, in order to avoid the share of punishment to which he was entitled, and which—had he maintained an erect position—he would probably have received.

The temporary satisfaction or pleasure that may arise page 102from having administered personal chastisement to another may he succeeded by anything but agreeable reflections. Correction in this case was merited by the offender. But the hand which, at the moment, was incapable of selfrestraint would, within the same hour, have gladly withdrawn the punishment it had inflicted. Directly beneath our bed-room was the sleeping apartment of the manager or warehouse-walker of the establishment. Whether he had been disturbed by the noise arising from the scuffle that had taken place above him, or whether the water from the jug that was broken in the encounter had penetrated the ceiling and opened a communication with his head, I am unable to say. Be this as it may, I was no sooner settled in bed than a loud rap on the bed-room door (which received no response from the affrighted belligerents within) was followed by the entrance of the superintendent, who was robed in his dressing-gown and carried in his hand a lighted candle. After a momentary glance at the disordered state of the apartment and the pieces of broken jug winch covered the room, the managerial visitor, in a tone of striking significance, enquired:—

"What's the meaning of all this?"

To this, however, a death-like silence was alone vouchsafed by those who-to use a common expression—were too "wide awake" to dream even of an attempt to solve a query that might involve the respondent in further trouble After the lapse of a few moments, the manager approached the couch on which lay, in silent purgatory, rather than in sweet repose, Robert Turnbull the youth who was expiating his offence on the damp bed he intended for another, but which—unfortunately for the designer—he had prepared for himself.

"Robert, what's the meaning of all this?" enquired the manager with increased emphasis.

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"I—I have been the cause of it all, sir," replied Robert, in a tone that betrayed a spirit quivering between penitence and despair.

"Oh! you acknowledge your guilt, do you? Wait on me in the morning in my office, before you enter on your duties in the warehouse."

Thus, the manager closed his speech, his visit, and the door of the bed-room from which he retired in seeming disgust. Of the sensations which at this moment agitated my bed-room companions, I am unable to speak; mine were made up of strong solutions of sorrow, fear, and pity—sorrow for what I had done, fear of the consequences, and pity for one who had already pleaded guilty to the leading count in the indictment. In his honest confession, Robert Turnbull, the agressor, at once caused me to pity the heart I had punished; for that heart in the time of error and, perhaps, danger, had revealed, at least, one noble feature in its owner. The plea of "guilty" instantly changed a feeling of contempt to one of respect. I had no longer anything to forgive my adversary, but all to be forgiven by him. I had previously considered him false as well as vicious, cunning as well as cruel, but I was mistaken. He was not one of those who offer insult without shame, and receive it without resentment. Unlike his companion in mischief, Robert was not a coward. He erred, contested his error, was defeated, and manfully acknowledged his fault, by taking on himself its entire responsibility. Out of the stalk which was supposed to contain only "chaff" had been thrashed a noble ear of corn. We had fought our way to friendship, and were now the best of friends. So far, the conflict terminated amicably and was productive of good. But the friendly pair that disturbed and made peace with themselves had, page 104unfortunately, disturbed and not made peace with, others. There resided in the house a law-maker as well as a peacemaker. This was the judge who now agitated the minds of those who had fought and fraternized, but had yet to be called up for judgment.

My recent foe, but present friend, Robert Turnbull, was nephew to Mr. Branch, the junior partner of the firm. This fact, though formidable in itself, was only a dark cloud in the distance. But primà facie evidence of the liberty I had taken with the nephew of a gentleman to whom I was indebted for my first step in the commercial world, made me tremble for the result of the coming storm. I was fearful—and my very dreams were pregnant with the fear—that one, if not both, of the combatants might be swept from the establishment in disgrace. For his own sake, Robert would, if possible, keep the affair from the knowledge of his uncle; but for the sake of the establishment, and the preservation of good order therein, the manager, in all probability, would prevent the consummation of such a desire. It would, I thought, have been better for me if I had communicated, and left the faults of my companion to the care of, and for correction by, other hands. But after-thoughts on what has been done are not preventives. I had now to look at the probable consequences of the reflection, without being able to efface the cause. The fear of being again cast on the world, and of losing the situation that cost so much labor and anxiety to secure, was already a punishment far greater either than a damp bed, or the chastisement awarded the offender. While Robert, during the night, gave unmistakable signs that his punishment had not deprived him of sleep, the restless spirit by which that punishment was administered was tossing to and fro like a ship on a troubled sea. The page 105calm of one body and the agitation of the other might be easily accounted for. In the event of his being cashiered Robert had friends and bread and butter to fly to. I had neither. Therein our cases differed, and the knowledge of this difference served as a narcotic to the mind of one patient, and as an irritant to the mind of the other.

