Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. IX.—February, 1851.—Vol. II.

How they managed it, the young couple could themselves hardly tell; but they got through. The worst times of commercial crisis must come to an end; and the end found the young people somewhat sunk in health and spirits, but clear of debt, and with all their little property safe about them. Of course their credit was good; and when people were again able to pay for their shoes, Richard was as safe as any man can be who is bound up with a system of fluctuations.

As safe, that is, about money matters. But the next autumn showed him by how frail a tenure he held his very best earthly blessing. Jemima was confined; and almost before he had seen his little daughter, his wife was in the last extremity of danger. She well knew it; and the surgeon said afterward that in all his experience, he had never seen such an instance of calm and amiable good sense under the strongest possible circumstances of proof. She understood the case – her affections were all alive – her husband and child were in the room – a bright life was before her – and she was slipping away from all; yet there was no fear, and, amidst excessive exhaustion, no perturbation. The surgeon said she saved her own life, for he could not have saved her. In a few weeks she brought her little daughter to the Barclays' house; and, as she sat there, they could not help thinking that her face was almost as childlike as her infant's. It was at least much the same in its innocence and brightness, as it was on that summer evening, so many years ago, when they found it on their steps, on returning from their walk.

The infant was extremely pretty. In connection with it happened the severest trial that Jemima had ever known; certainly, a severer one than she had looked for in her married life. She wished to have the child vaccinated. Richard objected. He had committed all he had to God, and it would be taking the child out of the hands of Providence to have it vaccinated. Jemima, whose fanaticism had gradually melted all away, saw the mistake he was in. She said, plainly and earnestly what she thought; but, when she saw that her husband's religious feelings were engaged in the matter, and that his will was roused, she let the subject drop. When the child could run about and prattle, and was so pretty that the Quaker-like young mother actually put the glossy hair in papers, and made dressy pinafores for her darling, the dreaded small-pox appeared. The child escaped death, but very narrowly; and her face was pitted and seamed so as to leave no trace of beauty. It did not lighten the affliction, that Richard still declared he was right. She bore it quietly and there was little alteration in her cheerful voice when she spoke of the ravage.

They rose steadily, on the whole, with occasional drawbacks. There were more children; there was a larger business. At last, on Saturday nights there was a respectable shop-front to close and a considerable stock to arrange for Monday morning. On Sundays a group of children came out to walk hand-in-hand to chapel, with their father in good broad cloth, and their mother in black silk behind them. The Barclays left the city long ago; but when one of them pays an occasional visit in the neighborhood, the brisk little woman in black silk, is sure to be seen presently coming up to the house; her innocent face looks in eagerly at the window, and the chirping voice is heard in the hall. There was nothing in her young days so impetuous as the grasp of the hand that the Barclays have from her when they meet at intervals of years.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE

(Continued from page 263.)

Book III. – Initial Chapter: – Showing how my novel came to be called "My Novel."

"I am not displeased with your novel, so far as it has gone," said my father graciously; "though as for The Sermon – "

Here I trembled; but the ladies, Heaven bless them! had taken Parson Dale under their special protection; and, observing that my father was puckering up his brows critically, they rushed boldly forward in defense of The Sermon, and Mr. Caxton was forced to beat a retreat. However, like a skillful general, he renewed the assault upon outposts less gallantly guarded. But as it is not my business to betray my weak points, I leave it to the ingenuity of cavilers to discover the places at which the Author of Human Error directed his great guns.

"But," said the Captain, "you are a lad of too much spirit, Pisistratus, to keep us always in the obscure country quarters of Hazeldean – you will march us out into open service before you have done with us?"

Pisistratus, magisterially, for he has been somewhat nettled by Mr. Caxton's remarks – and he puts on an air of dignity, in order to awe away minor assailants. – "Yes, Captain Roland – not yet awhile, but all in good time. I have not stinted myself in canvas, and behind my foreground of the Hall and the Parsonage I propose, hereafter, to open some lengthened perspective of the varieties of English life – "

Mr. Caxton. – "Hum!"

Blanche, putting her hand on my father's lip. – "We shall know better the design, perhaps, when we know the title. Pray, Mr. Author, what is the title?"

My Mother, with more animation than usual. – "Ay, Sisty – the title?"

Pisistratus, startled. – "The title! By the soul of Cervantes! I have never yet thought of a title!"

Captain Roland, solemnly. – "There is a great deal in a good title. As a novel-reader, I know that by experience."

Mr. Squills. – "Certainly; there is not a catchpenny in the world but what goes down, if the title be apt and seductive. Witness 'Old Parr's Life Pills.' Sell by the thousand, sir, when my 'Pills for Weak Stomachs,' which I believe to be just the same compound, never paid for the advertising."

Mr. Caxton. – "Parr's Life Pills! a fine stroke of genius! It is not every one who has a weak stomach, or time to attend to it, if he have. But who would not swallow a pill to live to a hundred and fifty-two?"

Pisistratus, stirring the fire in great excitement. – "My title! my title! what shall be my title!"

