"Never! That phase of life is also over. Why should I? To what purpose?"

"To be married, of course."

"Yes; and become a woman's slave, like poor Poppins; or else have my heart torn again with racking jealousy, as it was with you. No, Maryanne! Let those plodding creatures link themselves with women whose bodies require comforting but whose minds never soar. The world must be populated, and therefore let the Briskets marry."

"I suppose you've heard of him, George?"

"Not a word."

"La, now! I declare you've no curiosity to inquire about any one. If I was dead and buried to-morrow, I believe you'd never ask a word about me."

"I would go to your grave, Maryanne, and sit there in silence."

"Would you, now? I hope you won't, all the same. But about Brisket. You remember when that row was, and you were so nigh choking him?"

"Do I remember? Ay, Maryanne; when shall I forget it? It was the last hour of my madness."

"I never admired you so much as I did then, George. But never mind. That's all done and over now;—isn't it?"

"All done and over," said Robinson, mournfully repeating her words.

"Of course it is. But about Brisket. Immediately after that, the very next day, he went out to Gogham,—where he was always going, you know, with that cart of his, to buy sheep. Sheep, indeed!"

"And wasn't it for sheep?"

"No, George. Brisket was the sheep, and there was there a little she-wolf that has got him at last into her claws. Brisket is married, George."

"What! another Poppins! Ha! ha! ha! We shall not want for children."

"He has seen his way at last. She was a drover's daughter; and now he's married her and brought her home."

"A drover's daughter?"

"Well, he says a grazier's; but it's all the same. He never would have done for me, George; never. And I'll tell you more; I don't think I ever saw the man as would. I should have taken either of you,—I was so knocked about among 'em. But I should have made you miserable, whichever it was. It's a consolation to me when I think of that."

And it was a consolation also to him. He had loved her,—had loved her very dearly. He had been almost mad for love of her. But yet he had always known, that had he won her she would have made him miserable. There was consolation in that when he thought of his loss. Then, at last, he wished her good-by. "And now farewell, Maryanne. Be gentle with that old man."

"George," she said, "as long as he wants me, I'll stick to him. He's never been a good father to me; but if he wants me, I'll stick to him. As to being gentle, it's not in me. I wasn't brought up gentle, and you can't teach an old dog new tricks." Those were the last words she spoke to him, and they had, at any rate, the merit of truth.

And then, before he walked out for the last time from the portals of Magenta House, he bade adieu to his old partner Mr. Brown. "God bless you, George!" said the old man; "God bless you!"

"Mr. Brown," said he, "I cannot part from you without acknowledging that the loss of all your money sits very heavy on my heart."

"Never think of it, George."

"But I shall think of it. You were an old man, Mr. Brown, and the money was enough for you; or, if you did go into trade again, the old way would have suited you best."

"Well, George, now you mention it, I think it would."

"It was the same mistake, Mr. Brown, that we have so often heard of,—putting old wine into a new bottle. The bottle is broken and the wine is spilt. For myself, I've learned a lesson, and I am a wiser man; but I'm sorry for you, Mr. Brown.

"I shall never say a word to blame you, George."

"As to my principles,—that system of commerce which I have advocated,—as to that, I am still without a doubt. I am certain of the correctness of my views. Look at Barlywig and his colossal fortune, and 40,000l. a year spent in advertising."

"But then you should have your 40,000l. a year."

"By no means! But the subject is a long one, Mr. Brown, and cannot now be discussed with advantage. This, however, I do feel,—that I should not have embarked your little all in such an enterprise. It was enough for you; but to me, with my views, it was nothing,—less than nothing. I will begin again with unimpeded wings, and you shall hear of my success. But for your sake, Mr. Brown, I regret what is past." Then he pressed the old man's hand and went forth from Magenta House. From that day to this present one he has never again entered the door.

"And so Brisket is married. Brisket is right. Brisket is a happy man," he said to himself, as he walked slowly down the passage by St. Botolph's Church. "Brisket is certainly right; I will go and see Brisket." So he did; and continuing his way along the back of the Bank and the narrow street which used to be called Lad Lane,—I wish they would not alter the names of the streets; was it not enough that the "Swan with Two Necks" should be pulled down, foreshadowing, perhaps, in its ruin the fate of another bird with two necks, from which this one took its emblematic character?—and so making his way out into Aldersgate Street. He had never before visited the Lares of Brisket, for Brisket had been his enemy. But Brisket was his enemy no longer, and he walked into the shop with a light foot and a pleasant smile. There, standing at some little distance behind the block, looking with large, wondering eyes at the carcases of the sheep which hung around her, stood a wee little woman, very pretty, with red cheeks, and red lips, and short, thick, clustering curls. This was the daughter of the grazier from Gogham. "The shopman will be back in a minute," said she. "I ought to be able to do it myself, but I'm rather astray about the things yet awhile." Then George Robinson told her who he was.

