Japhet in Search of a Father

It decided the point. “If,” replied I, “you do not think that I should disgrace you, I should wish to wear the dress of the Society of Friends, although not yet one of your body.”

“But soon to be, I trust,” replied Mrs Cophagus.

“Alas!” replied I, “I am an outcast;” and I looked at Susannah Temple.

“Not so, Japhet Newland,” replied she, mildly: “I am pleased that thou hast of thy own accord rejected vain attire. I trust that thou wilt not find that thou art without friends.”

“While I am with you,” replied I, addressing myself to them all, “I consider it my duty to conform to your manners in every way, but by-and-by, when I resume my search—”

“And why shouldst thou resume a search which must prove unavailing, and but leads thee into error and misfortune? I am but young, Japhet Newland, and not perhaps so able to advise, yet doth it appear to me, that the search can only be availing when made by those who left thee. When they wish for you they will seek thee, but thy seeking them is vain and fruitless.”

“But,” replied I, “recollect that inquiries have already been made at the Foundling, and those who inquired have been sent away disappointed—they will inquire no more.”

“And is a parent’s love so trifling, that one disappointment will drive him from seeking of his child? No, no, Japhet; if thou art yearned for, thou wilt be found, and fresh inquiries will be made; but thy search is unavailing, and already hast thou lost much time.”

“True, Susannah, thy advise is good,” replied Mrs Cophagus; “in following a shadow Japhet hath much neglected the substance; it is time that thou shouldst settle thyself, and earn thy livelihood.”

“And do thy duty in that path of life to which it hath pleased God to call thee,” continued Susannah, who with Mrs Cophagus walked out of the room.

Cophagus then took up the conversation, and pointing out the uselessness of my roving about, and the propriety of my settling in life, proposed that I should take an apothecary’s shop, for which he would furnish the means, and that he could insure me the custom, of the whole Society of Friends in Reading, which was very large, as there was not one of the sect in that line of business. “Become one of us, Japhet—good business—marry by-and-by—happy life—little children—and so on.” I thought of Susannah, and was silent. Cophagus then said, I had better reflect upon his offer, and make up my determination. If that did not suit me, he would still give me all the assistance in his power.

I did reflect long before I could make up my mind. I was still worldly inclined; still my fancy would revel in the idea of finding out my father in high life, and, as once more appearing as a star of fashion, of returning with interest the contumely I had lately received, and re-assuming as a right that position in society which I had held under false colours.

I could not bear the idea of sinking at once into a tradesman, and probably ending my days in obscurity. Pride was still my ruling passion. Such were my first impulses, and then I looked upon the other side of the picture. I was without the means necessary to support myself; I could not return to high life without I discovered my parents in the first place, and in the second, found them to be such as my warm imagination had depicted. I had no chance of finding them. I had already been long seeking in vain. I had been twice taken up to Bow Street—nearly lost my life in Ireland—had been sentenced to death—had been insane, and recovered by a miracle, and all in prosecuting this useless search. All this had much contributed to cure me of the monomania. I agreed with Susannah that the search must be made by the other parties, and not by me. I recalled the treatment I had received from the world—the contempt with which I had been treated—the heartlessness of high life, and the little chance of my ever again being admitted into fashionable society.

I placed all this in juxtaposition with the kindness of those with whom I now resided—what they had done already for me, and what they now offered, which was to make me independent by my own exertions. I weighed all in my mind; was still undecided, for my pride still carried its weight; when I thought of the pure, beautiful Susannah Temple, and—my decision was made. I would not lose the substance by running after shadows.

That evening, with many thanks, I accepted the kind offers of Mr Cophagus, and expressed my determination of entering into the Society of Friends.

“Thou hast chosen wisely,” said Mrs Cophagus, extending her hand to me, “and it is with pleasure that we shall receive thee.”

