Author: George Borrow
Date: 2021-07-07T23:22:14+00:00
Keywords: England -- Fiction; Romanies -- Fiction
Description: A young man with a passion for learning languages is befriended by a group of gypsies and travels Britain, encountering a variety of interesting characters.
Publisher: Standard Ebooks

Lavengro

By George Borrow.

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Part
I

Lavengro; The Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest

Advertisement (1851)

In compliance with the advice of certain friends who are desirous that it may not be supposed that the following work has been written expressly for the present times, the author begs leave to state that it was planned in the year 1842, and all the characters sketched before the conclusion of the year 1843. The contents of the volumes here offered to the public have, with the exception of the Preface, existed in manuscript for a very considerable time.

Preface to the First Edition (1851)

In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe a dream, partly of study, partly of adventure, in which will be found copious notices of books, and many descriptions of life and manners, some in a very unusual form.

The scenes of action lie in the British Islands. Pray be not displeased, gentle reader, if perchance thou hast imagined that I was about to conduct thee to distant lands, and didst promise thyself much instruction and entertainment from what I might tell thee of them. I do assure thee that thou hast no reason to be displeased, inasmuch as there are no countries in the world less known by the British than these selfsame British Islands, or where more strange things are every day occurring, whether in road or street, house or dingle.

The time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century. This information, again, may perhaps be anything but agreeable to thee; it is a long time to revert to—but fret not thyself, many matters which at present much occupy the public mind originated in some degree towards the latter end of that period, and some of them will be treated of.

The principal actors in this dream, or drama, are, as you will have gathered from the titlepage, a Scholar, a Gypsy, and a Priest. Should you imagine that these three form one, permit me to assure you that you are very much mistaken. Should there be something of the Gypsy manifest in the Scholar, there is certainly nothing of the Priest. With respect to the Gypsy—decidedly the most entertaining character of the three—there is certainly nothing of the Scholar or the Priest in him; and as for the Priest, though there may be something in him both of scholarship and gypsyism, neither the Scholar nor the Gypsy would feel at all flattered by being confounded with him.

Many characters which may be called subordinate will be found, and it is probable that some of these characters will afford much more interest to the reader than those styled the principal. The favourites with the writer are a brave old soldier and his helpmate, an ancient gentlewoman who sold apples, and a strange kind of wandering man and his wife.

Amongst the many things attempted in this book is the encouragement of charity, and free and genial manners, and the exposure of humbug, of which there are various kinds, but of which the most perfidious, the most debasing, and the most cruel, is the humbug of the Priest.

Yet let no one think that irreligion is advocated in this book. With respect to religious tenets, I wish to observe that I am a member of the Church of England, into whose communion I was baptised, and to which my forefathers belonged. Its being the religion in which I was baptised, and of my forefathers, would be a strong inducement to me to cling to it; for I do not happen to be one of those choice spirits “who turn from their banner when the battle bears strongly against it, and go over to the enemy,” and who receive at first a hug and a “viva,” and in the sequel contempt and spittle in the face; but my chief reason for belonging to it is, because, of all Churches calling themselves Christian ones, I believe there is none so good, so well founded upon Scripture, or whose ministers are, upon the whole, so exemplary in their lives and conversation, so well read in the Book from which they preach, or so versed in general learning, so useful in their immediate neighbourhoods, or so unwilling to persecute people of other denominations for matters of doctrine.

In the communion of this Church, and with the religious consolation of its ministers, I wish and hope to live and die, and in its and their defence will at all times be ready, if required, to speak, though humbly, and to fight, though feebly, against enemies, whether carnal or spiritual.

And is there no priestcraft in the Church of England? There is certainly, or rather there was, a modicum of priestcraft in the Church of England, but I have generally found that those who are most vehement against the Church of England are chiefly dissatisfied with her because there is only a modicum of that article in her. Were she stuffed to the very cupola with it, like a certain other Church, they would have much less to say against the Church of England.

By the other Church I mean Rome. Its system was once prevalent in England, and, during the period that it prevailed there, was more prolific of debasement and crime than all other causes united. The people and the government at last becoming enlightened by means of the Scripture, spurned it from the island with disgust and horror, the land instantly after its disappearance becoming a fair field, in which arts, sciences, and all the amiable virtues flourished, instead of being a pestilent marsh where swine-like ignorance wallowed, and artful hypocrites, like so many wills-o’-the-wisp, played antic gambols about, around and above debased humanity.

But Popery still wished to play her old part, to regain her lost dominion, to reconvert the smiling land into the pestilential morass, where she could play again her old antics. From the period of the Reformation in England up to the present time, she has kept her emissaries here—individuals contemptible in intellect, it is true, but catlike and gliding, who, at her bidding, have endeavoured, as much as in their power has lain, to damp and stifle every genial, honest, loyal and independent thought, and to reduce minds to such a state of dotage as would enable their old Popish mother to do what she pleased with them.

And in every country, however enlightened, there are always minds inclined to grovelling superstition—minds fond of eating dust and swallowing clay—minds never at rest, save when prostrate before some fellow in a surplice; and these Popish emissaries found always some weak enough to bow down before them, astounded by their dreadful denunciations of eternal woe and damnation to any who should refuse to believe their Romania; but they played a poor game—the law protected the servants of Scripture, and the priest with his beads seldom ventured to approach any but the remnant of those of the eikonolatry—representatives of worm-eaten houses, their debased dependants and a few poor crazy creatures among the middle classes—he played a poor game, and the labour was about to prove almost entirely in vain, when the English Legislature, in compassion or contempt, or, yet more probably, influenced by that spirit of toleration and kindness which is so mixed up with Protestantism, removed almost entirely the disabilities under which Popery laboured, and enabled it to raise its head and to speak out almost without fear.

And it did raise its head, and, though it spoke with some little fear at first, soon discarded every relic of it; went about the land uttering its damnation cry, gathering around it—and for doing so many thanks to it—the favourers of priestcraft who lurked within the walls of the Church of England; frightening with the loudness of its voice the weak, the timid and the ailing; perpetrating, whenever it had an opportunity, that species of crime to which it has ever been most partial—deathbed robbery; for as it is cruel, so is it dastardly. Yes, it went on enlisting, plundering and uttering its terrible threats till—till it became, as it always does when left to itself, a fool, a very fool. Its plunderings might have been overlooked, and so might its insolence, had it been common insolence, but it—, and then the roar of indignation which arose from outraged England against the viper, the frozen viper which it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom.

But thanks, Popery, you have done all that the friends of enlightenment and religious liberty could wish; but if ever there were a set of foolish ones to be found under Heaven, surely it is the priestly rabble who came over from Rome to direct the grand movement, so long in its getting up.

But now again the damnation cry is withdrawn, there is a subdued meekness in your demeanour, you are now once more harmless as a lamb. Well, we shall see how the trick—“the old trick”—will serve you.

Preface to the Second Edition (1872)

Lavengro made its first appearance more than one and twenty years ago. It was treated in anything but a courteous manner. Indeed, abuse ran riot, and many said that the book was killed. If by killed was meant knocked down and stunned, which is the Irish acceptation of the word—there is a great deal about Ireland in the book—they were right enough. It was not dead, however, oh dear no! as is tolerably well shown by the present edition, which has been long called for.

The chief assailants of the book were the friends of Popery in England. They were enraged because the author stood up for the religion of his fathers, his country, and the Bible, against the mythology of a foreign priest. As for the Pope—but the Pope has of late had his misfortunes, so no harsh language. To another subject! From the Pope to the Gypsies! From the Roman Pontiff to the Romany Chals!

A very remarkable set of people are the Gypsies; frequent mention is made of them in Lavengro, and from their peculiar language the word “Lavengro” is taken. They first attracted notice in Germany, where they appeared in immense numbers in the early part of the fifteenth century, a period fraught with extraordinary events: the coming of the Black Death; the fortunes and misfortunes of the Emperor Sigismund; the quarrels of the Three Popes—the idea of three Popes at one time!—the burning alive of John Huss; the advance of the Crescent, and the battle of Agincourt. They were of dark complexion, some of them of nearly negro blackness, and spoke a language of their own, though many could converse in German and other tongues. They called themselves Zingary and Romany Chals, and the account they gave of themselves was that they were from Lower Egypt, and were doing penance, by a seven years’ wandering, for the sin of their forefathers, who of old had refused hospitality to the Virgin and Child. They did not speak truth, however; the name they bore, Zingary, and which, slightly modified, is still borne by their descendants in various countries, shows that they were not from Egypt, but from a much more distant land, Hindostan; for Zingaro is Sanskrit, and signifies a man of mixed race, a mongrel; whilst their conduct was evidently not that of people engaged in expiatory pilgrimage; for the women told the kosko bokht, the good luck, the buena ventura; kaured, that is, filched money and valuables from shop-boards and counters by a curious motion of the hands, and poisoned pigs and hogs by means of a certain drug, and then begged, and generally obtained, the carcases, which cut up served their families for food; the children begged and stole; whilst the men, who it is true professed horse-clipping, farriery and fiddling, not unfrequently knocked down travellers and plundered them. The hand of justice of course soon fell heavily upon them; men of Egypt, as they were called, were seized, hung, or maimed; women scourged or branded; children whipped; but no severity appeared to have any effect upon the Zingary; wherever they went (and they soon found their way to almost every country in Europe), they adhered to their evil practices. Before the expiration of the fifteenth century bands of them appeared in England with their horses, donkeys and tilted carts. How did they contrive to cross the sea with their carts and other property? By means very easy to people with money in their pockets, which the Gypsies always have, by paying for their passage; just as the Hungarian tribe did, who a few years ago came to England with their horses and vehicles, and who, whilst encamping with their English brethren in the loveliest of all forests, Epping Wesh, exclaimed “Sore si mensar si men.”1

The meaning of Zingary, one of the names by which the pseudo-penitents from Lower Egypt called themselves, has been given above. Now for that of the other, Romany Chals, a name in which the English Gypsies delight, who have entirely dropped that of Zingary. The meaning of Romany Chals is lads of Rome or Rama; Romany signifying that which belongs to Rama or Rome, and Chal a son or lad, being a Zingaric word connected with the Shilo of Scripture, the meaning of which may be found in the Lexicon of the brave old Westphalian Hebraist, Johannes Buxtorf.2

The Gypsies of England, the Zigany, Zigeuner, and other tribes of the Continent, descendants of the old Zingary and Romany Chals, retain many of the characteristics of their forefathers, and, though differing from each other in some respects, resemble each other in many. They are much alike in hue and feature; speak amongst themselves much the same tongue; exercise much the same trades, and are addicted to the same evil practices. There is a little English Gypsy gillie, or song, of which the following quatrain is a translation, containing four queries, to all of which the English Romanó might respond by Ava, and the foreign Chal by the same affirmative to the three first, if not to the last:—

Can you speak the Roman tongue?
Can you make the fiddle ring?
Can you poison a jolly hog?
And split the stick for the linen string?

So much for the Gypsies. There are many other things in the book to which perhaps the writer ought to advert; but he is weary, and, moreover, is afraid of wearying others. He will, therefore, merely add that every book must eventually stand or fall by its deserts; that praise, however abundant, will not keep a bad book alive for any considerable time, nor abuse, however virulent, a good one forever in the dust; and he thinks himself justified in saying, that were there not some good in Lavengro, it would not again be raising its head, notwithstanding all it underwent one and twenty years ago.

I

On an evening of July, in the year 18——, at East D——,3 a beautiful little town in a certain district of East Anglia,4 I first saw the light.5

My father was a Cornish man, the youngest, as I have heard him say, of seven brothers. He sprang from a family of gentlemen, or, as some people would call them, gentillâtres, for they were not very wealthy; they had a coat of arms, however, and lived on their own property at a place called Tredinnock,6 which being interpreted means “the house on the hill,” which house and the neighbouring acres had been from time immemorial in their possession. I mention these particulars that the reader may see at once that I am not altogether of low and plebeian origin; the present age is highly aristocratic, and I am convinced that the public will read my pages with more zest from being told that I am a gentillâtre by birth with Cornish blood7 in my veins, of a family who lived on their own property at a place bearing a Celtic name, signifying the house on the hill, or more strictly the house on the hillock.

My father was what is generally termed a posthumous child—in other words, the gentillâtre who begot him never had the satisfaction of invoking the blessing of the Father of All upon his head, having departed this life some months before the birth of his youngest son. The boy, therefore, never knew a father’s care; he was, however, well tended by his mother, whose favourite he was; so much so, indeed, that his brethren, the youngest of whom was considerably older than himself, were rather jealous of him. I never heard, however, that they treated him with any marked unkindness; and it will be as well to observe here that I am by no means well acquainted with his early history, of which, indeed, as I am not writing his life, it is not necessary to say much. Shortly after his mother’s death, which occurred when he was eighteen, he adopted the profession of arms, which he followed during the remainder of his life, and in which, had circumstances permitted, he would probably have shone amongst the best. By nature he was cool and collected, slow to anger, though perfectly fearless, patient of control, of great strength, and, to crown all, a proper man with his hands.

With far inferior qualifications many a man has become a field-marshal or general; similar ones made Tamerlane, who was not a gentillâtre, but the son of a blacksmith, emperor of one-third of the world; but the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong, indeed I ought rather to say very seldom; certain it is, that my father, with all his high military qualifications, never became emperor, field-marshal, or even general; indeed, he had never an opportunity of distinguishing himself save in one battle, and that took place neither in Flanders, Egypt, nor on the banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park.

Smile not, gentle reader, many a battle has been fought in Hyde Park, in which as much skill, science and bravery have been displayed as ever achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus. In such a combat as that to which I allude, I opine that even Wellington or Napoleon would have been heartily glad to cry for quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and even the Blacksmith Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk from the opponent with whom, after having had a dispute with him,8 my father engaged in single combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other’s prowess. The name of my father’s antagonist was Brain.

What! still a smile? did you never hear that name before? I cannot help it! Honour to Brain, who four months after the event which I have now narrated was champion of England, having conquered the heroic Johnson. Honour to Brain, who at the end of other four months, worn out by the dreadful blows which he had received in his many9 combats, expired in the arms of my father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments—Big Ben Brain.10

You no longer smile, even you have heard of Big Ben.

I have already hinted that my father never rose to any very exalted rank in his profession, notwithstanding his prowess and other qualifications. After serving for many years in the line, he at last entered as captain11 in the militia regiment of the Earl of ———,12 at that period just raised, and to which he was sent by the Duke of York to instruct the young levies in military manoeuvres and discipline; and in this mission I believe he perfectly succeeded, competent judges having assured me that the regiment in question soon came by his means to be considered as one of the most brilliant in the service, and inferior to no regiment of the line in appearance or discipline.

As the headquarters of this corps were at D——, the duties of my father not unfrequently carried him to that place, and it was on one of these occasions that he became acquainted with a young person of the neighbourhood, for whom he formed an attachment, which was returned; and this young person was my mother.

She was descended from a family of French Protestants, natives of Caen, who were obliged to leave their native country when old Louis, at the instigation of the Pope, thought fit to revoke the Edict of Nantes. Their name was Petrement,13 and I have reason for believing that they were people of some consideration; that they were noble hearts and good Christians they gave sufficient proof in scorning to bow the knee to the tyranny of Rome. So they left beautiful Normandy for their faith’s sake, and with a few louis d’ors in their purse, a Bible in the vulgar tongue, and a couple of old swords, which, if report be true, had done service in the Huguenot wars, they crossed the sea to the isle of civil peace and religious liberty, and established themselves in East Anglia.

And many other Huguenot families bent their steps thither, and devoted themselves to agriculture or the mechanical arts; and in the venerable old city, the capital of the province, in the northern shadow of the Castle of De Burgh,14 the exiles built for themselves a church where they praised God in the French tongue, and to which, at particular seasons of the year, they were in the habit of flocking from country and from town to sing—

“Thou hast provided for us a goodly earth;
Thou waterest her furrows,
Thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof,
Thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blesset the increase of it.”