She knew his name well, and gave him her little plump hand in token of greeting. "Laws a mercy! are you George Robinson? I've heard such a deal about you. He's inside, just tidying hisself a bit for dinner. Who do you think there is here, Bill?" and she opened the door leading to the back premises. "Here's George Robinson, that you're always so full of." Then he followed her out into a little yard, where he found Brisket in the neighbourhood of a pump, smelling strongly of yellow soap, with his sleeves tucked up, and hard at work with a rough towel.

"Robinson, my boy," cried he, "I'm glad to see you; and so is Mrs. B. Ain't you, Em'ly?" Whereupon Em'ly said that she was delighted to see Mr. Robinson. "And you're just in time for as tidy a bit of roast veal as you won't see again in a hurry,—fed down at Gogham by Em'ly's mother. I killed it myself, with my own hands. Didn't I, Em'ly?"

Robinson stopped and partook of the viands which were so strongly recommended to him; and then, after dinner, he and Brisket and the bride became very intimate and confidential over a glass of hot brandy-and-water.

"I don't do this kind of thing, only when I've got a friend," said Brisket, tapping the tumbler with his spoon. "But I really am glad to see you. I've took a fancy to you now, ever since you went so nigh throttling me. By Jove! though, I began to think it was all up with me,—only for Sarah Jane."

"But he didn't!" said Emily, looking first at her great husband and then at Robinson's slender proportions.

"Didn't he though? But he just did. And what do you think, Em'ly? He wanted me once to sit with him on a barrel of gunpowder."

"A barrel of gunpowder!"

"And smoke our pipes there,—quite comfortable. And then he wanted me to go and fling ourselves into the river. That was uncommon civil, wasn't it? And then he well nigh choked me."

"It was all about that young woman," said Emily, with a toss of her head. "And from all I can hear tell, she wasn't worth fighting for. As for you, Bill, I wonder at you; so I do."

"I thought I saw my way," said Brisket.

"It's well for you that you've got somebody near you that will see better now. And as for you, Mr. Robinson; I hope you won't be long in the dumps, neither." Whereupon he explained to her that he was by no means in the dumps. He had failed in trade, no doubt, but he was now engaged upon a literary work, as to which considerable expectation had been raised, and he fully hoped to provide for his humble wants in this way till he should be able to settle himself again to some new commercial enterprise.

"It isn't that as she means," said Brisket. "She means about taking a wife. That's all the women ever thinks of."

"What I was saying is, that as you and Bill were both after her, and as you are both broke with her, and seeing that Bill's provided himself like—"

"And a charming provision he has made," said Robinson.

"I did see my way," said Brisket, with much self-content.

"So you ought to look elsewhere as well as he," continued Emily. "According to all accounts, you've neither of you lost so very much in not getting Maryanne Brown."

"Maryanne Brown is a handsome young woman," said Robinson.

"Why, she's as red as red," said Mrs. Brisket; "quite carroty, they tell me. And as for handsome, Mr. Robinson;—handsome is as handsome does; that's what I say. If I had two sweethearts going about talking of gunpowder, and throwing themselves into rivers along of me, I'd—I'd—I'd never forgive myself. So, Mr. Robinson, I hope you'll suit yourself soon. Bill, don't you take any more of that brandy. Don't now, when I tell you not."

Then Robinson rose and took his leave, promising to make future visits to Aldersgate Street. And as Brisket squeezed his hand at parting, all the circumstances of that marriage were explained in a very few words. "She had three hundred, down, you know;—really down. So I said done and done, when I found the money wasn't there with Maryanne. And I think that I've seen my way."

Robinson congratulated him, and assured him that he thought he had seen it very clearly.



CHAPTER XXIV.

GEORGE ROBINSON'S DREAM.

