University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The morning after his arrival in London,
Philip descended to the tap-room of the inn, invigorated
by rest and anxious to commence he
search upon which his heart was set. It was
late in the day, for fatigue had made him sleep
long, and he found the good landlady had prepared
his breakfast by itself in her own little
back parlor. Her kind “good morning,” her
pleasant smile, and the neat room, made him
feel at home.

“Come, sit down and have a nice breakfast,
my good man,” she said, placing a chair for
him. “I'll be bound you are hungry; but you
look smarter than you did last night. Here is
a mug of best ale, and such white bread as there
is not found in every inn in London. Take a
slice of this golden butter. It smells sweet of
the country dairy.”

As Philip ate she watched him attentively,
and at length said quickly and confidently:

“You are not what your dress betokens!
Neither your looks nor speech nor air are low.
What has brought you to London in disguise?
I dare guess you are a young lord, run away
from some home trouble.”

“I am only a fisherman's son, good dame,”
answered Philip, laughingly. “My dress and
my rank quite correspond. I have passed my
life in gathering shells and catching fish.”

“You look greatly above your condition, not
to flatter you. Now, will you tell me what has
brought you up to London?” added the hostess;
giving him a plateful of beef-steak.

“I am come up to seek my fortune.”

“That has brought many a youth to London
who has never found it. But I hope you will
do well. But you can never live in London by
fishing and shell-gathering.”

To this Philip assented. The result of this
social breakfast was that he told the good woman
his whole history; how he had been found
at sea, raised by old George, loved Agnes, won
the golden arrow, and how she had become
blind. He also told her how he was in hopes to
find in some country, if not in London, some
one skilled to restore her to sight. Moreover,
he showed her the silver cup and iron compass.

That the pleasant hostess took a deep interest
in his narrative need not be asserted, since she
had taken so kind an interest in him for his fine
face before she knew it. How potent is personal
beauty! How it goes before its possessor
and paves the way for good opinion. If Philip
had been an ordinary-looking young fisher's lad,
he would not have eaten his breakfast in the little
private side-room, nor won the favor of the
hostess. Beauty of person is power over us. It
is a power, like money, over the minds of men.

It is a power in itself that commands homage
and receives it. Often it is more potent than
gold, for it wins its way where gold would fail
of success.

“Now, the first thing for you to do, good
Philip,” said his new friend, the landlady, “is
to go into the Strand, round the corner, and find
the silversmith who made this cup. I have
heard the name, or seen the sign at least. They
can, perhaps, tell you who they made it for.
This will be a beginning. Here is a Directory
will show you where the place is; and also
`Kerr & Kerr's,' where the compass was made.
If you can get hold of the first step, you will be
able, I doubtt not, to trace up to who your father
and mother are!”

“I will call and see them first; but my main
wish is to consult an eye surgeon. I will go to
the greatest in London, and must go to-day.
Each moment is precious to Agnes, if so be
there is hope left that she may see.”

“You are a noble young man! You deserve
to succeed; but if the queen's surgeon has pronounced
the young lady incurable, have little
room for hope. You will be careful and not get
lost, and come back before dark.”

Philip promised to do as she said, and, leaving
his package in her possession, with the cup
and compass, which he concluded not to take
with him until he had first found the places
where the makers kept, he left the inn and
mingled with the human current in the Strand.

It was quite three hours before he found the
silver warehouse he was in search of. The door
was blocked with carriages of the nobility, and
many noble dames were within, selecting the
most costly and beautiful silver plate that London
furnished; for this house possessed the
highest reputation, inasmuch as it was patronized
by their majesties. Philip, in his poor
garb, presented quite a contrast, even to the gay
footmen of these titled dames. After some
time he found opportunity to ask permission to
look at silver cups. The shopman, if he had
looked wholly at his dress, would have disregarded
his request; but meeting his eye, and
feeling the superiority of his look over his own,
he moodily obeyed. All that Philip desired was
to examine the stamp on the bottom of the cup.
It was, he saw with satisfaction, exactly the
same as that upon his own which he left in the
inn.