“I welcome thee, Japhet Newland,” said Susannah, also offering her hand, “and I trust that thou wilt find more happiness among those with whom thou art about to sojourn, than in the world of vanity and deceit, in which thou hast hitherto played thy part. No longer seek an earthly father, who hath deserted thee, but a heavenly Father, who will not desert thee in thy afflictions.”

“You shall direct me into the right path, Susannah,” replied I.

“I am too young to be a guide, Japhet,” replied she, smiling; “but not too young, I hope, to be a friend.”

The next day my clothes came home, and I put them on. I looked at myself in the glass, and was anything but pleased; but as my head was shaved, it was of little consequence what I wore; so I consoled myself. Mr Cophagus sent for a barber and ordered me a wig, which was to be ready in a few days; when it was ready I put it on, and altogether did not dislike my appearance. I flattered myself that if I was a Quaker, at all events I was a very good looking and a very smart one; and when, a day or two afterwards a reunion of friends took place at Mr Cophagus’s house to introduce me to them, I perceived, with much satisfaction, that there was no young man who could compete with me. After this, I was much more reconciled to my transformation.

Part 3—Chapter X

I prosper in every Way, and become reconciled to my Situation.

Mr Cophagus was not idle. In a few weeks he had rented a shop for me, and furnished it much better than his own in Smithfield; the upper part of the house was let off, as I was to reside with the family. When it was ready, I went over it with him, and was satisfied; all I wished for was Timothy as an assistant, but that wish was unavailing, as I knew not where to find him.

That evening I observed to Mr Cophagus, that I did not much like putting my name over the shop. The fact was, that my pride forbade it, and I could not bear the idea, that Japhet Newland, at whose knock every aristocratic door had flown open, should appear in gold letters above a shop-window. “There are many reasons against it,” observed I. “One is, that it is not my real name—I should like to take the name of Cophagus; another is, that the name, being so well known, may attract those who formerly knew me, and I should not wish that they should come in and mock me; another is—”

“Japhet Newland,” interrupted Susannah, with more severity than I ever had seen in her sweet countenance, “do not trouble thyself with giving thy reasons, seeing thou hast given every reason but the right one, which is, that thy pride revolts at it.”

“I was about to observe,” replied I, “that it was a name that sounded of mammon, and not fitting for one of our persuasion. But, Susannah, you have accused me of pride, and I will now raise no further objections. Japhet Newland it shall be, and let us speak no more upon the subject.”

“If I have wronged thee, Japhet, much do I crave thy forgiveness,” replied Susannah. “But it is God alone who knoweth the secrets of our hearts. I was presumptuous; and you must pardon me.”

“Susannah, it is I who ought to plead for pardon; you know me better than I know myself. It was pride, and nothing but pride—but you have cured me.”

“Truly have I hopes of thee now, Japhet,” replied Susannah, smiling. “Those who confess their faults will soon amend them; yet I do think there is some reason in thy observation, for who knoweth, but meeting with thy former associates, thou mayst not be tempted into falling away? Thou mayst spell thy name as thou listest; and, peradventure, it would be better to disguise it.”

So agreed Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and I therefore had it written Gnow-land; and having engaged a person of the society, strongly recommended to me, as an assistant, I took possession of my shop, and was very soon busy in making up prescriptions, and dispensing my medicines in all quarters of the good town of Reading.