Mr. Caxton, thrusting his hand into his waistcoat, and in his most didactic of tones. "From a remote period, the choice of a title has perplexed the scribbling portion of mankind. We may guess how their invention has been racked by the strange contortions it has produced. To begin with the Hebrews. 'The Lips of the Sleeping,' (Labia Dormientium) – what book do you suppose that title to designate? – A Catalogue of Rabbinical writers! Again, imagine some young lady of old captivated by the sentimental title of 'The Pomegranate with its Flower,' and opening on a treatise on the Jewish Ceremonials! Let us turn to the Romans. Aulus Gellius commences his pleasant gossiping 'Noctes' with a list of the titles in fashion in his day. For instance, 'The Muses' and 'The Veil,' 'The Cornucopia', 'The Beehive', and 'The Meadow.' Some titles, indeed, were more truculent, and promised food to those who love to sup upon horrors – such as 'The Torch,' 'The Poniard,' 'The Stiletto' – "

Pisistratus, impatiently. – "Yes, sir; but to come to My Novel."

Mr. Caxton, unheeding the interruption. – "You see, you have a fine choice here, and of a nature pleasing, and not unfamiliar to a classical reader; or you may borrow a hint from the early Dramatic Writers."

Pisistratus, more hopefully. – "Ay! there is something in the Drama akin to the Novel. Now, perhaps, I may catch an idea."

Mr. Caxton. – "For instance, the author of the Curiosities of Literature (from whom, by the way, I am plagiarizing much of the information I bestow upon you) tells us of a Spanish gentleman who wrote a Comedy, by which he intended to serve what he took for Moral Philosophy."

Pisistratus, eagerly. – "Well, sir?"

Mr. Caxton. – "And called it 'The Pain of the Sleep of the World.'"

Pisistratus. – "Very comic, indeed, sir."

Mr. Caxton. – "Grave things were then called Comedies, as old things are now called Novels. Then there are all the titles of early Romance itself at your disposal – 'Theagenes and Chariclea,' or 'The Ass' of Longus, or 'The Golden Ass' of Apuleius, or the titles of Gothic Romance, such as 'The most elegant, delicious, mellifluous, and delightful History of Perceforest, King of Great Britain.'" – And therewith my father ran over a list of names as long as the Directory, and about as amusing.

"Well, to my taste," said my mother, "the novels I used to read when a girl (for I have not read many since I am ashamed to say) – "

Mr. Caxton. – "No, you need not be at all ashamed of it, Kitty."

My Mother, proceeding. – "Were much more inviting than any you mention, Austin."

The Captain. – "True."

Mr. Squills. – "Certainly. Nothing like them nowadays!"

My Mother. – "'Says she to her Neighbor, What?'"

The Captain. – "'The Unknown, or the Northern Gallery' – "

Mr. Squills. – "'There is a Secret; Find it Out!'"

Pisistratus, pushed to the verge of human endurance, and upsetting tongs, poker, and fire-shovel. – "What nonsense you are talking, all of you! For heaven's sake, consider what an important matter we are called upon to decide. It is not now the titles of those very respectable works which issued from the Minerva Press that I ask you to remember – it is to invent a title for mine – My Novel!"

Mr. Caxton, clapping his hands gently. – "Excellent – capital! Nothing can be better; simple, natural, pertinent, concise – "

Pisistratus. – "What is it, sir – what is it! Have you really thought of a title to My Novel?"

Mr. Caxton. – "You have hit it yourself – 'My Novel.' It is your Novel – people will know it is your Novel. Turn and twist the English language as you will – be as allegorical as Hebrew, Greek, Roman – Fabulist or Puritan – still, after all, it is your Novel, and nothing more nor less than your Novel."

Pisistratus, thoughtfully, and sounding the words various ways. – "'My Novel' – um – um! 'My Novel!' rather bald – and curt, eh?"

Mr. Caxton. – "Add what you say you intend it to depict – Varieties in English Life."

My Mother. – "'My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life' – I don't think it sounds amiss. What say you, Roland? Would it attract you in a catalogue?"

My Uncle hesitates, when Mr. Caxton exclaims, imperiously,

"The thing is settled! Don't disturb Camarina."

Squills. – "If it be not too great a liberty, pray who or what is Camarina?"

Mr. Caxton. – "Camarina, Mr. Squills, was a lake apt to be low, and then liable to be muddy; and 'Don't disturb Camarina' was a Greek proverb derived from an Oracle of Apollo; and from that Greek proverb, no doubt, comes the origin of the injunction, 'Quieta non movere,' which became the favorite maxim of Sir Robert Walpole and Parson Dale. The Greek line, Mr. Squills (here my father's memory began to warm) is preserved by Stephanus Byzantinus, de Urbibus—

'Μὴ κίνει Καμάριναν, ἀκίνητος γὰρ ἀμείνων.'

Zenobius explains it in his Proverbs; Suidas repeats Zenobius; Lucian alludes to it; so does Virgil in the Third Book of the Æneid; and Silius Italicus imitates Virgil —

'Et cui non licitum fatis Camarina moveri.'