“You’ve a father,” said he; “but I’m a horphan, without father nor mother—­a houtcast!”—­and he sunk his head upon his bosom; and I observed that his scrubby crop was already becoming thin and bald.

“Since I left the place in the ‘lane,’ I’ve bin a-going—­down—­down”—­and he nearly touched the floor with his hand.  “That gal, Mary, was the ruin of me—­I shall never forget her.—­My hopes is sunk, like the sun in the ocean, never to rise agin!” I was rather amused by this romantic, though incorrect, figure; but I let him proceed:  “I’ve got several places, but lost ’em all.  I think there’s a spell upon me; and who can struggle against his fate?”

I tried to console him, and found, upon a further confession, that he had flown to spirits “now and then,” to blunt the sharp tooth of mental misery.

Here, then, was the chief cause of his want of success, which he blindly attributed to fate—­the common failing of all weak minds.  For my part, notwithstanding the imperial authority of the great Napoleon himself, I have no faith in Fate, believing that the effect, whether good or bad, may invariably be traced to some cause in the conduct of the individual, as certainly as the loss of a man, in a game of draughts, is the consequence of a “wrong move” by the player!—­And poor Matthew’s accusation of Fate put me in mind of the school-boy, who, during a wet vacation, rushed vindictively at the barometer, and struck it in the face, exclaiming—­“Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says ’very wet;’—­I can’t bear it—­I can’t—­and I won’t.”

I did all in my power to comfort the little porter, exhorting him to diligence and sobriety.

“You were always a kind friend,” said he, pathetically; “and perhaps—­perhaps you will give me something to drink your health, for old-acquaintance sake.”  This unexpected turn compelled me to laughter.  I gave him sixpence.

Alas!  Matthew, I found, was but a piece of coarse gingerbread, tricked out with the Dutch metal of false sentiment.

CHAPTER XVI.—­The Loss of a Friend.

“I say, ma’am, do you happen to have the hair of ’All round my hat I vears a green villow?’”

I was startled by the batho-romantic sentiment of Matthew, somewhat in the same manner as the young lady at the bookseller’s, when she was accosted by a musical dustman, with—­“I say, ma’am, do you happen to have the hair of ‘All round my hat I vears a green villow?’”

But, however ridiculous they may appear, such incongruous characters are by no means caricatures—­nay, are “as plentiful as blackberries,” especially in the lower grades of society.

I was indulging in a reverie of this sort, when Monsieur Dubois, my kind and gentlemanly tutor, abruptly entered the office.  I felt proud in having obtained his friendship—­for he was to me a mine of wealth, and appeared master of every subject upon which my curiosity prompted me to inquire, whilst the worthy Frenchman was so flattered by my sincere respect, that he took a delight in imparting his knowledge to so willing and diligent a scholar.