And I was happy. I had enjoyment during the day; my profession was, at all events, liberal. I was dressed and lived as a gentleman, or rather I should say respectably. I was earning my own livelihood. I was a useful member of society, and when I retired home to meals, and late at night, I found, that if Cophagus and his wife had retired, Susannah Temple always waited up, and remained with me a few minutes. I had never been in love until I had fallen in with this perfect creature; but my love for her was not the love of the world; I could not so depreciate her—I loved her as a superior being—I loved her with fear and trembling. I felt that she was too pure, too holy, too good for a vain worldly creature like myself. I felt as if my destiny depended upon her and her fiat; that if she favoured me, my happiness in this world and in the next were secured; that if she rejected me, I was cast away for ever. Such was my feeling for Susannah Temple, who, perfect as she was, was still a woman, and perceived her power over me; but unlike the many of her sex, exerted that power only to lead to what was right. Insensibly almost, my pride was quelled, and I became humble and religiously inclined. Even the peculiarities of the sect, their meeting at their places of worship, their drawling, and their quaint manner of talking, became no longer a subject of dislike. I found out causes and good reasons for everything which before appeared strange—sermons in stones, and good in everything. Months passed away—my business prospered—I had nearly repaid the money advanced by Mr Cophagus. I was in heart and soul a Quaker, and I entered into the fraternity with a feeling that I could act up to what I had promised. I was happy, quite happy, and yet I had never received from Susannah Temple any further than the proofs of sincere friendship. But I had much of her society, and we were now very, very intimate. I found out what warm, what devoted feelings were concealed under her modest, quiet exterior—how well her mind was stored, and how right was that mind.

Often when I talked over past events, did I listen to her remarks, all tending to one point, morality and virtue; often did I receive from her at first a severe, but latterly a kind rebuke, when my discourse was light and frivolous; but when I talked of merry subjects which were innocent, what could be more joyous or more exhilarating than her laugh—what more intoxicating than her sweet smile, when she approved of my sentiments! and when animated by the subject, what could be more musical or more impassioned than her bursts of eloquence, which were invariably followed by a deep blush, when she recollected how she had been carried away by excitement.

There was one point upon which I congratulated myself, which was, that she had received two or three unexceptionable offers of marriage during the six months that I had been in her company, and refused them. At the end of that period, thanks to the assistance I received from the Friends, I had paid Mr Cophagus all the money which he had advanced, and found myself in possession of a flourishing business, and independent. I then requested that I might be allowed to pay an annual stipend for my board and lodging, commencing from the time I first came to his house. Mr Cophagus said I was right—the terms were easily arranged, and I was independent.

Still my advances with Susannah were slow, but if slow, they were sure. One day I observed to her, how happy Mr Cophagus appeared to be as a married man: her reply was, “He is, Japhet: he has worked hard for his independence, and he is now reaping the fruits of his industry.” That is as much as to say that I must do the same, thought I, and that I have no business to propose for a wife, until I am certain that I am able to provide for her. I have as yet laid up nothing, and an income is not a capital. I felt that whether a party interested or not, she was right, and I redoubled my diligence.

Part 3—Chapter XI

A Variety of the Quaker Tribe—Who had a curious Disintegration of Mind and Body.

I was not yet weaned from the world, but I was fast advancing to that state, when a very smart young Quaker came on a visit to Reading. He was introduced to Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and was soon, as might be expected, an admirer of Susannah, but he received no encouragement. He was an idle person, and passed much of his time sitting in my shop, and talking with me, and being much less reserved and unguarded than the generality of the young men of the sect, I gradually became intimate with him. One day when my assistant was out he said to me, “Friend Gnow-land, tell me candidly, hast thou ever seen my face before?”

“Not that I can recollect, friend Talbot.”

“Then my recollection is better than yours, and now having obtained thy friendship as one of the society, I will remind thee of our former acquaintance. When thou wert Mr N-e-w-land, walking about town with Major Carbonnell, I was Lieutenant Talbot, of the – Dragoon Guards.”

I was dumb with astonishment, and I stared him in the face.

“Yes,” continued he, bursting into laughter, “such is the fact. You have thought, perhaps, that you were the only man of fashion who had ever been transformed into a Quaker; now you behold another, so no longer imagine yourself the Phoenix of your tribe.”

“I do certainly recollect that name,” replied I; “but although, as you must be acquainted with my history, it is very easy to conceive why I have joined the society, yet upon what grounds you can have so done is to me inexplicable.”

“Newland, it certainly does require explanation: it has been, I assert, my misfortune, and not my fault. Not that I am not happy. On the contrary, I feel that I am now in my proper situation. I ought to have been born of Quaker parents—at all events, I was born a Quaker in disposition; but I will come to-morrow early, and then, if you will give your man something to do out of the way, I will tell you my history. I know that you will keep my secret.”

