Chapter 2

John (or Jock, as he usually was
called), who was the eldest, was despatched to London, where he studied
the law under a relation; who, perceiving that Mrs Forster's annual
presentation _of_ the living was not followed up by any presentation
_to_ the living, kindly took charge of, and received him into his own
house.

Jock was a hard-headed fellow, studied with great diligence, and
retained what he read, although he did not read fast; but that which he
lost in speed he made up by perseverance, and had now, entirely by his
own exertions, risen to considerable eminence in his profession; but he
had been severed from his family in early days, and had never been able
to return to them. He heard, indeed, of the birth of sundry brothers
and sisters; of their deaths; and lastly, of the demise of his parents,
the only communication which affected him; for he loved his father and
mother, and was anticipating the period when he might possess the means
of rendering them more comfortable. But all this had long passed away.
He was now a bachelor past fifty, bearish and uncouth in his appearance,
and ungracious in his deportment. Secluded in his chambers, poring over
the dry technicalities of his profession, he had divided the moral world
into two parts--honest and dishonest, lawful and unlawful. All other
feelings and affections, if he had them, were buried, and had never been
raised to the surface. At the time we speak of he continued his
laborious, yet lucrative, profession, toiling in his harness like a
horse in a mill, heaping up riches, knowing not who should gather them;
not from avarice, but from long habit, which rendered his profession not
only his pleasure, but essential to his very existence. Edward Forster
had not seen him for nearly twenty years; the last time was when he
passed through London upon his retirement from the service. Indeed, as
they never corresponded (for there was nothing common between them), it
is a matter of doubt whether Jock was exactly aware which of his
brothers remained alive; and had it been a subject of interest, he
would, in all probability, have referred to the former letters of his
father and mother, as legal documents, to ascertain who was remaining of
his kin.

The next surviving son was _yclept_ (there's something very _consonant_
in that word) Nicholas. The Reverend Mr Forster, who had no
inheritance to bequeath to his family except a _good name_, which
although better than _riches_, will not always procure for a man one
penny loaf, naturally watched for any peculiar symptoms of genius in his
children which might designate one of the various paths to wealth and
fame, by which it would be most easy for the individual to ascend. Now
it did occur that when Nicholas was yet in womanish attire, he showed a
great partiality to a burning-glass, with which he contrived to do much
mischief. He would burn the dog's nose as he slept in the sun before
the door. His mother's gown showed proofs of his genius by sundry
little round holes, which were considerably increased each time that it
returned from the wash. Nay, heretical and damnable as is the fact, his
father's surplice was as a moth-eaten garment from the repeated and
insidious attacks of this young philosopher. The burning-glass decided
his fate. He was bound apprentice to an optical and mathematical
instrument maker; from which situation he was, if possible, to emerge
into the highest grade of the profession; but, somehow or another, a
want of ambition or of talent did not permit him to ascend the scale,
and he now kept a shop in the small seaport town of Overton, where he
repaired damaged articles of science--a watch one day, a quadrant or a
compass another; but his chief employment and his chief forte lay in
telescopes; and accordingly, a large board, with "Nicholas Forster,
Optician," surmounted the small shop window, at which he was invariably
to be seen at his employment. He was an eccentric person, one of those
who had narrowly escaped being clever; but there was an obliquity in his
mind which would not admit of lucid order and arrangement. In the small
town where he resided, he continued to pick up a decent sustenance; for
he had no competitor, and was looked upon as a man of considerable
ability. He was the only one of three brothers who had ventured upon
wedlock. But of this part of our history we shall at present say no
more than that he had an only child, and had married his wife, to use
his own expression, because she _suited his focus_.

