Kitabı oku: «Literary Byways», sayfa 10
A Biographical Romance. Swan’s Strange Story
In the olden days the misfortunes of William Swan frequently formed the topic of conversation amongst friends, who gathered round the fireside in the homes on the wild wolds of Yorkshire, where he spent some years of his disappointed life. The full details of his career have been lost in the lapse of time; never, to our knowledge, have they been committed to paper, but sufficient particulars may be brought together to prove in his case the truth of the old saying that “fact is stranger than fiction.”
Nearly two centuries ago there was joy in Benwell Hall, near Newcastle-on-Tyne, the stately mansion of Richard Swan, Esq., the occasion of the rejoicing being the birth of an heir. The parents dreamed of a bright future for their boy, and proudly predicted that he would, in a worthy manner, perpetuate the name and fame of Swan. The happy expectations of boyhood were not to be realised, for the young heir had barely reached the age of nine years, when he was kidnapped from his home, in order that another might inherit the wealth that by kinship belonged to him. He was quietly shipped on board the “New Britannia” brig, which formed part of the squadron under command of the famous Sir Cloudesley Shovel. His position was that of a “powder monkey,” and his chief employment was to bring powder from the magazine to the gunners during the naval engagements. On the 22nd of October, 1707, the fleet was wrecked on the Scilly Isles, owing to the Admiral mistaking the rocks for the sea-coast. No less than eight hundred brave men found a watery grave, and several vessels were lost. Happily the ship in which Swan sailed escaped destruction. Ill-fate, however, followed in its wake, for, shortly afterwards, it was captured by an Algerine corsair, and Swan was sold to the Moors as a slave. Four weary years were passed in Barbary. He gained his liberty through the assistance of the Redeeming Friars, a noble body of men who were the means of freeing thousands of Christians from captivity. Many benevolent persons left large sums of money for redeeming their fellow countrymen from bondage, and this money was expended judiciously through the agency of the Friars.
Swan had not the good fortune to reach his home in safety. He was again taken prisoner, and sold once more into slavery, this time to an English planter in South Carolina. Here his sufferings were terrible. He toiled with negroes from sunrise to sunset, the slave-drivers keeping them busy at work in the cotton and sugar plantations by means of the lash. Managing to escape, he landed, after an exile of twenty years, on his native shore in 1726, and speedily made his way to Newcastle-on-Tyne. His father’s footman, Thomas Chance, and his old nurse, Mrs. Gofton, identified him, and he at once instituted a claim for the estate of his uncle, Alderman Swan, Mayor of Hull, who had died and left property yielding an income of £20,000 a year. His efforts proved unsuccessful, and the deep disappointment broke his heart, his death occurring in 1736, at the age of thirty-eight years.
Swan had married a Yorkshire woman called Jane Cole, of North Dalton, near Driffield, by whom he had a son named William. The widowed mother told her boy, as soon as he was able to understand, that he was the rightful heir to vast estates, and encouraged him to persevere to obtain them. The melancholy fate of her husband was not sufficient to crush her ardent spirit. A lawyer at Driffield was consulted, and he advised that action be taken. He undertook to conduct the case without payment until the estates were obtained, beyond the sums for correspondence, court fees, etc. The man, however, drained the poor fellow of every penny that he could procure, and both mother and son denied themselves the necessaries of life to keep up the constant demands of the solicitor. Months and years passed without getting any satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Swan at last felt the case to be hopeless, and the anxious waiting, with its disappointing results, preyed so on her mind that she fell into ill-health and died. Speaking to her son before her death, she said: “Oh, William, let this horrid plea drop. Don’t pay that man any more money. I feel that he would skin us both alive. They are a bad set all these law men.” William was young, and like the majority of young people, hope was firmly fixed in his nature. He not only devoted all his money to law, but bought a second-hand copy of “Blackstone’s Commentaries,” and spent all his leisure time in studying it, until he was complete master of the work. After the death of his mother, he gave up house-keeping, and took lodgings with a widow, having a daughter about twenty-four years of age. They became interested in his case, and lent him money to carry on his suit. A rich uncle had left the girl a few hundred pounds. The young couple were brought into sympathy with each other, which ripened into mutual affection, and in a short time, with the consent freely given of the mother, they were married. Shortly after the wedding it transpired that the attorney at Driffield had been cheating his client, and instead of using the hard-earned money of William Swan to gain his estates, he had spent it in dissipation, and was a ruined man.
