Toyota Hiace 2020 Electrical Wiring

Diagram & Repair Manual

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these tender victims give but too much encouragement, I fear, to
clandestine, and almost infantile abductions; the seeds of civility and
true courtesy, so often discernible in these young grafts (not
otherwise to be accounted for) plainly hint at some forced
adoptions; many noble Rachels mourning for their children, even in
our days, countenance the fact; the tales of fairy-spiriting may
shadow a lamentable verity, and the recovery of the young Montagu
be but a solitary instance of good fortune, out of many irreparable
and hopeless defiliations.

In one of the state-beds at Arundel Castle, a few years since—

under a ducal canopy—(that seat of the Howards is an object of
curiosity to visitors, chiefly for its beds, in which the late duke was
especially a connoisseur)—encircled with curtains of delicatest
crimson, with starry coronets inwoven—folded between a pair of
sheets whiter and softer than the lap where Venus lulled Ascanius—
was discovered by chance, after all methods of search had failed, at
noon-day, fast asleep, a lost chimney-sweeper. The little creature,
having somehow confounded his passage among the intricacies of
those lordly chimneys, by some unknown aperture had alighted
upon this magnificent chamber; and, tired with his tedious
explorations, was unable to resist the delicious invitement to repose,
which he there saw exhibited; so, creeping between the sheets very
quietly, laid his black head upon the pillow, and slept like a young
Howard.

Such is the account given to the visitors at the Castle.—But I

cannot help seeming to perceive a confirmation of what I have just
hinted at in this story. A high instinct was at work in the case, or I
am mistaken. Is it probable that a poor child of that description, with
whatever weariness he might be visited, would have ventured, under
such a penalty, as he would be taught to expect, to uncover the
sheets of a Duke's bed, and deliberately to lay himself down
between them, when the rug, or the carpet, presented an obvious
couch, still far above his pretensions—is this probable, I would ask, if
the great power of nature, which I contend for, had not been
manifested within him, prompting to the adventure? Doubtless this
young nobleman (for such my mind misgives me that he must be)
was allured by some memory, not amounting to full consciousness,
of his condition in infancy, when he was used to be lapt by his
mother, or his nurse, in just such sheets as he there found, into
which he was but now creeping back as into his proper incunabula,
and resting-place.—By no other theory, than by this sentiment of a
pre-existent state (as I may call it), can I explain a deed so
venturous, and, indeed, upon any other system, so indecorous, in
this tender, but unseasonable, sleeper.

My pleasant friend JEM WHITE was so impressed with a belief of

metamorphoses like this frequently taking place, that in some sort to
reverse the wrongs of fortune in these poor changelings, he
instituted an annual feast of chimney-sweepers, at which it was his
pleasure to officiate as host and waiter. It was a solemn supper held
in Smithfield, upon the yearly return of the fair of St. Bartholomew.
Cards were issued a week before to the master-sweeps in and about
the metropolis, confining the invitation to their younger fry. Now and
then an elderly stripling would get in among us, and be good-
naturedly winked at; but our main body were infantry. One
unfortunate wight, indeed, who relying upon his dusky suit, had
intruded himself into our party, but by tokens was providentially
discovered in time to be no chimney-sweeper (all is not soot which
looks so), was quoited out of the presence with universal
indignation, as not having on the wedding garment; but in general
the greatest harmony prevailed. The place chosen was a convenient
spot among the pens, at the north side of the fair, not so far distant
as to be impervious to the agreeable hubbub of that vanity; but
remote enough not to be obvious to the interruption of every gaping
spectator in it. The guests assembled about seven. In those little
temporary parlours three tables were spread with napery, not so fine
as substantial, and at every board a comely hostess presided with
her pan of hissing sausages. The nostrils of the young rogues dilated
at the savour. JAMES WHITE, as head waiter, had charge of the first
table; and myself, with our trusty companion[25] BIGOD, ordinarily
ministered to the other two. [Footnote 25: John Fenwick.] There was
clambering and jostling, you may be sure, who should get at the first
table—for Rochester in his maddest days could not have done the
humours of the scene with more spirit than my friend. After some
general expression of thanks for the honour the company had done
him, his inaugural ceremony was to clasp the greasy waist of old
dame Ursula (the fattest of the three), that stood frying and fretting,
half-blessing, half-cursing "the gentleman," and imprint upon her
chaste lips a tender salute, whereat the universal host would set up
a shout that tore the concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth
startled the night with their brightness. O it was a pleasure to see
the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, with his more
unctuous sayings—how he would fit the tit-bits to the puny mouths,
reserving the lengthier links for the seniors—how he would intercept
a morsel even in the jaws of some young desperado, declaring it
"must to the pan again to be browned, for it was not fit for a
gentleman's eating"—how he would recommend this slice of white
bread, or that piece of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile, advising
them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, which were their best
patrimony,—how genteelly he would deal about the small ale, as if it
were wine, naming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good he
should lose their custom; with a special recommendation to wipe the
lip before drinking. Then we had our toasts—"The King,"—the
"Cloth,"—which, whether they understood or not, was equally
diverting and flattering;—and for a crowning sentiment, which never
failed, "May the Brush supersede the Laurel." All these, and fifty
other fancies, which were rather felt than comprehended by his
guests, would he utter, standing upon tables, and prefacing every
sentiment with a "Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so,"
which was a prodigious comfort to those young orphans; every now
and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish
on these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausages,
which pleased them mightily, and was the savouriest part, you may
believe, of the entertainment.