Edward Forster the youngest, whom we have already introduced to the
reader, showed strong nautical propensities; he swam nut-shells in a
puddle, and sent pieces of lath with paper sails floating down the brook
which gurgled by the parsonage. This was circumstantial evidence: he
was convicted, and ordered off to sea, to return a Nelson. For his
conduct during the time he served her, Edward Forster certainly deserved
well of his country, and had he been enabled to continue in his
profession, would in all probability have risen by his merit to its
highest grades; but having served his time as midshipman, he received a
desperate wound in "cutting out," and shortly after obtained his
promotion to the rank of lieutenant for his gallant conduct. His wound
was of that severe description that he was obliged to quit the service,
and, for a time, retire upon his half pay. For many years, he looked
forward to the period when he could resume his career:--but in vain; the
wound broke out again and again; fresh splinters of the bone continually
worked out, and he was doomed to constant disappointment. At last it
healed; but years of suffering had quenched the ardour of youth, and
when he did apply for employment, his services had been forgotten. He
received a cool negative, almost consonant to his wishes: and returned,
without feeling mortified, to the cottage we have described, where he
lived a secluded yet not an unhappy life. His wants were few, and his
half pay more than adequate to supply them. A happy contemplative
indolence, arising from a well cultivated mind, feeding rather upon its
previous acquirements, than adding to its store--an equanimity of
disposition, and a habit of rigid self-command--were the characteristics
of Edward Forster; whom I shall now awaken, that we may proceed with our
narrative.

"Well, I do declare, Mr Forster, you have had a famous nap," cried Mrs
Beazeley, in a tone of voice so loud as to put an immediate end to his
slumber, as she entered his room with some hot water to assist him in
that masculine operation, the diurnal painful return of which has been
considered to be more than tantamount in suffering to the occasional
`pleasing punishment which women bear,' Although this cannot be proved
until ladies are endowed with beards, (which Heaven forfend!) or some
modern Tiresias shall appear to decide the point, the assertion appears
to be borne out, if we reason by analogy from human life; where we find
that it is not the heavy blow of sudden misfortune tripping the ladder
of our ambition and laying us prostrate, which constitutes life's
intermittent "fitful fever;" but the thousand petty vexations of hourly
occurrence.--We return to Mrs Beazeley, who continued--"Why, it's nine
o'clock, Mr Forster, and a nice fresh morning it is too, after last
night's tempest. And pray what did you hear and see, sir?" continued
the old woman, opening the shutters, and admitting a blaze of sunshine,
as if determined that at all events he should now both _hear_ and _see_.

"I'll tell you all, Mrs Beazeley, when I am dressed. Let me have my
breakfast as soon as you can, for I must be off again to the cove. I
did not intend to have slept so late."

"Why, what's in the wind now, Mr Forster?" said the old lady, borrowing
one of his nautical phrases.

"If you wish to know, Mrs Beazeley, the sooner you allow me to get out
of bed, the sooner I shall be able to give you the information you
require."

"But what made you stay out so late, Mr Forster?" continued the
housekeeper, who seemed determined, if possible, to have a little
information _en attendant_, to stay her appetite until her curiosity
could obtain a more substantial repast.

"I am sorry to say, there was a vessel wrecked."

"O dear! O dear! Any lives lost?"

"All, I am afraid, except one, and even that is doubtful."

"O Lord! O Lord! Do, pray, Mr Forster, tell me all about it."

"As soon as I am dressed, Mrs Beazeley," replied Mr Forster, making a
movement indicative that he was about to "_turn out," whether or no_,
and which occasioned Mrs Beazeley to make a hasty retreat.

In a few minutes Forster made his appearance in the parlour, where he
found both the kettle and the housekeeper boiling with impatience. He
commenced eating and narrating until the respective appetites of Mrs
Beazeley and himself were equally appeased, and then set off for the
abode of Robertson, to ascertain the fate of the infant.