Mrs. Pepper, my first and never to be forgotten landlady, and the limited breakfast she supplied, when that breakfast constituted my only daily meal, were subjects still fresh on the memory—so fresh, that the very reflection of what had fallen and might again fall to my lot, either kept me awake, or furnished my dreams with pictures more terrible even than the realities. After this fashion, I passed the night, like a poor criminal whose mind is disturbed by dismal forebodings of the morrow.

The morrow came and, with it, certain signs to strengthen the belief that my worst fears would be realized. Robert Turnbull was absent from the breakfast table. Where was he? He was neither in his bed-room, nor in the warehouse. Was he in the manager's office, or had he been sent thus early to the private residence of his uncle, for immediate examination and judgment? These and similar queries emanated from, and struck terror to, the mind that asked itself, in vain, for solutions. Now, for the first time since I had entered the establishment of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, I sat at breakfast without any appetite for the same. The niggardly Mrs. Pepper might herself have been satisfied with the moderate inroad made on my morning meal. I partook freely of the liquid portion of the repast, but bread and butter were altogether at a discount, though unlike property generally quoted at a discount—it would not "go down." I felt tolerably sure that Robert had been cashiered, and that my own discharge page 106would soon be announced. The absence of my companion could not be attributed to the enlargement made by a fistic concussion over one of his eyes, for, on leaving bed, he declared his intention to boldly face any remarks or merriment his personal appearance might provoke. Robert was evidently gone. It was, therefore, no longer a question of whether, it was only a question of when I should have to follow?

Contrary to expectation, the day passed and a week passed, without anything or anybody, except my own suspense and anxiety—in themselves, anything but comforters—disturbing me on the subject in which I was deeply concerned and as deeply implicated. Robert was gone. But as no enquiries were made concerning him, except by the juniors of the establishment, it was evident that somebody at head-quarters knew both of his going and his whereabouts. I had two fresh bed-room companions who were, alike, agreeable and free from mischief. Neither of them evinced the least disposition or desire either to play upon the "young countryman" or to provoke him to a combat similar to that which had recently taken place in the same apartment.

After the lapse of a fortnight from the time of Robert's departure, I was one morning startled by a tap on the shoulder from the hand of one of the clerks of the establishment, by whom I was informed that Mr. Branch required my immediate presence in his private counting-house. The announcement had the momentary effect of suspending my power of speech. I looked—and no doubt looked very pale—at the messenger, as I bowed my head in dutiful recognition of his message, without giving any oral sign of my obedience. The cause of the summons, and the reason I had not been summoned before, floated on my mind in an page 107instant. The probationary time named on the day of my engagement had now expired. I had been in my situation exactly three months. This was the period mentioned by Mr. Branch for testing my business qualifications and disposition for work. The gentleman had waited till the last day of the term—not to acquaint me that I was unequal to the commercial duties to which I had been appointed, but to punish and discharge the hand that had presumed to correct and chastise the nephew of one of the firm. My banishment was certain. Such, at least, was my conviction, as with parched lips and a tremulous frame I approached and entered the office in which Mr. Branch was seated.

"Well, sir," exclaimed Mr. Branch, in seeming abstraction, as he was in the act of folding a letter, "I'll settle my business with you immediately. I have been informed—that—you—"

"It was not by me, sir, the quarrel was begun," I softly muttered, in anticipation of the dreaded sentence, and in hope of its mitigation.

"What's that you say?" continued Mr. Branch, as he gave the finishing seal to his epistle and placed it in a receptacle marked 'letters for post,' "quarrel! what quarrel?—quarrel with whom?"

