Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 3—Chapter VII
When at the lowest Spoke of Fortune’s Wheel, one is sure to rise as it turns round—I recover my Senses, and find myself amongst Friends.
I think some people shook me by the hand, and others shouted as I walked in the open air, but I recollect no more. I afterwards was informed that I had been reprieved, that I had been sent for, and a long exhortation delivered to me, for it was considered that my life must have been one of error, or I should have applied to my friends, and have given my name. My not answering was attributed to shame and confusion—my glassy eye had not been noticed—my tottering step when led in by the gaolers attributed to other causes; and the magistrates shook their heads as I was led out of their presence. The gaoler had asked me several times where I intended to go. At last, I had told him, to seek my father, and darting away from him I had run like a madman down the street. Of course he had no longer any power over me: but he muttered as I fled from him, “I’ve a notion he’ll soon be locked up again, poor fellow! it’s turned his brain for certain.”
As I tottered along, my unsteady step naturally attracted the attention of the passers-by; but they attributed it to intoxication. Thus was I allowed to wander away in a state of madness, and before night I was far from the town. What passed, and whither I had bent my steps, I cannot tell. All I know is, that after running like a maniac, seizing everybody by the arm that I met, staring at them with wild and flashing eyes; and sometimes in a solemn voice, at others, in a loud, threatening tone, startling them with the interrogatory, “Are you my father?” and then darting away, or sobbing like a child, as the humour took me, I had crossed the country; and three days afterwards I was picked up at the door of a house in the town of Reading, exhausted with fatigue and exposure, and nearly dead. When I recovered, I found myself in bed, my head shaved, my arm bound up, after repeated bleedings, and a female figure sitting by me.
“God in heaven! where am I?” exclaimed I faintly.
“Thou hast called often upon thy earthly father during the time of thy illness, friend,” replied a soft voice. “It rejoiceth me much to hear thee call upon thy Father which is in heaven. Be comforted, thou art in the hands of those who will be mindful of thee. Offer up thy thanks in one short prayer, for thy return to reason, and then sink again into repose, for thou must need it much.”
I opened my eyes wide, and perceived that a young person in a Quaker’s dress was sitting by the bed working with her needle; an open Bible was on a little table before her. I perceived also a cup, and parched with thirst, I merely said, “Give me to drink.” She arose, and put a teaspoon to my lips; but I raised my hand, took the cup from her and emptied it. O how delightful was that draught! I sank down on my pillow, for even that slight exertion had overpowered me, and muttering, “God, I thank thee!” I was immediately in a sound sleep, from which I did not awake for many hours. When I did, it was not daylight. A lamp was on the table, and an old man in a Quaker’s dress was snoring very comfortably in the arm-chair. I felt quite refreshed with my long sleep, and was now able to recall what had passed. I remembered the condemned cell and the mattress upon which I lay, but all after was in a state of confusion. Here and there a fact or supposition was strong in my memory; but the intervals between were total blanks. I was, at all events, free, that I felt convinced of, and that I was in the hands of the sect who denominate themselves Quakers: but where was I? and how did I come here? I remained thinking on the past, and wondering, until the day broke, and with the daylight roused up my watchful attendant. He yawned, stretched his arms, and rising from the chair, came to the side of my bed. I looked him in the face. “Hast thou slept well, friend?” said he.
“I have slept as much as I wish, and would not disturb you,” replied I, “for I wanted nothing.”
“Peradventure I did sleep,” replied the man; “watching long agreeth not with the flesh, although the spirit is most willing. Requirest thou anything?”
“Yes,” replied I, “I wish to know where I am?”
“Verily, thou art in the town of Reading, in Berkshire, and in the house of Pheneas Cophagus.”
“Cophagus!” exclaimed I; “Mr Cophagus, the surgeon and apothecary?”
“Pheneas Cophagus is his name; he hath been admitted into our sect, and hath married a daughter of our persuasion. He hath attended thee in thy fever and thy frenzy, without calling in the aid of the physician, therefore do I believe that he must be the man of whom thou speakest; yet doth he not follow up the healing art for the lucre of gain.”
“And the young person who was at my bedside, is she his wife?”
“Nay, friend, she is half-sister to the wife of Pheneas Cophagus by a second marriage, and a maiden, who was named Susannah Temple at the baptismal font; but I will go to Pheneas Cophagus and acquaint him of your waking, for such were his directions.”
The man then quitted the room, leaving me quite astonished with the information he had imparted. Cophagus turned Quaker! and attending me in the town of Reading. In a short time Mr Cophagus himself entered in his dressing-gown.