How different was the scene from that of the night before! The sea was
still in commotion, and as the bright sun shone upon its agitated
surface, gilding the summits of the waves, although there was majesty
and beauty in the appearance, there was nought to excite terror. The
atmosphere, purified by the warfare of the elements, was fresh and
bracing. The short verdure which covered the promontory and hills
adjacent, was of a more brilliant green, and seemed as if to bask in the
sun after the cleansing it had received from the heavy rain; while the
sheep (for the coast was one extended sheep-walk) studded the sides of
the hills, their white fleeces in strong, yet beautiful contrast, with
the deep verdure of nature. The smooth water of the cove, in opposition
to the vexed billows of the unsheltered ocean; the murmuring of the
light waves, running in long and gently curved lines to their repose
upon the yellow sand; their surface occasionally rippled by the eddying
breeze as it swept along; his own little skiff safe at her moorings,
undulating with the swell; the sea-gulls, who but a few hours ago were
screaming with dismay as they buffeted against the fury of the gale, now
skimming on the waves, or balanced on the wing near to their
inaccessible retreats; the carolling of the smaller birds on every side
of him, produced a lightness of heart and quickened pulse, to which
Edward Forster had latterly been a stranger.

He soon arrived at the cottage, where the sound of his footsteps brought
out the fisherman and his wife, the latter bearing in her arms the
little object of his solicitude.

"See, Mr Forster," said Jane, holding out the infant, "it's quite well
and hearty, and does nothing but smile. What a lovely babe it is!"

Forster looked at the child, who smiled, as if in gratitude; but his
attention was called away by the Newfoundland dog, who fawned upon him,
and after having received his caresses, squatted down upon the sand,
which he beat with his tail as he looked wistfully in Forster's face.

Forster took the child from the arms of its new mother. "Thou hast had
a narrow escape, poor thing," said he, and his countenance assumed a
melancholy cast as the idea floated in his mind. "Who knows how many
more perils may await thee? Who can say whether thou art to be restored
to the arms of thy relatives, or be left an orphan to a sailor's care?
Whether it had not been better that the waves should have swallowed thee
in thy purity, than thou shouldest be exposed to a heartless world of
sorrow and of crime? But He who willed thee to be saved knows best for
us who are in darkness;" and Forster kissed its brow, and returned it to
the arms of Jane.

Having made a few arrangements with Robertson and his wife, in whose
care he resolved at present to leave the child, Forster bent his steps
towards the promontory, that he might ascertain if any part of the
vessel remained. Stretching over the summit of the cliff, he perceived
that several of the lower futtocks and timbers still hung together, and
showed themselves above water. Anxious to obtain some clue to her
identity, he prepared to descend by a winding and hazardous path which
he had before surmounted. In a quarter of an hour he had gained a
position close to the wreck; but, with the exception of the shattered
remnant which was firmly wedged between the rocks, there was nothing to
be seen; not a fragment of her masts and spars, or sails, not a relic of
what was once life remained. The tide, which ran furiously round the
promontory, had swept them all away, or the _undertow_ of the deep water
had buried every detached particle, to be delivered up again, "far, far
at sea." All that Forster could ascertain was, that the vessel was
foreign built, and of large tonnage; but who were its unfortunate
tenants, or what the cargo, of which she had been despoiled by the
devouring waves, was not even to be surmised. The linen on the child
was marked J de F; and this was the only clue which remained for its
identity. For more than an hour did Forster remain fixed as a statue
upon the rock, where he had taken his station with arms folded, while he
contemplated the hoarse waves, dashing against the bends, or dividing as
they poured themselves between the timbers of the vessel, and he sunk
into deep and melancholy thought.

And where is the object exciting more serious reflection than a _Wreck_?

The pride and ingenuity of man humbled and overcome; the elements of the
Lord occupying the fabric which had set them at defiance; tossing,
tumbling, and dancing, as if in mockery at their success! The
structure, but a few hours past, as perfect as human intellect could
devise, towering with its proud canvass over space, and bearing man to
greet his fellow-man, over the _surface of death_!--dashing the billow
from her stem, as if in scorn, while she pursued her trackless way--
bearing tidings of peace and security, of war and devastation--tidings
of joy or grief, affecting whole kingdoms and empires, as if they were
but individuals!

Now, the waters delight in their revenge, and sparkle with joy, as the
sun shines upon their victory. That keel, which, with the sharpness of
a scythe, has so often mowed its course through the reluctant wave, is
now buried;--buried deep in the sand, which the angry surge accumulates
each minute, as if determined that it never will be subject to its
weight again.