I have been told that in her younger days my mother was strikingly handsome; this I can easily believe. I never knew her in her youth, for though she was very young when she married my father (who was her senior by many years) she had attained the middle age15 before I was born, no children having been vouchsafed to my parents in the early stages of their union. Yet even at the present day, now that years threescore and ten have passed over her head, attended with sorrow and troubles manifold, poorly chequered with scanty joys, can I look on that countenance and doubt that at one time beauty decked it as with a glorious garment? Hail to thee, my parent! as thou sittest there, in thy widow’s weeds, in the dusky parlour in the house overgrown with the lustrous ivy of the sister isle, the solitary house at the end of the retired court shaded by lofty poplars. Hail to thee, dame of the oval face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead; by thy table seated with the mighty volume of the good Bishop Hopkins16 spread out before thee; there is peace in thy countenance, my mother; it is not worldly peace, however, not the deceitful peace which lulls to bewitching slumbers, and from which, let us pray, humbly pray, that every sinner may be roused in time to implore mercy not in vain! Thine is the peace of the righteous, my mother, of those to whom no sin can be imputed, the score of whose misdeeds has been long since washed away by the blood of atonement, which imputeth righteousness to those who trust in it. It was not always thus, my mother; a time was, when the cares, pomps and vanities of this world agitated thee too much; but that time is gone by, another and a better has succeeded, there is peace now on thy countenance, the true peace; peace around thee, too, in thy solitary dwelling, sounds of peace, the cheerful hum of the kettle and the purring of the immense Angola,17 which stares up at thee from its settle with its almost human eyes.

No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother? Yes, one. Why dost thou suddenly raise thy dark and still brilliant eye from the volume with a somewhat startled glance? What noise is that in the distant street? Merely the noise of a hoof—a sound common enough; it draws nearer, nearer, and now it stops before thy gate. Singular! And now there is a pause, a long pause. Ha! thou hearest something—a footstep, a swift but heavy footstep! thou risest, thou tremblest; there is a hand on the pin of the outer door; there is someone in the vestibule; and now the door of thy apartment opens; there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee—a travelling hat, a grey head and sunburnt face. “My dearest Son!” “My darling Mother!”

Yes, mother, thou didst recognise in the distant street the hoof-tramp of the wanderer’s horse.

I was not the only child of my parents; I had a brother some three years older than myself. He was a beautiful child; one of those occasionally seen in England, and in England alone; a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes, and light chestnut hair. It was not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance, in which, by the by, there is generally a cast of loutishness and stupidity; it partook, to a certain extent, of the Celtic character, particularly in the fire and vivacity which illumined it; his face was the mirror of his mind; perhaps no disposition more amiable was ever found amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no inconsiderable portion of high and dauntless spirit. So great was his beauty in infancy, that people, especially those of the poorer classes, would follow the nurse who carried him about in order to look at and bless his lovely face. At the age of three months an attempt was made to snatch him from his mother’s arms in the streets of London, at the moment she was about to enter a coach; indeed, his appearance seemed to operate so powerfully upon every person who beheld him, that my parents were under continual apprehension of losing him; his beauty, however, was perhaps surpassed by the quickness of his parts. He mastered his letters in a few hours, and in a day or two could decipher the names of people on the doors of houses and over the shop windows.

As he grew up, his personal appearance became less prepossessing, his quickness and cleverness, however, rather increased; and I may say of him, that with respect to everything which he took in hand he did it better and more speedily than any other person. Perhaps it will be asked here, what became of him? Alas! alas! his was an early and a foreign grave.18 As I have said before, the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong.

And now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, painted in the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive himself justified in expecting a full-length one of myself, as a child, for as to my present appearance, I suppose he will be tolerably content with that flitting glimpse in the mirror. But he must excuse me; I have no intention of drawing a portrait of myself in childhood; indeed it would be difficult, for at that time I never looked into mirrors. No attempts, however, were ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that my parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by the hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that people were in the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more than at my brother; from which premises the reader may form any conclusion with respect to my appearance which seemeth good unto him and reasonable. Should he, being a good-natured person and always inclined to adopt the charitable side in any doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that I have no objection whatever to his entertaining that idea; moreover, that I heartily thank him, and shall at all times be disposed, under similar circumstances, to exercise the same species of charity towards himself.

With respect to my mind and its qualities I shall be more explicit; for, were I to maintain much reserve on this point, many things which appear in these memoirs would be highly mysterious to the reader, indeed incomprehensible. Perhaps no two individuals were ever more unlike in mind and disposition than my brother and myself. As light is opposed to darkness, so was that happy, brilliant, cheerful child to the sad and melancholy being who sprang from the same stock as himself, and was nurtured by the same milk.

Once, when travelling in an Alpine country, I arrived at a considerable elevation; I saw in the distance, far below, a beautiful stream hastening to the ocean, its rapid waters here sparkling in the sunshine, and there tumbling merrily in cascades. On its banks were vineyards and cheerful villages; close to where I stood, in a granite basin with steep and precipitous sides, slumbered a deep, dark lagoon, shaded by black pines, cypresses and yews. It was a wild, savage spot, strange and singular; ravens hovered above the pines, filling the air with their uncouth notes, pies chattered, and I heard the cry of an eagle from a neighbouring peak; there lay the lake, the dark, solitary and almost inaccessible lake; gloomy shadows were upon it, which, strangely modified as gusts of wind agitated the surface, occasionally assumed the shape of monsters. So I stood on the Alpine elevation, and looked now on the gay distant river, and now at the dark granite-encircled lake close beside me in the lone solitude, and I thought of my brother and myself. I am no moraliser; but the gay and rapid river and the dark and silent lake, were, of a verity, no bad emblems of us two.

So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able to rival the literary feat which I have recorded of him, many years elapsed before I was able to understand the nature of letters, or to connect them. A lover of nooks and retired corners, I was as a child in the habit of fleeing from society, and of sitting for hours together with my head on my breast. What I was thinking about, it would be difficult to say at this distance of time; I remember perfectly well, however, being ever conscious of a peculiar heaviness within me, and at times of a strange sensation of fear, which occasionally amounted to horror, and for which I could assign no real cause whatever.

By nature slow of speech, I took no pleasure in conversation, nor in hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures. When people addressed me I not unfrequently, especially if they were strangers, turned away my head from them, and if they persisted in their notice burst into tears, which singularity of behaviour by no means tended to dispose people in my favour. I was as much disliked as my brother was deservedly beloved and admired. My parents, it is true, were always kind to me; and my brother, who was good nature itself, was continually lavishing upon me every mark of affection.

There was, however, one individual who, in the days of my childhood, was disposed to form a favourable opinion of me. One day, a Jew—I had quite forgotten the circumstance, but I was long subsequently informed of it—one day a travelling Jew knocked at the door of a farmhouse in which we had taken apartments. I was near at hand, sitting in the bright sunshine, drawing strange lines on the dust with my fingers, an ape and dog were my companions. The Jew looked at me and asked me some questions, to which, though I was quite able to speak, I returned no answer. On the door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably relating to pedlary, demanded who the child was, sitting in the sun; the maid replied that I was her mistress’s youngest son, a child weak here, pointing to her forehead. The Jew looked at me again, and then said: “ ’Pon my conscience, my dear, I believe that you must be troubled there yourself to tell me any such thing. It is not my habit to speak to children, inasmuch as I hate them, because they often follow me and fling stones after me; but I no sooner looked at that child than I was forced to speak to it. His not answering me shows his sense, for it has never been the custom of the wise to fling away their words in indifferent talk and conversation. The child is a sweet child, and has all the look of one of our people’s children. Fool, indeed! did I not see his eyes sparkle just now when the monkey seized the dog by the ear? they shone like my own diamonds—does your good lady want any, real and fine? Were it not for what you tell me, I should say it was a prophet’s child. Fool, indeed! he can write already, or I’ll forfeit the box which I carry on my back, and for which I should be loth to take two hundred pounds!” He then leaned forward to inspect the lines which I had traced. All of a sudden he started back, and grew white as a sheet; then, taking off his hat, he made some strange gestures to me, cringing, chattering, and showing his teeth, and shortly departed, muttering something about “holy letters,” and talking to himself in a strange tongue. The words of the Jew were in due course of time reported to my mother, who treasured them in her heart, and from that moment began to entertain brighter hopes of her youngest-born than she had ever before ventured to foster.

II

I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life; indeed I remember only two periods, and these by no means lengthy, when I was, strictly speaking, stationary. I was a soldier’s son, and as the means of my father were by no means sufficient to support two establishments, his family invariably attended him wherever he went, so that from my infancy I was accustomed to travelling and wandering, and looked upon a monthly change of scene and residence as a matter of course. Sometimes we lived in barracks, sometimes in lodgings, but generally in the former, always eschewing the latter from motives of economy, save when the barracks were inconvenient and uncomfortable; and they must have been highly so indeed to have discouraged us from entering them; for though we were gentry (pray bear that in mind, gentle reader), gentry by birth, and incontestably so by my father’s bearing the commission of good old George the Third, we were not fine gentry, but people who could put up with as much as any genteel Scotch family who find it convenient to live on a third floor in London, or on a sixth at Edinburgh or Glasgow. It was not a little that could discourage us. We once lived within the canvas walls of a camp, at a place called Pett, in Sussex; and I believe it was at this place that occurred the first circumstance, or adventure, call it which you will, that I can remember in connection with myself. It was a strange one, and I will relate it.

It happened that my brother and myself were playing one evening in a sandy lane, in the neighbourhood of this Pett camp; our mother was at a slight distance. All of a sudden, a bright yellow, and, to my infantine eye, beautiful and glorious object made its appearance at the top of the bank from between the thick quickset, and, gliding down, began to move across the lane to the other side, like a line of golden light. Uttering a cry of pleasure, I sprang forward, and seized it nearly by the middle. A strange sensation of numbing coldness seemed to pervade my whole arm, which surprised me the more as the object to the eye appeared so warm and sunlike. I did not drop it, however, but, holding it up, looked at it intently, as its head dangled about a foot from my hand. It made no resistance; I felt not even the slightest struggle; but now my brother began to scream and shriek like one possessed. “O mother, mother!” said he, “the viper! my brother has a viper in his hand!” He then, like one frantic, made an effort to snatch the creature away from me. The viper now hissed amain, and raised its head, in which were eyes like hot coals, menacing, not myself, but my brother. I dropped my captive, for I saw my mother running towards me; and the reptile, after standing for a moment nearly erect, and still hissing furiously, made off, and disappeared. The whole scene is now before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday—the gorgeous viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a frightened hen clucking under the bushes; and yet I was not three years old.

It is my firm belief that certain individuals possess an inherent power, or fascination, over certain creatures, otherwise I should be unable to account for many feats which I have witnessed, and, indeed, borne a share in, connected with the taming of brutes and reptiles. I have known a savage and vicious mare, whose stall it was dangerous to approach, even when bearing provender, welcome, nevertheless, with every appearance of pleasure, an uncouth, wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed face, and an iron hook supplying the place of his right hand, one whom the animal had never seen before, playfully bite his hair and cover his face with gentle and endearing kisses; and I have already stated how a viper would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up in his hand, whilst it showed its dislike to the approach of another by the fiercest hissings. Philosophy can explain many strange things, but there are some which are a far pitch above her, and this is one.

I should scarcely relate another circumstance which occurred about this time but for a singular effect which it produced upon my constitution. Up to this period I had been rather a delicate child; whereas, almost immediately after the occurrence to which I allude, I became both hale and vigorous, to the great astonishment of my parents, who naturally enough expected that it would produce quite a contrary effect.

It happened that my brother and myself were disporting ourselves in certain fields near the good town of Canterbury. A female servant had attended us, in order to take care that we came to no mischief. She, however, it seems, had matters of her own to attend to, and, allowing us to go where we listed, remained in one corner of a field, in earnest conversation with a red-coated dragoon. Now it chanced to be blackberry time, and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of their degree. We did not find much of it, however, and were soon separated in the pursuit. All at once I stood still, and could scarcely believe my eyes. I had come to a spot where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of what seemed fruit, deliciously-tempting fruit—something resembling grapes of various colours, green, red and purple. Dear me, thought I, how fortunate! yet have I a right to gather it? is it mine? for the observance of the law of meum and tuum had early been impressed upon my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender age, the utmost horror for theft; so I stood staring at the variegated clusters, in doubt as to what I should do. I know not how I argued the matter in my mind; the temptation, however, was at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth my hand and ate. I remember perfectly well, that the taste of this strange fruit was by no means so pleasant as the appearance; but the idea of eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously. How long I continued eating I scarcely know. One thing is certain, that I never left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, whilst the regimental surgeon, with a candle in his hand, stood nigh, the light feebly reflected on the whitewashed walls of the barrack-room.

Another circumstance connected with my infancy, and I have done. I need offer no apology for relating it, as it subsequently exercised considerable influence over my pursuits. We were, if I remember right, in the vicinity of a place called Hythe, in Kent. One sweet evening, in the latter part of summer, our mother took her two little boys by the hand, for a wander about the fields. In the course of our stroll we came to the village church; an old grey-headed sexton stood in the porch, who, perceiving that we were strangers, invited us to enter. We were presently in the interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead. I can scarcely state what we saw; how should I? I was a child not yet four years old, and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming in through a stained window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, and flinging a rich lustre upon the faded tints of an ancient banner. And now once more we were outside the building, where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into which we looked. It was half-filled with substances of some kind, which at first looked like large grey stones. The greater part were lying in layers; some, however, were seen in confused and mouldering heaps, and two or three, which had perhaps rolled down from the rest, lay separately on the floor. “Skulls, madam,” said the sexton; “skulls of the old Danes! Long ago they came pirating into these parts; and then there chanced a mighty shipwreck, for God was angry with them, and He sunk them; and their skulls, as they came ashore, were placed here as a memorial. There were many more when I was young, but now they are fast disappearing. Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, madam. Only see that one; why, the two young gentry can scarcely lift it!” And, indeed, my brother and myself had entered the Golgotha, and commenced handling these grim relics of mortality. One enormous skull, lying in a corner, had fixed our attention, and we had drawn it forth. Spirit of eld, what a skull was yon!

I still seem to see it, the huge grim thing; many of the others were large, strikingly so, and appeared fully to justify the old man’s conclusion that their owners must have been strange fellows; but, compared with this mighty mass of bone, they looked small and diminutive, like those of pygmies; it must have belonged to a giant, one of those red-haired warriors of whose strength and stature such wondrous tales are told in the ancient chronicles of the north, and whose grave-hills, when ransacked, occasionally reveal secrets which fill the minds of puny moderns with astonishment and awe. Reader, have you ever pored days and nights over the pages of Snorro?19 probably not, for he wrote in a language which few of the present day understand, and few would be tempted to read him tamed down by Latin dragomans. A brave old book is that of Snorro, containing the histories and adventures of old northern kings and champions, who seemed to have been quite different men, if we may judge from the feats which they performed, from those of these days. One of the best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became King of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stanford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. Now, I have often thought that the old Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the golgotha of Hythe my brother and myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least this Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence, and measuring in height just five ells,20 neither more nor less.

I never forgot the Daneman’s skull; like the apparition of the viper in the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording copious food for the exercise of imagination. From that moment with the name of Dane were associated strange ideas of strength, daring, and superhuman stature; and an undefinable curiosity for all that is connected with the Danish race began to pervade me; and if, long after, when I became a student, I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the acquirement of the old Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain the matter by the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the old sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull.

And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe today, and perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel-window upon the streets of old Winchester,21 our motions ever in accordance with the “route” of the regiment, so habituated to change of scene that it had become almost necessary to our existence. Pleasant were those days of my early boyhood; and a melancholy pleasure steals over me as I recall them. Those were stirring times of which I am speaking, and there was much passing around me calculated to captivate the imagination. The dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every face; man, woman and child were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but, thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race. “Love your country and beat the French, and then never mind what happens,” was the cry of entire England. Oh, those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the bravest days of chivalry, at least; tall battalions of native warriors were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of country towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted the soldiery on their arrival, or cheered them at their departure. And now let us leave the upland, and descend to the sea-bord; there is a sight for you upon the billows! A dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically out of port, their long buntings streaming from the topgallant masts, calling on the skulking Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate22 towing behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their imprudence in an English hold. Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood.

