Japhet in Search of a Father

There were plenty to swear that I was the person who ran away.

“Now, sir, have you anything to offer in your defence?” said the magistrate.

“Yes, sir,” replied I; “I certainly was running down the street; and it may be, for all I know or care, that this person’s pocket may have been picked—but I did not pick it. I am a gentleman.”

“All your fraternity lay claim to gentility,” replied the magistrate; “perhaps you will state why you were running down the street.”

“I was running after a carriage, sir, that I might speak to the person inside of it.”

“Pray who was the person inside?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“Why should you run after a person you do not know?”

“It was because of his nose.”

“His nose?” replied the magistrate angrily. “Do you think to trifle with me, sir? You shall now follow your own nose to prison. Make out his committal.”

“As you please, sir,” replied I; “but still I have told you the truth; if you will allow anyone to take a note, I will soon prove my respectability. I ask it in common justice.”

“Be it so,” replied the magistrate; “let him sit down within the bar till the answer comes.”

In less than an hour, my note to Major Carbonnell was answered by his appearance in person, followed by Timothy. Carbonnell walked up to the magistrate, while Timothy asked the officers in an angry tone, what they had been doing to his master. This rather startled them, but both they and the magistrate were much surprised when the major asserted that I was his most particular friend, Mr Newland, who possessed ten thousand pounds per annum, and who was as well known in fashionable society as any young man of fortune about town. The magistrate explained what had passed, and asked the major if I was not a little deranged; but the major, who perceived what was the cause of my strange behaviour, told him that somebody had insulted me, and that I was very anxious to lay hold of the person who had avoided me, and who must have been in that carriage.

“I am afraid, that after your explanation, Major Carbonnell, I must, as a magistrate, bind over your friend, Mr Newland, to keep the peace.”

To this I consented, the major and Timothy being taken as recognisances, and then I was permitted to depart. The major sent for a hackney-coach; and when we were going home he pointed out to me the folly of my conduct, and received my promise to be more careful for the future. Thus did this affair end, and for a short time I was more careful in my appearance, and not so very anxious to look into carriages; still, however, the idea haunted me, and I was often very melancholy. It was about a month afterwards, that I was sauntering with the major, who now considered me to be insane upon that point, and who would seldom allow me to go out without him, when I again perceived the same carriage, with the gentleman inside as before.

“There he is, major,” cried I.

“There is who?” replied he.

“The man so like my father.”

“What, in that carriage? that is the Bishop of E—, my good fellow. What a strange idea you have in your head, Newland; it almost amounts to madness. Do not be staring in that way—come along.”

Still my head was turned quite round, looking at the carriage after it had passed, till it was out of sight; but I knew who the party was, and for the time I was satisfied, as I determined to find out his address, and call upon him. I narrated to Timothy what had occurred, and referring to the Red Book, I looked out the bishop’s town address; and the next day, after breakfast, having arranged my toilet with the utmost precision, I made an excuse to the major, and set off to Portland Place.

Part 2—Chapter III

A Chapter of Mistakes—No Benefit of Clergy—I attack a Bishop, and am beaten off—The Major hedges upon the Filly Stakes.

My hand trembled as I knocked at the door. It was opened. I sent in my card, requesting the honour of an audience with his lordship. After waiting a few minutes in an ante-room, I was ushered in. “My lord,” said I, in a flurried manner, “will you allow me to have a few minutes’ conversation with you alone.”

“This gentleman is my secretary, sir, but if you wish it, certainly; for although he is my confidant, I have no right to insist that he shall be yours. Mr Temple, will you oblige me by going up stairs for a little while.”

The secretary quitted the room, the bishop pointed to a chair, and I sat down. I looked him earnestly in the face—the nose was exact, and I imagined that even in the other features I could distinguish a resemblance. I was satisfied that I had at last gained the object of my search. “I believe, sir,” observed I, “that you will acknowledge, that in the heat and impetuosity of youth, we often rush into hasty and improvident connections.”

I paused, with my eyes fixed upon his. “Very true, my young sir; and when we do we are ashamed, and repent of them afterwards,” replied the bishop, rather astonished.

“I grant that, sir,” replied I; “but at the same time, we must feel that we must abide by the results, however unpleasant.”

“When we do wrong, Mr Newland,” replied the bishop, first looking at my card, and then upon me, “we find that we are not only to be punished in the next world, but suffer for it also in this. I trust you have no reason for such suffering?”

“Unfortunately, the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, and, in that view, I may say that I have suffered.”

“My dear sir,” replied the bishop, “I trust you will excuse me, when I say, that my time is rather valuable; if you have anything of importance to communicate—anything upon which you would ask my advice—for assistance you do not appear to require, do me the favour to proceed at once to the point.”

“I will, sir, be as concise as the matter will admit of. Allow me, then, to ask you a few questions, and I trust to your honour, and the dignity of your profession, for a candid answer. Did you not marry a young woman early in life? and were you not very much pressed in your circumstances?”

The bishop stared. “Really, Mr Newland, it is a strange question, and I cannot imagine to what it may lead, but still I will answer it. I did marry early in life, and I was, at that time, not in very affluent circumstances.”

“You had a child by that marriage—your eldest born—a boy!”

“That is also true, Mr Newland,” replied the bishop, gravely.

“How long is it since you have seen him?”

“It is many years,” replied the bishop, putting his handkerchief up to his eyes.

“Answer me, now, sir;—did you not desert him?”

“No, no!” replied the bishop. “It is strange that you should appear to know so much about the matter, Mr Newland, as you could have hardly been born. I was poor then—very poor; but although I could ill afford it, he had fifty pounds from me.”

“But, sir,” replied I, much agitated; “why have you not reclaimed him?”

“I would have reclaimed him, Mr Newland—but what could I do—he was not to be reclaimed; and now—he is lost for ever.”

“Surely, sir, in your present affluence, you must wish to see him again?”

“He died, and I trust he has gone to heaven,” replied the bishop, covering up his face.

“No, sir,” replied I, throwing myself on my knees before him, “he did not die, here he is at your feet, to ask your blessing.”

The bishop sprang from his chair. “What does this mean, sir?” said he, with astonishment. “You my son?”

“Yes, reverend father—your son; who, with fifty pounds you left—”

“On the top of the Portsmouth coach!”

“No, sir, in the basket.”

“My son! sir,—impossible; he died in the hospital.”

“No, sir, he has come out of the hospital,” replied I; “and, as you perceive, safe and well.”

“Either, sir, this must be some strange mistake, or you must be trifling with me,” replied his lordship; “for, sir, I was at his death-bed, and followed him to his grave.”