“‘Esther Thompson,’ says he.
“Esther Thompson! Then this was Fitzjames. This chap, sir, that I’d loved as if he’d been my brother, and loved him still—by G—d, sir!” said Ben, striking the table with his fist, “this chap was my greatest enemy—had been the seducer of Esther—and yet I couldn’t hate him.
“The boy kept screaming, ‘Sail! Sail!’ and I was half mad.
“‘Ben,’ says he, ‘do you know her?’
“‘Know her! She’s all that’s dear to me, you d—d villain.’
“‘No, no,’ says he, quite strong again, “not villain. I meant no harm to the girl. I meant—I swear I did—to marry her, and nobody would have known anything about it, if it hadn’t been for that drink, Ben;’ and all the while the boy kept crying, ‘Sail! Sail!’
“‘If you ever see her again, tell her that I didn’t mean to be a villain. I didn’t mean to wrong her. Promise me that.’
“I saw he was going fast, and I promised him I’d tell her.
“‘One more thing,’ says he. ‘Ben, here’s something sown in my flannel—cut it out.’
“I cut it out—it was half a sixpence, all crooked and bent.
“‘She gave me that,’ says he, looking at it as fond as if it was her, and kissing it. ‘Give it her back, and tell her I meant to marry her.’
“‘I will,’ says I, ‘Sands, I will; and may God forgive you, as I do.’
“The boy kept on screaming; so, seeing Sands quiet, I went round to the other side to look at the sail. I was too late; she was out of all chance of making her hear or see.
“When I came back Sands was gone: the bit of the sixpence was in his hand; I took it out, and took care of it, and then went to the boy. He was almost as dead as Sands. It was an awful sight to see them both lying so still—Sands quite dead, and the boy so near it that you could hardly bel’eve he wasn’t. Not a drop of brandy either—Sands had it all.
MANNERS.
Some French philosopher, in his work called—but I have no library, and never had a memory to which I can refer;—however, somebody says somewhere, that to enable an observing traveller to discover the dominant power in a state, he has only to look from his window and to notice who or what occupies le haut du pavé.
In a despotic government, although the traveller cannot always have the pleasure of seeing the Emperor in the middle of the street, for there are many streets and only one Emperor, or the Pope, or the President of the Republic (and there are such things as despotic Republics), yet he can detect the implements of a despotism exhibited in a regiment marching in the very middle of the street, with as broad a front as the street will allow; or in a procession of priests putting an end to the traffic, probably not much, but whatever there is. In England we see trade dominant, exemplified in a string of drays laden with cotton, stopping the carriage of her Majesty’s minister on his road to dine with the Lord Mayor, or cutting in two a funeral procession, or driving the Queen’s Guards into single file on the edge of the pavement.
Now, I have another method by which the traveller may, without asking a question, learn who or what rules in a state; and that is, by placing himself at a window overlooking the grande place, or the market-place, or other great thoroughfare, and by observing the courtesies, or want of them, between man and man. The more courteous men are to each other, the more despotic is the government; and vice versa. Thus, to take two extremes, when the traveller from his window observes the natives pushing and jostling, and grunting salutes with their hands in their pockets, as they do in England and the United States, he may be sure that the institutions of the country are free and enlightened; and he may be sure of the contrary when he sees men wearing out the rims of their hats in courteous salutations.
There is, in fact, a sort of sliding scale between good manners and free institutions, in which scale an enlightened citizen of England or of the United States must accept a rather humiliating alternative, when he trots out his own glorious constitution in the eyes of a people who are trodden under foot, but whose manners are perfectly charming. Do what he will, he cannot escape the alternative, for the causes which teach men manners are beyond his control, and he can no more refine the manners of his own countrymen than he can make a courtier of one that wants no favours. A man is naturally afraid of those who have authority over his life and property—a feeling that engenders a courteous, conciliating tone, which is not a little apt to dwindle into a fawning, double-faced manner. Now the best of good manners being to appear impressed with the superiority of any one, either in rank, appearance, or intellect, the transition is easy from courtier to refined gentleman; indeed the two professions are identical in manners.
When spies are abroad, and a man lives in daily peril on account of what he says, or may be said for him, he becomes reserved and prudent. When he does talk, it is in language which may mean anything, except disrespect for those in authority. The first remark which a Russian or a Neapolitan makes, when speaking of the English, is the imprudence of our conversation. The truth is, they must be prudent in their conversation; I need not. They must be courtiers to every one of their thousand superiors; I need only be conciliating to mine when I want anything. If they were to say at their own fire-sides what I can say with impunity at a public meeting, one of them would be sent to Siberia, and the other to the dungeons of the Procida for the rest of their lives.
A courteous, deferential manner once assumed for so good a reason as necessity, and heightened by the knowledge that more flies are caught with treacle than with vinegar, soon becomes a habit, and is used to every one above and below us. And this is the good manner which is found to perfection in the French and the Italians, and many of the