III

And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once more at D——, the place of my birth, whither my father had been despatched on the recruiting service. I have already said that it was a beautiful little town—at least it was at the time of which I am speaking; what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets. It will scarcely have improved, for how could it be better than it then was? I love to think on thee, pretty, quiet D——, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest marketplace, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful23—she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her golden-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind. Pretty, quiet D——, with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England’s sweetest and most pious bard.24

Yes, pretty D——, I could always love thee, were it but for the sake of him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder quiet chancel. It was within thee that the long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle spirit escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow. Sorrow! do I say? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been created than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have undergone such intolerable woe! But it is over now, for, as there is an end of joy, so has affliction its termination. Doubtless the All-wise did not afflict him without a cause. Who knows but within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the sunbeams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and vigour? Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; the deathlike face is no longer occasionally seen timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the windowpane upon thy marketplace, quiet and pretty D——; the hind in thy neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he views, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and alders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout streams; and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church reverently doff his hat, as, supported by some kind friend, the death-stricken creature totters along the church-path to that mouldering edifice with the low roof, enclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint25—if the legend over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king.

But to return to my own history. I had now attained the age of six. Shall I state what intellectual progress I had been making up to this period? Alas! upon this point I have little to say calculated to afford either pleasure or edification. I had increased rapidly in size and in strength; the growth of the mind, however, had by no means corresponded with that of the body. It is true, I had acquired my letters, and was by this time able to read imperfectly, but this was all; and even this poor triumph over absolute ignorance would never have been effected but for the unremitting attention of my parents, who, sometimes by threats, sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant energies of my nature, and to bend my wishes to the acquisition of the rudiments of knowledge; but in influencing the wish lay the difficulty. Let but the will of a human being be turned to any particular object, and it is ten to one that sooner or later he achieves it. At this time I may safely say that I harboured neither wishes nor hopes; I had as yet seen no object calculated to call them forth, and yet I took pleasure in many things which perhaps unfortunately were all within my sphere of enjoyment. I loved to look upon the heavens, and to bask in the rays of the sun, or to sit beneath hedgerows and listen to the chirping of the birds, indulging the while in musing and meditation as far as my very limited circle of ideas would permit; but, unlike my brother, who was at this time at school, and whose rapid progress in every branch of instruction astonished and delighted his preceptors, I took no pleasure in books, whose use, indeed, I could scarcely comprehend, and bade fair to be as arrant a dunce as ever brought the blush of shame into the cheeks of anxious and affectionate parents.

But the time was now at hand when the ice which had hitherto bound the mind of the child with its benumbing power was to be thawed, and a world of sensations and ideas awakened to which it had hitherto been an entire stranger. One day a young lady, an intimate acquaintance of our family, and godmother to my brother, drove up to the house in which we dwelt; she stayed some time conversing with my mother, and on rising to depart she put down on the table a small packet, exclaiming: “I have brought a little present for each of the boys: the one is a History of England, which I intend for my godson when he returns from school, the other is—” and here she said something which escaped my ear, as I sat at some distance, moping in a corner: “I intend it for the youngster yonder,” pointing to myself; she then departed, and, my mother going out shortly after, I was left alone.

I remember for some time sitting motionless in my corner, with my eyes bent upon the ground; at last I lifted my head and looked upon the packet as it lay on the table. All at once a strange sensation came over me, such as I had never experienced before—a singular blending of curiosity, awe and pleasure, the remembrance of which, even at this distance of time, produces a remarkable effect upon my nervous system. What strange things are the nerves—I mean those more secret and mysterious ones in which I have some notion that the mind or soul, call it which you will, has its habitation; how they occasionally tingle and vibrate before any coming event closely connected with the future weal or woe of the human being. Such a feeling was now within me, certainly independent of what the eye had seen or the ear had heard. A book of some description had been brought for me, a present by no means calculated to interest me; what cared I for books? I had already many into which I never looked but from compulsion; friends, moreover, had presented me with similar things before, which I had entirely disregarded, and what was there in this particular book, whose very title I did not know, calculated to attract me more than the rest? yet something within told me that my fate was connected with the book which had been last brought; so, after looking on the packet from my corner for a considerable time, I got up and went to the table.

The packet was lying where it had been left—I took it up; had the envelope, which consisted of whitish brown paper, been secured by a string or a seal, I should not have opened it, as I should have considered such an act almost in the light of a crime; the books, however, had been merely folded up, and I therefore considered that there could be no possible harm in inspecting them, more especially as I had received no injunction to the contrary. Perhaps there was something unsound in this reasoning, something sophistical; but a child is sometimes as ready as a grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is inclined to. But whether the action was right or wrong, and I am afraid it was not altogether right, I undid the packet. It contained three books, two from their similarity seemed to be separate parts of one and the same work; they were handsomely bound, and to them I first turned my attention. I opened them successively and endeavoured to make out their meaning; their contents, however, as far as I was able to understand them, were by no means interesting: whoever pleases may read these books for me, and keep them too, into the bargain, said I to myself.

I now took up the third book. It did not resemble the others, being longer and considerably thicker; the binding was of dingy calfskin. I opened it, and as I did so another strange thrill of pleasure shot through my frame. The first object on which my eyes rested was a picture; it was exceedingly well executed, at least the scene which it represented made a vivid impression upon me, which would hardly have been the case had the artist not been faithful to nature. A wild scene it was—a heavy sea and rocky shore, with mountains in the background, above which the moon was peering. Not far from the shore, upon the water, was a boat with two figures in it, one of which stood at the bow, pointing with what I knew to be a gun at a dreadful shape in the water; fire was flashing from the muzzle of the gun, and the monster appeared to be transfixed. I almost thought I heard its cry. I remained motionless, gazing upon the picture, scarcely daring to draw my breath, lest the new and wondrous world should vanish of which I had now obtained a glimpse. “Who are those people, and what could have brought them into that strange situation?” I asked of myself; and now the seed of curiosity, which had so long lain dormant, began to expand, and I vowed to myself to become speedily acquainted with the whole history of the people in the boat. After looking on the picture till every mark and line in it were familiar to me, I turned over various leaves till I came to another engraving; a new source of wonder—a low sandy beach on which the furious sea was breaking in mountain-like billows; cloud and rack deformed the firmament, which wore a dull and leaden-like hue; gulls and other aquatic fowls were toppling upon the blast, or skimming over the tops of the maddening waves—“Mercy upon him! he must be drowned!” I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon a poor wretch who appeared to be striving to reach the shore; he was upon his legs but was evidently half-smothered with the brine; high above his head curled a horrible billow, as if to engulf him forever. “He must be drowned! he must be drowned!” I almost shrieked, and dropped the book. I soon snatched it up again, and now my eye lighted on a third picture: again a shore, but what a sweet and lovely one, and how I wished to be treading it; there were beautiful shells lying on the smooth white sand, some were empty like those I had occasionally seen on marble mantelpieces, but out of others peered the heads and bodies of wondrous crayfish; a wood of thick green trees skirted the beach and partly shaded it from the rays of the sun, which shone hot above, while blue waves slightly crested with foam were gently curling against it; there was a human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, clad in the skins of animals, with a huge cap on his head, a hatchet at his girdle, and in his hand a gun; his feet and legs were bare; he stood in an attitude of horror and surprise; his body was bent far back, and his eyes, which seemed starting out of his head, were fixed upon a mark on the sand—a large distinct mark—a human footprint!

Reader, is it necessary to name the book which now stood open in my hand, and whose very prints, feeble expounders of its wondrous lines, had produced within me emotions strange and novel? Scarcely, for it was a book which has exerted over the minds of Englishmen an influence certainly greater than any other of modern times, which has been in most people’s hands, and with the contents of which even those who cannot read are to a certain extent acquainted; a book from which the most luxuriant and fertile of our modern prose writers have drunk inspiration; a book, moreover, to which, from the hardy deeds which it narrates, and the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise which it tends to awaken, England owes many of her astonishing discoveries both by sea and land, and no inconsiderable part of her naval glory.

Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe! What does not my own poor self owe to thee? England has better bards than either Greece or Rome, yet I could spare them easier far than De Foe, “unabashed De Foe,” as the hunchbacked rhymer26 styled him.

The true chord had now been touched. A raging curiosity with respect to the contents of the volume, whose engravings had fascinated my eye, burned within me, and I never rested until I had fully satisfied it. Weeks succeeded weeks, months followed months, and the wondrous volume was my only study and principal source of amusement. For hours together I would sit poring over a page till I had become acquainted with the import of every line. My progress, slow enough at first, became by degrees more rapid, till at last, under “a shoulder of mutton sail,” I found myself cantering before a steady breeze over an ocean of enchantment, so well pleased with my voyage that I cared not how long it might be ere it reached its termination.

And it was in this manner that I first took to the paths of knowledge.

About this time I began to be somewhat impressed with religious feelings. My parents were, to a certain extent, religious people; but, though they had done their best to afford me instruction on religious points, I had either paid no attention to what they endeavoured to communicate, or had listened with an ear far too obtuse to derive any benefit. But my mind had now become awakened from the drowsy torpor in which it had lain so long, and the reasoning powers which I possessed were no longer inactive. Hitherto I had entertained no conception whatever of the nature and properties of God,27 and with the most perfect indifference had heard the Divine name proceeding from the mouths of the people—frequently, alas! on occasions when it ought not to be employed; but I now never heard it without a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable being, the maker of all things; that we were His children, and that we by our sins, had justly offended Him; that we were in very great peril from His anger, not so much in this life, as in another and far stranger state of being yet to come; that we had a Saviour withal to whom it was necessary to look for help: upon this point, however, I was yet very much in the dark, as, indeed, were most of those with whom I was connected. The power and terrors of God were uppermost in my thoughts; they fascinated though they astounded me. Twice every Sunday I was regularly taken to the church, where from a corner of the large, spacious pew, lined with black leather, I would fix my eyes on the dignified high-church rector, and the dignified high-church clerk, and watch the movement of their lips, from which, as they read their respective portions of the venerable liturgy, would roll many a portentous word descriptive of the wondrous works of the Most High.

Rector.28 “Thou didst divide the sea, through Thy power: Thou brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters.”

Philoh.29 “Thou smotest the heads of Leviathan in pieces: and gavest him to be meat for the people in the wilderness.”

Rector. “Thou broughtest out fountains and waters out of the hard rocks: Thou driedst up mighty waters.”

Philoh. “The day is Thine, and the night is Thine: Thou hast prepared the light and the sun.”

Peace to your memories dignified rector and yet more dignified clerk! by this time ye are probably gone to your long homes, and your voices are no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the venerable church; nay, doubtless, this has already long since been the fate of him of the sonorous “Amen!”—the one of the two who, with all due respect to the rector, principally engrossed my boyish admiration—he, at least, is scarcely now among the living! Living! why, I have heard say that he blew a fife—for he was a musical as well as a Christian professor—a bold fife, to cheer the Guards and the brave Marines as they marched with measured step, obeying an insane command, up Bunker’s height, whilst the rifles of the sturdy Yankees were sending the leaden hail sharp and thick amidst the red-coated ranks; for Philoh had not always been a man of peace, nor an exhorter to turn the other cheek to the smiter, but had even arrived at the dignity of a halberd in his country’s service before his six-foot form required rest, and the grey-haired veteran retired, after a long peregrination, to his native town, to enjoy ease and respectability on a pension of “eighteenpence a day;” and well did his fellow-townsmen act when, to increase that ease and respectability, and with a thoughtful regard for the dignity of the good church service, they made him clerk and precentor—the man of the tall form and of the audible voice, which sounded loud and clear as his own Bunker fife. Well, peace to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissenters, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and high-church clerk; if thou art in thy grave the better for thee; thou wert fitted to adore a bygone time, when loyalty was in vogue, and smiling content lay like a sunbeam upon the land, but thou wouldst be sadly out of place in these days of cold philosophic latitudinarian doctrine, universal tolerism,30 and half-concealed rebellion—rare times, no doubt, for papists and dissenters, but which would assuredly have broken the heart of the loyal soldier of George the Third, and the dignified high-church clerk of pretty D——.

We passed many months at this place. Nothing, however, occurred requiring any particular notice, relating to myself, beyond what I have already stated, and I am not writing the history of others. At length my father was recalled to his regiment, which at that time was stationed at a place called Norman Cross, in Lincolnshire, or rather Huntingdonshire, at some distance from the old town of Peterborough. For this place he departed, leaving my mother and myself to follow in a few days. Our journey was a singular one. On the second day we reached a marshy and fenny country, which owing to immense quantities of rain which had lately fallen, was completely submerged. At a large town we got on board a kind of passage-boat, crowded with people; it had neither sails nor oars, and those were not the days of steam-vessels; it was a treck-schuyt, and was drawn by horses.

Young as I was, there was much connected with this journey which highly surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance particular scenes described in the book which I now generally carried in my bosom. The country was, as I have already said, submerged—entirely drowned—no land was visible; the trees were growing bolt upright in the flood, whilst farmhouses and cottages were standing insulated; the horses which drew us were up to the knees in water, and, on coming to blind pools and “greedy depths,” were not unfrequently swimming, in which case the boys or urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, sometimes knelt, upon the saddle and pillions. No accident, however, occurred either to the quadrupeds or bipeds, who appeared respectively to be quite au fait in their business, and extricated themselves with the greatest ease from places in which Pharaoh and all his host would have gone to the bottom. Nightfall brought us to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow in reaching the place of our destination.

IV

And a strange place it was, this Norman Cross, and, at the time of which I am speaking, a sad cross to many a Norman, being what was then styled a French prison, that is, a receptacle for captives made in the French war. It consisted, if I remember right, of some five or six casernes, very long, and immensely high; each standing isolated from the rest, upon a spot of ground which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round with lofty palisades, the whole being compassed about by a towering wall, beneath which, at intervals, on both sides sentinels were stationed, whilst, outside, upon the field, stood commodious wooden barracks, capable of containing two regiments of infantry, intended to serve as guards upon the captives. Such was the station or prison at Norman Cross, where some six thousand French and other foreigners, followers of the grand Corsican, were now immured.

What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their blank blind walls, without windows or grating, and their slanting roofs, out of which, through orifices where the tiles had been removed, would be protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height. Ah! there was much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs, doubtless, many a wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France. Much had the poor inmates to endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of England be it said—of England, in general so kind and bountiful. Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment even for the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; and such, alas! was the fare in those casernes. And then, those visits, or rather ruthless inroads, called in the slang of the place31 “straw-plait hunts,” when, in pursuit of a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of making, red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with the bayonet’s point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavouring to raise around it; and then the triumphant exit with the miserable booty; and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire, on the barrack parade, of the plait contraband, beneath the view of the glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above like a tempest-shower, or in the terrific war-whoop of “Vive l’Empereur!”

It was midsummer when we arrived at this place, and the weather, which had for a long time been wet and gloomy, now became bright and glorious. I was subjected to but little control, and passed my time pleasantly enough, principally in wandering about the neighbouring country. It was flat and somewhat fenny, a district more of pasture than agriculture, and not very thickly inhabited. I soon became well acquainted with it. At the distance of two miles from the station was a large lake, styled in the dialect of the country a “mere,”32 about whose borders tall reeds were growing in abundance. This was a frequent haunt of mine; but my favourite place of resort was a wild sequestered spot at a somewhat greater distance. Here, surrounded with woods, and thick groves, was the seat of some ancient family, deserted by the proprietor, and only inhabited by a rustic servant or two. A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be imagined; the garden and walks were overgrown with weeds and briars, and the unpruned woods were so tankled as to be almost impervious. About this domain I would wander till overtaken by fatigue, and then I would sit down with my back against some beech, elm or stately alder tree, and, taking out my book, would pass hours in a state of unmixed enjoyment, my eyes now fixed on the wondrous pages, now glancing at the sylvan scene around; and sometimes I would drop the book and listen to the voice of the rooks and wild pigeons, and not unfrequently to the croaking of multitudes of frogs from the neighbouring swamps and fens.