This verification filled him with hope; and,
shortly leaving the place, he found his way to
the compass makers', and verified the stamp
upon his own there. He resolved the next day
to bring both articles down, for, being numbered
by the makers, it was possible that they might
know to whom they had sold them, though ten
or more years ago.

From the compass makers' he now took his
way, by frequent inquiries, towards St. James's
Palace, near which he was told by the hostess
that the most eminent oculist lived. The discovery
of his own parentage was secondary in
the mind of this noble youth to the discovery of
skill to restore sight to Agnes.

He reached with great difficulty, from his ignorance
of the streets, the destination he
sought. It was near the close of day when
he found the place. Then he nearly failed
seeing the great man, who, though not the
king's surgeon, was eminent above him for
skill in his profession in the eyes of the people.
He was just entering his cab.

“Sir, if you please, listen to me one moment,”
cried Philip, eagerly holding by the
side. “I have come all the way to London
to see you! There is a noble and beauteous
lady become perfectly blind, and —”

“Go on!” cried the surgeon, sternly, to his
coachman.

Here the driver rudely started his horses,
and threw the young man violently to the
ground. He was not hurt; but, on rising to
his feet, the cab was far beyond his reach, and
he was hustled hither and thither by the
crowd, until, with his disappointment and the
Babel confusion around, he became bewildered
and escaped from the throng by the first opening
he could find. This was a narrow lane,
which led to the river side. At the extremity
was a sailors' tavern, and upon the bench in
front he took a seat, to rest himself and recover
his self-possession.

“I will return there to-morrow!” he said, as
he reflected upon what had just passed. “He
may not have heard me with all the noise! I
will go and see him early.”

The sight of the river was refreshing to him.
He sat and watched the boats and vessels upon
it until the growing darkness warned him that
it was time for him to return home to his inn.
But as he looked about him, he knew not which
way to go. There were three streets which met
at this point, and he had forgotten which he
came down. But recollecting that the Strand
was near the river, he resolved to follow the

streets parallel with it, until he should come into
it. He had not proceeded far before he was
lost among the docks and wharves, and finally,
unable to tell which way to go, he stepped on
board a small boat, to ask two men, who were
seated, the way he should take. A waterman
himself, he felt confidence in men of like craft,
and so hoped to have such directions from them
as would enable him to find his way.

He could not see their faces distinctly, as the
twilight was deepening. The boat was one of a
score that lay in close to the pier-head, and all
around rose the dark spars of numerous vessels
that crowded so closely together that only a
narrow way was left open from the quay into
mid-river.

“I say, Ben, this Londoner wants to know
how to steer for the Strand,” said one of the
men who was forward to his shipmate aft.

“Ay, ay! Come aboard, my lad,” was the
answer, in a gruff voice.

“Can you direct me?” asked Philip, civilly.

“O, that we can, without chart or compass!
Take a seat aft here, and we will land you there
in the turning of a reel.”

“Do you pull that way?”

“We shall be off in ten minutes. Take a seat
on that thwart, and you shall have passage
free!”

“Thanks; you are very kind,” answered
Philip, unsuspicious of any evil, but frankly accepting
what he believed to be frankly offered.
It requires many years of sad experience for
youth to learn that men are a sort of beasts of
prey, who prey on the weak and ignorant! that
man's greatest enemy is man! and that the
greatest evils suffered by men are those inflicted
by their own species! Youth usually enters
upon life with a heart overrunning with confidence,
and believes all things; man often goes
out of life with a heart sealed against his race,
and suspicious of every man.

Philip was soon in easy conversation with his
companions; but, finding that it grew darker,
and they did not start, he rose up and said he
would try and find the way by land.

“No, avast there, comrade,” said the elder of
the two, lightly laying his hand on his shoulder,
and keeping him in his seat. “We only wait
for the captain. Here they come now!” he
added, as a party of men drew near, walking
rapidly. Part of them seemed to be armed, and
to be dragging the rest along. They soon came
to the boat, but not without noise and a strug
gle between those who wore awords and those
who seemed to be their captives.

“Steady your boat, men, and stand by to receive
our prisoners!” cried the leader.