“Japhet!” said he, seizing my hand with eagerness, and then, as if recollecting, he checked himself, and commenced in a slow tone, “Japhet Newland—truly glad am I—hum—verily do I rejoice—you, Ephraim—get out of the room—and so on.”
“Yea, I will depart, since it is thy bidding,” replied the man, quitting the room.
Mr Cophagus then greeted me in his usual way—told me that he had found me insensible at the door of a house a little way off, and had immediately recognised me. He had brought me to his own home, but without much hope of my recovery. He then begged to know by what strange chance I had been found in such a desolate condition. I replied, “that although I was able to listen, I did not feel myself equal to the exertion of telling so long a story, and that I should infinitely prefer that he should narrate to me what had passed since we had parted at Dublin, and how it was that I now found that he had joined the sect of Quakers.”
“Peradventure—long word that—um—queer people—very good—and so on,” commenced Mr Cophagus, but as the reader will not understand his phraseology quite so well as I did, I shall give Mr Cophagus’s history in my own version.
Mr Cophagus had returned to the small town at which he resided, and, on his arrival, he had been called upon by a gentleman who was of the Society of Friends, requesting that he would prescribe for a niece of his, who was on a visit at his house, and had been taken dangerously ill. Cophagus with his usual kindness of heart, immediately consented, and found that Mr Temple’s report was true. For six weeks he attended the young Quakeress, and recovered her from an imminent and painful disease, in which she showed such fortitude and resignation, and such unconquerable good temper, that when Mr Cophagus returned to his bachelor’s establishment, he could not help reflecting upon what an invaluable wife she would make, and how much more cheerful his house would be with such a domestic partner.
In short, Mr Cophagus fell in love, and like all elderly gentlemen who have so long bottled up their affections, he became most desperately enamoured; and if he loved Miss Judith Temple when he witnessed her patience and resignation under suffering, how much more did he love her when he found that she was playful, merry, and cheerful, without being boisterous, when restored to her health. Mr Cophagus’s attentions could not be misunderstood. He told her uncle that he had thought seriously of wedding cake—white favours—marriage—family—and so on; and to the young lady he had put his cane up to his nose and prescribed, “A dose of matrimony—to be taken immediately.” To Mr Cophagus there was no objection raised by the lady, who was not in her teens, or by the uncle, who had always respected him as a worthy man, and a good Christian; but to marry one who was not of her persuasion, was not to be thought of. Her friends would not consent to it. Mr Cophagus was therefore dismissed, with a full assurance that the only objection which offered was that he was not of their society.
Mr Cophagus walked home discomforted. He sat down on his easy chair, and found it excessively uneasy—he sat down to his solitary meal, and found that his own company was unbearable—he went to bed, but found that it was impossible to go to sleep. The next morning, therefore, Mr Cophagus returned to Mr Temple, and stated his wish to be made acquainted with the difference between the tenets of the Quaker persuasion and those of the Established Church. Mr Temple gave him an outline, which appeared to Mr Cophagus to be very satisfactory, and then referred him to his niece for fuller particulars. When a man enters into an argument with a full desire to be convinced, and with his future happiness perhaps depending upon that conviction; and when, further, those arguments are brought forward by one of the prettiest voices, and backed by the sweetest of smiles, it is not to be wondered at his soon becoming a proselyte. Thus it was with Mr Cophagus, who in a week discovered that the peace, humility, and good-will, upon which the Quaker tenets are founded, were much more congenial to the true spirit of the Christian revelation than the Athanasian Creed, to be sung or said in our Established Churches; and with this conviction, Mr Cophagus requested admission into the fraternity; and shortly after his admission, it was thought advisable by the Friends that his faith should be confirmed and strengthened by his espousal of Miss Judith Temple, with whom, at her request—and he could refuse her nothing—he had repaired to the town of Reading, in which her relations all resided; and Pheneas Cophagus, of the Society of Friends, declared himself to be as happy as a man could be. “Good people, Japhet—um—honest people, Japhet—don’t fight—little stiff—spirit moves—and so on,” said Mr Cophagus, as he concluded his narrative, and then shaking me by the hand, retired to shave and dress.
Part 3—Chapter VIII
I fall in Love with Religion when preached by one who has the Form of an Angel.