Golden lads and lasses must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust—

James White is extinct, and with him these suppers have long
ceased. He carried away with him half the fun of the world when he
died—of my world at least. His old clients look for him among the
pens; and, missing him, reproach the altered feast of St.
Bartholomew, and the glory of Smithfield departed for ever.

Lamb.
A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG

Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M.[26] was

obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy
thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living
animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. [Footnote 26:
Thomas Manning.] This period is not obscurely hinted at by their
great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations,
where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang,
literally the Cook's holiday. The manuscript goes on to say, that the
art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder
brother) was accidentally discovered in the manner following. The
swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as
his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the
care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of
playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some
sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread
the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was
reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian
make-shift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more
importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in
number, perished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over
the East from the remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in
utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of
the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again
with a few dry branches, and the labour of an hour or two, at any
time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he
should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking
remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odour assailed his
nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experienced. What
could it proceed from?—not from the burnt cottage—he had smelt
that smell before—indeed this was by no means the first accident of
the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky
young fire-brand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb,
weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time
overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next
stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He
burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby
fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had
come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the
world's life indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted—
crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him
so much now, still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The
truth at length broke into his slow understanding, that it was the pig
that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, surrendering
himself up to the newborn pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole
handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was
cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire
entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel,
and finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young
rogue's shoulders, as thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded not
any more than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure, which he
experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him quite callous to
any inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters. His
father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig, till he
had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible
of his situation, something like the following dialogue ensued.

"You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it

not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your
dog's tricks, and be hanged to you, but you must be eating fire, and
I know not what—what have you got there, I say?"

"O, father, the pig, the pig, do come and taste how nice the burnt
pig eats."

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he
cursed himself that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt
pig.

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning,

soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the
lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out
"Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only taste—O Lord,"—with such-
like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would
choke.

Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped the abominable thing,

wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an
unnatural young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers,
as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he
in his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour mouths
he would for a pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him.
In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious) both father
and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had
despatched all that remained of the litter.
 Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the
neighbours would certainly have stoned them for a couple of
abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good
meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got
about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now
more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward.
Some would break out in broad day, others in the night-time. As
often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a
blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of
chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever.
At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and
father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an
inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food
itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when
the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which
the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He
handled it, and they all handled it, and burning their fingers, as Bo-
bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to
each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and
the clearest charge which judge had ever given,—to the surprise of
the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present—
without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever,
they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest

iniquity of the decision; and, when the court was dismissed, went
privily, and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or
money. In a few days his Lordship's town house was observed to be
on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen
but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all
over the district. The insurance offices one and all shut up shop.
People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that
the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the
world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of
time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a
discovery, that the flesh of swine; or indeed of any other animal,
might be cooked (burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of
consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form
of a gridiron. Roasting by the string, or spit, came in a century or
two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees,
concludes the manuscript, do the most useful, and seemingly the
most obvious arts, make their way among mankind.——

Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it

must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an
experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could
be assigned in favour of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse
might be found in ROAST PIG.