How many seasons had rolled away, how many millions had returned to the
dust from which they sprung, before the kernels had swelled into the
forest giants levelled for that structure;--what labour had been
undergone to complete the task;--how many of the existent race found
employment and subsistence as they slowly raised that monument of human
skill;--how often had the weary miner laid aside his tool to wipe his
sweating brow, before the metals required for the completion had been
brought from darkness;--what thousands had been employed before it was
prepared and ready for its destined use! Yon copper bolt, twisted with
a force not human, and raised above the waters, as if in evidence of
their dreadful power, may contain a history in itself.

How many of her own structure must have been employed, bringing from the
north, the south, the east, and the west: her masts, her spars, her
"_hempen tackle_," and her canvass wings; her equipment in all its
variety; her stores for the support of life; her magazines of _quiescent
death_. And they who so fearlessly trod her decks, conscious of their
own powers, and confident in their own skill; they who expanded her
thousands of yards of canvass to the pursuing breeze, or reduced them,
like magic, at the approaching storm--where are they now? How many
sighs have been lavished at their absence! how many hearths would have
been gladdened by their return! Where are the hopes, the fears, the
ambition, and the pride; the courage and the enterprise; the love and
the yearnings after their kin; the speculations of the present, and the
calculations of the future, which occupied their minds, or were
cherished in their bosoms? All--all _wrecked_!

Days, weeks, and months rolled away; yet every step that could be taken
to find out the name of the vessel proved unavailing. Although the
conjectures of Forster, that she was one of the many foreign West
Indiamen which had met with a similar fate during that tempestuous
winter, was probably correct; still no clue could be gathered by which
the parentage of the little girl could be ascertained, The linen was
indeed marked with initials; but this circumstance offered but a faint
prospect of discovery. Either her relations, convinced of her loss made
no inquiries, or the name of the vessel in which she had been a
passenger was not known to them. The child had been weaned, and removed
to the cottage, where it occupied much of the attention of the old
housekeeper and Forster, who, despairing of its ever being reclaimed,
determined to bring it up as his own.

Mrs Beazeley, the housekeeper, was a good-tempered woman, long passed
the grand climacteric, and strongly attached to Forster, with whom she
had resided many years. But, like all women, whether married or single,
who have the responsibility of a household, she would have her own way;
and scolded her master with as little ceremony as if she had been united
to him by matrimonial bonds.

To this Forster quietly submitted: he had lived long enough to be aware
that people are not the happiest who are not under control, and was
philosopher sufficient to submit to the penal code of matrimony without
tasting its enjoyments, The arrival of the infant made him more than
ever feel as if he were a married man; for he had all the delights of
the nursery in addition to his previous discipline. But, although bound
by no ties, he found himself happier. He soon played with the infant,
and submitted to his housekeeper with all the docility of a well-trained
married man.

The Newfoundland dog, who, although (like some of his betters) he did
not change his name _for_ a fortune, did, in all probability, change it
_with_ his fortune, soon answered to the deserved epithet of Faithful,
and slept at the foot of the crib of his little mistress, who also was
to be rechristened. "She is a treasure, which has been thrown up by the
ocean," said Forster, kissing the lovely infant. "Let her name be
_Amber_."

But we must leave her to bud forth in her innocence and her purity,
while we direct the attention of the reader to other scenes, which are
contemporary with those we have described.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while 'tis so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.
SHAKESPEARE.

A man may purchase an estate, a tenement, or a horse because they have
pleased his fancy, and eventually find out that he has not exactly
suited himself; and it sometimes will occur that a man is placed in a
similar situation relative to his choice of a wife: a more serious evil;
as, although the prime cost may be nothing, there is no chance of
getting rid of this latter speculation by re-vending, as you may the
former. Now it happened that Nicholas Forster, of whom we have already
made slight mention, although he considered at the time of his marriage
that the person he had selected would _exactly suit his focus_, did
eventually discover that he was more short-sighted in his choice than an
optician ought to have been.