The next morning he came, and as soon as we were alone he imparted to me what follows.

“I recollect well, Newland, when you were one of the leaders of fashion, I was then in the Dragoon Guards, and although not very intimate with you, had the honour of a recognition when we met at parties. I cannot help laughing, upon my soul, when I look at us both now; but never mind. I was of course a great deal with my regiment, and at the club. My father, as you may not perhaps be aware, was highly connected, and all the family have been brought up in the army: the question of profession has never been mooted by us; and every Talbot has turned out a soldier as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. Well, I entered the army, admired my uniform, and was admired by the young ladies. Before I received my lieutenant’s commission, my father, the old gentleman, died, and left me a younger brother’s fortune, of four hundred per annum; but, as my uncle said, ‘It was quite enough for a Talbot, who would push himself forward in his profession, as the Talbots had ever done before him.’ I soon found out that my income was not sufficient to enable me to continue in the Guards, and my uncle was very anxious that I should exchange into a regiment on service. I therefore, by purchase, obtained a company in the 23rd, ordered out to reduce the French colonies in the West Indies; and I sailed with all the expectation of covering myself with as much glory as the Talbots had done from time immemorial. We landed, and in a short time the bullets and grape were flying in all directions, and then I discovered, what I declare never for a moment came into my head before, to wit—that I had mistaken my profession.”

“How do you mean, Talbot?”

“Mean! why, that I was deficient in a certain qualification, which never was before denied to a Talbot—courage.”

“And you never knew that before?”

“Never, upon my honour; my mind was always full of courage. In my mind’s eye I built castles of feats of bravery which should eclipse all the Talbots, from him who burnt Joan of Arc down to the present day. I assure you, that surprised as other people were, no one was more surprised than myself. Our regiment was ordered to advance, and I led on my company; the bullets flew like hail. I tried to go on, but I could not; at last, notwithstanding all my endeavours to the contrary, I fairly took to my heels. I was met by the commanding officer—in fact, I ran right against him. He ordered me back, and I returned to my regiment, not feeling at all afraid. Again I was in the fire, again I resisted the impulse, but it was of no use; and at last, just before the assault took place, I ran away as if the devil was after me. Wasn’t it odd?”

“Very odd, indeed,” replied I, laughing.

“Yes, but you do not exactly understand why it was odd.—You know what philosophers tell you about volition; and that the body is governed by the mind, consequently obeys it; now, you see, in my case, it was exactly reversed. I tell you, that it is a fact, that in mind I am as brave as any man in existence; but I had a cowardly carcass, and what is still worse, it proved the master of my mind, and ran away with it. I had no mind to run away; on the contrary, I wished to have been of the forlorn hope, and had volunteered, but was refused. Surely, if I had not courage I should have avoided such a post of danger. Is it not so?”

“It certainly appears strange, that you should volunteer for the forlorn hope, and then run away.”

“That’s just what I say. I have the soul of the Talbots, but a body which don’t belong to the family, and too powerful for the soul.”

“So it appears. Well, go on.”

“It was go off, instead of going on. I tried again that day to mount the breach, and as the fire was over, I succeeded; but there was a mark against me, and it was intimated that I should have an opportunity of redeeming my character.”

“Well?”

“There was a fort to be stormed the next day, and I requested to lead my company in advance. Surely that was no proof of want of courage? Permission was granted. We were warmly received, and I felt that my legs refused to advance; so what did I do—I tied my sash round my thigh, and telling the men that I was wounded, requested they would carry me to the attack. Surely that was courage?”

“Most undoubtedly so. It was like a Talbot.”