In going to and from this place I frequently passed a tall, elderly individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion, with a skin cap on his head and stout gaiters on his legs; on his shoulders hung a moderate sized leathern sack; he seemed fond of loitering near sunny banks, and of groping amidst furze and low scrubby bramble bushes, of which there were plenty in the neighbourhood of Norman Cross. Once I saw him standing in the middle of a dusty road, looking intently at a large mark which seemed to have been drawn across it, as if by a walking-stick. “He must have been a large one,” the old man muttered half to himself, “or he would not have left such a trail, I wonder if he is near; he seems to have moved this way.” He then went behind some bushes which grew on the right side of the road, and appeared to be in quest of something, moving behind the bushes with his head downwards, and occasionally striking their roots with his foot. At length he exclaimed, “Here he is!” and forthwith I saw him dart amongst the bushes. There was a kind of scuffling noise, the rustling of branches, and the crackling of dry sticks. “I have him!” said the man at last; “I have got him!” and presently he made his appearance about twenty yards down the road, holding a large viper in his hand. “What do you think of that, my boy?” said he, as I went up to him; “what do you think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?” “What do I think?” said I. “Why, that I could do as much myself.” “You do,” said the man, “do you? Lord! how the young people in these days are given to conceit; it did not use to be so in my time; when I was a child, childer knew how to behave themselves; but the childer of these days are full of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper;” and with his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of foam from the jaws of the viper down upon the road. “The childer of these days are a generation of—God forgive me, what was I about to say!” said the old man; and opening his bag he thrust the reptile into it, which appeared far from empty. I passed on. As I was returning, towards the evening, I overtook the old man, who was wending in the same direction. “Good evening to you, sir,” said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my head. “Good evening,” said the old man; and then, looking at me, “How’s this?” said he, “you ar’n’t, sure, the child I met in the morning?” “Yes,” said I, “I am; what makes you doubt it?” “Why, you were then all froth and conceit,” said the old man, “and now you take off your cap to me.” “I beg your pardon,” said I, “if I was frothy and conceited; it ill becomes a child like me to be so.” “That’s true, dear,” said the old man; “well, as you have begged my pardon, I truly forgive you.” “Thank you,” said I; “have you caught any more of those things?” “Only four or five,” said the old man; “they are getting scarce, though this used to be a great neighbourhood for them.” “And what do you do with them?” said I; “do you carry them home and play with them!” “I sometimes play with one or two that I tame,” said the old man; “but I hunt them mostly for the fat which they contain, out of which I make unguents which are good for various sore troubles, especially for the rheumatism.” “And do you get your living by hunting these creatures?” I demanded. “Not altogether,” said the old man; “besides being a viper-hunter, I am what they call a herbalist, one who knows the virtue of particular herbs; I gather them at the proper season, to make medicines with for the sick.” “And do you live in the neighbourhood?” I demanded. “You seem very fond of asking questions, child. No, I do not live in this neighbourhood in particular, I travel about; I have not been in this neighbourhood till lately for some years.”

From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaintance; I often accompanied him in his wanderings about the neighbourhood, and on two or three occasions assisted him in catching the reptiles which he hunted. He generally carried a viper with him which he had made quite tame, and from which he had extracted the poisonous fangs; it would dance and perform various kinds of tricks. He was fond of telling me anecdotes connected with his adventures with the reptile species. “But,” said he one day, sighing, “I must shortly give up this business, I am no longer the man I was, I am become timid, and when a person is timid in viper-hunting he had better leave off, as it is quite clear his virtue is leaving him. I got a fright some years ago, which I am quite sure I shall never get the better of; my hand has been shaky more or less ever since.” “What frightened you?” said I. “I had better not tell you,” said the old man, “or you may be frightened too, lose your virtue, and be no longer good for the business.” “I don’t care,” said I; “I don’t intend to follow the business; I dare say I shall be an officer, like my father.” “Well,” said the old man, “I once saw the king of the vipers, and since then—” “The king of the vipers!” said I, interrupting him; “have the vipers a king?” “As sure as we have,” said the old man, “as sure as we have King George to rule over us, have these reptiles a king to rule over them.” “And where did you see him?” said I. “I will tell you,” said the old man, “though I don’t like talking about the matter. It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down yonder to the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hundred miles from here, following my business. It was a very sultry day, I remember, and I had been out several hours catching creatures. It might be about three o’clock in the afternoon, when I found myself on some heathy land near the sea, on the ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as the sea, was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered—oats or barley, I know not which—but I remember that the ground was covered with stubble. Well, about three o’clock, as I told you before, what with the heat of the day and from having walked about for hours in a lazy way, I felt very tired; so I determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down, my head just on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body over the side down amongst the heath; my bag, which was nearly filled with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face; the creatures were struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more comfortably off I was than they; I was taking my ease on the nice open hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in the nasty close bag, coiling about one another, and breaking their very hearts, all to no purpose; and I felt quite comfortable and happy in the thought, and little by little closed my eyes, and fell into the sweetest snooze that ever I was in in all my life; and there I lay over the hill’s side, with my head half in the field, I don’t know how long, all dead asleep. At last it seemed to me that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a thing moving, very faint, however, far away; then it died, and then it came again upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I heard crackle, crackle; then it died again, or I became yet more dead asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some time without hearing it. All of a sudden I became awake, and there was I, on the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground towards the stubble, with a noise in my ear like that of something moving towards me, amongst the stubble of the field; well, I lay a moment or two listening to the noise, and then I became frightened, for I did not like the noise at all, it sounded so odd; so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the stubble. Mercy upon us! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing its head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling beneath its outrageous belly. It might be about five yards off when I first saw it, making straight towards me, child, as if it would devour me. I lay quite still, for I was stupefied with horror, whilst the creature came still nearer; and now it was nearly upon me, when it suddenly drew back a little, and then—what do you think?—it lifted its head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up, flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child, what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering at me with its tongue. It was only the kindness of God that saved me: all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a fowler was shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the stubble. Whereupon the viper sunk its head, and immediately made off over the ridge of the hill, down in the direction of the sea. As it passed by me, however—and it passed close by me—it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful whether it should not seize me; it did not, however, but made off down the hill. It has often struck me that he was angry with me, and came upon me unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have always been in the habit of doing.”

“But,” said I, “how do you know that it was the king of the vipers?”

“How do I know?” said the old man, “who else should it be? There was as much difference between it and other reptiles as between King George and other people.”

“Is King George, then, different from other people?” I demanded.

“Of course,” said the old man; “I have never seen him myself, but I have heard people say that he is a ten times greater man than other folks; indeed, it stands to reason that he must be different from the rest, else people would not be so eager to see him. Do you think, child, that people would be fools enough to run a matter of twenty or thirty miles to see the king, provided King George—”

“Haven’t the French a king?” I demanded.

“Yes,” said the old man, “or something much the same, and a queer one he is; not quite so big as King George, they say, but quite as terrible a fellow. What of him?”

“Suppose he should come to Norman Cross!”

“What should he do at Norman Cross, child?”

“Why, you were talking about the vipers in your bag breaking their hearts, and so on, and their king coming to help them. Now, suppose the French king should hear of his people being in trouble at Norman Cross, and—”

“He can’t come, child,” said the old man, rubbing his hands, “the water lies between. The French don’t like the water; neither vipers nor Frenchmen take kindly to the water, child.”

When the old man left the country, which he did a few days after the conversation which I have just related, he left me the reptile which he had tamed and rendered quite harmless by removing the fangs. I was in the habit of feeding it with milk, and frequently carried it abroad with me in my walks.

V

One day it happened that, being on my rambles, I entered a green lane which I had never seen before; at first it was rather narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider; in the middle was a driftway with deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted with a sward of trefoil and clover; there was no lack of trees, chiefly ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly formed a canopy, and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly a group of objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the largest of the trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low tent or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was curling; beside it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three lean horses or ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh. Wondering to whom this odd tent could belong, I advanced till I was close before it, when I found that it consisted of two tilts, like those of wagons, placed upon the ground and fronting each other, connected behind by a sail or large piece of canvas, which was but partially drawn across the top; upon the ground, in the intervening space, was a fire, over which, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a cauldron. My advance had been so noiseless as not to alarm the inmates, who consisted of a man and woman, who sat apart, one on each side of the fire; they were both busily employed—the man was carding plaited straw, whilst the woman seemed to be rubbing something with a white powder, some of which lay on a plate beside her. Suddenly the man looked up, and, perceiving me, uttered a strange kind of cry, and the next moment both the woman and himself were on their feet and rushing upon me.

I retreated a few steps, yet without turning to flee. I was not, however, without apprehension, which, indeed, the appearance of these two people was well calculated to inspire. The woman was a stout figure, seemingly between thirty and forty; she wore no cap, and her long hair fell on either side of her head, like horsetails, halfway down her waist; her skin was dark and swarthy, like that of a toad, and the expression of her countenance was particularly evil; her arms were bare, and her bosom was but half-concealed by a slight bodice, below which she wore a coarse petticoat, her only other article of dress. The man was somewhat younger, but of a figure equally wild; his frame was long and lathy, but his arms were remarkably short, his neck was rather bent, he squinted slightly, and his mouth was much awry; his complexion was dark, but, unlike that of the woman, was more ruddy than livid; there was a deep scar on his cheek, something like the impression of a halfpenny. The dress was quite in keeping with the figure: in his hat, which was slightly peaked, was stuck a peacock’s feather; over a waistcoat of hide, untanned and with the hair upon it, he wore a rough jerkin of russet hue; smallclothes of leather, which had probably once belonged to a soldier, but with which pipeclay did not seem to have come in contact for many a year, protected his lower man as far as the knee; his legs were cased in long stockings of blue worsted, and on his shoes he wore immense old-fashioned buckles.

Such were the two beings who now came rushing upon me; the man was rather in advance, brandishing a ladle in his hand.

“So I have caught you at last,” said he; “I’ll teach ye, you young highwayman, to come skulking about my properties!”

Young as I was, I remarked that his manner of speaking was different from that of any people with whom I had been in the habit of associating. It was quite as strange as his appearance, and yet it nothing resembled the foreign English which I had been in the habit of hearing through the palisades of the prison; he could scarcely be a foreigner.

“Your properties!” said I; “I am in the King’s Lane. Why did you put them there, if you did not wish them to be seen?”

“On the spy,” said the woman, “hey? I’ll drown him in the sludge in the toad-pond over the hedge.”

“So we will,” said the man, “drown him anon in the mud!”

“Drown me, will you?” said I; “I should like to see you! What’s all this about? Was it because I saw you with your hands full of straw plait, and my mother there—”

“Yes,” said the woman; “what was I about?”

Myself. How should I know? Making bad money, perhaps!

And it will be as well here to observe, that at this time there was much bad money in circulation in the neighbourhood, generally supposed to be fabricated by the prisoners, so that this false coin and straw plait formed the standard subjects of conversation at Norman Cross.

“I’ll strangle thee,” said the beldame, dashing at me. “Bad money, is it?”

“Leave him to me, wifelkin,” said the man, interposing; “you shall now see how I’ll baste him down the lane.”

Myself. I tell you what, my chap, you had better put down that thing of yours; my father lies concealed within my tepid breast, and if to me you offer any harm or wrong, I’ll call him forth to help me with his forked tongue.

Man. What do you mean, ye Bengui’s bantling?33 I never heard such discourse in all my life; playman’s speech or Frenchman’s talk—which, I wonder? Your father! tell the mumping villain that if he comes near my fire I’ll serve him out as I will you. Take that—Tiny Jesus! what have we got here? Oh, delicate Jesus! what is the matter with the child?

I had made a motion which the viper understood; and now, partly disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, it raised its head to a level with my face, and stared upon my enemy with its glittering eyes.

The man stood like one transfixed, and the ladle with which he had aimed a blow at me, now hung in the air like the hand which held it; his mouth was extended, and his cheeks became of a pale yellow, save alone that place which bore the mark which I have already described, and this shone now portentously, like fire. He stood in this manner for some time; at last the ladle fell from his hand, and its falling appeared to rouse him from his stupor.

“I say, wifelkin,” said he in a faltering tone, “did you ever see the like of this here?”

But the woman had retreated to the tent, from the entrance of which her loathly face was now thrust, with an expression partly of terror and partly of curiosity. After gazing some time longer at the viper and myself, the man stooped down and took up the ladle; then, as if somewhat more assured, he moved to the tent, where he entered into conversation with the beldame in a low voice. Of their discourse, though I could hear the greater part of it, I understood not a single word; and I wondered what it could be, for I knew by the sound that it was not French. At last the man, in a somewhat louder tone, appeared to put a question to the woman, who nodded her head affirmatively, and in a moment or two produced a small stool, which she delivered to him. He placed it on the ground, close by the door of the tent, first rubbing it with his sleeve, as if for the purpose of polishing its surface.

Man. Now, my precious little gentleman, do sit down here by the poor people’s tent; we wish to be civil in our slight way. Don’t be angry, and say no; but look kindly upon us, and satisfied, my precious little God Almighty.

Woman. Yes, my gorgious angel, sit down by the poor bodies’ fire, and eat a sweetmeat. We want to ask you a question or two; only first put that serpent away.

Myself. I can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleep, that’s easy enough; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that? I have not got one, and where am I to get it?

Woman. Never fear, my tiny tawny, we can give you one, such as you never ate, I dare say, however far you may have come from.

The serpent sunk into its usual resting-place, and I sat down on the stool. The woman opened a box, and took out a strange little basket or hamper, not much larger than a man’s fist, and formed of a delicate kind of matting. It was sewed at the top; but, ripping it open with a knife, she held it to me, and I saw, to my surprise, that it contained candied fruits of a dark green hue, tempting enough to one of my age. “There, my tiny,” said she; “taste, and tell me how you like them.”

“Very much,” said I; “where did you get them?”

The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding her head thrice, with a knowing look, said: “Who knows better than yourself, my tawny?”

Now, I knew nothing about the matter; but I saw that these strange people had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities of their visitor, which I was nothing loath to encourage. I therefore answered boldly, “Ah! who indeed!”

“Certainly,” said the man; “who should know better than yourself, or who so well? And now my tiny one, let me ask you one thing—you didn’t come to do us any harm?”

“No,” said I, “I had no dislike to you; though, if you were to meddle with me—”

Man. Of course, my gorgious, of course you would; and quite right too. Meddle with you!—what right have we? I should say it would not be quite safe. I see how it is; you are one of them there;—and he bent his head towards his left shoulder.

Myself. Yes, I am one of them—for I thought he was alluding to the soldiers—you had best mind what you are about, I can tell you.

Man. Don’t doubt we will for our own sake; Lord bless you, wifelkin, only think that we should see one of them there when we least thought about it. Well, I have heard of such things, though I never thought to see one; however, seeing is believing. Well! now you are come, and are not going to do us any mischief, I hope you will stay; you can do us plenty of good if you will.

Myself. What good can I do you?

Man. What good? plenty! Would you not bring us luck? I have heard say, that one of them there always does, if it will but settle down. Stay with us, you shall have a tilted cart all to yourself if you like. We’ll make you our little God Almighty, and say our prayers to you every morning!

Myself. That would be nice; and if you were to give me plenty of these things, I should have no objection. But what would my father say? I think he would hardly let me.

Man. Why not? he would be with you; and kindly would we treat him. Indeed, without your father you would be nothing at all.

Myself. That’s true; but I do not think he could be spared from his regiment. I have heard him say that they could do nothing without him.

Man. His regiment! What are you talking about?—what does the child mean?

Myself. What do I mean! why, that my father is an officer man at the barracks yonder, keeping guard over the French prisoners.

Man. Oh! then that sap is not your father!

Myself. What, the snake? Why, no! Did you think he was?

Man. To be sure we did. Didn’t you tell me so?

Myself. Why, yes; but who would have thought you would have believed it? It is a tame one. I hunt vipers and tame them.

Man. O——h!

“O——h!” grunted the woman, “that’s it, is it?”

The man and woman, who during this conversation had resumed their former positions within the tent, looked at each other with a queer look of surprise, as if somewhat disconcerted at what they now heard. They then entered into discourse with each other in the same strange tongue which had already puzzled me. At length the man looked me in the face, and said, somewhat hesitatingly, “so you are not one of them there, after all?”

Myself. One of them there? I don’t know what you mean.