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis, I will maintain it

to be the most delicate—princeps obsoniorum.

I speak not of your grown porkers—things between pig and pork—

those hobbydehoys—but a young and tender suckling—under a
moon old—guiltless as yet of the sty—with no original speck of the
amor immunditiæ, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet
manifest—his voice as yet not broken, but something between a
childish treble, and a grumble—the mild forerunner, or præludium, of
a grunt.

He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate

them seethed, or boiled—but what a sacrifice of the exterior
tegument!
 There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp,
tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called
—the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this
banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance—with the adhesive
oleaginous—O call it not fat—but an indefinable sweetness growing
up to it—the tender blossoming of fat—fat cropped in the bud—
taken in the shoot—in the first innocence—the cream and
quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food——the lean, no lean,
but a kind of animal manna—or, rather, fat and lean, (if it must be
so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make
but one ambrosian result, or common substance.

Behold him, while he is doing—it seemeth rather a refreshing

warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How
equably he twirleth round the string!—Now he is just done. To see
the extreme sensibility of that tender age, he hath wept out his
pretty eyes—radiant jellies—shooting stars—

See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth!—
wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to the grossness and
indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood? Ten to
one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate,
disagreeable animal—wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation—
from these sins he is happily snatched away—

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade

Death came with timely care—

his memory is odoriferous—no clown curseth, while his stomach

half rejecteth, the rank bacon—no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking
sausages—he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the
judicious epicure—and for such a tomb might be content to die.
 He is the best of Sapors. Pine-apple is great. She is indeed almost
too transcendent—a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning, that
really a tender-conscienced person would do well to pause—too
ravishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth the lips
that approach her—like lovers' kisses, she biteth—she is a pleasure
bordering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her relish—but
she stoppeth at the palate—she meddleth not with the appetite—
and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton
chop.

Pig—let me speak his praise—is no less provocative of the

appetite, than he is satisfactory to the criticalness of the censorious
palate. The strong man may batten on him, and weakling refuseth
not his mild juices.

Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of virtues and

vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to be unravelled without
hazard, he is—good throughout. No part of him is better or worse
than another. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all
around. He is the least envious of banquets. He is all neighbours'
fare.

I am one of those, who freely and ungrudgingly impart a share of

the good things of this life which fall to their lot (few as mine are in
this kind) to a friend. I protest to take as great an interest in my
friend's pleasures, his relishes, and proper satisfactions, as in mine
own. "Presents," I often say, "endear Absents." Hares, pheasants,
partridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic fowl"),
capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely as I
receive them. I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of
my friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. One would not, like
Lear, "give everything." I make my stand upon pig. Methinks it is an
ingratitude to the Giver of all good flavours, to extra-domiciliate, or
send out of the house, slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I
know not what) a blessing so particularly adapted, predestined, I
may say, to my individual palate—It argues an insensibility.

I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at school. My good

old aunt, who never parted from me at the end of a holiday without
stuffing a sweetmeat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, had
dismissed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the
oven. In my way to school (it was over London Bridge) a grey-
headed old beggar saluted me (I have no doubt at this time of day
that he was a counterfeit). I had no pence to console him with, and
in the vanity of self-denial, and the very coxcombry of charity,
school-boy-like, I made him a present of—the whole cake! I walked
on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a sweet
soothing of self-satisfaction; but before I had got to the end of the
bridge, my better feelings returned, and I burst into tears, thinking
how ungrateful I had been to my good aunt, to go and give her
good gift away to a stranger, that I had never seen before, and who
might be a bad man for aught I knew; and then I thought of the
pleasure my aunt would be taking in thinking that I—I myself, and
not another—would eat her nice cake—and what should I say to her
the next time I saw her—how naughty I was to part with her pretty
present—and the odour of that spicy cake came back upon my
recollection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in seeing
her make it, and her joy when she sent it to the oven, and how
disappointed she would feel that I had never had a bit of it in my
mouth at last—and I blamed my impertinent spirit of alms-giving,
and out-of-place hypocrisy of goodness, and above all I wished
never to see the face again of that insidious, good-for-nothing, old
grey impostor.

