Japhet in Search of a Father

It may appear strange to the reader that I sent for the above-mentioned articles, but habit is second nature, and although, two days before, when I set out on my pilgrimage, I had resolved to discard these superfluities, yet now in my distress I felt as if they would comfort me. That evening, after rectifying a few mistakes on the part of the good-tempered gaoler, by writing down what I wanted on the paper which he had procured me, I obtained all that I required.

The next morning he informed me that the grand jury had found a true bill against me, and that on the Saturday next the assizes would be held. He also brought me the list of trials, and I found that mine would be one of the last, and would not probably come on until Monday or Tuesday. I requested him to send for a good tailor, as I wished to be dressed in a proper manner, previous to appearing in court. As a prisoner is allowed to go into court in his own clothes instead of the gaol dress, this was consented to; and when the man came, I was very particular in my directions, so much so, that it surprised him. He also procured me the other articles I required to complete my dress, and on Saturday night I had them all ready; for I was resolved that I would at least die as a gentleman.

Sunday passed away, not as it ought to have passed, certainly.

I attended prayers, but my thoughts were elsewhere—how, indeed, could it be otherwise? Who can control his thoughts? He may attempt so to do, but the attempt is all that can be made. He cannot command them. I heard nothing, my mind was in a state of gyration, whirling round from one thing to the other, until I was giddy from intensity of feeling.

On Monday morning the gaoler came and asked me whether I would have legal advice. I replied in the negative. “You will be called about twelve o’clock, I hear,” continued he; “it is now ten, and there is only one more trial before yours, about the stealing of four geese, and half a dozen fowls.”

“Good God!” thought I, “and am I mixed up with such deeds as these?” I dressed myself with the utmost care and precision, and never was more successful. My clothes were black, and fitted well. About one o’clock I was summoned by the gaoler, and led between him and another to the court-house, and placed in the dock. At first my eyes swam, and I could distinguish nothing, but gradually I recovered. I looked round, for I had called up my courage. My eyes wandered from the judge to the row of legal gentlemen below him; from them to the well-dressed ladies who sat in the gallery above; behind me I did not look. I had seen enough, and my cheeks burnt with shame. At last I looked at my fellow-culprit, who stood beside me, and his eyes at the same time met mine. He was dressed in the gaol clothes, of pepper and salt coarse cloth. He was a rough, vulgar, brutal-looking man, but his eye was brilliant, his complexion was dark, and his face was covered with whiskers. “Good heavens!” thought I, “who will ever imagine or credit that we have been associates?”

The man stared at me, bit his lip, and smiled with contempt, but made no further remark. The indictment having been read, the clerk of the court cried out, “You, Benjamin Ogle, having heard the charge, say, guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” replied the man, to my astonishment.

“You, Philip Maddox, guilty or not guilty?”

I did not answer.

“Prisoner,” observed the judge in a mild voice, “you must answer, Guilty or Not guilty. It is merely a form.”

“My lord,” replied I, “my name is not Philip Maddox.”

“That is the name given in the indictment by the evidence of your fellow-prisoner,” observed the judge; “your real name we cannot pretend to know. It is sufficient that you answer to the question of whether you, the prisoner, are guilty or not guilty.”

“Not guilty, my lord, most certainly,” replied I, placing my hand to my heart, and bowing to him.

The trial proceeded; Armstrong was the principal evidence. To my person he would not swear. The Jew proved my selling my clothes, purchasing those found in the bundle, and the stick, of which Armstrong possessed himself. The clothes I had on at the time of my capture were produced in court. As for Ogle, his case was decisive. We were then called upon for our defence. Ogle’s was very short. “He had been accustomed to fits all his life—was walking to Hounslow, and had fallen down in a fit. It must have been somebody else who had committed the robbery and had made off, and he had been picked up in a mistake.” This defence appeared to make no other impression than ridicule, and indignation at the barefaced assertion. I was then called on for mine.

“My lord,” said I, “I have no defence to make except that which I asserted before the magistrates, that I was performing an act of charity towards a fellow-creature, and was, through that, supposed to be an accomplice. Arraigned before so many upon a charge, at the bare accusation of which my blood revolts, I cannot and will not allow those who might prove what my life has been, and the circumstances which induced me to take up the disguise in which I was taken, to appear in my behalf. I am unfortunate, but not guilty. One only chance appears to be open to me, which is, in the candour of the party who now stands by me. If he will say to the court that he ever saw me before, I will submit without murmur to my sentence.”