Man. Why, we have been thinking you were a goblin—a devilkin! However, I see how it is: you are a sap-engro, a chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them! Well, it comes very nearly to the same thing; and if you please to list with us, and bear us pleasant company, we shall be glad of you. I’d take my oath upon it that we might make a mort of money by you and that sap, and the tricks it could do; and, as you seem fly to everything, I shouldn’t wonder if you would make a prime hand at telling fortunes.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I.

Man. Of course. And you might still be our God Almighty, or at any rate our clergyman, so you should live in a tilted cart by yourself and say prayers to us night and morning—to wifelkin here, and all our family; there’s plenty of us when we are all together; as I said before, you seem fly, I shouldn’t wonder if you could read.

“Oh, yes!” said I, “I can read;” and, eager to display my accomplishments, I took my book out of my pocket, and opening it at random, proceeded to read how a certain man whilst wandering about a certain solitary island, entered a cave, the mouth of which was overgrown with brushwood, and how he was nearly frightened to death in that cave by something which he saw.

“That will do,” said the man; “that’s the kind of prayers for me and my family, ar’n’t they, wifelkin? I never heard more delicate prayers in all my life! Why, they beat the rubricals hollow!—and here comes my son Jasper.34 I say, Jasper, here’s a young sap-engro that can read, and is more fly than yourself. Shake hands with him; I wish ye to be two brothers.”

With a swift but stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from the farther part of the lane; on reaching the tent he stood still, and looked fixedly upon me as I sat upon the stool; I looked fixedly upon him. A queer look had Jasper; he was a lad of some twelve or thirteen years, with long arms, unlike the singular being who called himself his father; his complexion was ruddy, but his face was seamed, though it did not bear the peculiar scar which disfigured the countenance of the other; nor, though roguish enough, a certain evil expression which that of the other bore, and which the face of the woman possessed in a yet more remarkable degree. For the rest, he wore drab breeches, with certain strings at the knee, a rather gay waistcoat, and tolerably white shirt; under his arm he bore a mighty whip of whalebone with a brass knob, and upon his head was a hat without either top or brim.

“There, Jasper! shake hands, with the sap-engro.”

“Can he box, father?” said Jasper, surveying me rather contemptuously. “I should think not, he looks so puny and small.”

“Hold your peace, fool!” said the man; “he can do more than that—I tell you he’s fly; he carries a sap about, which would sting a ninny like you to dead.”

“What, a sap-engro!” said the boy, with a singular whine, and, stooping down, he leered curiously in my face, kindly, however, and then patted me on the head. “A sap-engro,” he ejaculated; “lor!”

“Yes, and one of the right sort,” said the man; “I am glad we have met with him; he is going to list with us, and be our clergyman and God Almighty, a’n’t you, my tawny?”

“I don’t know,” said I; “I must see what my father will say.”

“Your father; bah!”—but here he stopped, for a sound was heard like the rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and distinct as on a road, but dull and heavy as if upon a grass sward; nearer and nearer it came, and the man, starting up, rushed out of the tent, and looked around anxiously. I arose from the stool upon which I had been seated, and just at that moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and sticks, a man on horseback bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few yards’ distance from where we were; from the impetus of the leap the horse was nearly down on his knees; the rider, however, by dint of vigorous handling of the reins, prevented him from falling, and then rode up to the tent. “ ’Tis Nat,” said the man; “what brings him here?” The newcomer was a stout, burly fellow, about the middle age; he had a savage, determined look, and his face was nearly covered over with carbuncles; he wore a broad slouching hat, and was dressed in a grey coat, cut in a fashion which I afterwards learnt to be the genuine Newmarket cut, the skirts being exceedingly short; his waistcoat was of red plush, and he wore broad corduroy breeches and white top-boots. The steed which carried him was of iron grey, spirited and powerful, but covered with sweat and foam. The fellow glanced fiercely and suspiciously around, and said something to the man of the tent in a harsh and rapid voice. A short and hurried conversation ensued in the strange tongue. I could not take my eyes off this newcomer. Oh, that half-jockey half-bruiser countenance, I never forgot it! More than fifteen years afterwards I found myself amidst a crowd before Newgate; a gallows was erected, and beneath it stood a criminal, a notorious malefactor. I recognised him at once; the horseman of the lane is now beneath the fatal tree, but nothing altered; still the same man; jerking his head to the right and left with the same fierce and under glance, just as if the affairs of this world had the same kind of interest to the last; grey coat of Newmarket cut, plush waistcoat, corduroys, and boots, nothing altered; but the head, alas! is bare and so is the neck. Oh, crime and virtue, virtue and crime!—it was old John Newton, I think, who, when he saw a man going to be hanged, said: “There goes John Newton, but for the grace of God!”

But the lane, the lane, all was now in confusion in the lane; the man and woman were employed in striking the tents and in making hurried preparations for departure; the boy Jasper was putting the harness upon the ponies and attaching them to the carts; and, to increase the singularity of the scene, two or three wild-looking women and girls, in red cloaks and immense black beaver bonnets, came from I know not what direction, and, after exchanging a few words with the others, commenced with fierce and agitated gestures to assist them in their occupation. The rider meanwhile sat upon his horse, but evidently in a state of great impatience; he muttered curses between his teeth, spurred the animal furiously, and then reigned it in, causing it to rear itself up nearly perpendicular. At last he said: “Curse ye, for Romans, how slow ye are! well, it is no business of mine, stay here all day if you like; I have given ye warning, I am off to the big north road. However, before I go, you had better give me all you have of that.”

“Truly spoken, Nat, my pal,” said the man; “give it him, mother. There it is; now be off as soon as you please, and rid us of evil company.”

The woman had handed him two bags formed of stocking, half full of something heavy, which looked through them for all the world like money of some kind. The fellow, on receiving them, thrust them without ceremony into the pockets of his coat, and then, without a word of farewell salutation, departed at a tremendous rate, the hoofs of his horse thundering for a long time on the hard soil of the neighbouring road, till the sound finally died away in the distance. The strange people were not slow in completing their preparations, and then, flogging their animals terrifically, hurried away seemingly in the same direction.

The boy Jasper was last of the band. As he was following the rest, he stopped suddenly, and looked on the ground appearing to muse; then, turning round, he came up to me where I was standing, leered in my face, and then, thrusting out his hand, he said, “Goodbye, Sap, I dare say we shall meet again, remember we are brothers, two gentle brothers.”

Then whining forth, “What a sap-engro, lor!” he gave me a parting leer, and hastened away.

I remained standing in the lane gazing after the retreating company. “A strange set of people,” said I at last, “I wonder who they can be.”

VI

Years passed on, even three years;35 during this period I had increased considerably in stature and in strength, and, let us hope, improved in mind; for I had entered on the study of the Latin language. The very first person to whose care I was entrusted for the acquisition of Latin was an old friend of my father’s, a clergyman who kept a seminary at a town the very next we visited after our departure from “the Cross.” Under his instruction, however, I continued only a few weeks, as we speedily left the place. “Captain,” said this divine, when my father came to take leave of him on the eve of our departure, “I have a friendship for you, and therefore wish to give you a piece of advice concerning this son of yours. You are now removing him from my care; you do wrong, but we will let that pass. Listen to me: there is but one good school book in the world—the one I use in my seminary—Lilly’s Latin Grammar,36 in which your son has already made some progress. If you are anxious for the success of your son in life, for the correctness of his conduct and the soundness of his principles, keep him to Lilly’s Grammar. If you can by any means, either fair or foul, induce him to get by heart Lilly’s Latin Grammar, you may set your heart at rest with respect to him; I, myself, will be his warrant. I never yet knew a boy that was induced, either by fair means or foul, to learn Lilly’s Latin Grammar by heart, who did not turn out a man, provided he lived long enough.”

My father, who did not understand the classical languages, received with respect the advice of his old friend, and from that moment conceived the highest opinion of Lilly’s Latin Grammar. During three years I studied Lilly’s Latin Grammar under the tuition of various schoolmasters, for I travelled with the regiment, and in every town in which we were stationary I was invariably (God bless my father!) sent to the classical academy of the place. It chanced, by good fortune, that in the generality of these schools the grammar of Lilly was in use; when, however, that was not the case, it made no difference in my educational course, my father always stipulating with the masters that I should be daily examined in Lilly. At the end of the three years I had the whole by heart; you had only to repeat the first two or three words of any sentence in any part of the book, and forthwith I would open cry, commencing without blundering and hesitation, and continue till you were glad to beg me to leave off, with many expressions of admiration at my proficiency in the Latin language. Sometimes, however, to convince you how well I merited these encomiums, I would follow you to the bottom of the stair, and even into the street, repeating in a kind of singsong measure the sonorous lines of the golden schoolmaster. If I am here asked whether I understood anything of what I had got by heart, I reply—“Never mind, I understand it all now, and believe that no one ever yet got Lilly’s Latin Grammar by heart when young, who repented of the feat at a mature age.”

And when my father saw that I had accomplished my task, he opened his mouth, and said, “Truly this is more than I expected. I did not think that there had been so much in you, either of application or capacity; you have now learnt all that is necessary, if my friend Dr. B——’s opinion was sterling, as I have no doubt it was. You are still a child, however, and must yet go to school, in order that you may be kept out of evil company. Perhaps you may still contrive, now you have exhausted the barn, to pick up a grain or two in the barnyard. You are still ignorant of figures, I believe, not that I would mention figures in the same day with Lilly’s Grammar.”

These words were uttered in a place called ———, in the north, or in the road to the north, to which, for some time past, our corps had been slowly advancing. I was sent to the school of the place, which chanced to be a day school. It was a somewhat extraordinary one, and a somewhat extraordinary event occurred to me within its walls.

It occupied part of the farther end of a small plain, or square, at the outskirts of the town, close to some extensive bleaching fields. It was a long low building of one room, with no upper storey; on the top was a kind of wooden box, or sconce, which I at first mistook for a pigeon-house, but which in reality contained a bell, to which was attached a rope, which, passing through the ceiling, hung dangling in the middle of the schoolroom. I am the more particular in mentioning this appurtenance, as I had soon occasion to scrape acquaintance with it in a manner not very agreeable to my feelings. The master was very proud of his bell, if I might judge from the fact of his eyes being frequently turned to that part of the ceiling from which the rope depended. Twice every day, namely, after the morning and evening tasks had been gone through, were the boys rung out of school by the monotonous jingle of this bell. This ringing out was rather a lengthy affair, for, as the master was a man of order and method, the boys were only permitted to go out of the room one by one; and as they were rather numerous, amounting, at least, to one hundred, and were taught to move at a pace of suitable decorum, at least a quarter of an hour elapsed from the commencement of the march before the last boy could make his exit. The office of bell-ringer was performed by every boy successively; and it so happened that, the very first day of my attendance at the school, the turn to ring the bell had, by order of succession, arrived at the place which had been allotted to me; for the master, as I have already observed, was a man of method and order, and every boy had a particular seat, to which he became a fixture as long as he continued at the school.

So, upon this day, when the tasks were done and completed, and the boys sat with their hats and caps in their hands, anxiously expecting the moment of dismissal, it was suddenly notified to me, by the urchins who sat nearest to me, that I must get up and ring the bell. Now, as this was the first time that I had been at the school, I was totally unacquainted with the process, which I had never seen, and, indeed, had never heard of till that moment. I therefore sat still, not imagining it possible that any such duty could be required of me. But now, with not a little confusion, I perceived that the eyes of all the boys in the school were fixed upon me. Presently there were nods and winks in the direction of the bell-rope; and, as these produced no effect, uncouth visages were made, like those of monkeys when enraged; teeth were gnashed, tongues thrust out, and even fists were bent at me. The master, who stood at the end of the room, with a huge ferule under his arm, bent full upon me a look of stern appeal; and the ushers, of whom there were four, glared upon me, each from his own particular corner, as I vainly turned, in one direction and another, in search of one reassuring look.

But now, probably in obedience to a sign from the master, the boys in my immediate neighbourhood began to maltreat me. Some pinched me with their fingers, some buffeted me, whilst others pricked me with pins or the points of compasses. These arguments were not without effect. I sprang from my seat, and endeavoured to escape along a double line of benches, thronged with boys of all ages, from the urchin of six or seven, to the nondescript of sixteen or seventeen. It was like running the gauntlet; everyone, great or small, pinching, kicking, or otherwise maltreating me as I passed by.

Goaded on in this manner, I at length reached the middle of the room, where dangled the bell-rope, the cause of all my sufferings. I should have passed it—for my confusion was so great, that I was quite at a loss to comprehend what all this could mean, and almost believed myself under the influence of an ugly dream—but now the boys who were seated in advance in the row, arose with one accord, and barred my farther progress; and one, doubtless more sensible that the rest, seizing the rope, thrust it into my hand. I now began to perceive that the dismissal of the school, and my own release from torment, depended upon this self same rope. I therefore in a fit of desperation, pulled it once or twice, and then left off, naturally supposing that I had done quite enough. The boys who sat next the door, no sooner heard the bell, than, rising from their seats, they moved out at the door. The bell, however, had no sooner ceased to jingle, than they stopped short, and, turning round, stared at the master, as much as to say, “What are we to do now?” This was too much for the patience of the man of method, which my previous stupidity had already nearly exhausted. Dashing forward into the middle of the room, he struck me violently on the shoulders with his ferule, and snatching the rope out of my hand, exclaimed, with a stentorian voice, and genuine Yorkshire accent, “Prodigy of ignorance! dost not even know how to ring a bell? Must I myself instruct thee?” He then commenced pulling at the bell with such violence, that long before half the school was dismissed the rope broke, and the rest of the boys had to depart without their accustomed music.

But I must not linger here, though I could say much about the school and the pedagogue highly amusing and diverting, which, however, I suppress, in order to make way for matters of yet greater interest. On we went, northwards, northwards! and, as we advanced, I saw that the country was becoming widely different from those parts of merry England in which we had previously travelled. It was wilder and less cultivated, and more broken with hills and hillocks. The people, too, of these regions appeared to partake of something of the character of their country. They were coarsely dressed; tall and sturdy in frame; their voices were deep and guttural; and the half of the dialect which they spoke was unintelligible to my ears.

I often wondered where we could be going, for I was at this time about as ignorant of geography as I was of most other things. However, I held my peace, asked no questions, and patiently awaited the issue.

Northward, northward, still! And it came to pass that, one morning, I found myself extended on the bank of a river.37 It was a beautiful morning of early spring; small white clouds were floating in the heaven, occasionally veiling the countenance of the sun, whose light, as they retired, would again burst forth, coursing like a racehorse over the scene—and a goodly scene it was! Before me, across the water, on an eminence, stood a white old city, surrounded with lofty walls, above which rose the tops of tall houses, with here and there a church or steeple. To my right hand was a long and massive bridge, with many arches and of antique architecture, which traversed the river. The river was a noble one, the broadest that I had hitherto seen. Its waters, of a greenish tinge, poured with impetuosity beneath the narrow arches to meet the sea, close at hand, as the boom of the billows breaking distinctly upon a beach declared. There were songs upon the river from the fisher-barks; and occasionally a chorus, plaintive and wild, such as I had never heard before, the words of which I did not understand, but which, at the present time, down the long avenue of years, seem in memory’s ear to sound like “Horam, coram, dago.” Several robust fellows were near me, some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon the strand. Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes—princely salmon—their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the morning beam; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never greeted my boyish eye.

And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, and my tears to trickle. Was it the beauty of the scene which gave rise to these emotions? Possibly; for though a poor ignorant child—a half-wild creature—I was not insensible to the loveliness of nature, and took pleasure in the happiness and handiworks of my fellow-creatures. Yet, perhaps, in something more deep and mysterious the feelings which then pervaded me might originate. Who can lie down on Elvir Hill38 without experiencing something of the sorcery of the place? Flee from Elvir Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power over you, and you will go elf-wild!—so say the Danes. I had unconsciously laid myself down upon haunted ground; and I am willing to imagine that what I then experienced was rather connected with the world of spirits and dreams than with what I actually saw and heard around me. Surely the elves and genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod! Perhaps to that ethereal principle, the wonders of the past, as connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed. Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended for their possession?—how many an army from the south and from the north had trod that old bridge?—what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing waters?—what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on its banks?—some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam;39 some as replete with wild and wizard force as Finland’s runes, singing of Kalevala’s moors,40 and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island stream! Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future! Flow on, beautiful one!—which of the world’s streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak,41 and Magyar!42 Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!—yet neither the stately Danube, nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!—and far less yon turbid river of old, not modern, renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter’s town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha’s43 town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome—how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream!

