by the Author of "the Provost of Bruges," "Love's Sacrifice," etc. [George William Lovell].
Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.6 #2 (Aug 1846).
My old Coat! What a hero for a reminiscence! And yet I warn thee, heedless reader, suppress the smile, (or sneer, as the case may be)—which plays upon thy lip, or we shall part at once. I can bear much of personal slight—I have little of that sensitive selfishness which shrinks trembling from a personal rebuff, and none of that burning resentment which thirsts like fever under the smart of personal ill usage;—yet, a wrong done to an old familiar friend—a wanton insult offered to the venerated partner of my by-gone joys and sorrows—these have power to wake more bitter anger than I would care to own to, or, it may be, should find strength to repress.
Are we at peace, then?—Yes?—I am glad to hear it. We shall chat pleasantly for half an hour, nor perhaps like each other less for our communion. I am glad thou art not one of those cold unimaginative realists—one of those rational utilitarians, who see no
"value in a thing
But just so much as it will bring,"
—who gauge all excellence by the market-price of the article, and reduce all sensations to the cold majors and minors of a logical analysis;—men who would prefer a serviceable walking-stick to Cæsar's broken truncheon, or a hall-stamped silver fork to the rust-eaten sword of the Macedonian conqueror—men who tell us, with a laugh, that the moon we gaze on nightly, the green hill that meets us in our morning walk, or the broken granite our foot kicks from the road-side path, have more antiquity than all the gems the cabinet of the collector ever boasted.
Short sighted reasoners! Age is but the canvas on which imagination paints its pictures—association is the undying colour that transfers there the mind's thick-thronging images, giving the floating vague ideal a "local habitation," and a place of rest. The moon that shines in brightness—the hill that smiles in verdure—the rock that scorns the elements in its strength—these have no link with man's ephemeral toils; they own a life apart from him, and look unmoved upon his birth and his decay—none of his generations claim prescriptive right in them—He who created, framed them for a world, with which they are co-eval and co-durable. But in the time-worn coin and the mouldering arch, we gaze upon the work of man—one of ourselves, who in his little day felt as we feel, strove as we struggle; we see the skill that formed them, the hands that handled, the feet that trod beneath. From our hill-top, we look back on the road they passed so many ages since, yet touch the monuments they left behind them—and strive to track, by history's glimmering lamp, their very footsteps' prints. These records once lost, all skill of modern art is powerless to fill their place again. Imagination, restless as the ark-borne bird, spreads out her wings only to hover over a waste of waters; and finding not a spot on which to rest her foot, turns home again with drooping and exhausted pinions. Could Gillow's skill restore the time-worn chair my forefathers for generations drew beside their blazing hearth?—Could Collard's stores replace that jingling jarring harpsichord, over whose keys I have watched, so long ago, the fairy fingers flying, while a bright young face, that seemed a very cherub's, shook its clustering curls aside to turn, with laughing joyousness, its witching gaze on mine?—No! nor could Stultz supply again that coat—that dear old coat which, once a year, upon one anniversary, is still drawn from its sacred resting place; its creases smoothed, and well worn seams brushed with such tender care—then spread to view; while two pair of still fond though failing eyes look tearfully into each other, and two pair of thin and withered lips draw near and meet together with as fond a pressure as the ripe fulness of their earliest youth had ever known!—Oh, bless that dear old coat!
It was an important day when first I put it on—that most important day which makes the epoch from which all after days are counted—that day whose date the weakest memory retains for ever—my wedding day! That coat was not entrusted to the homely tailor who till that day had clothed my outer man. It was the effort of a far superior artist—the price avouched it—and yet no price could be too high for such a work of genius—for the fit—the style—the air which it at once communicated to one who till this hour had only looked a very plain and unpretending, in fact, a rather clumsy young man.
There seemed even amoral talisman within it. I felt elevated in the scale of society—I recognized, with astonishment, in myself, that air distingué which had so often won my admiration in others of my species. I longed to rush into the street and meet my old acquaintance—I could have warmly shaken even my employer by the hand, and never blushed. I felt myself a gentleman—I felt (oh folly!) more worthy of that fairy creature whose trembling arm should be the first to press the satin-like softness of its sleeve!—reader, do not frown—spare the contempts of thy maturely bristled lips!—I was young—very young. Not twenty summers had, then, poured their maturing influences on the dark curly head which, now, is white with seventy five—and my sweet bride—she was but seventeen.
