Lord, you can’t think, Miss, what fun it is!”
This occasioned a fresh quarrel with the sisters; at the end of which, it was at length decided that we should go to the shop.
In our way down stairs, Miss Branghton said aloud, “I wonder when Mr. Smith’s room will be ready.”
“So do I,” answered Polly; “I’m sure we should not do any harm to it now.”
This hint had not the desired effect; for we were suffered to proceed very quietly.
As we entered the shop, I observed a young man in deep mourning leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground, apparently in profound and melancholy meditation; but the moment he perceived us, he started, and, making a passing bow, very abruptly retired. As I found he was permitted to go quite unnoticed, I could not forbear enquiring who he was.
“Lord!” answered Miss Branghton, “he’s nothing but a poor Scotch poet.”
“For my part,” said Miss Polly, “I believe he’s just starved, for I don’t find he has anything to live upon.”
“Live upon!” cried the brother; “why, he’s a poet, you know, so he may live upon learning.”
“Aye, and good enough for him, too,” said Miss Branghton; “for he’s as proud as he’s poor.”
“Like enough,” replied the brother; “but, for all that, you won’t find he will live without meat and drink: no, no, catch a Scotchman at that if you can! why, they only come here for what they can get.”
“I’m sure,” said Miss Branghton, “I wonder Papa’ll be such a fool as to let him stay in the house, for I dare say he’ll never pay for his lodging.”
“Why, no more he would, if he could get another lodger. You know the bill has been put up this fortnight. Miss, if you should hear of a person that wants a room, I assure you it is a very good one, for all it’s up three pair of stairs.”
I answered, that as I had no acquaintance in London, I had not any chance of assisting them: but both my compassion and my curiosity were excited for this poor young man; and I asked them some further particulars concerning him.
They then acquainted me, that they had only known him three months. When he first lodged with them, he agreed to board also; but had lately told them he would eat by himself, though they all believed he had hardly ever tasted a morsel of meat since he left their table. They said, that he had always appeared very low-spirited; but for the last month he had been duller than ever; and, all of a sudden, he had put himself into mourning, though they knew not for whom, nor for what; but they supposed it was only for convenience, as no person had ever been to see or enquire for him since his residence amongst them: and they were sure he was very poor, as he had not paid for his lodgings the last three weeks: and, finally, they concluded he was a poet, or else half-crazy, because they had, at different times, found scraps of poetry in his room.
They then produced some unfinished verses, written on small pieces of paper, unconnected, and of a most melancholy cast. Among them was the fragment of an ode, which, at my request, they lent to me to copy; and as you may perhaps like to see it, I will write it now.
O LIFE! thou lingering dream of grief, of pain,
And every ill that Nature can sustain,
Strange, mutable, and wild!
Now flattering with Hope most fair,
Depressing now with fell Despair,
The nurse of Guilt, the slave of Pride,
That, like a wayward child,
Who, to himself a foe,
Sees joy alone in what’s denied,
In what is granted, woe!
O thou poor, feeble, fleeting, pow’r,
By Vice seduc’d, by Folly woo’d,
By Mis’ry, Shame, Remorse, pursu’d;
And as thy toilsome steps proceed,
Seeming to Youth the fairest flow’r,
Proving to Age the rankest weed,
A gilded but a bitter pill,
Of varied, great, and complicated ill!
These lines are harsh, but they indicate an internal wretchedness, which I own, affects me. Surely this young man must be involved in misfortunes of no common nature but I cannot imagine what can induce him to remain with this unfeeling family, where he is, most unworthily, despised for being poor, and most illiberally detested for being a Scotchman. He may, indeed, have motives, which he cannot surmount, for submitting to such a situation. Whatever they are, I most heartily pity him, and cannot but wish it were in my power to afford him some relief.
During this conversation, Mr. Smith’s foot-boy came to Miss Branghton, and informed her, that his master said she might have the room now when she liked it, for that he was presently going out.
This very genteel message, though it perfectly satisfied the Miss Branghtons, by no means added to my desire of being introduced to this gentleman; and upon their rising, with intention to accept his offer, I begged they would excuse my attending them, and said I would sit with Madame Duval till the tea was ready.
I therefore once more went up two pair of stairs with young Branghton, who insisted upon accompanying me; and there we remained till Mr. Smith’s foot-boy summoned us to tea, when I followed Madame Duval into the dining-room.
The Miss Branghtons were seated at one window, and Mr. Smith was lolling indolently out of the other. They all approached us at our entrance; and Mr. Smith, probably to show he was master of the department, most officiously handed me to a great chair at the upper end of the room, without taking any notice of Madame Duval, till I rose and offered her my own seat.
Leaving the rest of the company to entertain themselves, he very abruptly began to address himself to me, in a style of gallantry equally new and disagreeable to me. It is true, no man can possibly pay me greater compliments, or make more fine speeches, than Sir Clement Willoughby: yet his language, though too flowery, is always that of a gentleman; and his address and manners are so very superior to those of the inhabitants of this house, that, to make any comparison between him and Mr. Smith, would be extremely unjust. This latter seems very desirous of appearing a man of gaiety and spirit; but his vivacity is so low-bred, and his whole behaviour so forward and disagreeable, that I should prefer the company of dullness itself, even as that goddess is described by Pope, to that of this sprightly young man.
He made many apologies that he had not lent his room for our dinner, which he said, he should certainly have done, had he seen me first: and he assured me, that when I came again, he should be very glad to oblige me.
I told him, and with sincerity, that every part of the house was equally indifferent to me.
“Why,
