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Notwithstanding the
shortness of their days, the bitterness of their frosts, and the fury of
their storms, December and January are merry months. First comes old
Christmas, shaking his hoary locks, belike, in the shape of snowdrift,
and laughing, well-pleased, beneath his crown of mistletoe, over the
smoking sirloin and the savoury goose. There is not a child on the south
side of the Borders, who longs not for the coming of merry Christmas—it is
their holiday of holidays—their season of play and of presents—and old and
young shake hands with Christmas, and with each other. And even on the
northern side of ‘the river,’ and ‘the ideal line by fancy drawn, which
‘divide the sister kingdoms,’ there are thousands who welcome and forget
not ‘blithe Yule day.’ Next comes the New Year—the bottle, the hot pint,
and the first-foot—and we might notice, also, Hansel Monday,
and ‘Auld Hansel Monday,’ which follow in their wake, and keep up the
merriment till the back of January is broken. But our business at present
is with the first-foot, and we must hold. It matters not on what
side of the Borders it may be—and northward the feeling extends far beyond
the Border—there is a mysterious, an ominous importance attached to the
individual who first crosses the threshold, after the clock has struck
twelve at midnight, on the 31st of December, or who is the first-foot
in a house after the New Year has begun. The first-foot stamps
the ‘luck’ of the house—the good fortune or the evil fortune of its
inmates throughout the year! But to begin with our story. There was not a
person on all the Borders, nor yet in all Scotland, who attached more
importance to the first-foot, than Nelly Rogers. Nelly was a very worthy,
kind-hearted, yea, even sensible sort of woman, but a vein of superstition
ran through her sense; she had imbibed a variety of ‘auld warld notions’
in infancy, and, as she grew up, they became a part of her creed. She did
not exactly believe that ghosts and apparitions existed in her day, but
she was perfectly sure they had existed, and had been seen;
she was sure, also, there was something in dreams, and she was positive
there was a great deal in the luckiness or unluckiness of a first-foot;
she had remarked it in her own experience thirty times, and, she said, ‘it
was of nae use attempting to argue her out o’ what she had observed hersel.’
Nelly was the wife of one Richard Rogers, a respectable farmer, whose
farm-house stood by the side of the post-road, between Kelso and Lauder.
They had a family of several children; but our business is with the
oldest, who was called George, and who had the misfortune to receive, both
from his parents and their neighbours, the character of being a genius.
This is a very unfortunate character to give to any one who has a
fortune to make in the world, as will be seen when we come to notice the
history of George the Genius; for such was the appellation by which he was
familiarly mentioned. Now, it was the last night of the old year; George
was about twelve years of age, and, because he was their first-born, and,
moreover, because he was a genius, he was permitted to sit with his father
and his mother, and a few friends, who had come to visit them, to see the
old year out, and the New Year in. The cuckoo clock struck twelve, and the
company rose, shook hands, wished each other a happy new year, and, in a
bumper, drank, ‘May the year that’s awa be the warst o’ our lives.’
‘I wonder wha will be our
first-foot,’ said Nelly; ‘I hope it will be a lucky ane.’ The company
began to argue whether there was anything in the luck of a first-foot or
not, and the young genius sided with his mother; and, while they yet
disputed upon the subject, a knocking was heard at the front door.
‘There’s somebody,’ said
Nelly; ‘if it’s onybody that I think’s no lucky, I winna let them in.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Richard.
‘It’s nae nonsense,’
replied Nelly; ‘it may be a flat-soled body, for onything I ken;
and do ye think I wad risk the like o’ that. Haud awa, see wha it is,
George,’ added she, addressing the genius; ‘and dinna 1et them in unless
you’re sure that they dinna come empty-handed.’
‘Did ever ye hear the like
o’ the woman!’ said her husband; ‘sic havers! Run awa, George, hinny; open
the door.’
The boy ran to the door,
and inquired, ‘Who’s there?’
‘A stranger,’ was the
reply.
‘What do ye want?’ inquired
the genius, with a degree of caution seldom found in persons honoured with
such an epithet.
‘I have a letter to Master
Rogers, from his brother,’ answered the stranger.