We were young—far too young. Her parents—(I had none) assured us so; but she was one of ten genteelly reared, but scantily provided, children—and domestic straits urged many a gentle plea to back the ardour of two who only believed that love was happiness—that marriage must be rapture—and life too short a span to bear abstraction of one hour of bliss. And, then, was I not independent? A salary of a hundred and fifty pounds a year already, with a future of increase that had no settled limits—and my employers, merchants of a substance and stability no sceptic could be bold enough to question. Like Cassio we were "arithmeticians," too; and, with grave faces, sometimes disturbed indeed with smiles, or blushes, we had counted up our costs—retrenching here, augmenting there, yet always ending with enough.
World-hardened man of fifty years' experience, thou wouldst perhaps have sneered over our childish fallacies; yet have thine own deep calculations never failed, though based on knowledge the profoundest, and wrought out with all the force of thy consummate skill?
And, then, had we not love?—in itself a counterbalance to outweigh ten thousand other failures—love, that, if need should be, would furnish energy for every struggle—patience for all endurance. Love, that, like heaven's great lamp, shines with as bright a ray upon the humblest hovel as on the lordliest palace, and gilds them both alike!—Yes, there at least was no miscalculation—tried, tested, to the utmost, that has never failed—never, not even for an hour.
My Emma! At the call, that almost childish figure rises again in its light buoyancy, and stands before me as it stood in love's first infancy. Was she beautiful with what the world calls beauty?—I never could determine. The outer form to me was ever but as a transparent shell, through which I saw the lovely soul within.
She was a gay, light-hearted, fairy thing—the pet of her own household—the spoiled child of all who knew her, and winning acquiescence to her every fancy; for never did I meet the heart so cold, or head so reasonable, that could resist her pretty blandishments, or playful tyranny. And, yet, not speeder do her a grievous wrong. A word, a look, could ways call her from her wildest flights; a frown would bring her trembling to the breast she loved with such a tearful penitence, that the frown died into a smile in its very birth, and you reproached yourself that you had looked with even a moment's harshness upon one so gentle, and so sensitive. She was a bee, to whom each flower she passed offered its stores alike; but who from all, the nettle or the rose, drew nothing but her own pure honey.
They are sweet days, the early days of marriage—sweet, but dangerous. The holiday on which we had so eagerly counted has arrived, and enjoyment seems its only business. The dragon Prudence, which had kept so stern a guard over our purse strings, now is lulled to sleep; and light-hearted Pleasure, seizing his charge, administers his office. For a few days or weeks, the poor man knows no difference between him and the rich. He has laid by a little store for happiness, and now he draws upon it freely. His pride, no less than his affection, finds its joys in heaping pleasures on his bright young wife; and she, as yet unweaned from the exacting days of courtship, when all were gifts to her, has yet to learn the strait economy of married life, and to discover that her husband's purse is equally her own.
We were no wiser than our kind. Our pleasures, not indeed expensive, were of almost daily repetition; but, then, each one was at such a trifling cost, that to grudge it would have been meanness. The country walk, which needed the refreshment of the cup of tea, under the spreading trees behind the roadside inn; and then, too tempting in its beauty, led us on—on—till the return on foot was past our strength, and the last stage scarce brought us home to supper: or the bright cheerful evening, with a few especial friends (grown rather numerous by the consolidation of our double connexion), to whom mere hospitality required the offer of something more than our accustomed dicks or, now and then, the play, the witching play (it was but to the pit), with that unequalled actor, and all its crowd of thrilling terrors, or its spirit-stirring mirth, supplying recollections for a week to come:—and Emma so enjoyed them all, that looking in her bright young face drove every rising calculation from my mind, and I submitted blindfold to the current upon which we floated. I had not the heart to grudge innocent recreations, which made her so happy.
