Golden Hill (18 page)

*

Sir:

You have warned me so many Times, of the Dangers of the World, for such as Us, should We but stray one Step beyond the Bounds of our Safety, that You will not be surprised to discover (after so long a Silence) that my present Accommodation is a Gaol. Not, however, one of the common Bridewells of London, where You may expect Me to have tumbled, after the Misadventures You predicted, when I quit the Patronage of Lord ——, and declined to submit Myself tamely to the Connection He had devis’d for Me at Oxford, in the perpetual Role of Hanger-On to his Son. Instead an Ocean lies between: my Confinement is American. I find Myself lodged in the Debtors’ Prison of the City of New-York. Which is, to particularise less grandly, an Attic of the Town-Hall here. The Apparatus of the Courts, as of the Government, is all conducted upon the Floor beneath. At present I am detain’d upon the civil Suit of my Land-lady and some Merchants and Victuallers with Whom I had run up Bills; but a Date is set for my Trial upon a criminal Charge of Fraud, in the Courtroom below, and if all continues to go ill with Me, as Events seem presently determin’d to do, I shall within some Days pass irresistibly downward through the whole Building, for the criminal Prison is in the Cellar. And though my Fate after that would comprise a brief
Excursion to the Common, it would in a manner of speaking be downward still. Fraud, as I have been informed with vengeful Grinning on all Sides, is a Hanging Offence. So if found guilty, my Destination would be swiftly Subterranean.

I confess, Father, that were it not for this Consideration, I should probably preserve the Silence between Us that has lasted since I declin’d Oxford, and the petted and protected Future that would have followed it, by departing His Lordship’s House in Grosvenor Square, through the Scullery Window. It gives me no Satisfaction to confirm the Judgement which You long ago made, of my Recklessness. Yet I would not desire to quit this dangerous World, without ensuring You receive some Account of your Son, and to tell Truth, there is some Comfort in addressing You thus, for I am Nineteen Parts in Twenty wretched, many Things upon which I had counted or hoped, having misfir’d, or proved flat contrary to my Hopes and Understandings of Them. And as my Pen scratches on, between the bare Walls of Lath and Board, and the Noise of the World’s Business floats up on ever colder Air, to the two unglaz’d Dormers with which my Apartment is provided, I discover in Myself too a meagre Satisfaction, in being able to talk to you at whatever Length I chuse, without You interrupting Me – without it being in your Power, to raise your Voice, or clap a Hand to your Temple, or to declare in your Pulpit Manner, the Strictures of God’s Word upon ungrateful Children. I am not in your Study now, but You in Mine. I may say what I like, while Paper and Ink hold out.

For These I am indebted, to my remaining Friend in this Place, Mr Oakeshott. He is much puzzled, having but recently decided upon my Honesty, by this Sign that (perhaps) I am now
after all not to be relied upon. He does not know, whether He was fooling Himself before, or whether He would be a Fool now, to continue even in so generous a State concerning Me, as Doubt. I exasperate Him: which as You see, is the Mode of my Relations with much of the World, and not just with You. But such is Mr Oakeshott’s Make, that He cannot forebear the Attentions of Charity, having once suffered Himself to feel a Connection. You would recognise and approve Him, Father, in some Things at least. He too is a Child of the Parsonage, inculcated with Principles of Benevolence and Magnanimity that work in Him most comically, whether He will or no, despite a sharp Tongue and a mordant Temper. He saved my Life three Weeks ago, in a Fit of Annoyance. I wish I could give Him better Recompense. – All these are Deductions made in His Absence, for He has not visited Me Himself, but sent his Man Achilles, with a Basket containing some Provisions, and the Means to write this Letter.

‘Is he very angry?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes,’ says Achilles, cheerfully. ‘All the People are telling Him, He has made Friends with a Rogue and a Thief. The Governor scolds Him; then in the Coffee-House They laugh and say, look, the Governor’s Side is the Side for Thieves and Rogues.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘He uses stronger Words, Sir.’

‘Will you tell Him how grateful I am, for—’ and I indicate the Basket, which I can see has Bread, and Cheese, and Apples in It, all bought no Doubt on Oakeshott’s Credit, He possessing little else to share. Achilles has not actually passed it through the wooden Bars of the Apartment yet, but holds it teasingly close.

‘Maybe I wait till he is more calm.’

‘Alright. It is very kind of Him,’ I say, endeavouring not to reach out. (I have not eaten for a Night and a Day at this Moment, it being impossible to adopt the usual Expedient of Debtors, and commission the Turnkey to go to the Merchants for my Meals. Having sued Me for the Amount of my existing Debt to Them, They are inclined to feed me no further. And this is the general Judgement. I may go empty-stomach’d to the Gallows, in the Opinion of New-York.)

‘He is a good Man,’ says Achilles, turning upon Me his small neat Visage, and a smiling Gaze with Intent flickering in it, like a Snake’s Tongue. He has said it before, but now there is a protective Warning in it. Achilles too is angry, I understand. Perhaps more furious than His Master, for what am I to Him?

‘I know that.’

‘Yes, Sir. And you, Sir? What about You?’

I am enough your Son, not to answer that Question with an easy Affirmative. I shrug. Achilles shrugs in return, with a Twist of his Mouth, and hands me the Basket.

‘Well,’ he tosses out, departing, ‘here is the next bad Thing for you, coming along quick, like I said.’

So I dine on one Slice of the Bread, and a Corner of the Cheese, and an Apple; and in the Morning, I breakfast on a Heel of the Bread softened in Water, and another Corner, and another Apple, and I resist the Urge to fill my Belly with more, since I do not know how long I must endure on These alone, and thus I keep Body and Soul scraping along Together. I pray, most gravely I assure You; and I write This, and the Practice of It saves Me from incontinent Howling. For the most Part.

There is little to be found otherwise within these Walls, of
Recreation. The Turnkey, a Mr Reynolds, having so few Clients, scarcely looks in upon Us, and I have had Nothing of my sole fellow Captive, in the wooden Cage across the Floorboards, but Groans, issued from a malodorous Heap of Blankets. He is (reputedly) a decay’d Soldier of some Sort. I can tell by my own Ears and Nose that the last Part of
His
Debt to the good Merchants of New-York, He certainly incurr’d in Liquor.

I watch the slow Progress of the Daylight in the Windows, and I wait, trying to extract some Pleasure in the Snail’s Pace of the Hours, from the Reflection, that if (or when) I step up to the Noose a Week hence, I shall at that Time wish very earnestly that I might exchange the Situation for mere Sorrow and Boredom and Hunger, in a comfortable Cell. But I do not wait well, when I must sit still – as You will recall of course, from Our thousand Collisions upon this very Topick, and the thousand Sermons You have given me, and Whippings too, to recommend the Necessity of Patience, whilst I wriggled and writh’d and chaf’d. You would think, Father, if you could see Me here, that I have learn’d the Lesson, for to the exterior Eye I sit good and patient indeed, upon the Floor, with my Back to the Wall and my Knees up as a Writing-Desk, and Mildness adorning my Countenance. But within I rage, and shout, and kick. There is One, of course, from whom I would desire a Visit more than any Other, were her Purpose in coming nothing save to gloat. But I am not such a Fool, as to ignore the third Demonstration of her Ill-Will toward Me. Fool Me once, fool Me twice, and I retain my Smile of foolish Hope. Fool me three Times, and a stupid Suspicion stirs eventually in Me that my Feelings are not returned. I have not the Heart, to render more fully the Mistakes I have made in this Respect. Suffice it to say, that I mistook Malice for Wit,
and a lively Interest for a kindly One. And yet, She seem’d at Tarrytown – no; no. No, that Way lies my Chance to become a four-fold Fool. With some People, I learn, there is no Mending of Injuries, for there is no Wish to be less than scarred. I am sure, that if I explained Myself to You, You would unfailingly observe, how mad in Me it was, to have entertained any Hopes, placed as I am upon this mad Errand: yet believe Me, that it would point a diverting Moral, and make at least a sour Specimen of Comedy, if You could behold how I, who makes such a Boast that I do what I chuse, found out at Expense the common Knowledge of Mankind, that You do not chuse where You bestow your Heart. Your Heart bestows Itself, will-you-nill-you, in the Midst of other Business. – Perhaps You would not laugh, Father, but regard It as the Beginning of Wisdom.

I can hear the cries of the Costers upon Wall Street, below; and the calling of the Hour; and lately, now the Day darkens, a Dialogue between two waiting Chair-Men, upon the Chances of a Horse they favour to run at Flushing, named Royal Roger. Merriment, and bawdy Jests on the Subject of this Name. But I could make Nothing distinct of the Voices coming up directly through the Floor, from the Court and Assembly. They were too muffl’d, and Business down below is now prorogued, to judge by their Dwindling. It is a melancholy Reflection, that only a few Days past, I was dancing across that very Floor, and there receiving the Solicitations (albeit more terrifying than flattering) of the Powerful. I am imprison’d today, in gross Proximity to my swelling State of yesterday. The Judge, who yesterday cajol’d and threaten’d Me in case I should meddle against Him in the highest of Politics, will tomorrow frown on Me, as the Prisoner at the Bar. You would take from This, a Lesson in the World’s
Untrustworthiness – a Model of how slippery our Estates are, within It; how scantly possessed, on how weak a Security – and therefore, how much to be clung to, lest they slip from our Fingers. But I hold the Opposite. I take it as a Maxim, that One must skate on, though the Ice be thin; skate as fast as may be, as if the Footing be secure, even if it proves not so.

Talking of Ice, it is passing from chilly to freezing, in this Room. When they brought me in, the Day before Yesterday, a rheumatic Fog swaddled the City, but it has cleared. A Turn of the Seasons seems come, a crisping and clarifying Advent of Winter. I have the Suit of Clothes I stand up in, including my Coat, I thank God, but no others to put on. The Air has hardened and stilled. I smell the Smoke of Wood-Fires – not Seacoal, for They have none – rising undisturbed in straight Lines from the Chimneys of the City. Not from this Chamber, though, for We have no Fire nor Fireplace. The Sky, clear blue in the Windows this Afternoon, now descends a Ladder of blue Shades, travels a Spectrum as lucid as Water yet blackening toward Ink. There will be Frost on my Blanket in the Morning. My writing Hand is growing Numb. I had better stop, for the Shade of the Window is now a Blue it were a Work of Casuistry to distinguish from Black, and the veritable Ink on my Page floats and glimmers, a dimming Ghost of the Alphabet.

The next day
. I had meant, at the Returning of the Light, to begin the Work of explaining Myself to You, so that You might understand, how I find Myself in Trouble here, so far from Home, and might be persuaded, perhaps, that You need not be entirely asham’d of Me, despite the Appearances of the Case. I image to Myself You reading This, as I write It, so clearly that,
although it will be some Months hence that the Pages come into your Hand, wither’d from the Salt Sea and smelling of Onions from the carrier’s Cart that brought it You from Blandford, the Words seem to fly straight from my Mouth to your Ear. “The Dead yet Speaking” – as it says from the Mouth of the Skeleton on the Title Page of Fuller’s Lives of the Divines, which is just behind your left Shoulder as you sit in your common Stance of Reading, with four spread Fingers of your Hand supporting your Forehead, and your Little Finger curl’d. You see how I know You, though We were a Torment to one another. And I suppose I torment You now, for the last Time, with this News. I imagine you rising up, having finished the Letter, and folding It away as neatly as ever, and walking next Door to the Church-Yard, as long and black as ever in your Cassock and Gown, to communicate the Intelligence of It, at my Mother’s Grave. You will think Me very stupid, that I had not consider’d, until the Forming of this Picture upon the Eye of my Mind, how alone my Death will render You. You have always occupied so great a Place in my Mind, that You seem’d to be, in Yourself, a Platoon, a whole Company of Men, as unsolitary as a Crowd. Father, I am truly sorry for this latest Grief I afford you. Believe Me, if I could, if it were in my Power, I would take this Paper on whose other Side You seem to sit now, whatever the Months and Miles between, and tear a Hole in It so cunningly, that I might fold It out into a Door in the Air, through which I could step, and at once be at Home with You. – Even if We quarrel’d but a Second later.

But my Longing – my Apology – my Design of Explanation – are All interrupted now, at Intervals of no more than Thirty Seconds, by my Fellow Prisoner across the Way. The Dormer
on his Side faces due East, and as the Sun of December topp’d the Roofs of Wall Street, brilliant tho’ without Warmth, it sent a golden Finger poking at his dirty Nest. The Blankets writh’d; He kick’d, He rose, a foul’d and filthy Anadyomene. The Night’s Excesses roll off Him in sensible Waves, yet seem to have slough’d from his Mind. At least, They are no longer depressing It to Silence. If He is fuddled, it is vivaciously so. He has a Nose swollen to the Likeness of a Piece of Crimson Fruit, ornament’d by as many black Pores as there are Seeds upon a Strawberry; and a Skin of sunburn’d Leather otherwise, much pock’d and mottl’d; and verminous Hair as long as his Shoulders, depending from a bald Pate; and a Pair of Eyes so crusted and blood-shot They would deserve to be made an Epithet by Homer, yet bright, and lively, and designing. I was puzzl’d, as to why I found Him familiar, and then realiz’d, that He was the first living Sample I had seen in New-York, of that Type of wreck’d Humanity, of floating human Hulk, so commonly to be found in London, in Gin-Cellars, and in Penny Lodgings of the lowest Kind. I must have grown Here more rapidly tender of Stomach than I realised.