Whatever may have been the personal charms of Mrs Nicholas Forster at
the time of their union, she had, at the period of our narrative, but
few to boast of, being a thin, sharp-nosed, ferret-eyed, little woman,
teeming with suspicion, jealousy, and bad humours of every description:
her whole employment (we may say, her whole delight) was in finding
fault: her shrill voice was to be heard from the other side of the
street from morning until night. The one servant which their finances
enabled them with difficulty to retain, and whom they engaged as the
maid of all work (and certainly she was not permitted by Mrs Forster to
be idle in her multifarious duty), seldom remained above her _month_;
and nothing but the prospect of immediate starvation could induce any
one to offer herself in that capacity.

Mr Nicholas Forster, fortunately for his own happiness, was of that
peculiar temperament, that nothing could completely rouse his anger; he
was _absent_ to an excess; and if any language or behaviour on the part
of his wife induced his choler to rise, other ideas would efface the
cause from his memory; and this hydra of the human bosom, missing the
object of its intended attack, again laid down to rest.

The violence and vituperation of his spouse were, therefore, lost upon
Nicholas Forster; and the impossibility of disturbing the equanimity of
his temper increased the irritability of her own. Still Mr Nicholas
Forster, when he did reflect upon the subject, which was but during
momentary fits of recollection, could not help acknowledging that he
should be much more quiet and happy when it pleased Heaven to summon
Mrs Forster to a better world: and this idea ultimately took possession
of his imagination. Her constant turbulence interfered so much with the
prosecution of his plans, that, finding it impossible to carry them into
execution, every thing that he considered of moment was mentally put off
until _Mrs Forster was dead_!

"Well, Mr Forster, how long is the dinner to wait before you think
proper to come? Every thing will be cold as usual."--(n.b., the dinner
consisted of the remains of a cold shoulder of mutton.)--"Or do you mean
to have any dinner at all? Betty, clear away the table; I have my work
to do, and won't wait any longer."

"I'm coming, my dear, I'm coming; only this balance spring is a job that
I cannot well leave," replied Nicholas, continuing his vocation in the
shop, with a magnifying glass attached to his eye.

"Coming! yes, and Christmas is coming Mr Forster.--Well, the dinner's
going, I can tell you."

Nicholas, who did not want appetite, and who was conscious that if the
mutton returned to the cupboard there would be some difficulty made in
reproducing it, laid down the watch and came into the back parlour.

"Well, my dear, here I am; sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but
business must be attended to.--Dear me, why the mutton is really quite
cold," continued Nicholas, thrusting a large piece into his mouth, quite
forgetting that he had already dined twice off the identical joint.
"That's a fine watch of Mr Tobin's; but I think that my improvement
upon the duplex when I have finished it--"

"When you have finished it, indeed!" retorted the lady; "why, when did
you ever finish any thing, Mr Forster! Finish indeed!"

"Well, my dear," replied the husband, with an absent air--"I do mean to
finish it, when--_you are dead_!"

"When I am dead!" screamed the lady, in a rage--"when I am dead!"
continued she, placing her arms akimbo, as she started from the
chair:--"I can tell you, Mr Forster, that I'll live long enough to
plague you, it's not the first time that you've said so; but depend upon
it, I'll dance upon your grave yet, Mr Forster."

"I did not exactly mean to say that; not exactly that, my dear," replied
Nicholas, confused. "The fact is that I was not exactly aware of what I
was saying--I had not precisely the--"

"Precisely the fiddle-stick, Mr Forster! you did mean it, and you do
mean it, and this is all the return that I am to expect for my kindness
and anxiety for your welfare--slaving and toiling all day as I do; but
you're incorrigible, Mr Forster: look at you, helping, yourself out of
your snuff-box instead of the salt-cellar. What man in his senses would
eat a cold shoulder of mutton with tobacco?"