Months passed on thus, unheeded. A failing purse, however, forces recollection on even the most thoughtless. Mine was empty: and quarter day still distant. The first discovery of this fell on me with as abrupt a strangeness as though it never could have been anticipated. A sickening chill struck to my heart; and yet—oh worst of folly!—more than folly—crime—I had not courage to make my wife my confidante. I could not bear to dim that sparkling eye—to call a sigh from that light bounding heart—to plant the arrows of anxiety in that young joyous bosom. Her condition, too, was one which demanded every consideration. Her spirits were tender—her health seemed shaken. Walking was a pain, a weariness—yet exercise was prescribed to her.—She must ride.
Oh! now indeed began the horrid sense of poverty. How little does the casual medical attendant dream the wringing of the heart he causes, when he recommends some remedy beyond the sufferer's means—wine to the pauper—distant change of air to him who lacks the means even for a change of food—or carriage exercise to him who looks, with longing eyes, on the cheap omnibus that would abridge his weary walk, but which asks the sixpence he cannot afford to pay!
I shrank from borrowing, for I saw no prospect of a power to reimburse the lender; yet I did borrow. My wife must have—should have—all that her state required, though I should sell myself to slavery to obtain it. I felt that had the choice been offered me, I would have rather sold myself to slavery than asked assistance from another's purse. But here there is no mart for slaves, and I became a borrower. For the first time in my life I was in debt!
As I had never been known to ask a loan before, I obtained it without difficulty from a friend not much more rich in income than myself; but he was a prudent, careful man, who always limited his outlay to his means, and kept a little in reserve. As I received the money, I dared not look him in the face. My own flushed with shame, and my hand trembled, my knees knocked together—I felt that I was robbing him with all the meanness of a swindler. But the pale countenance of my suffering wife rose before me; and, with some vague undefined purpose of increased exertion, and severe economy, I clutched the note with trembling fingers.
On my return, Emma began to speak of the approaching time, and of her mother and an elder sister, who had promised to be with her in her hour of trial. She had arranged for them to come at once, and only waited my consent to send the invitation, which she held ready written in her hand.
My heart sank, cold and sick, at the first words of this approaching increase of expenditure, and my lips were opened to object—to tell the fatal, the unsuspected truth. But as she spoke of the meeting with those dear and so long unseen relations, as she glanced round with complacency and modest pride at all the comforts of our little home, yet planned some re-arrangements, too, to give more finish, more effect to all, the languor of sickness seemed to pass away, her eye sparkled again with its old light, her lip smiled with its former mirth, her cheek glowed with its forgotten colour. Had the preservation of my life at that moment depended on my breaking that sweet pure dream of happiness, I could not have done it! And then she led me to a drawer, and, between smiles and blushes, opening it, disclosed to me a store of tiny clothes, and looked up in my face with such soft swimming eyes, and such a holy tenderness, I clasped her to my breast, and burst into a flood of passionate tears. She thought them tears of love—and so they were; but, alas, poor girl! she little dreamt that drops of bitter, bitter misery, mingled, at least in equal portions, with them. But she was happy—very, very happy. The letter went that night, and, in a day or two, the invited guests arrived.
Meanwhile, did I yield in quiet apathy to the crushing force of circumstances which appeared thus to drive me on to ruin? Oh no. I felt a desperate energy—I struggled, like a drowning man, against the tide. In my employer's counting house there was a temporary pressure of work beyond the power of our ordinary strength to master it. I undertook, for a pecuniary consideration, to bring up all arrears. I made a thousand excuses at home for repeated and lengthened absences. From the first dawn of day till deep into the night, I laboured like the slave chained to the oar. I grudged myself the penny that bought the morsel of bread which, with a draught of water, supplied the dinner that else had cost a shilling:—and I had my reward. Although the time of payment had not arrived, I felt that I was accumulating a little hoard of an inestimable value—and the lightness of my heart supplied fresh strength to my exhausted frame, as, every night, I counted up the earnings of the day.
