John Halifax [15]
we may be sure that for each feeling they express lies a countless wealth of the same, unexpressed, below; a character the keystone of which was that whereon is built all liking and all love--DEPENDABLENESS. He was one whom you may be long in knowing, but whom the more you know the more you trust; and once trusting, you trust for ever.
Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, premature in discovering all these characteristics in a boy of fourteen; and possibly in thus writing of him I may unwittingly be drawing a little from after-experience; however, being the truth, let it stand.
"Come," said I, changing the conversation, "we have had enough of me; how goes the world with you? Have you taken kindly to the tan-yard? Answer frankly."
He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle a tune.
"Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know the real truth."
"Well, then, I hate the tan-yard."
Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became composed.
"But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many a worse thing. It's wicked to hate what wins one's bread, and is the only thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely because it's disagreeable."
"You are a wise lad of your age, John."
"Now don't you be laughing at me." (But I was not, I was in solemn earnest). "And don't think I'm worse than I am; and especially that I'm not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in the world--the first I ever really had. If I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps I may climb."
"I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently. "But you seem to have thought a good deal about these sort of things."
"Oh, yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one's thoughts travel fast enough lying on this bark-heap--faster than indoors. I often wish I could read--that is, read easily. As it is, I have nothing to do but to think, and nothing to think of but myself, and what I should like to be."
"Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded to your master's business, should you like to be a tanner?"
He paused--his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, resolutely, "I would like to be anything that was honest and honourable. It's a notion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his trade does not make him--he makes his trade. That is--but I know I can't put the subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own head yet--I'm only a lad. However, it all comes to this--that whether I like it or not, I'll stick to the tanning as long as I can."
"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"--and I watched him as he stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling-- "Nevertheless, John, it's my opinion that you might be anything you liked."
He laughed. "Questionable that--at least at present. Whatever I may be, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works in your father's tan-yard--John Halifax, and very much at your service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher."
Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman." However, that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence-- Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.
The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was.
"How do you mean?"
"Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?"
"Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and drinking. Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road, where there's lots of blackberries by way of pudding--which is grand! Supper, when I do get
Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, premature in discovering all these characteristics in a boy of fourteen; and possibly in thus writing of him I may unwittingly be drawing a little from after-experience; however, being the truth, let it stand.
"Come," said I, changing the conversation, "we have had enough of me; how goes the world with you? Have you taken kindly to the tan-yard? Answer frankly."
He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle a tune.
"Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know the real truth."
"Well, then, I hate the tan-yard."
Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became composed.
"But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many a worse thing. It's wicked to hate what wins one's bread, and is the only thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely because it's disagreeable."
"You are a wise lad of your age, John."
"Now don't you be laughing at me." (But I was not, I was in solemn earnest). "And don't think I'm worse than I am; and especially that I'm not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in the world--the first I ever really had. If I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps I may climb."
"I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently. "But you seem to have thought a good deal about these sort of things."
"Oh, yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one's thoughts travel fast enough lying on this bark-heap--faster than indoors. I often wish I could read--that is, read easily. As it is, I have nothing to do but to think, and nothing to think of but myself, and what I should like to be."
"Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded to your master's business, should you like to be a tanner?"
He paused--his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, resolutely, "I would like to be anything that was honest and honourable. It's a notion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his trade does not make him--he makes his trade. That is--but I know I can't put the subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own head yet--I'm only a lad. However, it all comes to this--that whether I like it or not, I'll stick to the tanning as long as I can."
"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"--and I watched him as he stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling-- "Nevertheless, John, it's my opinion that you might be anything you liked."
He laughed. "Questionable that--at least at present. Whatever I may be, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works in your father's tan-yard--John Halifax, and very much at your service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher."
Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman." However, that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence-- Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.
The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was.
"How do you mean?"
"Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?"
"Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and drinking. Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road, where there's lots of blackberries by way of pudding--which is grand! Supper, when I do get