Swan proceeded to London, and consulted another lawyer. This man advised an action which swallowed up the wife’s small fortune, without getting them one step nearer obtaining the estate. Trouble after trouble came upon William. His heart was almost crushed, but he continued the action to the best of his ability. His wife begged of him to leave law alone, to return to their Yorkshire home, live by their industry, and give up all thoughts of the property. He refused to act upon her good advice. He got into debt, and was committed to the Fleet prison on his inability to pay. Here ill luck still followed him, for he caught the jail fever. In his sickness his devoted wife got permission to visit him, and bring him some delicacies. She, alas, caught the fever, and in a few days died. He recovered, but the death of his loving helpmate was almost too much for him. She had endured much for his sake, but never by word or deed showed regret at becoming his wife. Shortly afterwards a jail delivery enabled him to leave prison. His illness rendered him so weak that he could hardly walk. He obtained lodgings in an obscure lane or alley near Chiswell Street, and afterwards was found dead in bed. It is believed that his remains were buried in a pauper’s grave.
Short Letters
The shortest letters on record are two exchanged between a couple of members of the Society of Friends. One of them, wishing to learn if a correspondent in a distant town had any news to communicate, posted to him a quarto sheet of paper, on which nothing but a note of interrogation was written, thus:? (meaning, “what news?”) He received in reply, by next post, a blank sheet of paper, indicating that there was nothing to relate.
Some of the best of brief letters have been penned by members of the dramatic profession. The following are good specimens. A tradesman made application to Mordaunt, the player, for payment of an account, as follows: —
“Sir, – Your bill having been standing a very long time, I beg to have it settled forthwith.
Yours, etc.,J. Thwaites.”
Said the comedian in reply: —
“Sir, – When your bill is tired of standing, it is welcome to sit down.
Yours, etc.,T. H. M.”
The next letters passed between Samuel Foote, the famous actor, and his unfortunate mother: —
“Dear Sam, – I am in prison for debt; come and assist your loving mother,
E. Foote.”
His answer was almost as brief, certainly as pathetic: —
“Dear Mother, – So am I, which prevents his duty being paid to his loving mother by her affectionate son.
Sam Foote.”
“P.S. – I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the meantime let us hope for better days.”
Quin had a misunderstanding with Rich, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, which resulted in the former leaving in an unceremonious manner. He soon regretted the step that he had taken, and wrote to his old friend and manager: —
“I am at Bath.
Quin.”
Rich did not deem such a letter a sufficient apology for his unwarrantable conduct, and thus replied to it: —
“Stay there and be hanged.
Rich.”
The Rev. Sydney Smith, in answer to a friend who had forwarded a letter asking him to sit for his portrait, to be executed by Landseer, the gifted painter, whose pictures of dogs made him famous, sent the following reply: —
“Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?”
Genial Charles Lamb wrote an amusing letter to Haydon, the artist, in answer to an invitation to pay him a visit. The odd address of Haydon was the cause of the note, which ran as follows: —
“My dear Haydon, – I will come, with pleasure, to 22, Lisson Grove, North, at Rossi’s, half-way up, right hand side, if I can find it.
Yours,C. Lamb.”
“20, Russell Court,
Covent Garden, East,
Half-way up, next the corner,
Left-hand side.”
A lady named Morris, of Plymouth, is recorded to have been the first of her sex to venture under water in a diving bell.
She had wit as well as courage, and wrote to her father a rhyming epistle, saying: —
“From a belle, my dear father, you’ve oft had a line,
But not from a bell under water;
Just now I can only assure you I’m thine,
Your diving and dutiful daughter.”
Frank Smedley, the author of “Frank Fairleigh,” addressed to a lady friend the following letter in verse: —
“To Mrs. G. H. Virtue.”
“Thou better half of Virtue, gentle friend,
Fairly to thee, I, Fairleigh, greeting send;
Frankly I give what frankly you desire;
You thus Frank Fairleigh’s autograph acquire.
To make assurance doubly sure, this medley
Of Franks and Fairleighs this I sign —
Frank Smedley.”
A famous sporting character, named Captain O’Byrne, laid a wager about Admiral Payne, and wrote to him as follows: —
“Dear Payne, – Pray, were you bread to the sea?”
The witty Admiral made reply: —
“Dear O’Byrne, – No; but the sea was bread to me.”