At last, my child was born. The mother's sufferings were severe and long protracted. Two physicians were summoned to her side—and, again and again, they made their visits. Wine was ordered—the best of wine. New charges, new expenses met me at every turn. I had not, now, a shilling—I was in debt—yet money, money, must be obtained! I was in debt—ay—but the thought occurred, was I not a creditor too? For what had I been toiling till exhausted nature almost sank beneath the labour? What though my work was yet unfinished—what was done had earned its payment, and I knew to a sixpence its amount. It would be sufficient for the present need. I was entrusted with a cash account—money lay in my hands—the settlement that checked it was a quarterly one, and, at the quarter day, I should be paid all that was due to me. I took the money!
Solemnly—most solemnly do I declare, I would not have wronged my employer of even the value of the pen I wrote with. I looked upon my act but as the borrowing from one who was my debtor the sum which, in a few weeks more, he was to pay me. In my desperate need of help, my conscience scarcely felt even a misgiving as to what I did; yet, still, to tread so close upon the line which separates honour from dishonesty, I knew was like balancing along a precipice's brink; and, though I believed my footing safe, I trembled in every limb, and started at every sound, as I hurriedly thrust into my purse another's money, confided to my keeping for a very different purpose.
The relief it brought, however, soon obliterated the painful feeling; and, as I watched its rapid exhaustion, I began again to calculate the further trifle I had since earned, and to project self-payment of a still further instalment.
My wife, meanwhile, though delicate and feeble still, was convalescent—my visitors departed—home resumed its customary quiet—and the time at length seemed arrived when the long entertained resolutions of retrenchment could be acted on, and a firm effort made to stem the torrent which was hurrying me to ruin. For myself, I could have borne the severest privations without a complaint:—they could scarce be greater than those which, latterly, I had voluntarily inflicted on myself;—but to reveal to my thoughtless and unsuspecting wife the extent of my embarrassments—to bid her at once forego all the enjoyments it had been my delight to minister to her, and which had now become things of custom—this was indeed a bitter—a miserable thought! Again and again I made the effort—and as frequently my courage failed. She looked so delicate—so fragile—I dared not make the horrible announcement. Not yet—I said—not yet. In a few days she will have gained more strength—and, then, I will tell her—then she will be better able to bear the unexpected communication.
When this period would have arrived, or how long the mingled workings of fear and of affection might still have found excuses for delay, I cannot divine. One morning, on arriving at the counting house, I found all in confusion; consternation was upon every brow—the clerks, with pale faces, stood whispering together in a group—strangers with angry looks were there;—the secret was soon told—the house, that morning, had stopped payment!
I will not attempt—it is past my power—to describe the horrid chilly sinking that struck a kind of palsy on my heart at this announcement. I staggered against the wall, and stood some minutes staring stupidly upon the scene before me. But then, like a lightning-flash, shot through my mind the thought of my deficient cash box. The management of all things would pass immediately to other hands—all would be examined—every figure scrutinized with the keen eyes of disappointed creditors. My character!—A voice appeared to whisper in my ear "embezzlement." I turned aside in horror, but the word still rang clear and distinct—"embezzlement!" I could hear nothing else—the very pulse of my brain seemed to repeat it—slow, regular, distinct, unvarying, unceasing, merciless, as the distracting tolling of a death bell! I fixed my eyes upon the wall—"embezzlement" was painted on it in large clear characters. I sank them on the floor—but still that horrid word glared on me, written there. I could endure no more—I rushed out of the house and fled!
I found myself at home—I heard my wife's gay voice in playful prattle with her child. I did not hesitate—pausing was useless—I walked into the room. I was conscious of a cry of surprise and fear as her eye fell upon me, but I do not know what followed. It is to this hour a blank in my recollections—but I talked, and, I believe, tried to spare her something of my own overwhelming misery. The next thing I remember is, that she was sitting by my side, her arm was round my neck, her hand held mine; she was pale, very pale, but she spoke calmly and collectedly, and led me on till nothing was concealed from her. My heart felt lighter, then.