“I’m sorry that you’ve put that question, my boy,” replied the man, “for I have seen you before;” and the wretch chuckled with repressed laughter.

I was so astonished, so thunderstruck with this assertion, that I held down my head, and made no reply. The judge then summed up the evidence to the jury, pointing out to them that of Ogle’s guilt there could be no doubt, and of mine, he was sorry to say, but little. Still they must bear in mind that the witness Armstrong could not swear to my person. The jury, without leaving the box, consulted together a short time, and brought in a verdict of guilty against Benjamin Ogle and Philip Maddox. I heard no more—the judge sentenced us both to execution: he lamented that so young and prepossessing a person as myself should be about to suffer for such an offence: he pointed out the necessity of condign punishment, and gave us no hopes of pardon or clemency. But I heard him not—I did not fall, but I was in a state of stupor. At last, he wound up his sentence by praying us to prepare ourselves for the awful change, by an appeal to that heavenly Father. “Father!” exclaimed I, in a voice which electrified the court, “did you say my father? O God! where is he?” and I fell down in a fit. The handkerchiefs of the ladies were applied to their faces, the whole court were moved, for I had, by my appearance, excited considerable interest, and the judge, with a faltering, subdued voice, desired that the prisoners might be removed.

“Stop one minute, my good fellow,” said Ogle, to the gaoler, while others were taking me out of court. “My lord, I’ve something rather important to say. Why I did not say it before, you shall hear. You are a judge, to condemn the guilty, and release the innocent. We are told that there is no trial like an English jury, but this I say, that many a man is hung for what he never has been guilty of. You have condemned that poor young man to death. I could have prevented it if I had chosen to speak before, but I would not, that I might prove how little there is of justice. He had nothing to do with the robbery—Phill Maddox was the man, and he is not Philip Maddox. He said that he never saw me before, nor do I believe that he ever did. As sure as I shall hang, he is innocent.”

“It was but now, that when appealed to by him, you stated that you had seen him before.”

“So I did, and I told the truth—I had seen him before. I saw him go to hold the gentleman’s horse, but he did not see me. I stole his bundle and his stick, which he left on the bench, and that’s how they were found in our possession. Now you have the truth, and you may either acknowledge that there is little justice, by eating your own words, and letting him free, or you may hang him, rather than acknowledge that you are wrong. At all events, his blood will now be on your hands, and not mine. If Phill Maddox had not turned tail, like a coward, I should not have been here; so I tell the truth to save him who was doing me a kind act, and to let him swing who left me in the lurch.”

The judge desired that this statement might be taken down, that further inquiry might be made, intimating to the jury, that I should be respited for the present; but of all this I was ignorant. As there was no placing confidence in the assertions of such a man as Ogle, it was considered necessary that he should repeat his assertions at the last hour of his existence, and the gaoler was ordered not to state what had passed to me, as he might excite false hopes.

When I recovered from my fit, I found myself in the gaoler’s parlour, and as soon as I was able to walk, I was locked up in a condemned cell. The execution had been ordered to take place on the Thursday, and I had two days to prepare. In the mean time, the greatest interest had been excited with regard to me. My whole appearance so evidently belied the charge, that everyone was in my favour. Ogle was re-questioned, and immediately gave a clue for the apprehension of Maddox, who, he said, he hoped would swing by his side.

The gaoler came to me the next day, saying, that some of the magistrates wished to speak with me; but as I had made up my mind not to reveal my former life, my only reply was, “That I begged they would allow me to have my last moments to myself.” I recollected Melchior’s idea of destiny, and imagined that he was right. “It was my destiny,” thought I; and I remained in a state of stupor. The fact was, that I was very ill, my head was heavy, my brain was on fire, and the throbbing of my heart could have been perceived without touching my breast.

I remained on the mattress all day, and all the next night, with my face buried in the clothes! I was too ill to raise my head. On Wednesday morning I felt myself gently pushed on the shoulder by someone; I opened my eyes; it was a clergyman. I turned away my head, and remained as before. I was then in a violent fever. He spoke for some time: occasionally I heard a word, and then relapsed into a state of mental imbecility. He sighed, and went away.

Thursday came, and the hour of death,—but time was by me unheeded, as well as eternity. In the mean time Maddox had been taken, and the contents of Armstrong’s bundle found in his possession; and when he discovered that Ogle had been evidence against him, he confessed to the robbery.