And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the habiliments of a fisher. He was barelegged, of a weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic. “What is the callant greeting for?” said he, as he stopped and surveyed me. “Has ony body wrought ye ony harm?”

“Not that I know of,” I replied, rather guessing at than understanding his question; “I was crying because I could not help it! I say, old one, what is the name of this river?”

“Hout! I now see what you was greeting at—at your ain ignorance, nae doubt—’tis very great! Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man’s bairn, and you speir a civil question. Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland. Did ye never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?”

“No,” said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross the bridge to the town at which we had arrived the preceding night; “I never heard of it; but now I have seen it, I shall not soon forget it!”

VII

It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, or rather in the Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums beating, colours flying, and a long train of baggage-wagons behind. The Castle was, as I suppose it is now, a garrison for soldiers. Two other regiments were already there; the one an Irish, if I remember right, the other a small Highland corps.

It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which everybody has seen; on which account, doubtless, nobody has ever yet thought fit to describe it—at least that I am aware. Be this as it may, I have no intention of describing it, and shall content myself with observing, that we took up our abode in that immense building, or caserne, of modern erection, which occupies the entire eastern side of the bold rock on which the Castle stands. A gallant caserne it was—the best and roomiest that I had hitherto seen—rather cold and windy, it is true, especially in the winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant hills, which I was told were “the hieland hills,” and of a broad arm of the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of Forth.

My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother: “During my journey down hither I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I have observed them attentively. From what I have heard and seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education is so excellent, that every person is learned—more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin. There is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great drawback—the horrid jargon which they speak. However learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and yet I’m told it is not so bad as it was. I was in company the other day with an Englishman who has resided here many years. We were talking about the country and its people. ‘I should like both very well,’ said I, ‘were it not for the language. I wish sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish acts every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English.’ ‘I wish so too,’ said he. ‘The language is a disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, captain!—if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to Edinburgh!’ ”

“Only custom,” said my mother. “I dare say the language is now what it was then.”

“I don’t know,” said my father; “though I dare say you are right; it could never have been worse than it is at present. But now to the point. Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life—were it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which everybody talks about—the High School, I think they call it. ’Tis said to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one’s children speaking Scotch—broad Scotch! I must think the matter over.”

And he did think the matter over; and the result of his deliberation was a determination to send us to the school. Let me call thee up before my mind’s eye, High School, to which, every morning, the two English brothers took their way from the proud old Castle through the lofty streets of the Old Town. High School!—called so, I scarcely know why; neither lofty in thyself, nor by position, being situated in a flat bottom; oblong structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with iron netting—with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, for the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred urchins, who styled thee instructress, were divided. Thy learned rector and his four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall form and grizzled hair, hight Boee, and doubtless of Norse ancestry, as his name declares; perhaps of the blood of Bui hin Digri,44 the hero of northern song—the Jomsborg Viking who clove Thorsteinn Midlangr asunder in the dread sea battle of Horunga Vog,45 and who, when the fight was lost and his own two hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the scanty relics of his crew, “Overboard now, all Bui’s lads!” Yes, I remember all about thee, and how at eight of every morn we were all gathered together with one accord in the long hall, from which, after the litanies had been read (for so I will call them, being an Episcopalian), the five classes from the five sets of benches trotted off in long files, one boy after the other, up the five spiral staircases of stone, each class to its destination; and well do I remember how we of the third sat hushed and still, watched by the eye of the dux, until the door opened, and in walked that model of a good Scotchman, the shrewd, intelligent, but warmhearted and kind dominie, the respectable Carson.

And in this school I began to construe the Latin language, which I had never done before, notwithstanding my long and diligent study of Lilly, which illustrious grammar was not used at Edinburgh, nor indeed known. Greek was only taught in the fifth or highest class, in which my brother was; as for myself, I never got beyond the third during the two years that I remained at this seminary. I certainly acquired here a considerable insight in the Latin tongue; and, to the scandal of my father and horror of my mother, a thorough proficiency in the Scotch, which, in less than two months, usurped the place of the English, and so obstinately maintained its ground, that I still can occasionally detect its lingering remains. I did not spend my time unpleasantly at this school, though, first of all, I had to pass through an ordeal.

“Scotland is a better country than England,” said an ugly, blear-eyed lad, about a head and shoulders taller than myself, the leader of a gang of varlets who surrounded me in the playground, on the first day, as soon as the morning lesson was over. “Scotland is a far better country than England, in every respect.”

“Is it?” said I. “Then you ought to be very thankful for not having been born in England.”

“That’s just what I am, ye loon; and every morning when I say my prayers, I thank God for not being an Englishman. The Scotch are a much better and braver people than the English.”

“It may be so,” said I, “for what I know—indeed, till I came here, I never heard a word either about the Scotch or their country.”

“Are ye making fun of us, ye English puppy?” said the blear-eyed lad; “take that!” and I was presently beaten black and blue. And thus did I first become aware of the difference of races and their antipathy to each other.

“Bow to the storm, and it shall pass over you.” I held my peace, and silently submitted to the superiority of the Scotch—in numbers. This was enough; from an object of persecution I soon became one of patronage, especially amongst the champions of the class. “The English,” said the blear-eyed lad, “though a wee bit behind the Scotch in strength and fortitude, are nae to be sneezed at, being far ahead of the Irish, to say nothing of the French, a pack of cowardly scoundrels. And with regard to the English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude properties; and, though there is ne’er a haggis in a’ the land, there’s an unco deal o’ gowd and siller. I respect England, for I have an auntie married there.”

The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their whole history proves it. Witness their incessant wars with the English in the olden time, and their internal feuds, highland and lowland, clan with clan, family with family, Saxon with Gael. In my time, the schoolboys, for want, perhaps, of English urchins to contend with, were continually fighting with each other; every noon there was at least one pugilistic encounter, and sometimes three. In one month I witnessed more of these encounters than I had ever previously seen under similar circumstances in England. After all, there was not much harm done. Harm! what harm could result from short chopping blows, a hug, and a tumble? I was witness to many a sounding whack, some blood shed, “a blue ee” now and then, but nothing more. In England, on the contrary, where the lads were comparatively mild, gentle, and pacific, I had been present at more than one death caused by blows in boyish combats, in which the oldest of the victors had scarcely reached thirteen years; but these blows were in the jugular, given with the full force of the arm shot out horizontally from the shoulder.

But, the Scotch—though by no means proficients in boxing (and how should they box, seeing that they have never had a teacher?)—are, I repeat, a most pugnacious people; at least they were in my time. Anything served them, that is, the urchins, as a pretence for a fray, or, Dorically speaking, a “bicker;” every street and close was at feud with its neighbour; the lads of the school were at feud with the young men of the college, whom they pelted in winter with snow, and in summer with stones; and then the feud between the Old and New Town!

One day I was standing on the ramparts of the castle on the southwestern side which overhangs the green brae, where it slopes down into what was in those days the green swamp or morass, called by the natives of Auld Reekie the Nor Loch; it was a dark gloomy day, and a thin veil of mist was beginning to settle down upon the brae and the morass. I could perceive, however, that there was a skirmish taking place in the latter spot. I had an indistinct view of two parties—apparently of urchins—and I heard whoops and shrill cries. Eager to know the cause of this disturbance, I left the castle, and descending the brae reached the borders of the morass, where was a runnel of water and the remains of an old wall, on the other side of which a narrow path led across the swamp; upon this path at a little distance before me there was a “bicker.” I pushed forward, but had scarcely crossed the ruined wall and runnel, when the party nearest to me gave way, and in great confusion came running in my direction. As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, “Wha are ye, mon? are ye o’ the Auld Toon?” I made no answer. “Ha! ye are o’ the New Toon; De’il tak ye, we’ll moorder ye;” and the next moment a huge stone sung past my head. “Let me be, ye fule bodies,” said I, “I’m no of either of ye, I live yonder aboon in the castle.” “Ah! ye live in the castle; then ye’re an auld tooner; come gie us your help, mon, and dinna stand there staring like a dunnot, we want help sair eneugh. Here are stanes.”

For my own part I wished for nothing better, and, rushing forward, I placed myself at the head of my new associates, and commenced flinging stones fast and desperately. The other party now gave way in their turn, closely followed by ourselves; I was in the van and about to stretch out my hand to seize the hindermost boy of the enemy, when, not being acquainted with the miry and difficult paths of the Nor Loch, and in my eagerness taking no heed of my footing, I plunged into a quagmire, into which I sank as far as my shoulders. Our adversaries no sooner perceived this disaster, than, setting up a shout, they wheeled round and attacked us most vehemently. Had my comrades now deserted me, my life had not been worth a straw’s purchase, I should either have been smothered in the quag, or, what is more probable, had my brains beaten out with stones; but they behaved like true Scots, and fought stoutly around their comrade, until I was extricated, whereupon both parties retired, the night being near at hand.

“Ye are na a bad hand at flinging stanes,” said the lad who first addressed me, as we now returned up the brae; “your aim is right dangerous, mon, I saw how ye skelpit them, ye maun help us agin thae New Toon blackguards at our next bicker.”

So to the next bicker I went, and to many more, which speedily followed as the summer advanced; the party to which I had given my help on the first occasion consisted merely of outlyers, posted about halfway up the hill, for the purpose of overlooking the movements of the enemy.

Did the latter draw nigh in any considerable force, messengers were forthwith despatched to the “auld toon,” especially to the filthy alleys and closes of the High Street, which forthwith would disgorge swarms of bareheaded and barefooted “callants,” who, with gestures wild and “eldrich screech and hollo,” might frequently be seen pouring down the sides of the hill. I have seen upwards of a thousand engaged on either side in these frays, which I have no doubt were full as desperate as the fights described in the Iliad, and which were certainly much more bloody than the combats of modern Greece in the war of independence. The callants not only employed their hands in hurling stones, but not unfrequently slings; at the use of which they were very expert, and which occasionally dislodged teeth, shattered jaws, or knocked out an eye. Our opponents certainly laboured under considerable disadvantage, being compelled not only to wade across a deceitful bog, but likewise to clamber up part of a steep hill before they could attack us; nevertheless, their determination was such, and such their impetuosity, that we had sometimes difficulty enough to maintain our own. I shall never forget one bicker, the last indeed which occurred at that time, as the authorities of the town, alarmed by the desperation of its character, stationed forthwith a body of police on the hill side to prevent, in future, any such breaches of the peace.

It was a beautiful Sunday evening, the rays of the descending sun were reflected redly from the grey walls of the castle, and from the black rocks on which it was founded. The bicker had long since commenced, stones from sling and hand were flying; but the callants of the New Town were now carrying everything before them.

A full-grown baker’s apprentice was at their head; he was foaming with rage, and had taken the field, as I was told, in order to avenge his brother, whose eye had been knocked out in one of the late bickers. He was no slinger, or flinger, but brandished in his right hand the spoke of a cartwheel, like my countryman Tom Hickathrift46 of old in his encounter with the giant of the Lincolnshire fen. Protected by a piece of wickerwork attached to his left arm, he rushed on to the fray, disregarding the stones which were showered against him, and was ably seconded by his followers. Our own party was chased halfway up the hill, where I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been foiled in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into his eyes. All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full retreat. I myself lay at the baker’s feet, who had just raised his spoke, probably to give me the coup de grâce—it was an awful moment. Just then I heard a shout and a rushing sound. A wild-looking figure is descending the hill with terrible bounds; it is a lad of some fifteen years; he is bareheaded, and his red uncombed hair stands on end like hedgehogs’ bristles; his frame is lithy, like that of an antelope, but he has prodigious breadth of chest; he wears a military undress, that of the regiment, even of a drummer, for it is wild Davy, whom a month before I had seen enlisted on Leith Links to serve King George with drum and drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, ere a week had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major Elzigood,47 who, incensed at his own inaptitude, had threatened him with the cane; he has been in confinement for weeks, this is the first day of his liberation, and he is now descending the hill with horrid bounds and shoutings; he is now about five yards distant, and the baker, who apprehends that something dangerous is at hand prepares himself for the encounter; but what avails the strength of a baker, even full grown?—what avails the defence of a wicker shield? what avails the wheelspoke, should there be an opportunity of using it, against the impetus of an avalanche or a cannon ball?—for to either of these might that wild figure be compared, which, at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with head, hands, feet and body, all together, upon the champion of the New Town, tumbling him to the earth amain. And now it was the turn of the Old Town to triumph. Our late discomfited host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen champion with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher who had assumed his arms, namely, the wheelspoke and wicker shield, fairly cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom they drove down headlong into the morass.

VIII

Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are neither crags nor mountains. Of these, however, as is well known, there is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in harmony with the country in which they dwell. The Scotch are expert climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language. The castle in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one, which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible. Indeed, what is there above man’s exertions? Unwearied determination will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and sureness of foot. To scale the rock was merely child’s play for the Edinbro’ callants. It was my own favourite diversion. I soon found that the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses, where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and there were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and various kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation. The boldest features of the rock are descried on the southern side, where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet at least, as if the axe of nature had been here employed cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur—a dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the neutral ground.

It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch tower, I found myself on the southern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the castle, when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice, which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. “I should never have thought of going near that edge,” said I to myself; “however, as you have done it, why should not I? And I should like to know who you are.” So I commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat dizzy—and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge; not close, however, for fear was on me.

“What are you thinking of, David?” said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid.

David Haggart. I was thinking of Willie Wallace.

Myself. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace.

David Haggart. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet?

Myself. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch—the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow?

David Haggart. Just sae, Geordie.

Myself. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say.

David Haggart. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him.

Myself. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged?

David Haggart. I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first.

Myself. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major.

David Haggart. I hae na wish to be drum-major; it were na great things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they call him; and, troth, he has nae his name for naething. But I should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading about in his story book.

Myself. Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies. Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel! I have heard my father say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace.

David Haggart. Ye had better sae naething agin Willie Wallace, Geordie, for, if ye do, De’il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the craig.

Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say. Yes, indeed, for a hero, or for what he afterwards became. In other times, and under other circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a patriot, or a conqueror. As it was, the very qualities which might then have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin. The war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry.

“Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?” cries the fatalist. Nonsense! A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being, and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct. The greatest victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place. David did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood—under peculiar circumstances, it is true, and without malice prepense—and for that blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his stalwart arm.

Tamerlane and Haggart! Haggart and Tamerlane! Both these men were robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on an ignoble scaffold, and the other died emperor of the world. Is this justice? The ends of the two men were widely dissimilar—yet what is the intrinsic difference between them? Very great indeed; the one acted according to his lights and his country, not so the other. Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted according to his lights; he was a robber where all around were robbers, but he became the avenger of God—God’s scourge on unjust kings, on the cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers’ eyes; he became to a certain extent the purifier of the East, its regenerator; his equal never was before, nor has it since been seen. Here the wild heart was profitably employed, the wild strength, the teeming brain. Onward, Lame one! Onward, Tamur—lank! Haggart …

But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and racecourse, and also in the solitary place. Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better than thyself?—she felt proud of thee, and said, “Sure, O’Hanlon48 is come again.” What might not have been thy fate in the far west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, “I will go there, and become an honest man!” But thou wast not to go there, David—the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood. Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short: and there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, penned by thy own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest have been better employed, David!—but the ruling passion was strong with thee, even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have been better employed!—but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty’s grace and pardon.49

IX

Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years, the long continental war had been brought to an end; Napoleon was humbled for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could have well have dispensed with them. We returned to England, where the corps was disbanded,50 and my parents with their family retired to private life. I shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of interest as far as connected with me and mine. Suddenly, however, the sound of war was heard again; Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and everything was in confusion. Vast military preparations were again made, our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it; but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled and chained forever, like Prometheus, to his rock. As the corps, however, though so recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my father’s energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than despatch it to that country.