Gently she blamed me for my want of confidence before—more bitterly accused herself of thoughtlessness and inconsideration. But we must act, not talk—and, with a clearness of mind and soundness of judgment that astonished me, that merry, heedless, light-hearted girl, as I had always thought her, took up the reins which I, in my despondency, had cast away, and appeared at once as my counsellor and my guide. After a rapid, dispassionate survey of our embarrassments, she turned to seek the means of our relief; sketched out a course of strict economy, more strict than I myself should have had courage to propose; and projected plans for the future, so full of hope and likelihood, that the ravelled skein of our misfortunes seemed already, in her hands, reduced to order and easy disentanglement.
My deficiency at the counting house needed the first attention—and, at the very mention of this, I again sprang to my feet in terror. A broker was immediately sought for, and such articles of furniture as could be with the least inconvenience dispensed with were sold to him at once. Clutching the amount convulsively in my hand, I flew back to my place of business, gasping with fright lest the discovery should already have been made. But I was safe—my absence had not even been noticed—my desk was undisturbed. Hurriedly glancing round to be assured that I was unobserved, I replaced the money.
It was done—my character was saved! But the revulsion of security was too much for my strength—the blood rushed throbbing to my head—my heart felt sick—objects swam dizzily before my eyes—I tried to rouse myself—I staggered a few steps, I tried to master the confusion, but in vain.—But all grew dim, and I fell heavily and senseless on the floor.
I do not know what ensued. Strange images flashed fitfully before me, while the burning heat of fever parched up my veins. Sometimes I saw a woman—it could not be my wife, for she was a gay, lightsome-hearted thing, all smiles and mirth, and this was pale and haggard—she held an infant to her breast, and in a distant corner wept and sobbed in silence over it. Then I would speak, and then I always found that figure standing close by my side, and it grew again my wife, with smiles and pleasant words, and a light cheerful voice—till once again all faded into vacancy. And sometimes I would see the woman, her pale face buried in her hands, kneeling in prayer beside my bed, which trembled with the gasping sobs that shook her frame; but still, one word from me, and the sobs always ceased, and there again was my wife's cheerful voice lulling me back into forgetfulness.
At last I woke to perfect consciousness, and looked inquiringly about me. The room was strange and meanly furnished, and the only familiar objects which met my eyes were such as I remembered had been cast aside long since as useless worn-out lumber. I opened my lips to ask an explanation, but I was so weak I scarcely could articulate. The feeble sound, however, was sufficient to draw the restless watcher instantly to my side. It was indeed my wife—pale, thin, worn, haggard, as she had flitted by in my disjointed dreams; but when she looked into my face and saw intelligence there, and heard connected questions from my lips, joy, youth, health, life, like a bright lightning-flash, again shot sparkling over every feature. For one moment she gazed incredulously, and then, with a faint cry of happiness, she flung herself upon her knees, buried her face in my bosom, and we wept sweet holy tears of love and gratitude together.
I will not pause over the slow stages of my lingering convalescence, nor dwell upon the anxious watchfulness, the unsleeping care, the gentle artifice, that strove to cover from me all that could wake a pang of sorrow for the past, or a fear for the dark future. To see the smiling, glowing face that always beamed upon me—to hear the cheering, hopeful voice that always sounded on my ear—you would have thought we only lived for happiness. And, indeed, was it not so?—for did we not once again live to each other?
And, now, eagerly I struggled after strength, as though the will could give it. The one deep craving longing was for the time when I might once again fling myself on the world, and seek my lost subsistence there. It came, at last. I could now walk unaided, and my earliest effort should be in search of some employment.
Naturally anxious as to my personal appearance, when bent on such an errand, I asked for my best clothes. The painful blush that answered me was soon explained—they had been parted with—they and all else that I possessed had by degrees been sold, or pawned, to furnish food and medicine! The coat I wore, an old, soiled, threadbare hack, alone remained to me. I looked at it—it was my wedding coat. Its former glories and its present seediness seemed fitting types of my past joys and actual sufferings. Dear, dear old friend, forgive me; but I blushed at the mere thought of wearing thee in the bright glare of day, and under the cold unsympathising eyes of men! However, there was no resource: and, after hours of useless effort to restore to it some shadow of respectability, [ put it on, and sallied forth to seek my former friends, and ask their aid in finding me employment.