In half an hour afterwards Ephraim came in with a draught, which I was desired to take by Mr Cophagus, and then to try and sleep. This was good advice, and I followed it. I awoke after a long, refreshing sleep, and found Mr and Mrs Cophagus sitting in the room, she at work and he occupied with a book. When I opened my eyes, and perceived a female, I looked to ascertain if it was the young person whom Ephraim had stated to be Susannah Temple; not that I recollected her features exactly, but I did the contour of her person. Mrs Cophagus was taller, and I had a fair scrutiny of her before they perceived that I was awake. Her face was very pleasing, features small and regular. She appeared to be about thirty years of age, and was studiously neat and clean in her person. Her Quaker’s dress was not without some little departure from the strict fashion and form, sufficient to assist, without deviating from, its simplicity. If I might use the term, it was a little coquettish, and evinced that the wearer, had she not belonged to that sect, would have shown great taste in the adornment of her person.
Mr Cophagus, although he did not think so himself, as I afterwards found out, was certainly much improved by his change of costume. His spindle shanks, which, as I have before observed, were peculiarly at variance with his little orbicular, orange-shaped stomach, were now concealed in loose trowsers, which took off from the protuberance of the latter, and added dignity to the former, blending the two together, so that his roundness became fine by degrees, and beautifully less as it descended. Altogether, the Quaker dress added very much to the substantiability of his appearance, and was a manifest improvement, especially when he wore his broad-brimmed hat. Having satisfied my curiosity I moved the curtain so as to attract their attention, and Cophagus came to my bedside, and felt my pulse. “Good—very good—all right—little broth—throw in bark—on his legs—well as ever—and so on.”
“I am indeed much better this afternoon,” replied I; “indeed, so well, that I feel as if I could get up.”
“Pooh:—tumble down—never do—lie a bed—get strong—wife—Mrs Cophagus—Japhet—old friend.”
Mrs Cophagus had risen from her chair, and come towards the bed, when her husband introduced her in his own fashion. “I am afraid that I have been a great trouble, madam,” said I.
“Japhet Newland, we have done but our duty, even if thou wert not, as it appears that thou art, a friend of my husband. Consider me, therefore, as thy sister, and I will regard thee as a brother; and if thou wouldst wish it, thou shalt sojourn with us, for so hath my husband communicated his wishes unto me.”
I thanked her for her kind expressions, and took the fair hand which was offered in such amity. Cophagus then asked me if I was well enough to inform him of what had passed since our last meeting, and telling me that his wife knew my whole history, and that I might speak before her, he took his seat by the side of the bed, his wife also drew her chair nearer, and I commenced the narrative of what had passed since we parted in Ireland. When I had finished, Mr Cophagus commenced as usual, “Um—very odd—lose money—bad—grow honest—good—run away from friends—bad—not hung—good—brain fever—bad—come here—good—stay with us—quite comfortable—and so on.”
“Thou hast suffered much, friend Japhet,” said Mrs Cophagus, wiping her eyes; “and I would almost venture to say, hast been chastised too severely, were it not that those whom He loveth, He chastiseth. Still thou art saved, and now out of danger; peradventure thou wilt now quit a vain world, and be content to live with us; nay, as thou hast the example of thy former master, it may perhaps please the Lord to advise thee to become one of us, and to join us as a Friend. My husband was persuaded to the right path by me,” continued she, looking fondly at him; “who knoweth but some of our maidens may also persuade thee to eschew a vain, unrighteous world, and follow thy Redeemer in humility?”
“Very true—um—very true,” observed Cophagus, putting more Quakerism than usual in his style, and drawing out his ums to treble their usual length; “Happy life—Japhet—um—all at peace—quiet amusements—think about it—um—no hurry—never swear—by-and-by, hell!—spirit may move—um—not now—talk about it—get well—set up shop—and so on.”
I was tired with talking so much, and having taken some nourishment, again fell asleep. When I awoke in the evening, friend Cophagus and his wife were not in the room; but Susannah Temple, whom I had first seen, and of whom I had made inquiry of Ephraim, who was Cophagus’s servant. She was sitting close to the light and reading, and long did I continue to gaze upon her, fearful of interrupting her. She was the most beautiful specimen of clear and transparent white that I ever had beheld—her complexion was unrivalled—her eyes were large, but I could not ascertain their colour, as they were cast down upon her book, and hid by her long fringed eyelashes—her eyebrows arched and regular, as if drawn by a pair of compasses, and their soft hair in beautiful contrast with her snowy forehead—her hair was auburn, but mostly concealed within her cap—her nose was very straight but not very large, and her mouth was perfection. She appeared to be between seventeen and eighteen years old, as far as I could ascertain: her figure was symmetrically perfect. Dressed as she was in the modest, simple garb worn by the females of the Society of Friends, she gave an idea of neatness, cleanliness, and propriety upon which I could have gazed for ever. She was, indeed, most beautiful. I felt her beauty, her purity, and I could have worshipped her as an angel. While I still had my eyes fixed upon her exquisite features, she closed her book, and rising from her chair, came to the side of the bed. That she might not be startled at the idea of my having been watching her, I closed my eyes, and pretended to slumber. She resumed her seat, and then I changed my position and spoke, “Is anyone there?”