Our ancestors were nice in their method of sacrificing these tender

victims. We read of pigs whipt to death with something of a shock,
as we hear of any other obsolete custom. The age of discipline is
gone by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a philosophical light
merely) what effect this process might have towards intenerating
and dulcifying a substance, naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh
of young pigs. It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should be
cautious, while we condemn the inhumanity, how we censure the
wisdom of the practice. It might impart a gusto—

I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young students,

when I was at St. Omer's, and maintained with much learning and
pleasantry on both sides, "Whether, supposing that the flavour of a
pig who obtained his death by whipping (per flagellationem
extremam) superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a man more
intense than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal, is
man justified in using that method of putting the animal to death?" I
forget the decision.

His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few bread crumbs,

done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But,
banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe.
Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots,
stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; you
cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are—but
consider, he is a weakling—a flower.

Lamb.
POOR RELATIONS

A Poor Relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature,—a piece of

impertinent correspondency,—an odious approximation,—a haunting
conscience,—a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noontide of
our prosperity,—an unwelcome remembrancer,—a perpetually
recurring mortification,—a drain on your purse,—a more intolerable
dun upon your pride,—a drawback upon success,—a rebuke to your
rising,—a stain in your blood,—a blot on your 'scutcheon,—a rent in
your garment,—a death's head at your banquet,—Agathocles' pot,—
a Mordecai in your gate,—a Lazarus at your door,—a lion in your
path,—a frog in your chamber,—a fly in your ointment,—a mote in
your eye,—a triumph to your enemy, an apology to your friends,—
the one thing not needful,—the hail in harvest,—the ounce of sour in
a pound of sweet.

He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth you "That is Mr. ——."
A rap, between familiarity and respect; that demands, and, at the
same time, seems to despair of, entertainment. He entereth smiling
and—embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand to you to shake, and—
draweth it back again. He casually looketh in about dinner-time—
when the table is full. He offereth to go away, seeing you have
company, but is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, and your visitor's
two children are accommodated at a side table. He never cometh
upon open days, when your wife says with some complacency, "My
dear, perhaps Mr. —— will drop in to-day." He remembereth
birthdays—and professeth he is fortunate to have stumbled upon
one. He declareth against fish, the turbot being small—yet suffereth
himself to be importuned into a slice against his first resolution. He
sticketh by the port—yet will be prevailed upon to empty the
remainder glass of claret, if a stranger press it upon him. He is a
puzzle to the servants, who are fearful of being too obsequious, or
not civil enough, to him. The guests think "they have seen him
before." Everyone speculateth upon his condition; and the most part
take him to be—a tide waiter. He calleth you by your Christian name,
to imply that his other is the same with your own. He is too familiar
by half, yet you wish he had less diffidence. With half the familiarity
he might pass for a casual dependent; with more boldness he would
be in no danger of being taken for what he is. He is too humble for a
friend, yet taketh on him more state than befits a client. He is a
worse guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he bringeth up no
rent—yet 'tis odds, from his garb and demeanour, that your guests
take him for one. He is asked to make one at the whist table;
refuseth on the score of poverty, and—resents being left out. When
the company break up he proffereth to go for a coach—and lets the
servant go. He recollects your grandfather; and will thrust in some
mean and quite unimportant anecdote of—the family. He knew it
when it was not quite so flourishing as "he is blest in seeing it now."
He reviveth past situations to institute what he calleth—favourable
comparisons. With a reflecting sort of congratulation, he will inquire
the price of your furniture: and insults you with a special
commendation of your window-curtains. He is of opinion that the
urn is the more elegant shape, but, after all, there was something
more comfortable about the old tea-kettle—which you must
remember. He dare say you must find a great convenience in having
a carriage of your own, and appealeth to your lady if it is not so.
Inquireth if you have had your arms done on vellum yet; and did not
know, till lately, that such-and-such had been the crest of the family.
His memory is unseasonable; his compliments perverse; his talk a
trouble; his stay pertinacious; and when he goeth away, you dismiss
his chair into a corner, as precipitately as possible, and feel fairly rid
of two nuisances.