"Dear me, so I have," replied Forster, removing the snuff taken from the
box, which, as usual, lay open before him, not into the box again, but
into the salt-cellar.

"And who's to eat that salt now, you nasty beast?"

"I am not a beast, Mrs Forster," replied the husband, whose choler was
roused; "I made a mistake; I do perceive--now I recollect it, did you
send Betty with the `day and night glass' to Captain Simkins?"

"Yes, I did, Mr Forster: if I did not look after your business, I
should like to know what would become of us; and I can tell, you Mr
Forster, that if you do not contrive to get more business, there will
soon be nothing to eat; seventeen and sixpence is all that I have
received this last week; and how rent and fire, meat and drink, are to
be paid for with that, you must explain, for I can't."

"How can I help it, my dear? I never refuse a job."

"Never refuse a job? no; but you must contrive to make more business."

"I can mend a watch, and make a telescope, but I can't make business, my
dear," replied Nicholas.

"Yes, you can, and you must, Mr Forster," continued the lady, sweeping
off the remains of the mutton, just as her husband had fixed his eye
upon the next cut, and locking it up in the cupboard--"if you do not,
you will have nothing to eat, Mr Forster."

"So it appears, my dear," replied the meek Nicholas, taking a pinch of
snuff; "but I really don't--"

"Why, Mr Forster, if you were not one of the greatest--"

"No, no, my dear," interrupted Nicholas, from extreme modesty, "I am not
one of the greatest opticians of the present day; although when I've
made my improve--"

"Greatest opticians!" interrupted the lady. "One of the greatest
_fools_, I meant!"

"That's quite another thing, my dear; but--"

"No _buts_, Mr Forster; please to listen, and not interrupt me in that
bearish manner. Why do you repair in the way you do? Who ever brings
you a watch or a glass that you have handled a second time?"

"But why should they, my dear, when I have put them in good order?"

"Put them in order! but why do you put them in order?"

"Why do I put them in order, my dear?" replied Forster, with
astonishment.

"Yes; why don't you leave a screw loose, somewhere? then they must come
again. That's the proper way to do business."

"The proper way to do my business, my dear, is to see that all the
screws are tight."

"And starve!" continued the lady.

"If it please God," replied the honest Nicholas.

But this matrimonial duet was interrupted by the appearance of their
son, whom we must introduce to the reader, as he will play a conspicuous
part in our narrative.

Newton Forster, for thus had he been christened by his father, out of
respect _for the great Sir Isaac_, who was now about seventeen years'
old--athletic and well proportioned in person, handsome in features, and
equally gifted in mind. There was a frankness and sincerity in his open
brow, an honesty in his smile, which immediately won upon the beholder;
and his countenance was but an index to his mind. His father had
bestowed all his own leisure, and some expense, which he could ill
afford, upon his education, trusting one day that he would rival the
genius after whom he had been christened; but Newton was not of a
disposition to _sit_ down either at a desk or a work-bench. Whenever he
could escape from home or from school, he was to be found either on the
beach or at the pier, under the shelter of which the coasting vessels
discharged or received their cargoes; and he had for some years declared
his intention to follow the profession of a sailor. To this his father
had reluctantly consented, with the proviso that he would first finish
his education; and the mutual compact had been strictly adhered to by
each party.

At the age of fifteen Newton had acquired all that could be imparted to
him by the pedagogue of the vicinity, and had then, until something
better should turn up, shipped himself on board of a coasting vessel, in
which, during the last two years he had made several trips, being
usually absent about six weeks, and remaining in port about the same
time, until another cargo could be procured.

Young as he was, the superiority of his education had obtained him the
situation of mate of the vessel; and his pay enabled him to assist his
father, whose business, as Mrs Forster declared, was not sufficient to
"make both ends meet." Upon his return, his love of knowledge and
active habits induced him to glean as much as he could of his father's
profession, and he could repair most articles that were sent in.
Although Newton amused himself with the peculiarities and eccentricity
of his father, he still had high respect for him, as he knew him to be a
worthy, honest man.