In the autumn of the year 1815 we set sail from a port in Essex; we were some eight hundred strong, and were embarked in two ships, very large, but old and crazy; a storm overtook us when off Beachy Head, in which we had nearly foundered. I was awakened early in the morning by the howling of the wind, and the uproar on deck. I kept myself close, however, as is still my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result with that apathy and indifference which violent seasickness is sure to produce. We shipped several seas, and once the vessel missing stays—which, to do it justice, it generally did at every third or fourth tack—we escaped almost by a miracle from being dashed upon the foreland. On the eighth day of our voyage we were in sight of Ireland. The weather was now calm and serene, the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain green hills in the distance, on which I descried what at first sight I believed to be two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our nearer approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what.

We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and being nearly landlocked, was sheltered from every wind. A small island, every inch of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills, which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green, and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a strange old castle halfway up the ascent, a village on a crag—but the mists of morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer youthful eye; I may not describe it;—nor will I try.

Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we came to a city where we disembarked. It was a large city, as large as Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of laughter were heard on every side. It appeared a city of contradictions. After a few days’ rest we marched from this place in two divisions. My father commanded the second; I walked by his side.

Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very remarkable feature; it was pretty, but tame. On the second day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon. We passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wickerwork; they seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the doors on low stools, spinning. We saw, however, both men and women working at a distance in the fields.

I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face, appeared to consider for a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a trembling hand. I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly refreshing. I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand, murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before.

I walked on by my father’s side, holding the stirrup-leather of his horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved cattle; the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic frames—they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last, however, dangled unoccupied; these cloaks appeared in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments. On their heads were broad slouching hats; the generality of them were barefooted. As they passed, the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild. The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent.

“A strange language that!” said a young officer to my father, “I don’t understand a word of it; what can it be?”

“Irish,” said my father, with a loud voice, “and a bad language it is; I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a guardsman in London. There’s one part of London where all the Irish live—at least all the worst of them—and there they hatch their villainies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous. I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters—Irish—who had taken refuge among their companions; we found them in what was in my time called a ken, that is, a house where only thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant’s party; it was well I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but the rest, with an ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry sticks with them, even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right.”

“And did you take the deserters?” said the officer.

“Yes,” said my father; “for we formed at the end of the room, and charged with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the whole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon us—men, women, and children. Women, did I say!—they looked fiends, half naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and Irish—I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially as I did not understand it. It’s a bad language.”

“A queer tongue,” said I, “I wonder if I could learn it?”

“Learn it!” said my father; “what should you learn it for?—however, I am not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch; no person can learn it, save those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed.”

Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the principal one of these regions. It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated it from the mountains. It was rather an ancient place, and might contain some ten thousand inhabitants; I found that it was our destination; there were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house which stood in the principal street.

“You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain,” said the master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man who came up whilst our little family were seated at dinner late in the afternoon of the day of our arrival; “they beat anything in this town of Clonmel. I do not let them for the sake of interest, and to none but gentlemen in the army, in order that myself and my wife, who is from Londonderry, may have the advantage of pleasant company, genteel company; ay, and Protestant company, captain. It did my heart good when I saw your honour ride in at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I’ll engage, not a Papist among them—they are too good-looking and honest-looking for that. So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your stirrup, than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from Londonderry, ‘God bless me,’ said I, ‘what a truly Protestant countenance, what a noble bearing, and what a sweet young gentleman. By the silver hairs of his honour—and sure enough I never saw hairs more regally silver than those of your honour—by his honour’s gray silver hairs, and by my own soul, which is not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them—it would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome such a father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military.’ And then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the face like a fairy as she is, ‘You may say that,’ says she. ‘It would be but decent and civil, honey.’ And your honour knows how I ran out of my own door and welcomed your honour riding, in company with your son who was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment, and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your honour, and your honour’s son, and your honour’s royal military Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, and right proud I am to have ye one and all: one, two, three, four, true Protestants everyone, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from Londonderry, to introduce to your honour’s lady, and then we’ll drink to the health of King George, God bless him; to the ‘glorious and immortal’—to Boyne water—to your honour’s speedy promotion to be Lord Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of Padua.”

Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the High street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after saying grace like a truehearted respectable soldier as he was.

“A bigot and an Orangeman!” Oh, yes! It is easier to apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history and position. He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children like these her adopted ones. “But they are fierce and sanguinary,” it is said. Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the savage pike. “But they are bigoted and narrow-minded.” Ay, ay! they do not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone! “But their language is frequently indecorous.” Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever listen to the voice of Papist cursing?

The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position. But they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own, their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their own. They have been vilified and traduced—but what would Ireland be without them? I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons no worse than these much calumniated children of her adoption.

X

We continued at this place for some months, during which time the soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were; and I, having no duties to perform, was sent to school. I had been to English schools, and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh; but my education, at the present day, would not be what it is—perfect, had I never had the honour of being alumnus in an Irish seminary.

“Captain,” said our kind host, “you would, no doubt, wish that the young gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the town may afford towards helping him on in the path of genteel learning. It’s a great pity that he should waste his time in idleness—doing nothing else than what he says he has been doing for the last fortnight—fishing in the river for trouts which he never catches, and wandering up the glen in the mountain in search of the hips that grow there. Now, we have a school here, where he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into the Greek letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, the handsome well-dressed young persons whom your honour sees in the church on the Sundays, when your honour goes there in the morning, with the rest of the Protestant military; for it is no Papist school, though there may be a Papist or two there—a few poor farmers’ sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your honour’s child to form any acquaintance at all, at all!”

And to the school I went, where I read the Latin tongue and the Greek letters, with a nice old clergyman, who sat behind a black oaken desk, with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in a long gloomy kind of hall, with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated, and covered over with strange figures and hieroglyphics, evidently produced by the application of burnt stick; and there I made acquaintance with the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, who, with whatever éclat they might appear at church on a Sunday, did assuredly not exhibit to much advantage in the schoolroom on the week days, either with respect to clothes or looks. And there I was in the habit of sitting on a large stone, before the roaring fire in the huge open chimney, and entertaining certain of the Protestant young gentlemen of my own age, seated on similar stones, with extraordinary accounts of my own adventures and those of the corps, with an occasional anecdote extracted from the storybooks of Hickathrift and Wight Wallace,51 pretending to be conning the lesson all the while.

And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the landlord, with the Papist “gasoons,” as they were called, the farmers’ sons from the country; and of these gasoons, of which there were three, two might be reckoned as nothing at all; in the third, however, I soon discovered that there was something extraordinary.

He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, dressed in a gray suit; the coat, from its size, appeared to have been made for him some ten years before. He was remarkably narrow-chested and round-shouldered, owing, perhaps, as much to the tightness of his garment as to the hand of nature. His face was long, and his complexion swarthy relieved, however, by certain freckles, with which the skin was plentifully studded. He had strange wandering eyes, gray, and somewhat unequal in size; they seldom rested on the book, but were generally wandering about the room from one object to another. Sometimes he would fix them intently on the wall; and then suddenly starting, as if from a reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious movements with his thumbs and forefingers, as if he were shuffling something from him.

One morning, as he sat by himself on a bench, engaged in this manner, I went up to him and said, “Good day, Murtagh; you do not seem to have much to do.”

“Faith, you may say that, Shorsha52 dear! it is seldom much to do that I have.”

“And what are you doing with your hands?”

“Faith, then, if I must tell you, I was e’en dealing with the cards.”

“Do you play much at cards?”

“Sorra a game, Shorsha, have I played with the cards since my uncle Phelim, the thief, stole away the ould pack, when he went to settle in the county Waterford!”

“But you have other things to do?”

“Sorra anything else has Murtagh to do that he cares about; and that makes me dread so going home at nights.”

“I should like to know all about you; where do you live, joy?”

“Faith, then, ye shall know all about me, and where I live. It is at a place called the Wilderness that I live, and they call it so, because it is a fearful wild place, without any house near it but my father’s own; and that’s where I live when at home.”

“And your father is a farmer, I suppose?”

“You may say that; and it is a farmer I should have been, like my brother Denis, had not my uncle Phelim, the thief! tould my father to send me to school, to learn Greek letters, that I might be made a saggart53 of and sent to Paris and Salamanca.”

“And you would rather be a farmer than a priest?”

“You may say that! for, were I a farmer, like the rest, I should have something to do, like the rest, something that I cared for, and I should come home tired at night and fall asleep, as the rest do, before the fire; but when I comes home at night I am not tired, for I have been doing nothing all day that I care for; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, till I become frighted; and then I shouts to my brother Denis, or to the gasoons, ‘Get up, I say, and let’s be doing something; tell us a tale of Finn-ma-Coul,54 and how he lay down in the Shannon’s bed and let the river flow down his jaws!’ Arrah, Shorsha, I wish you would come and stay with us, and tell us some o’ your sweet stories of your ownself and the snake ye carried about wid ye. Faith, Shorsha dear! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian Boroo,55 the thieves two, bad luck to them!”

“And do they get up and tell you stories?”

“Sometimes they does, but oftenmost they curses me and bids me be quiet! But I can’t be quiet, either before the fire or abed; so I runs out of the house, and stares at the rocks, at the trees, and sometimes at the clouds, as they run a race across the bright moon; and the more I stares, the more frighted I grows, till I screeches and holloas. And last night I went into the barn and hid my face in the straw; and there, as I lay and shivered in the straw, I heard a voice above my head singing out ‘To whit, to whoo!’ and then up I starts and runs into the house, and falls over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire. ‘What’s that for?’ says he. ‘Get up, you thief!’ says I, ‘and be helping me. I have been out in the barn, and an owl has crow’d at me!’ ”

“And what has this to do with playing cards?”

“Little enough, Shorsha dear!—If there were card-playing, I should not be frighted.”

“And why do you not play at cards?”

“Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away the pack? If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gasoons would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, and play cards with me for ha’pence, or eggs, or nothing at all; but the pack is gone—bad luck to the thief who took it!”

“And why don’t you buy another?”

“Is it of buying you are speaking? And where am I to get the money?”

“Ah! that’s another thing!”

“Faith it is, honey!—And now the Christmas holidays is coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and then what am I to do? Since I have been a saggarting,56 I have been good for nothing at all—neither for work nor Greek—only to play cards! Faith, it’s going mad I will be!”

“I say, Murtagh!”

“Yes, Shorsha dear!”

“I have a pack of cards.”

“You don’t say so, Shorsha mavourneen!57 you don’t say that you have cards fifty-two?”

“I do, though; and they are quite new—never been once used.”

“And you’ll be lending them to me, I warrant?”

“Don’t think it! But I’ll sell them to you, joy, if you like.”

“Hanam mon Dioul!58 am I not after telling you that I have no money at all?”

“But you have as good as money, to me, at least; and I’ll take it in exchange.”

“What’s that, Shorsha dear?”

“Irish!”

“Irish?”

“Yes, you speak Irish; I heard you talking it the other day to the cripple. You shall teach me Irish.”

“And is it a language-master you’d be making of me?”

“To be sure!—what better can you do?—it would help you to pass your time at school. You can’t learn Greek, so you must teach Irish!”

Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with his brother Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity of broken Irish.

XI

When Christmas was over,59 and the new year commenced, we broke up our quarters, and marched away to Templemore. This was a large military station, situated in a wild and thinly inhabited country. Extensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected with the huge bog of Allan, the Palus Maeotis of Ireland. Here and there was seen a ruined castle looming through the mists of winter; whilst, at the distance of seven miles, rose a singular mountain,60 exhibiting in its brow a chasm, or vacuum, just, for all the world, as if a piece had been bitten out; a feat which, according to the tradition of the country, had actually been performed by his Satanic majesty, who, after flying for some leagues with the morsel in his mouth, becoming weary, dropped it in the vicinity of Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a bold bluff hill, crowned with the ruins of a stately edifice, probably built by some ancient Irish king.

We had been here only a few days, when my brother, who, as I have before observed, had become one of his Majesty’s officers, was sent on detachment to a village at about ten miles’ distance. He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large-limbed for my age; but there was a spirit in him that would not have disgraced a general; and, nothing daunted at the considerable responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of twenty light-infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected expressly by my father for the soldier-like qualities which he possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition. So out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my dear brother, his single drum and fife playing the inspiring old melody,

Marlbrouk is gone to the wars,
He’ll never return no more!

I soon missed my brother, for I was now alone, with no being at all assimilating in age, with whom I could exchange a word. Of late years, from being almost constantly at school, I had cast aside, in a great degree, my unsocial habits and natural reserve, but in the desolate region in which we now were there was no school; and I felt doubly the loss of my brother, whom, moreover, I tenderly loved for his own sake. Books I had none, at least such “as I cared about;” and with respect to the old volume, the wonders of which had first beguiled me into common reading, I had so frequently pored over its pages, that I had almost got its contents by heart. I was therefore in danger of falling into the same predicament as Murtagh, becoming “frighted” from having nothing to do! Nay, I had not even his resources; I cared not for cards, even if I possessed them, and could find people disposed to play with them. However, I made the most of circumstances, and roamed about the desolate fields and bogs in the neighbourhood, sometimes entering the cabins of the peasantry, with a “God’s blessing upon you, good people!” where I would take my seat on the “stranger’s stone” at the corner of the hearth, and, looking them full in the face, would listen to the carles and carlines talking Irish.

Ah, that Irish! How frequently do circumstances, at first sight the most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and permanent influence on our habits and pursuits!—how frequently is a stream turned aside from its natural course by some little rock or knoll, causing it to make an abrupt turn! On a wild road in Ireland I had heard Irish spoken for the first time; and I was seized with a desire to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in my case, became the stepping-stone to other languages. I had previously learnt Latin, or rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor Lilly made me a philologist. I had frequently heard French and other languages, but had felt little desire to become acquainted with them; and what it may be asked, was there connected with the Irish calculated to recommend it to my attention?

First of all, and principally, I believe, the strangeness and singularity of its tones; then there was something mysterious and uncommon associated with its use. It was not a school language, to acquire which was considered an imperative duty; no, no; nor was it a drawing-room language, drawled out occasionally, in shreds and patches, by the ladies of generals and other great dignitaries, to the ineffable dismay of poor officers’ wives. Nothing of the kind; but a speech spoken in out-of-the-way desolate places, and in cutthroat kens, where thirty ruffians, at the sight of the king’s minions, would spring up with brandished sticks and an “ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine.” Such were the points connected with the Irish, which first awakened in my mind the desire of acquiring it; and by acquiring it I became, as I have already said, enamoured of languages. Having learnt one by choice, I speedily, as the reader will perceive, learnt others, some of which were widely different from Irish.

Ah, that Irish! I am much indebted to it in more ways than one. But I am afraid I have followed the way of the world, which is very much wont to neglect original friends and benefactors. I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish, when I hear it in the street; yet I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language:61

A labhair Padruic n’insefail nan riogh.

One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried. They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of Cashel; others built by the early English conquerors; others, and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth and Cromwell. The whole, speaking monuments of the troubled and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods to a comparatively modern time.

From the windows of the room where I slept I had a view of one of these old places—an indistinct one, it is true, the distance being too great to permit me to distinguish more than the general outline. I had an anxious desire to explore it. It stood to the southeast; in which direction, however, a black bog intervened, which had more than once baffled all my attempts to cross it. One morning, however, when the sun shone brightly upon the old building, it appeared so near, that I felt ashamed at not being able to accomplish a feat seemingly so easy; I determined, therefore, upon another trial. I reached the bog, and was about to venture upon its black surface, and to pick my way amongst its innumerable holes, yawning horribly, and half filled with water black as soot, when it suddenly occurred to me that there was a road to the south, by following which I might find a more convenient route to the object of my wishes. The event justified my expectations, for, after following the road for some three miles, seemingly in the direction of the Devil’s Mountain, I suddenly beheld the castle62 on my left.

I diverged from the road, and, crossing two or three fields, came to a small grassy plain, in the midst of which stood the castle. About a gunshot to the south was a small village, which had, probably, in ancient days, sprung up beneath its protection. A kind of awe came over me as I approached the old building. The sun no longer shone upon it, and it looked so grim, so desolate and solitary; and here was I in that wild country, alone with that grim building before me. The village was within sight, it is true; but it might be a village of the dead for what I knew; no sound issued from it, no smoke was rising from its roofs, neither man nor beast was visible, no life, no motion—it looked as desolate as the castle itself. Yet I was bent on the adventure, and moved on towards the castle across the green plain, occasionally casting a startled glance around me; and now I was close to it.