There is a worse evil under the sun, and that is—a female Poor
Relation. You may do something with the other; you may pass him
off tolerably well; but your indigent she-relative is hopeless. "He is
an old humourist," you may say, "and affects to go threadbare. His
circumstances are better than folks would take them to be. You are
fond of having a Character at your table, and truly he is one." But in
the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No
woman dresses below herself from caprice. The truth must out
without shuffling, "She is plainly related to the L——s; or what does
she at their house?" She is, in all probability, your wife's cousin. Nine
times out of ten, at least, this is the case. Her garb is something
between a gentlewoman and a beggar, yet the former evidently
predominates. She is most provokingly humble, and ostentatiously
sensible to her inferiority. He may require to be repressed sometimes
—aliquando suffiaminandus erat—but there is no raising her. You
send her soup at dinner, and she begs to be helped—after the
gentlemen. Mr. —— requests the honour of taking wine with her;
she hesitates between Port and Madeira, and choses the former—
because he does. She calls the servant Sir; and insists on not
troubling him to hold her plate. The housekeeper patronises her. The
children's governess takes upon her to correct her, when she has
mistaken the piano for harpsichord.
 Richard Amlet, Esq., in the play, is a noticeable instance of the
disadvantages, to which this chimerical notion of affinity constituting
a claim to an acquaintance, may subject the spirit of a gentleman. A
little foolish blood is all that is betwixt him and a lady with a great
estate. His stars are perpetually crossed by the malignant maternity
of an old woman, who persists in calling him "her son Dick." But she
has wherewithal in the end to recompense his indignities, and float
him again upon the brilliant surface, under which it had been her
seeming business and pleasure all along to sink him. All men,
besides, are not of Dick's temperament. I knew an Amlet in real life,
who wanting Dick's buoyancy, sank indeed. Poor W—— was of my
own standing at Christ's, a fine classic, and a youth of promise. If he
had a blemish, it was too much pride; but its quality was inoffensive;
it was not of that sort which hardens the heart, and serves to keep
inferiors at a distance; it only sought to ward off derogation from
itself. It was the principle of self-respect carried as far as it could go,
without infringing upon that respect, which he would have every one
else equally maintain for himself. He would have you to think alike
with him on this topic. Many a quarrel have I had with him, when we
were rather older boys, and our tallness made us more obnoxious to
observation in the blue clothes, because I would not thread the
alleys and blind ways of the town with him to elude notice, when we
have been out together on a holiday in the streets of this sneering
and prying metropolis. W—— went, sore with these notions, to
Oxford, where the dignity and sweetness of a scholar's life, meeting
with the alloy of a humble introduction, wrought in him a passionate
devotion to the place, with a profound aversion to the society. The
servitor's gown (worse than his school array) clung to him with
Nessian venom. He thought himself ridiculous in a garb, under which
Latimer must have walked erect; and in which Hooker, in his young
days, possibly flaunted in a vein of no discommendable vanity. In the
depths of college shades, or in his lonely chamber, the poor student
shrunk from observation. He found shelter among books, which
insult not; and studies, that ask no questions of a youth's finances.
He was lord of his library, and seldom cared for looking out beyond
his domains. The healing influence of studious pursuits was upon
him, to soothe and to abstract. He was almost a healthy man; when
the waywardness of his fate broke out against him with a second
and worse malignity. The father of W—— had hitherto exercised the
humble profession of house-painter at N——, near Oxford. A
supposed interest with some of the heads of colleges had now
induced him to take up his abode in that city, with the hope of being
employed upon some public works which were talked of. From that
moment I read in the countenance of the young man, the
determination which at length tore him from academical pursuits for
ever. To a person unacquainted with our Universities, the distance
between the gownsmen and the townsmen, as they are called—the
trading part of the latter especially—is carried to an excess that
would appear harsh and incredible. The temperament of W——'s
father was diametrically the reverse of his own. Old W—— was a
little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his arm,
would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, to anything that
wore the semblance of a gown—insensible to the winks and opener
remonstrances of the young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal
in standing, perhaps, he was thus obsequiously and gratuitously
ducking. Such a state of things could not last. W—— must change
the air of Oxford or be suffocated. He chose the former; and let the
sturdy moralist, who strains the point of the filial duties as high as
they can bear, censure the dereliction; he cannot estimate the
struggle. I stood with W——, the last afternoon I ever saw him,
under the eaves of his paternal dwelling. It was in the fine lane
leading from the High Street to the back of **** college, where W
—— kept his rooms. He seemed thoughtful, and more reconciled. I
ventured to rally him—finding him in a better mood—upon a
representation of the Artist Evangelist, which the old man, whose
affairs were beginning to flourish, had caused to be set up in a
splendid sort of frame over his really handsome shop, either as a
token of prosperity, or badge of gratitude to his saint. W—— looked
up at the Luke, and, like Satan, "knew his mounted sign—and fled."
A letter on his father's table the next morning, announced that he
had accepted a commission in a regiment about to embark for
Portugal. He was among the first who perished before the walls of
St. Sebastian.