‘A letter frae my brother
John!’ cried Richard, starting from his seat; ‘open the door, laddie; open
the door.’
Now, Richard Rogers had a
brother, who also had been considered a sort of genius in his youth. He
was of a wild and restless disposition in those days, and his
acquaintances were wont to call him by the name of Jack the Rambler. But
it is a long road that has no turning; he had now been many years at sea;
was the captain of a free-trader; and as remarkable for his steadiness and
worldly wisdom, as he had been noted for the wildness of his youth. There
was a mysterious spot in the captain’s history, which even his brother
Richard had never been able to unriddle. But that spot will be brought to
light by and by.
George opened the door, and
the stranger entered. He was dressed as a seaman; and Nelly drew back and
appeared troubled as her eyes fell upon him. It was evident she had set
him down in her mind as an unlucky first-foot. He was not, indeed, the
most comely personage that one might desire to look upon on a New Year’s
morning; for he was a squat little fellow, with huge red whiskers that
almost buried his face, his burly head was covered with a sou-wester, and
his eyes squinted most fearfully. Nelly could not withdraw her eyes from
the man’s eyes; she contemplated the squint with horror. Such eyes were
never in the head of a first-foot before. She was sure that ‘something no
canny would be the upshot.’
‘Tak a seat, sir; tak a
seat, sir,’ said Richard, addressing the sailor; ‘fill out a glass, and
mak yoursel at hame. Nelly, bring a clean tumbler. And ye hae a letter
frae my brother, the captain, sir?’ added he, anxiously; ‘who is he? Where
is he? When did ye see him?’
‘I left him at Liverpool,
sir,’ replied the queer-looking sailor; ‘and, as I intended to take a run
down overland to Leith to see my old mother, ‘Bill,’ says he to me—(for my
name’s Bill, sir—Bill Somers)—well, as I’m saying,. ‘Bill,’ says he,
‘you’ll be going past the door of a brother of mine, and I wish I were
going with you’—(and I wish he had, for not to say it before you, sir,
there an’t a better or a cleverer fellow than Captain Rogers, in the whole
service, nor a luckier one either, though, poor fellow, he has had his bad
luck too in some things; and it sticks to him still, and will stick to
him)—however, as I say, said he to me—‘Bill, here is a bit of a letter,
give it to my brother—it concerns my nevy, George ‘—(yes, George, I think
he called him.) So I took the letter and set off—that is, some days
ago—and I arrived at the public-house, a little from this, about four
hours since, and intended to cast anchor there for the night; but having
taken a glass or two, by way of ballast, I found myself in good
sailing-trim, and having inquired about you, and finding that you lived
but a short way off, and that the people in the house said, it being New
Year’s times, you wouldn’t be moored yet, I desired the landlady to fill
me up half a gallon, or so, of her best rum, that I mightn’t come
empty-handed— for that wouldn’t be lucky, ma’am, I reckon," added he,
squinting in the face of Mrs. Rogers, who looked now at his eyes, and now
at a large bottle, which he drew from beneath a sort of half great-coat or
monkey-jacket. Nelly was no friend to spirit-drinking; nevertheless she
was glad that her first-foot, though he did squint, had not come
empty-handed.
The letter was handed to Mr
Rogers, who, having broke the seal—"Preserve us, Richard!" said Nelly,
"that’s a lang epistle! I daresay the captain’s made his will in’t— what
does he say?"
"It’s a kind, sensible,
weel-written letter," said Richard, "for John was a genius a’ his days;
and there is mair about a will in’t than ye’re aware o’. But there’s nae
secret in it. George will read it."
The letter was then given
to the genius, who read as follows:--
"DEAR DICK,—As one of my
crew, Bill Somers, who has sailed with me for a dozen years, is going down
to Scotland, and will pass your way, I take the opportunity of writing to
you, and letting you know that I am as well as a person, who has as much
cause to be unhappy as I have, can desire to be. The cause of that
unhappiness you don’t know, and few know it—but I do, and that’s enough. I
have made some money—perhaps a good deal—but that’s of no consequence. I
once thought that I might have them of my own flesh and blood to inherit
it; however, that was not to be. It is a long story, and a sad story—one
that you know nothing about, and which it is of no use to tell you about
now. As things are, my nevy, George, is to be heir to whatever money,
goods, and chattels I possess."