An unfeigned start of wonder was my general recognition. Some were cold and distant—some kind and pitying—all promised they would make inquiries for me; but none could, at that moment, recommend me where to address myself.
I then turned to strangers, for my necessities admitted of no delay: but a glance at my threadbare coat, and famine and sickness-shrunken face, seemed always sufficient to decide against me. Day after day, I dragged my feeble limbs about the wealthy active town—night after night, returned with disappointment, weariness, despair. The customary words of hope, that still tried to cheer me, lost all their power; the quivering lips that uttered them were belied by the dull heavy eye which told me she herself believed in them no longer.
One morning, I entered a strange counting-house, with my usual application for employment.
"Employment!" echoed a short, harsh-spoken, rugged-featured man, himself dressed with the most precise neatness. "Employment in such a coat as that?"—and he scanned me from head to foot.—"Why, you would be a disgrace to any respectable house, merely to be seen in it."
made no answer; but perhaps the misery written on my wasted features conveyed a reproach that touched him, for he added, in a gentle voice,—"Poverty seldom comes without previous misconduct or imprudence. But you are ill, too: what is the matter with you?"
In spite of his harsh reception of me, there seemed a lurking kindliness in his voice, and I took courage to tell him my short melancholy story. He listened, with his quick gray eye fixed on my face, as if upon the watch for any shade of falsehood or concealment. But there was no occasion. His short inquiry was the first word of interest or sympathy which I had met with, and my heart opened to. it. I told him all, honestly, simply, without an effort at excuse or palliation.
"Let me see you write," he said abruptly, as he pushed a sheet of paper and a pen towards me.
My heart leaped with sudden hope. What daring possessed me I know not, but I seized the pen and wrote,—"An old coat which is paid for is more truly respectable than a new one which is not, and never may be so." He shot a quick keen glance at me, and his features relaxed into something like a smile.
"It is a good hand," he said, "and a better sentiment." He added, after a short pause—"Will you work tor fifteen shillings a week?"
I eagerly accepted the proposal. The miserable pittance seemed a mine of wealth, and, as my eyes sparkled with happiness, again the little man smiled. I did not think his rugged features could have borne so pleasing an expression.
"You may begin, then, when you please," he said, " but understand, I only engage you from week to week. The permanence of your employment must depend upon your application—"
"With your permission I will begin this instant," I replied: but seeing that I suddenly checked myself and paused, my new employer inquired with sharpness,
"What is the matter now, sir?"
"I only would request an hour's liberty, first," I answered, "time enough to tell my wife of my good fortune.—It will spare her some hours of anxious wretchedness, and she has had too many of them."
"Go—go, to be sure," he said, turning away so hurriedly that I could not see his face.
Oh, did they who have the means of giving happiness but know the bliss they can confer, they would be little niggard in the use of them! I would have wished that man no better payment for his kindness, than the sight of my first meeting with my wife.—To witness our smiles, our tears, our kisses, our congratulations, he might have thought we never tasted real joy before.
I was not indolent by nature, and I had now every incentive to exertion.—I felt too that the quiet observant eye of Mr. Brown, my new employer, was constantly upon me, and I determined that my exertions and application should leave him nothing for dissatisfaction, or reproach. A month passed thus, and as I stood before him to receive my weekly stipend, he said—
"This is the fourth; I am pleased with you, Sir. You are worth more than you receive—it shall be doubled. I owe you the difference for the past, since it is but fair that all the service I receive should be paid for at what I consider its value.—There, Sir, is the balance." And he laid three pounds before me. I could not speak: my lips only quivered, and my eyes filled with tears; but he understood me, and gently pushing me away, said,
"There, go home to your wife; and, my dear fellow, do now treat yourself to a new coat, for I never in my life was so much ashamed of anything in my counting-house as that!"
Yet, another month passed by, and the same coat still made its regular appearance in the old gentleman's presence every morning. I saw him grow restless, fidgetty, dissatisfied, cross. At last, one morning he exclaimed—"I thought I told you, Sir, long ago, that I was sick and disgusted with the sight of that infernal coat! I think, though thirty shillings a week is not a fortune, you might, by this, with a little economy, have spared enough to make yourself respectable."