Whether it was on Thursday or Friday I knew not then, but I was lifted off the bed, and taken before somebody—something passed, but the fever had mounted up to my head, and I was in a state of stupid delirium. Strange to say, they did not perceive my condition, but ascribed it all to abject fear of death. I was led away—I had made no answer—but I was free.

Part 3—Chapter VII

When at the lowest Spoke of Fortune’s Wheel, one is sure to rise as it turns round—I recover my Senses, and find myself amongst Friends.

I think some people shook me by the hand, and others shouted as I walked in the open air, but I recollect no more. I afterwards was informed that I had been reprieved, that I had been sent for, and a long exhortation delivered to me, for it was considered that my life must have been one of error, or I should have applied to my friends, and have given my name. My not answering was attributed to shame and confusion—my glassy eye had not been noticed—my tottering step when led in by the gaolers attributed to other causes; and the magistrates shook their heads as I was led out of their presence. The gaoler had asked me several times where I intended to go. At last, I had told him, to seek my father, and darting away from him I had run like a madman down the street. Of course he had no longer any power over me: but he muttered as I fled from him, “I’ve a notion he’ll soon be locked up again, poor fellow! it’s turned his brain for certain.”

As I tottered along, my unsteady step naturally attracted the attention of the passers-by; but they attributed it to intoxication. Thus was I allowed to wander away in a state of madness, and before night I was far from the town. What passed, and whither I had bent my steps, I cannot tell. All I know is, that after running like a maniac, seizing everybody by the arm that I met, staring at them with wild and flashing eyes; and sometimes in a solemn voice, at others, in a loud, threatening tone, startling them with the interrogatory, “Are you my father?” and then darting away, or sobbing like a child, as the humour took me, I had crossed the country; and three days afterwards I was picked up at the door of a house in the town of Reading, exhausted with fatigue and exposure, and nearly dead. When I recovered, I found myself in bed, my head shaved, my arm bound up, after repeated bleedings, and a female figure sitting by me.

“God in heaven! where am I?” exclaimed I faintly.

“Thou hast called often upon thy earthly father during the time of thy illness, friend,” replied a soft voice. “It rejoiceth me much to hear thee call upon thy Father which is in heaven. Be comforted, thou art in the hands of those who will be mindful of thee. Offer up thy thanks in one short prayer, for thy return to reason, and then sink again into repose, for thou must need it much.”

I opened my eyes wide, and perceived that a young person in a Quaker’s dress was sitting by the bed working with her needle; an open Bible was on a little table before her. I perceived also a cup, and parched with thirst, I merely said, “Give me to drink.” She arose, and put a teaspoon to my lips; but I raised my hand, took the cup from her and emptied it. O how delightful was that draught! I sank down on my pillow, for even that slight exertion had overpowered me, and muttering, “God, I thank thee!” I was immediately in a sound sleep, from which I did not awake for many hours. When I did, it was not daylight. A lamp was on the table, and an old man in a Quaker’s dress was snoring very comfortably in the arm-chair. I felt quite refreshed with my long sleep, and was now able to recall what had passed. I remembered the condemned cell and the mattress upon which I lay, but all after was in a state of confusion. Here and there a fact or supposition was strong in my memory; but the intervals between were total blanks. I was, at all events, free, that I felt convinced of, and that I was in the hands of the sect who denominate themselves Quakers: but where was I? and how did I come here? I remained thinking on the past, and wondering, until the day broke, and with the daylight roused up my watchful attendant. He yawned, stretched his arms, and rising from the chair, came to the side of my bed. I looked him in the face. “Hast thou slept well, friend?” said he.

“I have slept as much as I wish, and would not disturb you,” replied I, “for I wanted nothing.”

“Peradventure I did sleep,” replied the man; “watching long agreeth not with the flesh, although the spirit is most willing. Requirest thou anything?”

“Yes,” replied I, “I wish to know where I am?”

“Verily, thou art in the town of Reading, in Berkshire, and in the house of Pheneas Cophagus.”

“Cophagus!” exclaimed I; “Mr Cophagus, the surgeon and apothecary?”

“Pheneas Cophagus is his name; he hath been admitted into our sect, and hath married a daughter of our persuasion. He hath attended thee in thy fever and thy frenzy, without calling in the aid of the physician, therefore do I believe that he must be the man of whom thou speakest; yet doth he not follow up the healing art for the lucre of gain.”

“And the young person who was at my bedside, is she his wife?”