George Robinson, though his present wants were provided for by his pen, was by no means disposed to sink into a literary hack. It was by commerce that he desired to shine. It was to trade,—trade, in the highest sense of the word,—that his ambition led him. Down at the Crystal Palace he had stood by the hour together before the statue of the great Cheetham,—ominous name!—of him who three centuries ago had made money by dealing in Manchester goods. Why should not he also have his statue? But then how was he to begin? He had begun, and failed. With hopeful words he had declared to Mr. Brown that not on that account was he daunted; but still there was before him the burden of another commencement. Many of us know what it is to have high hopes, and yet to feel from time to time a terrible despondency when the labours come by which those hopes should be realized. Robinson had complained that he was impeded in his flight by Brown and Jones. Those impediments had dropped from him now; and yet he knew not how to proceed upon his course.

He walked forth one evening, after his daily task, pondering these things as he went. He made his solitary way along the Kingsland Road, through Tottenham, and on to Edmonton, thinking deeply of his future career. What had John Gilpin done that had made him a citizen of renown? Had he advertised? Or had he contented himself simply with standing behind his counter till customers should come to him? In John Gilpin's time the science of advertisement was not born;—or, if born, was in its earliest infancy. And yet he had achieved renown. And Cheetham;—but probably Cheetham had commenced with a capital.

Thus he walked on till he found himself among the fields,—those first fields which greet the eyes of a Londoner, in which wheat is not grown, but cabbages and carrots for the London market; and here seating himself upon a gate, he gave his mind up to a close study of the subject. First he took from his pocket a short list which he always carried, and once more read over the names and figures which it bore.

Barlywig, L40,000 per annum.

How did Barlywig begin such an outlay as that? He knew that Barlywig had, as a boy, walked up to town with twopence in his pocket, and in his early days, had swept out the shop of a shoemaker. The giants of trade all have done that. Then he went on with the list:—

Holloway . . . . L30,000 per annum. Moses . . . . 10,000 " Macassar Oil . . 10,000 " Dr. De Jongh . . 10,000 "

What a glorious fraternity! There were many others that followed with figures almost equally stupendous. Revalenta Arabica! Bedsteads! Paletots! Food for Cattle! But then how did these great men begin? He himself had begun with some money in his hand, and had failed. As to them, he believed that they had all begun with twopence. As for genius and special talent, it was admitted on all sides that he possessed it. Of that he could feel no doubt, as other men were willing to employ him.

"Shall I never enjoy the fruits of my own labour?" said he to himself. "Must I still be as the bee, whose honey is robbed from him as soon as made?

The lofty rhyme I still must build, Though other hands shall touch the money.

Will this be my fate for ever?—

The patient oxen till the furrows, But never eat the generous corn.

Shall the corn itself never be my own?"

And as he sat there the words of Poppins came upon his memory. "You advertising chaps never do anything. All that printing never makes the world any richer." At the moment he had laughed down Poppins with absolute scorn; but now, at this solitary moment he began to reflect whether there might be any wisdom in his young friend's words. "The question has been argued," he continued in his soliloquy, "by the greatest philosopher of the age. A man goes into hats, and in order to force a sale, he builds a large cart in the shape of a hat, paints it blue, and has it drawn through the streets. He still finds that his sale is not rapid; and with a view of increasing it, what shall he do? Shall he make his felt hats better, or shall he make his wooden hat bigger? Poppins and the philosopher say that the former plan will make the world the richer, but they do not say that it will sell the greater number of hats. Am I to look after the world? Am I not to look to myself? Is not the world a collection of individuals, all of whom are doing so? Has anything been done for the world by the Quixotic aspirations of general philanthropy, at all equal to that which individual enterprise has achieved? Poppins and the philosopher would spend their energies on a good hat. But why? Not that they love the head that is to wear it. The sale would still be their object. They would sell hats, not that the heads of men may be well covered, but that they themselves might live and become rich. To force a sale must be the first duty of a man in trade, and a man's first duty should be all in all to him.

"If the hats sold from the different marts be not good enough, with whom does the fault rest? Is it not with the customers who purchase them? Am I to protect the man who demands from me a cheap hat? Am I to say, 'Sir, here is a cheap hat. It is made of brown paper, and the gum will run from it in the first shower. It will come to pieces when worn and disgrace you among your female acquaintances by becoming dinged and bulged?' Should I do him good? He would buy his cheap hat elsewhere, and tell pleasant stories of the madman he had met. The world of purchasers will have cheap articles, and the world of commerce must supply them. The world of purchasers will have their ears tickled, and the world of commerce must tickle them. Of what use is all this about adulteration? If Mrs. Jones will buy her sausages at a lower price per pound than pork fetches in the market, has she a right to complain when some curious doctor makes her understand that her viands have not been supplied exclusively from the pig? She insists on milk at three halfpence a quart; but the cow will not produce it. The cow cannot produce it at that price, unless she be aided by the pump; and therefore the pump aids her. If there be dishonesty in this, it is with the purchaser, not with the vendor,—with the public, not with the tradesman."