Philip, on seeing and hearing this, took the
alarm, and rose to leap again upon the pier.
But he was caught by the forward man, and
drawn violently back into the boat. But he recovered,
and sprang out only to be knocked
down senseless with the back of a cutlass; for
the men in the boat had cried to those on the
pier:

“Seize him! He is our man!”

The press-gang boat, for such was the trap
into which Philip had unconsciously walked,
having taken on board four men, Philip making
the fifth, put off from the pier and rowed out of
the dock. Many a muttered oath was sent after
it from the decks of the vessels it rowed past, for
sailors love not well the sight of this infamous
press-gang.

The boat, which was a man-of-war's fourth
cutter, having gained the stream, pulled down
swiftly through the heart of the parted city, now
shooting beneath a bridge, now drawing in shore
to avoid vessels, now barely escaping collision
with the wherries of watermen. A thousand
lights, on both shores, were reflected in the
river, and the sounds of the streets filled the air,
like a storm roaring through a forest. Voices
in all keys reached their ears, from the gruff call
of seamen to the startling shriek of a female.
Swiftly the cutter kept on her way.

“Who is the lad in the fore-sheets?” asked
the lieutenant of the gang, in a cold, unfeeling
tone, speaking for the first time since they had
left the pier.

“A country youth, sir. Said he was a fisherman.
Lost his way, and came to ask us; and
we kept him on board!”

“The bounty is fairly yours, lads,” he answered,
“if he gets over the blow. You strike
too hard, Gordon, unless you mean to kill your
men.”

“He was all but off, sir,” answered the man,
apologetically.

“Hit less hard next time. The lad is still insensible;
but his head bleeds, and he will soon
come to.”

“Shall I duck him, sir?” asked Gordon.

“No. We shall soon have him board ship!
All these fellows fought hard, and the surgeon
will have work to do for us. These five will

make up our complement of men, and to-morrow
we weigh and put to sea.”

“May I ask, sir,” said one of the pressed
men, who had been, with his follows, hitherto
silent, except uttering an oceasional oath or
groan, “what port you are to sail to?”

“You may ask, my man, but to get an answer
is another thing,” replied the officer, with
a hard laugh.

The cutter was now passing the dark walls of
the Tower of London, and, after a quarter of an
hour's rowing, drew up alongside of a frigate
that was moored in the middle of the Thames.

The captives, some of them earnestly protesting
and struggling against being taken on
board, were speedily transferred to the ship's
decks. Philip remained insensible, and was
placed in the care of the surgeon, who had him
conveyed to the cockpit.

In an hour after being in his hands, Philip revived,
but only to fall into a heavy sleep. The
kind surgeon watched over him with humane attention,
and at the end of several hours' sleep he
awoke with a look of intelligence. He gazed
with surprise and wonder about upon the sides
of the cockpit, lighted by a lantorn, and then inquiringly
upon the face of the surgeon's mate,
who reported to his chief that he had awaked.

“Where am I? I know not this place! How
came I here?” he murmured.

“You are in good hands, my man,” answered
the surgeon. “You must he quiet, and all will
be right at last. Here is a sedative; take it and
sleep awhile.”

When Philip awoke in the morning, he was
perfectly conscious. He was trying to make
out where he last was and where he now found
himself; but was lost in amazement and conjecture.
Suddenly the detonation of heavy cannon
shook the ship, and made him leap from the
hammock. Peal followed peal, and the noise
was overpowering to his hearing. It seemed as
if he were in the midst of a roaring volcano.

“Do not be alarmed, shipmate,” said an old
boatswain, who was lying on his back, sick.
“You don't seem to know your reckoning exactly.”

“Will you inform me how I came here, and
what this all is?” he asked, earnestly.

“You are on board his majesty's frigate, the
`Conqueror.”'

“And how?”

“Pressed! You may take it quietly, and
make up your mind to go to Malta in her!”

“It was then a press-boat I must have got on
board of,” he said to himself. “What am I to
do? What do they wish with me?” he demanded
of the boatswain.

“To make a sailor of you, and teach you to
serve your country!”