“Nay, friend, she is half-sister to the wife of Pheneas Cophagus by a second marriage, and a maiden, who was named Susannah Temple at the baptismal font; but I will go to Pheneas Cophagus and acquaint him of your waking, for such were his directions.”

The man then quitted the room, leaving me quite astonished with the information he had imparted. Cophagus turned Quaker! and attending me in the town of Reading. In a short time Mr Cophagus himself entered in his dressing-gown.

“Japhet!” said he, seizing my hand with eagerness, and then, as if recollecting, he checked himself, and commenced in a slow tone, “Japhet Newland—truly glad am I—hum—verily do I rejoice—you, Ephraim—get out of the room—and so on.”

“Yea, I will depart, since it is thy bidding,” replied the man, quitting the room.

Mr Cophagus then greeted me in his usual way—told me that he had found me insensible at the door of a house a little way off, and had immediately recognised me. He had brought me to his own home, but without much hope of my recovery. He then begged to know by what strange chance I had been found in such a desolate condition. I replied, “that although I was able to listen, I did not feel myself equal to the exertion of telling so long a story, and that I should infinitely prefer that he should narrate to me what had passed since we had parted at Dublin, and how it was that I now found that he had joined the sect of Quakers.”

“Peradventure—long word that—um—queer people—very good—and so on,” commenced Mr Cophagus, but as the reader will not understand his phraseology quite so well as I did, I shall give Mr Cophagus’s history in my own version.

Mr Cophagus had returned to the small town at which he resided, and, on his arrival, he had been called upon by a gentleman who was of the Society of Friends, requesting that he would prescribe for a niece of his, who was on a visit at his house, and had been taken dangerously ill. Cophagus with his usual kindness of heart, immediately consented, and found that Mr Temple’s report was true. For six weeks he attended the young Quakeress, and recovered her from an imminent and painful disease, in which she showed such fortitude and resignation, and such unconquerable good temper, that when Mr Cophagus returned to his bachelor’s establishment, he could not help reflecting upon what an invaluable wife she would make, and how much more cheerful his house would be with such a domestic partner.

In short, Mr Cophagus fell in love, and like all elderly gentlemen who have so long bottled up their affections, he became most desperately enamoured; and if he loved Miss Judith Temple when he witnessed her patience and resignation under suffering, how much more did he love her when he found that she was playful, merry, and cheerful, without being boisterous, when restored to her health. Mr Cophagus’s attentions could not be misunderstood. He told her uncle that he had thought seriously of wedding cake—white favours—marriage—family—and so on; and to the young lady he had put his cane up to his nose and prescribed, “A dose of matrimony—to be taken immediately.” To Mr Cophagus there was no objection raised by the lady, who was not in her teens, or by the uncle, who had always respected him as a worthy man, and a good Christian; but to marry one who was not of her persuasion, was not to be thought of. Her friends would not consent to it. Mr Cophagus was therefore dismissed, with a full assurance that the only objection which offered was that he was not of their society.

Mr Cophagus walked home discomforted. He sat down on his easy chair, and found it excessively uneasy—he sat down to his solitary meal, and found that his own company was unbearable—he went to bed, but found that it was impossible to go to sleep. The next morning, therefore, Mr Cophagus returned to Mr Temple, and stated his wish to be made acquainted with the difference between the tenets of the Quaker persuasion and those of the Established Church. Mr Temple gave him an outline, which appeared to Mr Cophagus to be very satisfactory, and then referred him to his niece for fuller particulars. When a man enters into an argument with a full desire to be convinced, and with his future happiness perhaps depending upon that conviction; and when, further, those arguments are brought forward by one of the prettiest voices, and backed by the sweetest of smiles, it is not to be wondered at his soon becoming a proselyte. Thus it was with Mr Cophagus, who in a week discovered that the peace, humility, and good-will, upon which the Quaker tenets are founded, were much more congenial to the true spirit of the Christian revelation than the Athanasian Creed, to be sung or said in our Established Churches; and with this conviction, Mr Cophagus requested admission into the fraternity; and shortly after his admission, it was thought advisable by the Friends that his faith should be confirmed and strengthened by his espousal of Miss Judith Temple, with whom, at her request—and he could refuse her nothing—he had repaired to the town of Reading, in which her relations all resided; and Pheneas Cophagus, of the Society of Friends, declared himself to be as happy as a man could be. “Good people, Japhet—um—honest people, Japhet—don’t fight—little stiff—spirit moves—and so on,” said Mr Cophagus, as he concluded his narrative, and then shaking me by the hand, retired to shave and dress.