“Yes, friend Newland, what is it that thou requirest?” said she, advancing. “Wouldst thou see Cophagus or Ephraim? I will summon them.”
“O no,” replied I; “why should I disturb them from their amusements or employments? I have slept a long while, and I would like to read a little, I think, if my eyes are not too weak.”
“Thou must not read, but I may read unto thee,” replied Susannah. “Tell me, what is it that thou wouldest have me read? I have no vain books; but surely thou thinkest not of them, after thy escape from death.”
“I care not what is read, provided that you read to me,” replied I.
“Nay, but thou shouldest care; and be not wroth if I say to thee, that there is but one book to which thou shouldest now listen. Thou hast been saved from deadly peril—thou hast been rescued from the jaws of death. Art thou not thankful? And to whom is gratitude most due, but to thy heavenly Father, who hath been pleased to spare thee?”
“You are right,” replied I; “then I pray you to read to me from the Bible.”
Susannah made no reply, but resumed her seat; and selecting those chapters most appropriate to my situation, read them in a beautiful and impressive tone.
Part 3—Chapter IX
Pride and Love at Issue—The latter is victorious—I turn Quaker, and recommence my old Profession.
If the reader will recall my narrative to his recollection, he must observe, that religion had had hitherto but little of my thoughts. I had lived the life of most who live in this world; perhaps not quite so correct in morals as many people, for my code of morality was suited to circumstances; as to religion, I had none. I had lived in the world, and for the world. I had certainly been well instructed in the tenets of our faith when I was at the Asylum, but there, as in most other schools, it is made irksome, as a task, and is looked upon with almost a feeling of aversion. No proper religious sentiments are, or can be, inculcated to a large number of scholars; it is the parent alone who can instil, by precept and example, that true sense of religion, which may serve as a guide through life. I had not read the Bible from the time that I quitted the Foundling Hospital. It was new to me, and when I now heard read, by that beautiful creature, passages equally beautiful, and so applicable to my situation, weakened by disease, and humbled in adversity, I was moved, even unto tears.
Susannah closed the book and came to the bedside. I thanked her: she perceived my emotion, and when I held out my hand she did not refuse hers. I kissed it, and it was immediately withdrawn, and she left the room. Shortly afterwards Ephraim made his appearance. Cophagus and his wife also came that evening, but I saw no more of Susannah Temple until the following day, when I again requested her to read to me.
I will not detain the reader by an account of my recovery. In three weeks I was able to leave the room; during that time, I had become very intimate with the whole family, and was treated as if I belonged to it. During my illness I had certainly shown more sense of religion than I had ever done before, but I do not mean to say that I was really religious. I liked to hear the Bible read by Susannah, and I liked to talk with her upon religious subjects; but had Susannah been an ugly old woman, I very much doubt if I should have been so attentive. It was her extreme beauty—her modesty and fervour, which so became her, which enchanted me. I felt the beauty of religion, but it was through an earthly object; it was beautiful in her. She looked an angel, and I listened to her precepts as delivered by one. Still, whatever may be the cause by which a person’s attention can be directed to so important a subject, so generally neglected, whether by fear of death, or by love towards an earthly object, the advantages are the same; and although very far from what I ought to have been, I certainly was, through my admiration of her, a better man. As soon as I was on the sofa wrapped up in one of the dressing-gowns of Mr Cophagus, he told me that the clothes in which I had been picked up were all in tatters, and asked me whether I would like to have others made according to the usual fashion, or like those with whom I should, he trusted, in future reside. I had already debated this matter in my mind. Return to the world I had resolved not to do; to follow up the object of my search appeared to me only to involve me in difficulties; and what were the intentions of Cophagus with regard to me, I knew not. I was hesitating, for I knew not what answer to give, when I perceived the pensive, deep-blue eye of Susannah fixed upon me, watching attentively, if not eagerly, for my response.
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.