“I will die first before I am carried away
from England in this way! I have a great
work to do! I came to London to—to —”

“No matter what, my lad! When a man is
pressed, he breaks all bonds! Wife, children,
parents, friends, count nothing in the scale
against the king's service. Have you ever been
to sea?” he asked, kindly.

“I was raised a fisherman.”

“So much the better. You will take to it
kindly. It is enough to break the heart of a
proper green-grass landsman, to compel him to
serve on board a man-of-war.”

“But I must go on shore! The happiness of
one of the —”

“No matter were it your own mother's happiness
that is at stake! The king's service is
topmost of all. If a man has a heart, he must
hide it under his blue jacket when the king's
ship has need of him.”

“It is a hard fate!” said Philip, with tremulous
lips. “Poor Lady Agnes! It is impossible
now that I can do anything for you! I may
never, never behold you more!”

Tears filled his eyes, and he buried his face in
his hands in passionate grief. At this moment
he was called to come on deck to be mustered
with the other men who had been pressed. On
reaching the light of day on the upper deck, he
found himself surrounded with large cannon, a
numerous crew of man-of-war's-men, and before
him were several officers. He could see over
the bulwarks only sky and water, for the frigate
had long before gained an offing, and was now
in mid-channel on her way to Portsmouth,
whence she was to take her final departure for
the Mediterranean.

About thirty men were arranged in line before
the quarter-deck and inspected, their names
taken down, ages, and the occupations each had
followed. Philip's replies were brief and almost
defiant. His face was pale as marble, and the
fine outline of his features was more striking
than ever. His noble air and handsome face
drew the attention of the officers, and he knew
that he was the subject of remark.

The third day the frigate anchored in Portsmouth.
Here she took on board some troops,

and on the second day thereafter weighed anchor.
While in port, Philip, who was chafing
like a young lion in a cage, under his captivity,
made an unsuccessful attempt to escape by
swimming from the frigate, but was discovered,
taken up by a boat, and put in irons. In this
unhappy condition he remained until the frigate
had been three days at sea; when he was released,
reprimanded, and ordered to go to his
duty among the men.

Leaving our hero for a time to his untoward
fate, we will now return to the inn in London
which he had left in the morning to go in search
of the eye-surgeon, from whom he had received
so rough a reception. But great men, unless
great in benevolence also, do not stoop to regard
lowliness in homespun. Doubtless, if a
young lord had addressed the man of skill, he
would have alighted and listened with his hat in
his hand!

When night came and the street lamps were
all a-light, yet without bringing her youthful
guest home, the good Dame Cresset of “The
Arrow” began to feel apprehensions for his
safety.

“Who do you look up and down so often for,
fair hostess?” said a customer, in a faded military
coat, who was taking a can of ale by a little
table in the tap-room. “You seem to expect
some one.”

“Yes, captain, I look for a nice young man,
who said he should return long before night. He
came in last night from Lincolnshire, and put up
at `The Arrow.' I never took such a liking to
a body, he is so handsome and gentle-spoken!”

“Perhaps he had no money to pay his scot,
and keeps away altogether! Handsome faces
don't often have handsome pockets!”

“You are always thinking evil, captain! The
young man not only paid before he went, like a
lord, but I have his bundle here, and it contains
in it a silver cup worth many a silver crown-piece!”

“Ah, well, that alters the case! What said
you his name was?”

“I only know that it is Philip! He went out,
he said, to—to —”

Here Dame Cresset hesitated whether she
ought to make the red-nosed captain a confidant
of the young strunger's narration. But the captain
was an old friend of her deceased husband,
a customer of many years standing, and a man
of heart and good feeling. He had years ago retired
on half-pay, and, as he was a bachelor and
loved a quiet place, “The Arrow” became his
favorite abiding-place. So, after going again to
the inn door, and looking up and down, and
sighing heavily, she sat down opposite the captain,
and, in a confidential tone, told him all she
knew about Philip, and on what errand he had
come to London.

“This is an interesting tale, good Cresset,”
said he, “and I do not feel surprised that you
take an interest in him and are anxious for his
return. I fear that being a stranger in London
he has got lost; or perhaps fallen into the hands
of rogues, if he took any money with him.”