But still as he sat upon the gate, thus arguing with himself, a dream came over him, a mist of thought as it were, whispering to him strangely that even yet he might be wrong. He endeavoured to throw it off, shaking himself as it were, and striving to fix his mind firmly upon his old principles. But it was of no avail. He knew he was awake; but yet he dreamed; and his dream was to him as a terrible nightmare.

What if he were wrong! What if those two philosophers had on their side some truth! He would fain be honest if he knew the way. What if those names upon his list were the names of false gods, whose worship would lead him to a hell of swindlers instead of the bright heaven of commercial nobility! "Barlywig is in Parliament," he said to himself, over and over again, in loud tones, striving to answer the spirit of his dream. "In Parliament! He sits upon committees; men jostle to speak to him; and he talks loud among the big ones of the earth. He spends forty thousand a year in his advertisements, and grows incredibly rich by the expenditure. Men and women flock in crowds to his shop. He lives at Albert Gate in a house big enough for a royal duke, and is the lord of ten thousand acres in Yorkshire. Barlywig cannot have been wrong, let that philosopher philosophize as he will!" But still the dream was there, crushing him like a nightmare.

"Why don't you produce something, so as to make the world richer?" Poppins had said. He knew well what Poppins had meant by making the world richer. If a man invent a Katakairion shirt, he does make the world richer; if it be a good one, he makes it much richer. But the man who simply says that he has done so adds nothing to the world's wealth. His answer had been that it was his work to sell the shirts, and that of the purchaser to buy them. Let each look to his own work. If he could be successful in his selling, then he would have a right to be proud of his success. The world would be best served by close attention on the part of each to his own business. Such had been the arguments with which he had silenced his friend and contented himself, while the excitement of the shop in Bishopsgate Street was continued; but now, as he sat there upon the gate, this dream came upon him, and he began to doubt. Could it be that a man had a double duty, each separate from the other;—a duty domestic and private, requiring his devotion and loyalty to his wife, his children, his partners, and himself; and another duty, widely extended in all its bearings and due to the world in which he lived? Could Poppins have seen this, while he was blind? Was a man bound to produce true shirts for the world's benefit even though he should make no money by so doing;—either true shirts or none at all?

The evening light fell upon him as he still sat there on the gate, and he became very melancholy. "If I have been wrong," he said to himself, "I must give up the fight. I cannot begin again now and learn new precepts. After all that I have done with that old man's money, I cannot now own that I have been wrong, and commence again on a theory taught to me by Poppins. If this be so, then farewell to Commerce!" And as he said so, he dropped from his seat, and, leaning over the rail, hid his face within his hands.

As he stood there, suddenly a sound struck his ears, and he knew that the bells of Edmonton were ringing. The church was distant, but nevertheless the tones came sharp upon him with their clear music. They rang on quickly, loudly, and with articulate voice. Surely there were words within those sounds. What was it they were saying to him? He listened for a few seconds, for a minute or two, for five minutes; and then his ear and senses had recognized the language—"Turn again, Robinson, Member of Parliament." He heard it so distinctly that his ear would not for a moment abandon the promise. The words could not be mistaken. "Turn again, Robinson, Member of Parliament."

Then he did turn, and walked back to London with a trusting heart.



London: Printed by Smith, Elder and Co., Old Bailey, E.C.



* * * * * *



Transcriber's note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Chapter VIII, paragraph 56. Previously Fame was attributed masculine gender. The reader might note the sentence in this paragraph: On that morrow he was more enterprising than ever, and it was then that he originated the idea of the four men in armour, and of Fame with HER classical horn and gilded car.

Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below.

Chapter XII, paragraph 25. The word "partners" was changed to "partner" in the sentence: And might it not be well for her to forget that other Samson, and once more to trust herself to her father's PARTNER?

Chapter XVI, paragraph 44. The order of the words "was it" was inverted in the sentence: Why WAS IT, that at this eventful period of Robinson's existence Mrs. Poppins should have turned against him?

THE END