“We were at the foot of the breach; when the shot flew about me, I kicked and wrestled so, that the two men who carried me were obliged to let me go, and my rascally body was at liberty. I say unfortunately, for only conceive, if they had carried me wounded up the breach, what an heroic act it would have been considered on my part; but fate decided it otherwise. If I had lain still when they dropped me, I should have done well, but I was anxious to get up the breach, that is, my mind was so bent; but as soon as I got on my legs, confound them if they didn’t run away with me, and then I was found half a mile from the fort with a pretended wound. That was enough; I had a hint that the sooner I went home the better. On account of the family I was permitted to sell out, and then I walked the streets as a private gentleman, but no one would speak to me. I argued the point with several, but they were obstinate, and would not be convinced; they said that it was no use talking about being brave, if I ran away.”

“They were not philosophers, Talbot.”

“No; they could not comprehend how the mind and the body could be at variance. It was no use arguing—they would have it that the movements of the body depended upon the mind, and that I had made a mistake—and that I was a coward in soul as well as body.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“Oh, I did nothing! I had a great mind to knock them down, but as I knew my body would not assist me, I thought it better to leave it alone. However, they taunted me so, by calling me fighting Tom, that my uncle shut his door upon me as a disgrace to the family, saying, he wished the first bullet had laid me dead—very kind of him;—at last my patience was worn out, and I looked about to find whether there were not some people who did not consider courage as a sine quâ non. I found that the Quakers’ tenets were against fighting, and therefore courage could not be necessary, so I have joined them, and I find that, if not a good soldier, I am, at all events, a very respectable Quaker; and now you have the whole of my story—and tell me if you are of my opinion.”

“Why, really it’s a very difficult point to decide. I never heard such a case of disintegration before. I must think upon it.”

“Of course, you will not say a word about it, Newland.”

“Never fear, I will keep your secret, Talbot. How long have you worn the dress?”

“Oh, more than a year. By-the-by, what a nice young person that Susannah Temple is. I’ve a great mind to propose for her.”

“But you must first ascertain what your body says to it, Talbot,” replied I, sternly. “I allow no one to interfere with me, Quaker or not.”

“My dear fellow, I beg your pardon, I shall think no more about her,” said Talbot, rising up, as he observed that I looked very fierce. “I wish you a good morning. I leave Reading to-morrow. I will call on you, and say Good-bye, if I can;” and I saw no more of friend Talbot, whose mind was all courage, but whose body was so renegade.

Part 3—Chapter XII

I fall in with Timothy.

About a month after this, I heard a sailor with one leg, and a handful of ballads, singing in a most lachrymal tone,—

“Why, what is that to you if my eyes I’m a wiping?A tear is a pleasure, d’ye see, in its way—

“Bless your honour, shy a copper to Poor Jack, who’s lost his leg in the sarvice. Thanky, your honour,” and he continued,—

“It’s nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping,But they who can’t pity—why I pities they.Says the captain, says he, I shall never forget it,Of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham.

“Back your main-topsail, your worship, for half a minute, and just assist a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars.—‘’Tis a furious lion.’ Long life to your honour.—‘In battle so let it—’

“’Tis a furious lion, in battle so let it;But duty appeased—but duty appeased—

“Buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on his knee in the dog-watch—

“But duty appeased, ’tis the heart of a lamb.”

I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence of his country. I always have; and as I heard the poor disabled fellow bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some halfpence to give him. When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he entered the shop. “Here, my good fellow,” said I, “although a man of peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;” and I put the money to him.

“May your honour never know a banyan day,” replied the sailor; “and a sickly season for you, into the bargain.”

“Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others,” replied I.

The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for, until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.

“What are you looking at?” said I.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed he. “It is—yet it cannot be!”

“Cannot be! what, friend?”

He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. “Japhet—I have found you at last!” exclaimed he, faintly.

“Good heaven! who are you?”

He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it, and I beheld Timothy. In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in his arms. “Is it possible,” exclaimed I, after a short silence on both sides, “that I find you a disabled sailor?”

“Is it possible, Japhet,” replied Timothy, “that I find you a broad-brimmed Quaker?”

“Even so, Timothy. I am really and truly one.”