“That did he! He showed me that he had
ten gold pieces in a purse, which he said the old
man, his foster-father, gave him when he came
away; and he added, that he knew where he
could lay his hands on more.”

“Be sure, if he does not return to-night, and
has not lost himself,” said the captain, “that he
has been robbed.”

“O, I do not wish to think such a dreadful
thought!” cried the hostess, with emotion.

“We will hope for the best.”

Morning came, and yet Philip had not made
his appearance at the inn. Good Dame Cresset
had no heart for her breakfast. She feared the
worst. She went about quite overcome with
her anxieties, and was more than half of a mind
to go and search for him! His bundle attracting
her eye, she opened it and showed the cup
and compass to the captain, who examined them
attentively.

“I will go to these manufacturing shops,
good dame, and ask if he has been there.”

“You are too kind, dear Captain Bodley,”
she said, with gratitude. “And if you hear
nothing of him there, please go to the great eye-surgeon
near St. James's Palace—Dr. —; I
forget his name. Find out if he has been seen
at either place.”

“I will do it cheerfully, good hostess. I will
do my best to hunt him up. But how is he to
be described?”

“Tall, about eighteen years of age, straight,
and rather dark complexion, with a handsome
brown face, and an eye black and piercing. He
carries his head well up, and seems to walk as if
he feared no man. He was dressed in a snuff-colored
frock, bound with a belt buckled round
his waist, blue woolsey trowsers, and wore a seal-skin
cap. His black hair curled beneath it all
about his neck.”

“Well, this is a pretty description, dame!

have some curiosity to see him myself. Be sure
I will do my best to find him. His history has
a sort of romance about it, what with the blind
maiden and the silver cup. But what is this?”
exclaimed the captain, who, having put on his
hat and taken his cane, was looking into the
knapsack.

“It is a gold arrow—real gold, as I live!”
cried Dame Cresset, taking the arrow in her
hand, which the captain had discovered sticking
out of the bundle.

“It is heavy enough, and looks pure enough,
for true metal,” answered the captain, balancing
it on his finger.

“How strange he should have this—and gold,
too! For my house is the sign of `The
Arrow!”'

“And if you hear no more from him, you will
have a sign of gold!”

“Do not talk so, Captain Bodley! I would
give fifty crowns in gold rather than not see
that nice young man again!”

“Well, I will do my best,” answered the half-pay
captain, and, bidding her good morning, he
proceeded to the Strand and to the silversmith's
in search of Philip. Here no one could give
any more account of him than that such a youth
had asked to see silver cups; and at the compass
makers' he obtained information that such
a person had been there; but beyond this he
could ascertain nothing. Thence he took a cab,
and in an hour was at St. James's. Here he
learned, from the porter of the surgeon, that a
young man answering his description had
spoken to the doctor, but had been thrown
down by the wheel; but whether he was hurt or
not he could not say, nor could he say what became
of him.

The captain became by this time deeply interested
in knowing the fate of the youthful
stranger, and, having commenced the search for
him, he resolved to pursue it. He drove to an
old-fashioned club-house, where he sometimes
resorted, and looked over the papers at the list
of casualties the day before, to see if the young
man had not been taken to one of the hospitals.
But he found no allusion to any accident of the
kind named by the porter.

“He was not, then, much hurt,” said the captain,
musingly. “He must have left the place to
try and reach the Arrow Inn, and is lost, doubtless
having forgotten its name and the name of
the lane it is in.”

It was near the close of the day when he returned
to the inn and reported his day's efforts
to Dame Cresset. The good woman burst into
tears, and felt like taking her bonnet and going
all over London in search of him; for she felt
not only an interest in him, but she felt, as it
were, responsible for him, since he had been her
guest.

“The only way is to advertise in the Times,”
said the captain.

“Yes, we will do that at once!” cried the
hostess, with a ray of hope brightening up her
fair and kindly features. “Write one at once,
captain, and I will be at all costs.”

“Give me a pen and ink, good dame,” answered
the captain, putting on his spectacles.

Between them the following advertisement
was completed: