In my passage through life I have known one man who possessed the invaluable qualities of resignation and gentleness of temper, in an eminent and almost miraculous degree. This was Mr. J. W., a Mediterranean merchant. I met him for the first time at Cadiz, and afterwards at Seville, Malaga, and at other places higher up the Midland sea. I have seen him subjected to very rude trials and most painful tests, but I never once heard a harsh or passionate expression drop from his lips. To a severe trial he would say: “It is rather disagreeable,” or “It is very disagreeable,” and the strongest expression he ever let drop was, “It is very disgusting.” It was out of the power of prosperity to elate or inflate him; and it was equally out of the power of adversity to depress or embitter him. He had been tempted in more ways than the patient Job:
“For Satan, now grown wiser than of yore, Tempts men by making rich, not making poor.” |
He had been tried both ways, and in one way he had been tried twice; for he began life as a very poor unfriended youth, he became a rich man, and then died a very poor one.
A friend to whom he was showing a valuable Italian picture slipped on the
waxed, very slippery floor of the apartment, fell forward, and knocked his hand right
through the canvas and the principal figure. Turning to me, W. said,
sotto voce, “Mac,
| 278 | AN ENGLISH MERCHANT | [CHAP. XXVIII |
A few years before the final coup, some house in London, in one of our periodical panics, went to the bad, and he lost some thousands. “This,” said he, “is unpleasant, but it would have been much worse if they had failed last year, for then I must have lost twice as much by them.”
There can have been but few more hospitable men. In his prosperity he very
frequently gave excellent dinners with the best of wines, and he entertained at his table
Colonels, Generals, Diplomatists, and English travellers of all degrees, not excepting the
highest. Afterwards I have known him not to have money enough to pay for a dinner, and not
to know where, in that desolating “populous solitude” of London, to seek
for one; yet I never heard him complain, or say any more than “it was rather
unpleasant.” A few of his high-class friends, by small joint contributions,
kept him clear from anything like absolute want; but he rather felt the dependency, and
said that “it was rather disgusting.” I need scarcely add that his soul
was sustained by “the means of
| CHAP. XXVIII] | THE BRUNELS | 279 |
I have certainly owed to chance encounters on the road, or to accidental meetings in outlandish places, some of the pleasantest acquaintances and some of the best friends I have ever had, to wit, Captain Guyon, Admiral Elphinstone Fleming, John Ralph, Matthew Price, Charles Danvers, the late Lord Dudley and Ward, General Church, Prince Rosamoffski, and at least a score of others. When travelling abroad Englishmen get rid of their frigidity, stiffness, and inaccessibility, or at least suspend those amiable national qualities for a season.
One cold, raw February morning, a little after daylight, in the year of grace 1829, I embarked at Paris for Calais, in a big rambling diligence. I had taken my place for what they call l’intérieur, thinking that would be warmest; and in I got, and was seated opposite to an unmistakable John Bull, when two young men passed and clambered up into what they call the coupé, that is, the front part of the machine, the intérieur coming next, and behind it what they call, or then called, the rotonde. Everybody knows poor Cowper’s sketch of a true John Bull—
“An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.” |
I would not answer for my companion’s honesty, and I had reason to
doubt his warmth of heart; but in externals he answered to the picture, for he was
great-coated and top-coated and cloaked to that degree that he looked like a bale of
broad-cloth. He was what Walter Scott used to designate
as a “rough and round man.” He had ruddy cheeks, and a red nose which
betokened the bon vivant, but
| 280 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
While stopping to change horses at St. Denis, I said that this was a famous old place, and that the Kings of France were buried there. “Are they?” grunted Broad-cloth. Having failed in a third attempt I gave him up, and had recourse to a book. But as we advanced I felt wretchedly cold. I had been living nearly nine years in warm climates, and was ill-provided with warm clothing. I was on my way homeward from Turkey, and had been travelling in rather a desultory manner, and nearly always by dilly, through Toulon, Marseilles, Aix, Avignon, Nismes, Pont du Gard, Valencay, Lyon, and Dijon, whence I took the direct road to Paris.
It was a terrible winter, that of 1828-29; all the sunny south was deep
under snow, which retarded our progress very many hours, and in which more than once our
cumbrous vehicle stuck fast. The Cote d’Or, and all the golden vine-clad hills of
Burgundy, might have been taken for bits of Siberia in winter-time, and twice one bitter,
blowing, snowing night I and all the other passengers had to get out and walk, and the
conducteur had to employ not only three
extra horses but also two yokes of oxen
| CHAP. XXVIII] | A COLD JOURNEY | 281 |
While our Calais dilly was changing horses at another station, I heard a voice from the coupé shouting, “Apportez nous deux bottes de join, je vous en prie!” The hay was brought and put in, and then from the same coupé I heard a good English voice say, “It is not enough to cover up the legs, let us have some more while we are about it!” Then I heard the other voice, and the words, “Mon ami, apportez nous encore de bottes. Merci, merci, mon brave!”