Abashed and grieved, I answered timidly—"I am still in debt, Sir. The loan, with which I informed you a kind friend relieved my earliest embarrassments, is yet but repaid in part."
"What! and is your creditor so pressing that he cannot see the opportunity of squeezing a few shillings out of you without availing himself of it to the utmost?"
"No, Sir," I answered: "you do his generosity injustice. He would never have alluded to the subject, and I have difficulty even in forcing the gradual repayment on him. But he has himself fallen into a misfortune not unlike my own; and surely, while I am his debtor, and see him struggling with distress, it would be heartless robbery for me to expend anything upon myself beyond what may be necessary for mere subsistence."
"And your wife!" said Mr. Brown, "Does she permit this quixotry?"
"She does more, Sir; she assists it by every sacrifice in her power. I could not love her with the veneration I do," I continued warmly, "if her principles were one whit less pure than her heart!"
The old gentleman scrutinized me sharply for a moment, with his searching eyes, and then muttering "Very well," resumed his writing.
For the remainder of the day, I felt that there was something more than usually kind in his manner to me; and in the afternoon, when he rose to go home, he said—
"Lock up your desk, now, I want you to dine with me to day. I want to make my wife and children know a man who has taught me that 'an old coat which is paid for is more truly respectable than the newest one that is not, and never may be;' and who will even risk offending the employer, on whom depends his scanty bread, rather than sacrifice an honourable principle."
I scarcely know what I answered in the confusion of my embarrassment; but I suggested what would be my wife's alarm if I neglected to return home at my accustomed time.
"I have provided for that," he answered. "I have sent a note to her to apprize her of my purpose."
He would permit no further reply, and the next minute saw us sally into the street together, when he drew my arm through his, and pressed against his own that same "infernal old coat," whose shabbiness he had so bitterly inveighed against that very morning. In reply to my timid remonstrance he only said—
"It is a livery, Sir, more honourable to you than the gay officer's scarlet, yonder, is to him."
We reached the house: it was not elegant, though respectable; for Mr. Brown was not a wealthy man. Comfort and neatness seemed its chief characteristics. But, when I blushingly entered the drawing-room, who shall describe my wonder, my delight, my pride, to find there my own dear wife, in friendly, easy conversation with the benevolent and gentle-looking mistress of the house!
"I am glad to know you, Ma'am," said Mr. Brown, advancing and cordially taking her hand; "I respect you: you are worthy of your husband—and he is an honest, honourable man—ay, and an industrious one too—though he is not exactly a dandy," he added, with a good humoured smile. Then, seeing my embarrassment, he turned to his own wife, and continued—
"My young friend is rather ashamed of his old coat; but, if you knew its history, it is his badge of honour. He owes it some obligation too, for it has revealed the secrets of high principles, which might otherwise never have been known; and, if he continues as he has begun, it may lead to his being a better and a richer man than ever he was before."
That happy evening stands to this moment a bright star in the recollections of my past life. The first awkward restraint was soon removed; and a more cheerful, a merrier party, I am sure was not to be found in London than that which was assembled round that good man's table. I never could have guessed he had himself so measureless a fund of mirth and humour in him. Blessings be on his memory—for he long since slumbers with his fathers—but he had first built up a man in me. I served him till his death—promoted gradually, till I was made the manager of his business. For many subsequent years I served his son, with whom my own son, in turn, now fills my place. Economy, that never has been meanness, but which always proportioned its demands to my resources, has laid by a little store sufficient for the comforts of my age; while my wife, my still precious, still idolized wife—
I am forbidden to proceed! A gray-headed old woman, but with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and laugh upon her lip that would do credit to sixteen, has peeped over my shoulder, and snatched the pen out of my hand, leaving a great blot in its place! Well, well—she must have her way—she always has—and who so well deserves it? But this I will add—that that dear old coat, the fountain and foundation of all my fortune, is still preserved and reverenced like our household lares,/i>. My children have grown up in veneration of it; and it was but this morning that I heard a little lisping voice inquiring of a playfellow, "Did you ever see dear Grandpapa's Old Coat?"