"The quarrel with your nephew, Robert, sir;" I reluctantly replied, being suddenly impressed, with a sense of my own folly, in having opened the subject.

"What!" said Mr. Branch in seeming surprise, "has the young scapegrace returned? The manager told me he had given him a month's holiday. He'll never be worth his salt. I know nothing of your quarrels; if you fall out you must fall in again. But I have lately been informed by the head of your department that he hopes to make a page 108man of you—that is, if your past industry and attention to your duties are to be taken as fair samples of future exertions. We seldom, if ever, reward any youth till he has been in the house, at least, twelve months; but, in your case, the favorable report of the senior of your department may justify an exception. At present, young man, you will receive a salary of twenty pounds a-year; and in consideration of your position—did you not say, when I engaged you, that your parents were dead?"

Observing that my feelings, at the moment, were not equal to a reply, Mr. Branch proceeded:—

"We have dated the commencement of your pay from the day on which you entered our establishment. You are, therefore, entitled to a quarter's salary. Go on as you have begun, and your reward shall keep pace with your merit. There, young man, take that, and make good use of it."

So saying, Mr. Branch gave me a five-pound note, and again seated himself at his desk.

I attempted to acknowledge the gift, and in the attempt did, I believe, produce a sound something like th—th—th—th—ank you, sir. Then, with a feeling that might have been eloquent had it not been mute, I withdrew from the presence of my benefactor, and hastened to rather a gloomy and secluded part of the establishment, called the "lumber room." Here, in a remote corner, behind a pile of empty boxes, I gave vent to a mixture of joy and surprise which equalled, both in quantity and vivacity, any that ever filled and fermented a body of similar proportions.

Did ever anticipated pain resolve into such boundless pleasure! Never did criminal receive a "free pardon" with greater joy than that which now agitated the breast of Frank Foster. At the very moment when I expected to page 109have been transported from the hopeful and busy ranks of commerce to the gloomy desert of despair, my commercial judge and master not only continued me in his service, but sent me again to that service without censure, not only without censure but with praise, not only with praise, but with the substantial reward arising from the cause on which that praise was founded.

Those of my readers who have been, and who remember the day on which they first became, salaried assistants, may readily compass the agreeable sensations of a penniless youth suddenly invested with a salary of twenty pounds a-year. Twenty pounds a-year! Did ever twenty thousand pounds a-year yield the rich possessor a happier day than that which made me master of the lesser sum? Impossible. Twenty pounds a-year! Ennobling sound—repeated not only twenty times, but twenty times twenty within the space of the first twenty-four hours in which it became familiar to my ear. That space comprised one of those brief periods in one's life, during which the supply of human happiness is found equal to the demand. A time when the heart has ceased to look beyond its own possessions for one of the most precious of mortal treasures—a jewel named "content."

My probation was now at an end. I was no longer a youth on trial, but a salaried assistant. I was no longer one whose fitness for the early stages of business had to be tested, but one who had obtained his certificate of qualification; no longer one whose retention or loss of office could be effected by the undeserved favor or unmerited censure of others, but one whose future advancement depended on that continued application to business, and that earnest desire for knowledge therein, which had already received an early and substantial recognition in a page 110bank of England, note. That was, by far, the most valuable piece of paper money that has ever fallen to my lot. Notes of greater monetary value I have had, but not one the intrinsic worth of which could be compared with that of the first. Other notes have been valuable only for the sums they may have represented, but my first note brought knowledge of present, as well as promise of future gain. My first note made me not only a happy young man, but one of the most independent of young men. It established my independence, by proving that I had the means, through the use of my hands, of self-support. It was even so. The happiest and most independent day of my life was that on which I was declared to be entitled, through my own personal exertions, to a salary of twenty pounds a-year!

Thus began and ended my first three months on the great ocean of life. Though not unattended by dangers and anxieties, the trip was, on the whole, successfully accomplished. It is one of the few steps in a varied career to which I look back with satisfaction. Had all subsequent steps been equally free from mistakes, there would have been no occasion for the present volume—at least, not from the hand by which it is now penned.