As her son read this, Nelly
thought that it was nonsense, after all, to say that a squint first-foot
was unlucky.
"Read on, George," said his
father, "and take heed to what your uncle says."
The boy resumed the letter,
and again read—
"Now, as my nevy is to be my heir, I think it my duty
to lay down a sort of chart—or call it what you like—by which I would wish
him to shape his future conduct. I am glad to hear that his head is of the
right sort; but let us have none of your fiddle ornaments about it. A
lofty prow is not always the best for a storm, and looks bad enough with a
Dutch stern. Beware, also, how you let him to sea before his vessel is
fairly rigged, caulked, and waterproof—or, if you do, then look out for
his growing top-heavy, and capsizing in the turn of a handspike. If you
set him off with a bare allowance of ballast, and without a single letter
of credit—do you expect him to bring home a cargo? It is stuff Dick—arrant
stuff! All your boy exhibitions are downright swindling. Prodigies,
forsooth!—why, parrots can speak, and jackdaws chatter. Or, to render
myself intelligible to your agricultural senses, a tree blossoms in its
first year, and a selfish deluded idiot plucks it up, exhibits it in the
market-place—the bud perishes, and the tree withers, while gaping lubbers
wonder that it did not bear fruit! Now, Dick, this is exactly the case
with all your fast-sailing miracles. Give a boy the helm, and get him to
the drudgery of the cabin again, if you can.
"As to his love affairs,
provided the girl of his choice be virtuous and tolerably pretty—though
neither very rich nor very intelligent— see that you dont strike off at a
tangent, and, like one of your own stupid cattle, run counter to his will.
If you do, it will only haste, what you wish to prevent—or render a
marriage certain, which the young couple thought sufficiently doubtful.
Besides, your opposition might spoil a poor girl’s reputation; and I have
always found that imputations of a certain class upon a man, are like
marks left upon the sand within a tide-mark; but to a woman—a lovely,
helpless woman—they adhere like a limpit to the rock. Besides this, Dick,
I am certain the most powerful impression of moral rectitude you can
imprint upon his heart, will be like a pistol fired from a cock boat,
compared to the glorious and irresistible broadside of a seventy-four,
when you contrast its influence upon his actions, with the delightful and
conquering emotions of love and esteem which he entertains for an amiable
woman. Don’t preach to me, Dick, for I know when the devil, the world, and
the flesh, war against our better principles; and when early instructions,
counsels, and those sort of things, are fairly run down and drop astern.
Why, if a fellow just think for a moment of the beautiful being, whose
soul is as pure as the blue sea on a summer day—if he just think of her—or
of her last words—‘Don’t forget me!’—Belay! is the word—about goes
the helm —head round from the lee-shore of inconsistency, and he is again
quietly moored in the fair-way of virtue.
"When he begins to shape
into manhood, Discretion is the watchword; and whatever he or
others may think of his abilities, let him douse Presumption
and stow it below, hoist a desire to please at the fore-top, place
Perseverance at the helm, and Civility and Moderate
Ambition upon the watch. People say they like a plain-spoken, honest
fellow, who says what he thinks. But it is all a fudge. Just speak in the
jack-blunt manner, which they praise, respecting themselves, and, mark me,
they will march off to another tune. Let any man practise this for a time,
and he will soon be hated by every soul on board. I don’t mean to advise
dissimulation, but a man can get enemies enough without making them;
therefore, where he has no good to say of a person, though they may have
injured him, let him hold his tongue.
"Another thing, and an
important one, for him to remember is— he who is the king of good-fellows,
and a ‘good soul’ amongst his associates, is styled by the public a
thoughtless man, and by his enemies a drunkard. Now, Dick, in the world of
business, a good fellow simply means a good-for-nothing.
Therefore, see to it, and put my nevy on the look-out; for, not to speak
of the growing influence of habit, just attribute unsteadiness to a man,
and you bring him a wind a-head--stop his credit, and hurl him to ruin
headlong. Sobriety is his compass—sobriety is his passport.
"Again, Dick, I would
neither wish to see him a booby nor a maw-worm; but I must tell you that
the opinion the world forms of us is often cast upon very trivial
circumstances. A heedlessly committed action, which we forget in half an
hour, others will remember to our disadvantage for twelve months. There is
nothing like being well-braced with circumspection; let him always look
well to his bearing and distance, or he will soon find himseif out in his
latitude. No man of any ambition, or whether he was ambitious or not, ever
loved a man who presumed to be in all things wiser than himself. I don’t
wish to lecture upon humbug humility, but diffidence and good-breeding
should never be under the poop. Let him take heed, also, how he dabbles in
politics or religion. Both concern him, and he must think and act upon
both; but he must do so as becomes a man. I hate all your noisy boatswain
politicians, both aboard the Commons and out of it. The moment I see a
lubberly fellow swinging his arms about and blowing a hurricane, whether
he be endeavouring to blow a nation or a tavern in agitation—there rages a
grand rascal, say I; his patriotism, and the froth which he scatters from
his mouth, are of a piece. Now, as to his religious principles, of all
things, let him keep them to himself. Every man is as much in the right,
in his own estimation, as he is. Nothing will procure a man more enemies
than a real or affected singularity in matters of religion. For though
there is a great deal of good sense afloat in the world, yet there is such
a fry of feverish, canting, small craft, always skulking about, and
peeping into our pees and ques, which, though they cannot
sink your character, they annoy it with their sparrow-hail. In a word,
Dick, every intelligent being’s religion lies between his own conscience
and his Maker. Give my nevy a Bible, with a father’s best blessing—in it
he will find the ennobling hopes of eternity, and learn to do unto others
as he would wish others to do unto him; and this, from the bottom of my
heart, is the advice of his uncle Jack.
"A sterling, upright, moral
character, is absolutely indispensable. If the heart be well built, and
kept in good sailing-trim, he will hate a tell-tale there which will keep
all right aloft. As well set a seaman upon a voyage of discovery without a
compass, as a young fellow upon the world without a character. But, d’ye
see, because you can’t go to sea without a compass of this kind, you are
not to expect that, in all cases, it will insure you of reaching the Pole.
No, Dick, it is rather like a pilot sent out to steer you in, when you are
within sight of land, and without whose assistance you cannot reach the
port.
"In conversation, too, I
hate to see a smooth-water puppy running at the rate of twelve knots, as
if no vessel in the fleet could sail but his own. I have seen fellows of
this sort, showing off like gilded pinnaces at a regatta, while they were
only showing how little they had on board. Two things, in particular, I
wish my nevy to avoid—namely, argufying in company, and speaking about
himself. There is a time and a place for everything; and, though argument
be well enough in its way, he who is always upon the look-out for one, is
just as sure as he finds it, to find an enemy; and, as to speaking of
one’s self, independent of its ill-breeding, it is like a dose of
salt-water served round the company. The grand secret of conversation is,
to say little in a way to please, and the moment you fail to do so, it is
time to shove your boat off. Whenever you see a person yawn in your
company, take your hat.
"Independent of these
things, let him look well to his tide-table. Without punctuality, the best
character becomes a bad one. The moment a man breaks his word, or becomes
indifferent to his engagement, why, the confidence of his commodore is at
an end; and, instead of being promoted to the quarter-deck, he may slave
before the mast till the boatswain’s last whistle pipe all hands to his
funeral. Punctuality, Dick—systematical, methodical punctuality—is a
fortune to a fellow ready-made. Let him once listen to the syren voice of
delay—neglect to weigh anchor with the tide, and if he don’t drift back
with the current, go to pieces on a sand-bank, or be blown to sticks by a
foul wind, my name’s not Jack. Let him keep a sharp eye upon the
beginning, the middle, and the end of everything he undertakes. He must
not tack about, like a fellow on a cruise or a roving commission, but,
whatever wind blows, maintain a straight course, keeping his head to the
port. Burns, the poet, spoke like a philosopher, when he said it was the
misfortune of his life to be without an aim. But I tell you what, Dick, we
must not only have an object to steer to, but it must be a reasonable
object. A madman may say he is determined to go to the North Pole, or the
moon—but that’s not the thing, Dick; our anticipations must be
likelihoods, our ambitions probabilities; but when we have made frequent
calculations, and find ourselves correct in our reckoning, though we have
made but little way, then down with despondency, and stick to
perseverance. I don’t mean a beggarly, servile, grovelling perseverance,
but the unsubdued determination of an unconquerable spirit, riding out the
storm, and while small craft sink on every side, disdaining to take in a
single reef.