“I think,” said I to Broad-cloth, “we had better follow their example. My feet are so cold that I can scarcely feel them.” “Mine ain’t,” grunted he; “three pair of worsted stockings, thick flannel drawers down to ankles, quite warm enough!” I would have called for the hay, but I had lost time, and the vehicle was getting under weigh.
So on we went, Broad-cloth being as taciturn, and I as cold, as ever. And
all this stage I was tantalized by hearing the sounds of merry voices and of frequent and
loud laughs in the coupé. At the next stage my
miseries terminated. As we stopped at the posthouse, a garçon handed me in a scrap of paper on which was written in
pencil, “Requested by the two gentlemen in the coupé, the loan of a gentleman in the intérieur.” As Broad-cloth sat by the
window, and I at some distance, the lad gave the missive to him; he read it, gave a grunt,
and then instantly gave the paper to me. In a very few seconds I was
| 282 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
“While we are stopping, and have the opportunity, I think we had better take in more hay,” said one of them, who then repeated the mot d’ordre, “Mon ami, apportez nous deux bottes de foin!” We did the same at each relay; until, by the time we got to Beauvais, we were buried in hay nearly up to the chin, and looking like three stone Schiedam bottles packed and embedded in hay for safe carriage. This comparison I made, renewed the laughter that had scarcely ceased from the time I entered the coupé and had got packed up and unfrozen. I could now say with as much pathos as Jean Jacques, “Ah! on êtait jeune alors!” Younger in heart even than in years!
What a happy dinner was that we had in the homely roadside inn at Beauvais! We had a bottle or two of Bordeaux, besides the vin ordinaire, but we did not need this stimulus, for we had been just as merry on a cup or two of coffee and a slice of bread and butter for breakfast, as we were during or after dinner. The conducteur was a good-natured, jolly fellow himself, and not very particular as to time, so we sat rather a long while, talking and joking; and all this while there sat, at the farthest end of the table, old Broad-cloth, as mum as ever, eating at a rare rate; drinking champagne and then settling it with hot brandy and water. We cast side-glances at him now and then, but otherwise took no more notice of him than we should have done of a bale of cloth or any other merchandise.
I forget now whether we took in more hay at Beauvais, or were obliged to
take some out. I know that at some halting-place on the road, during that stormy, snowy
night, we performed the latter operation, being so very warm when settled and fixed in so
many bottes de foin. I told my companions how
Broad-
| CHAP. XXVIII] | AN ODD COSTUME | 283 |
To return to my travelling companions. One of them was a fair, handsome
young man, apparently about nineteen or twenty; the other a little, nimble,
dark-complexioned man who did not look more than
| 284 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
| CHAP. XXVIII] | THE THAMES TUNNEL | 285 |
When we got resettled in our hay, we laughed over the inn-kitchen scenes and conversation. We were cottoning like schoolfellows or lifelong friends, though as yet not one of us knew so much as the others’ names; and it was not until the second day, as we were approaching the sand-heaps near Boulogne, that we imparted this important piece of information. We got upon the subject of the Thames Tunnel, about which I had heard very much on the Continent, and concerning which I felt great curiosity and interest. The elder of my companions gave a minute, clever, and spirited account of that work, of its present state, and of the causes of the late accident and suspension of operations.
“You seem to know all about the tunnel!” said the
younger man. “I ought to know something about it,” said the elder,
“seeing that I am only son and assistant to the engineer, and that my name, like his,
is Isambard Brunel!” We gave him an extra
shake of the hand on the announcement. “I had been thinking for some
time,” said the junior, “that as we three fellows have met in the dilly,
and are likely to meet again, it would be as well if each of us knew the names of his
comrades. My name is Orlebar, my present condition that of cadet
at Woolwich.” I followed by disclosing my Highland patronymic, of which I
was, and still am, rather proud. We had got at each others’ ages before, but down to
this time we had addressed each other by nicknames—Orlebar being
“Juventus,” Brunel,
| 286 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
But there was a momentary suspension of our cheerfulness, when we came to pay the rather heavy bill, and, that being done, found that we were all nearly “drained dry.” Juventus had only a five-franc piece; he had been spending a deal of money in Paris on trinkets for his sisters, Brunel had been doing the same, and I had been along the quays, and among half of the bookstalls and bookshops of the French Capital, spending without forethought or calculation. Then, like young men, we had lived freely on the road; and then also our investments in hay had been considerable.