It is said that King Charles the Second received the following letter: —
“King Charles, – One of your subjects the other night robbed me of £40, for which I robbed another of the same sum, who has inhumanly sent me to Newgate, and he vows I shall be hanged; therefore, for your own sake, save my life, or you will lose one of the best seamen in your navy.
Jack Skifton.”
His Majesty promptly answered the letter: —
“Jack Skifton, – For this time I’ll save thee from the gallows, but if hereafter thou art guilty of the like, I’ll have thee hanged, though the best seaman in my navy.
Charles Rex.”
Here is a copy of a quaint letter sent to another king. It was written by Dr. Schmidt, sacristan of the Cathedral at Berlin, to Frederick of Prussia:
“Sire, – I acquaint your Majesty, 1st, that they are wanting books of psalms for the Royal Family. I acquaint your Majesty, 2ndly, that there wants wood to warm the Royal seats. And I acquaint your Majesty, 3rdly, that the balustrade next the river, behind the church, is become ruinous.
Schmidt,Sacristan of the Cathedral.”
In reply to the foregoing diverting communication the king wrote: —
“I acquaint Mr. Sacrist Schmidt, 1st, that they who want to sing songs may buy books. I acquaint Mr. Sacrist Schmidt, 2ndly, that those who want to be kept warm may buy wood. I acquaint Mr. Sacrist Schmidt, 3rdly, that I shall not trust any longer to the balustrade next to the river; and I acquaint Mr. Sacrist Schmidt, 4thly, that I will not have any more correspondence with him.
Frederick.”
The following phonographic curiosity is extracted from the Times. It was written by an unsophisticated person to his physician, in Lancashire: —
“Cer yole oblige me uf yole kum and ce me i hev a bad kowld an am hill in mi bow hills an hev lorst mi happetite.
Roger Trooman.”
One Highlander wrote to another the following smart letter: —
“My dear Glengarry, – As soon as you can prove yourself to be my chief, I shall be ready to acknowledge you. In the meantime
I am yours,MacDonald.”
The Duke of Wellington engaged an intelligent Scotch farmer, named Heriot, to act as his private secretary.
“Walking in the city one day,” says the Rev. Dr. Charles Rogers, “Mr. Heriot met an old acquaintance from Scotland.”
“Hallo! Heriot,” said his friend, “what are you doing in London?”
“I am secretary to the Duke of Wellington,” answered Heriot.
“You are nothing of the sort,” said the Scotsman; “and I fear you’re doing little good, since you would impose upon me in this fashion.”
Returning to Scotland, it occurred to Heriot’s acquaintance that he would write to the Duke, warning him that one Heriot “had been passing himself off as his secretary.”
He received the following reply:
“Sir, – I am directed by the Duke of Wellington to acknowledge the receipt of your letter; and I am,
Your obedient servant,J. Heriot,Private Secretary.”
A captain being ordered with his regiment to the Cape, made application to the Duke of Wellington for permission to try and arrange for a transfer to another corps. The “Iron Duke” merely turned up his letter and wrote “Sail or sell,” and returned it to the applicant.
Mr. George Seton, who has devoted much attention to this theme, tells an American story in which a brief letter holds a prominent place. He states that “in 1693, the Rev. Stephen Mix made a journey to Northampton in search of a wife. He arrived at the Rev. Solomon Stoddard’s, and informed him of the object of his visit. Mr. Stoddard introduced him to his six daughters, and then retired. Addressing Mary, the eldest, Mr. Mix said that he had lately settled at Wethersfield, was desirous of obtaining a wife, and concluded by offering his heart and hand. The blushing damsel replied that so important a proposal required time for consideration; and accordingly Mr. Mix left the room in order to smoke a pipe with her father, while she took the case to ‘avizandum.’ On her answer being sent for, she requested further time for consideration; and it was agreed that she should send her answer by letter to Wethersfield. In the course of a few weeks, Mr. Mix received a reply, which was soon followed by the wedding: —
“Northampton,
3rd November, 1693.
Rev. Stephen Mix, – Yes. – Mary Stoddard.”
We will bring to a close our examples of laconic letters with another specimen from the other side of the Atlantic. A notable dark day at Boston, on the 19th March, 1790, induced a lady to write to Dr. Byles, an eccentric but clever notability, the following note: —
“Dear Doctor, – How do you account for this darkness?”
He simply said: —
“Dear Madam, – I am as much in the dark as you are.”