"Now, having said this much
about shaping his course and laying in a freight, it is material that I
drop a concluding word with regard to his rigging. Send him out with
patched canvas, and the veriest punt that ever disgraced the water will
clear out before him. A patch upon his coat will be an embargo on his
prospects. People affect to despise tailors; but it is base ingratitude or
shallow dissimulation. Not that I would for the world see my nevy an
insignificant dandy, but remember, the moment the elbows of your coat
open, every door shuts.
"But my fingers are cramped
with this long epistle, and, more-over, the paper is full; and with love
to my nevy George, Nelly, and the little ones, I am, dear Dick,
"Your affectionate Brother,
"JOHN ROGERS,
"Otherwise,
"JACK THE RAMBLER."
All applauded this letter
when they heard it, and they vowed the captain was a clever fellow—a noble
fellow—ay, and a wise one; and they drank his health and a happy New Year
to him, though half of what he had written, from his nautical types and
symbols, was as Greek and Latin unto those who heard it, and worse unto
George the genius, who read it; though some parts of it all understood.
When the health of Captain
Rogers had gone round, "I wonder in the world," said Richard, "What it can
be that my brother aye refers to about being unhappy? I’ve written to him
fifty times to try to fathom it, but I never could—he never would gie me
ony satisfaction!’
"Why," said the seaman, as
he sat leaning forward and turning round his sou-wester between his knees,
"I believe I know, or I can guess a something about the matter. It’s about
ten years ago, according to my reckoning, we were coming down the
Mediterranean, the captain was as fine looking young fellow then as ever
stood upon a deck. Well, as I was saying, we were coming down the
Mediterranean, and at Genoa we took a gentleman and his daughter on board.
She was a pretty creature; I’ve seen nothing like her neither before nor
since. So, as I’m telling you, we took them on board at Genoa, for
England, and they had not been many days on board, till every one saw, and
I saw, though my eyes are none o’ the smartest, that the captain could
look on nothing but his lovely passenger. It wasn’t hard to see that she
looked much in the same way at him, and I have seen them walking on the
deck at night with her arm through his, in the moonlight; and, let me tell
you, a glorious sight it is—moonlight on the Mediterranean. It is enough
to make a man fall in love with moonlight itself, if there be nothing else
beside him. Well, d’ye see, as I am saying, it wasn’t long until the old
gentleman, her father, saw which way the land lay; and one day we heard
the lady weeping; she never came out of her cabin during the rest of the
voyage, nor did her father again speak to the master. We were laid up for
a long time, and there was a report that the captain and her had married,
unknowing to her father. However, we sailed on a long voyage; we weren’t
back to England again for more than twelve months; but the day after we
landed the captain shut himself up, and, for long and long, we used to
find him sitting with the salt water in his eyes. We again heard the
report that he had been married, and also that his lady had died in
childbed; but whether the child was living or ever was living, or whether
it was a boy or a girl, we didn’t know; nor did he know; and, I believe,
he never was able to hear any more about the old gentleman—so, as I say,
that’s all I know about the matter, poor fellow."
Now, the squinting sailor
remained two days in the house of Richard Rogers, and he was such a
comical man, and such a good-natured kind-hearted man, that Mrs. Rogers
was certain he would be a lucky first-foot, even though he had a very
unfortunate cross look with his eyes; and she was the more convinced in
this opinion, because, in a conversation she had had with him, and in
which she had inquired—"What siller he thought the captain might be
worth?" "Why, I’m saying," answered the sailor, "Captain Rogers is worth a
round twenty thousand, if he be worth a single penny;—and that, I’m
thinking, is a pretty comfortable thing for Master George to be heir to!"
"Ay, and so it is," responded Nelly. And there was no longer anything
disagreeable in the sailor’s squint. |