“I should have been uneasy before we got to Calais,”
said Orlebar, “but I thought it most likely that one or both
of you would be well-stocked.” “That’s what I thought of you,
and still more of my senior, the Pasha, who is evidently a very thoughtful, cautious
man.” “I had just the same hope in you, and in
Juventus,” said I. So each had been
| CHAP. XXVIII] | A COACH JOURNEY | 287 |
“Well,” said Brunel, “Asia Minor will take that, as he is
rather a valetudinarian, and Juventus and I will go
outside.” It was eight or nine o’clock at night when the coach stopped at
the door to take us up. In the hall we found a fair lady in very deep affliction. She must
be in London by an early hour in the morning, and she was sure she would die on the road if
she travelled outside. She was a very pretty woman, and splendidly and most fashionably
attired, but had she been ugly, or anything in the shape of woman, I would have given her
up my inside place. We handed her in, and saw there were three other ladies in the coach.
We three then clambered up into the basket or dicky, and off we went through as cold and
raw a night as I have ever experienced. My kind companions placed me between them, and
wrapped me up in everything they could possibly spare from their own persons. I never shall
forget the drive along the elevated ridge beyond Harbledown, and the bleaker ridge of
Boughton under Blean. At the village of Boughton
| 288 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
Another pinching, biting drive was across Gad’s Hill, and another
across Blackheath. There was a bright, rather full moon, but it was frequently obscured by
drifting clouds, which resolved them-
| CHAP. XXVIII] | ARRIVAL IN LONDON | 289 |
| 290 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
* André Vieusseux, author of a “History of Switzerland,” and of “Italy and the Italians in the Nineteenth Century” (1824). In the latter book he twice quotes from MacFarlane’s poem, “The Wanderer” (1820):
|
| CHAP. XXVIII] | ISAMBARD BRUNEL | 291 |
| 292 | THE BRUNELS | [CHAP. XXVIII |
I was perfectly charmed with him at this our first meeting, and from many
subsequent ones I can feel bold enough to say that he was a man of the kindest and most
simple heart, and of the acutest and purest taste in Art, whether architecture, painting,
sculpture, or medalling. Of his mathematics, which seemed to be at once profound and
practical, I cannot venture to speak, never having got over the Pons Asinorum; nor could I risk an opinion on his very numerous
mechanical inventions, being by habit, or nature, debarred from any clear notion of even
the simple mechanism of a wheelbarrow. But what I loved in old Brunel was his expansive taste, and his love or ardent sympathy for things
he did not understand, or had not had time to learn. There is no adequate portrait in
existence of this very remarkable man. The picture, then in the drawing-room, by Jemmy Northcote, though it presented a something like a
man of genius and very deep thought, was little more than a map of dear old
Brunel’s face. It would have required a man of much more
fancy and genius than Northcote—though he had some fancy, considerable
genius, and some execution—to catch the variety and the play of the old engineer’s
countenance. In him I admired what I could not understand, and what I could understand; and
what I most admired of all was his thorough simplicity and unworldliness of character, his
indifference to mere lucre, and his genuine absent-mindedness. Evidently he had lived as if
there were no rogues in this nether world. He was of Normandy, of a good family, and on the
unpopular side of the French Revolution of 1789; when to save his neck from the embrace of
the guillotine, he emigrated, leaving such
| CHAP. XXVIII] | IN THE UNITED STATES | 293 |
“One of the first jobs I had was to fix the disputed limits of two contiguous estates; well! I found there was a difference in calculation which amounted to about 25,000 acres. Fancy such a case occurring in England or France!” Happily, before he emigrated, he had made himself a good mathematician, and had acquired a knowledge of the science of land-surveying, together with much experience in mechanics. “When I landed at New York I had barely five pounds in my pocket, but the little I knew helped me on to a respectable livelihood. Courage! the man who can do something, and keep a warm, sanguine heart within, won’t starve!” I had liked the son, but at our very first meeting I could not help feeling that his father far excelled him in originality, unworldliness, genius, and taste; perhaps also in those eccentricities which cottoned with mine. I remember sympathizing so thoroughly with the dear old man as to regret the temporary suspension of the works at the Thames Tunnel as one of the greatest and most disgraceful of European mishaps; for his heart and soul were, at this time, under the Thames, and in the excavation that was to carry people and goods from one bank to the other, right under the lowest bed and mud of Pater Tamesis.
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