I do not know how, upon a subject which I began with treating

half seriously, I should have fallen upon a recital so eminently
painful; but this theme of poor relationship is replete with so much
matter for tragic as well as comic associations, that it is difficult to
keep the account distinct without blending. The earliest impressions
which I received on this matter, are certainly not attended with
anything painful, or very humiliating, in the recalling. At my father's
table (no very splendid one) was to be found, every Saturday, the
mysterious figure of an aged gentleman, clothed in neat black, of a
sad yet comely appearance. His deportment was of the essence of
gravity; his words few or none; and I was not to make a noise in his
presence. I had little inclination to have done so—for my cue was to
admire in silence. A particular elbow chair was appropriated to him,
which was in no case to be violated. A peculiar sort of sweet
pudding, which appeared on no other occasion, distinguished the
days of his coming. I used to think him a prodigiously rich man. All I
could make out of him was, that he and my father had been
schoolfellows a world ago at Lincoln, and that he came from the
Mint. The Mint I knew to be a place where all the money was coined
—and I thought he was the owner of all that money. Awful ideas of
the Tower twined themselves about his presence. He seemed above
human infirmities and passions. A sort of melancholy grandeur
invested him. From some inexplicable doom I fancied him obliged to
go about in an eternal suit of mourning; a captive—a stately being,
let out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often have I wondered at the
temerity of my father, who, in spite of an habitual general respect
which we all in common manifested towards him, would venture
now and then to stand up against him in some argument, touching
their youthful days. The houses of the ancient city of Lincoln are
divided (as most of my readers know) between the dwellers on the
hill, and in the valley. This marked distinction formed an obvious
division between the boys who lived above (however brought
together in a common school) and the boys whose paternal
residence was on the plain; a sufficient cause of hostility in the code
of these young Grotiuses. My father had been a leading
Mountaineer; and would still maintain the general superiority, in skill
and hardihood, of the Above Boys (his own faction) over the Below
Boys (so were they called), of which party his contemporary had
been a chieftain. Many and hot were the skirmishes on this topic—
the only one upon which the old gentleman was ever brought out—
and bad blood bred; even sometimes almost to the
recommencement (so I expected) of actual hostilities. But my father,
who scorned to insist upon advantages, generally contrived to turn
the conversation upon some adroit by-commendation of the old
Minster; in the general preference of which, before all other
cathedrals in the island, the dweller on the hill, and the plain-born,
could meet on a conciliating level, and lay down their less important