It was surrounded by a quadrangular wall, about ten feet in height, with a square tower at each corner. At first I could discover no entrance; walking round, however, to the northern side, I found a wide and lofty gateway with a tower above it, similar to those at the angles of the wall; on this side the ground sloped gently down towards the bog, which was here skirted by an abundant growth of copsewood, and a few evergreen oaks. I passed through the gateway, and found myself within a square enclosure of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep, or donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strewing the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, on the other side, stood the remains of an oblong house, built something in the modern style, with various window-holes; nothing remained but the bare walls and a few projecting stumps of beams, which seemed to have been half burnt. The interior of the walls was blackened, as if by fire; fire also appeared at one time to have raged out of the window-holes, for the outside about them was black, portentously so.

“I wonder what has been going on here!” I exclaimed.

There were echoes along the walls as I walked about the court. I entered the keep by a low and frowning doorway: the lower floor consisted of a large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted roof; on the left hand was a winding staircase in the thickness of the wall; it looked anything but inviting; yet I stole softly up, my heart beating. On the top of the first flight of stairs was an arched doorway; to the left was a dark passage; to the right, stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but higher. There was an object at the farther end.

An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps. I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face.

“Is this your house, mother?” I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand.

“Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the brokenhearted.”

“Any other person’s house?” I demanded.

“My own house, the beggar’s house—the accursed house of Cromwell!”

XII

One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother at the place where he was detached; the distance was rather considerable, yet I hoped to be back by evening fall, for I was now a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice. I set out early, and directing my course towards the north, I had in less than two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the journey. The weather had at first been propitious: a slight frost had rendered the ground firm to the tread, and the skies were clear; but now a change came over the scene: the skies darkened and a heavy snowstorm came on; the road then lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides; I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could in the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was frequently borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the dyke, when all at once I heard a shout to windward, and turning my eyes I saw the figure of a man,63 and what appeared to be an animal of some kind, coming across the bog with great speed, in the direction of myself; the nature of the ground seemed to offer but little impediment to these beings, both clearing the holes and abysses which lay in their way with surprising agility; the animal was, however, some slight way in advance, and, bounding over the dyke, appeared on the road just before me. It was a dog, of what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or since; the head was large and round, the ears so tiny as scarcely to be discernible, the eyes of a fiery red; in size it was rather small than large, and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as white as the falling flakes. It placed itself directly in my path, and showing its teeth, and bristling its coat, appeared determined to prevent my progress. I had an ashen stick in my hand, with which I threatened it; this, however, only served to increase its fury; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost difficulty to preserve myself from its fangs.

“What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog?” said a man who at this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound.

He was a very tall man, rather well-dressed as it should seem; his garments, however, were like my own, so covered with snow that I could scarcely discern their quality.

“What are ye doing with the dog of peace?”

“I wish he would show himself one,” said I; “I said nothing to him, but he placed himself in my road, and would not let me pass.”

“Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where ye were going.”

“He’s not much of a fairy,” said I, “or he would know that without asking; tell him that I am going to see my brother.”

“And who is your brother, little Sas?”64

“What my father is, a royal soldier.”

“Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at ———; by my shoul, I have a good mind to be spoiling your journey.”

“You are doing that already,” said I, “keeping me here talking about dogs and fairies; you had better go home and get some salve to cure that place over your eye; it’s catching cold you’ll be, in so much snow.”

On one side of the man’s forehead there was a raw and staring wound, as if from a recent and terrible blow.

“Faith, then I’ll be going, but it’s taking you wid me I will be.”

“And where will you take me?”

“Why, then, to Ryan’s Castle, little Sas.”

“You do not speak the language very correctly,” said I; “it is not Sas you should call me—’tis Sassannach,” and forthwith I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric.

The man looked upon me for a moment, fixedly, then, bending his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound something resembling laughter; presently he looked at me, and there was a broad grin on his features.

“By my shoul, it’s a thing of peace I’m thinking ye.”

But now with a whisking sound came running down the road a hare; it was nearly upon us before it perceived us; suddenly stopping short, however, it sprang into the bog on the right-hand side; after it amain bounded the dog of peace, followed by the man, but not until he had nodded to me a farewell salutation. In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the snowflakes.

The weather was again clear and fine before I reached the place of detachment. It was a little wooden barrack, surrounded by a wall of the same material; a sentinel stood at the gate, I passed by him, and, entering the building, found myself in a rude kind of guardroom; several soldiers were lying asleep on a wooden couch at one end, others lounged on benches by the side of a turf fire. The tall sergeant stood before the fire, holding a cooking utensil in his left hand; on seeing me, he made the military salutation.

“Is my brother here?” said I, rather timidly, dreading to hear that he was out, perhaps for the day.

“The ensign is in his room, sir,” said Bagg, “I am now preparing his meal, which will presently be ready; you will find the ensign above stairs,” and he pointed to a broken ladder which led to some place above.

And there I found him—the boy soldier—in a kind of upper loft, so low that I could touch with my hands the sooty rafters; the floor was of rough boards, through the joints of which you could see the gleam of the soldiers’ fire, and occasionally discern their figures as they moved about; in one corner was a camp bedstead, by the side of which hung the child’s sword, gorget, and sash; a deal table stood in the proximity of the rusty grate, where smoked and smouldered a pile of black turf from the bog—a deal table without a piece of baize to cover it, yet fraught with things not devoid of interest: a Bible, given by a mother; the Odyssey, the Greek Odyssey; a flute, with broad silver keys; crayons, moreover, and water colours, and a sketch of a wild prospect near, which, though but half finished, afforded ample proof of the excellence and skill of the boyish hand now occupied upon it.

Ah! he was a sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early promise, bidding fair to become in after time all that is great, good, and admirable. I have read of a remarkable Welshman, of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, that he could frame a harp, and play it; build a ship, and sail it; compose an ode, and set it to music. A brave fellow that son of Wales—but I had once a brother who could do more and better than this, but the grave has closed over him, as over the gallant Welshman of yore; there are now but two that remember him—the one who bore him, and the being who was nurtured at the same breast. He was taken, and I was left! Truly, the ways of Providence are inscrutable.

“You seem to be very comfortable, John,” said I, looking around the room and at the various objects which I have described above: “you have a good roof over your head, and have all your things about you.”

“Yes, I am very comfortable, George, in many respects; I am, moreover, independent, and feel myself a man for the first time in my life—independent did I say?—that’s not the word, I am something much higher than that; here am I, not sixteen yet, a person in authority, like the centurion in the book there, with twenty Englishmen under me, worth a whole legion of his men, and that fine fellow Bagg to wait upon me, and take my orders. Oh! these last six weeks have passed like hours of heaven.”

“But your time must frequently hang heavy on your hands; this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitary?”

“I am never solitary; I have, as you see, all my things about me, and there is plenty of company below stairs. Not that I mix with the soldiers; if I did, goodbye to my authority; but when I am alone I can hear all their discourse through the planks, and I often laugh to myself at the funny things they say.”

“And have you any acquaintance here?”

“The very best; much better than the Colonel and the rest, at their grand Templemore; I had never so many in my whole life before. One has just left me, a gentleman who lives at a distance across the bog; he comes to talk with me about Greek, and the Odyssey, for he is a very learned man, and understands the old Irish and various other strange languages. He has had a dispute with Bagg. On hearing his name, he called him to him, and, after looking at him for some time with great curiosity, said that he was sure he was a Dane. Bagg, however, took the compliment in dudgeon, and said that he was no more a Dane than himself, but a true-born Englishman, and a sergeant of six years’ standing.”

“And what other acquaintance have you?”

“All kinds; the whole neighbourhood can’t make enough of me. Amongst others there’s the clergyman of the parish65 and his family; such a venerable old man, such fine sons and daughters! I am treated by them like a son and a brother—I might be always with them if I pleased; there’s one drawback, however, in going to see them; there’s a horrible creature in the house, a kind of tutor, whom they keep more from charity than anything else; he is a Papist and, they say, a priest; you should see him scowl sometimes at my red coat, for he hates the king, and not unfrequently, when the king’s health is drunk, curses him between his teeth. I once got up to strike him, but the youngest of the sisters, who is the handsomest, caught my arm and pointed to her forehead.”

“And what does your duty consist of? Have you nothing else to do than pay visits and receive them?”

“We do what is required of us: we guard this edifice, perform our evolutions, and help the excise; I am frequently called up in the dead of night to go to some wild place or other in quest of an illicit still; this last part of our duty is poor mean work, I don’t like it, nor more does Bagg; though without it, we should not see much active service, for the neighbourhood is quiet; save the poor creatures with their stills, not a soul is stirring. ’Tis true, there’s Jerry Grant.”

“And who is Jerry Grant?”

“Did you never hear of him? that’s strange, the whole country is talking about him; he is a kind of outlaw, rebel, or robber, all three, I daresay; there’s a hundred pounds offered for his head.”

“And where does he live?”

“His proper home, they say, is in the Queen’s County, where he has a band; but he is a strange fellow, fond of wandering about by himself amidst the bogs and mountains, and living in the old castles; occasionally he quarters himself in the peasants’ houses, who let him do just what he pleases; he is free of his money, and often does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, so they don’t dislike him. Then he is what they call a fairy man, a person in league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much harm by supernatural means, on which account they hold him in great awe; he is, moreover, a mighty strong and tall fellow. Bagg has seen him.”

“Has he?”

“Yes! and felt him; he too is a strange one. A few days ago he was told that Grant had been seen hovering about an old castle some two miles off in the bog; so one afternoon what does he do but, without saying a word to me—for which, by the by, I ought to put him under arrest, though what I should do without Bagg I have no idea whatever—what does he do but walk off to the castle, intending, as I suppose, to pay a visit to Jerry. He had some difficulty in getting there on account of the turf-holes in the bog, which he was not accustomed to; however, thither at last he got and went in. It was a strange lonesome place, he says, and he did not much like the look of it; however, in he went, and searched about from the bottom to the top and down again, but could find no one; he shouted and hallooed, but nobody answered, save the rooks and choughs, which started up in great numbers. ‘I have lost my trouble,’ said Bagg, and left the castle. It was now late in the afternoon, near sunset, when about halfway over the bog he met a man—”

“And that man was—”

“Jerry Grant! there’s no doubt of it. Bagg says it was the most sudden thing in the world. He was moving along, making the best of his way, thinking of nothing at all save a public-house at Swanton Morley,66 which he intends to take when he gets home and the regiment is disbanded—though I hope that will not be for some time yet: he had just leaped a turf-hole, and was moving on, when, at the distance of about six yards before him, he saw a fellow coming straight towards him. Bagg says that he stopped short, as suddenly as if he had heard the word halt, when marching at double-quick time. It was quite a surprise, he says, and he can’t imagine how the fellow was so close upon him before he was aware. He was an immense tall fellow—Bagg thinks at least two inches taller than himself—very well dressed in a blue coat and buff breeches, for all the world like a squire when going out hunting. Bagg, however, saw at once that he had a roguish air, and he was on his guard in a moment. ‘Good evening to ye, sodger,’ says the fellow, stepping close up to Bagg, and staring him in the face. ‘Good evening to you, sir! I hope you are well,’ says Bagg. ‘You are looking after someone?’ says the fellow. ‘Just so, sir,’ says Bagg, and forthwith seized him by the collar; the man laughed, Bagg says it was such a strange awkward laugh. ‘Do you know whom you have got hold of, sodger?’ said he. ‘I believe I do, sir,’ said Bagg, ‘and in that belief will hold you fast in the name of King George, and the quarter sessions;’ the next moment he was sprawling with his heels in the air. Bagg says there was nothing remarkable in that; he was only flung by a kind of wrestling trick, which he could easily have baffled, had he been aware of it. ‘You will not do that again, sir,’ said he, as he got up and put himself on his guard. The fellow laughed again more strangely and awkwardly than before; then, bending his body and moving his head from one side to the other as a cat does before she springs, and crying out, ‘Here’s for ye, sodger!’ he made a dart at Bagg, rushing in with his head foremost. ‘That will do, sir,’ says Bagg, and drawing himself back he put in a left-handed blow with all the force of his body and arm, just over the fellow’s right eye—Bagg is a left-handed hitter, you must know—and it was a blow of that kind which won him his famous battle at Edinburgh with the big Highland sergeant. Bagg says that he was quite satisfied with the blow, more especially when he saw the fellow reel, fling out his arms, and fall to the ground. ‘And now, sir,’ said he, ‘I’ll make bold to hand you over to the quarter sessions, and, if there is a hundred pounds for taking you, who has more right to it than myself?’ So he went forward, but ere he could lay hold of his man the other was again on his legs, and was prepared to renew the combat. They grappled each other—Bagg says he had not much fear of the result, as he now felt himself the best man, the other seeming half stunned with the blow—but just then there came on a blast, a horrible roaring wind bearing night upon its wings, snow, and sleet, and hail. Bagg says he had the fellow by the throat quite fast, as he thought, but suddenly he became bewildered, and knew not where he was; and the man seemed to melt away from his grasp, and the wind howled more and more, and the night poured down darker and darker, the snow and the sleet thicker and more blinding. ‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ said Bagg.”

Myself. A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive.

John. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick. But with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and supernatural.

Myself. I dare say he’s right. I have read of witchcraft in the Bible.

John. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that he could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions. He says that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cockpit, and live respectably.

Myself. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore.

XIII

And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, “I say, young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning.”

“Why do you wish me to mount him?” said I; “you know he is dangerous. I saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago.”

“Why, that’s the very thing, master. I’d rather see anybody on his back than myself; he does not like me; but, to them he does, he can be as gentle as a lamb.”

“But suppose,” said I, “that he should not like me?”

“We shall soon see that, master,” said the groom; “and, if so be he shows temper, I will be the first to tell you to get down. But there’s no fear of that; you have never angered or insulted him, and to such as you, I say again, he’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”

“And how came you to insult him,” said I, “knowing his temper as you do?”

“Merely through forgetfulness, master. I was riding him about a month ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, thinking I was on another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at all. He has never forgiven me, though before that time he was the only friend I had in the world; I should like to see you on him, master.”

“I should soon be off him; I can’t ride.”

“Then you are all right, master; there’s no fear. Trust him for not hurting a young gentleman, an officer’s son who can’t ride. If you were a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, ’twere another thing; as it is, he’ll treat you as if he were the elder brother that loves you. Ride! he’ll soon teach you to ride, if you leave the matter with him. He’s the best riding master in all Ireland, and the gentlest.”

The cob was led forth; what a tremendous creature! I had frequently seen him before, and wondered at him; he was barely fifteen hands, but he had the girth of a metropolitan dray-horse, his head was small in comparison with his immense neck, which curved down nobly to his wide back. His chest was broad and fine, and his shoulders models of symmetry and strength; he stood well and powerfully upon his legs, which were somewhat short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish cob, a species at one time not uncommon, but at the present day nearly extinct.

“There!” said the groom, as he looked at him, half-admiringly, half-sorrowfully, “with sixteen stone on his back, he’ll trot fourteen miles in one hour; with your nine stone, some two and half more, ay, and clear a six-foot wall at the end of it.”

“I’m half afraid,” said I; “I had rather you would ride him.”

“I’d rather so, too, if he would let me; but he remembers the blow. Now, don’t be afraid, young master, he’s longing to go out himself. He’s been trampling with his feet these three days, and I know what that means; he’ll let anybody ride him but myself, and thank them; but to me he says, ‘No! you struck me.’ ”

“But,” said I, “where’s the saddle?”

“Never mind the saddle; if you are ever to be a frank rider, you must begin without a saddle; besides, if he felt a saddle, he would think you don’t trust him, and leave you to yourself. Now, before you mount, make his acquaintance—see there, how he kisses you and licks your face, and see how he lifts his foot, that’s to shake hands. You may trust him—now you are on his back at last; mind how you hold the bridle—gently, gently! It’s not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes to be off. Mind what I tell you—leave it all to him.”

Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too fast and rough, however, for so inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till I had righted myself; and now the groom came up: “When you feel yourself going,” said he, “don’t lay hold of the mane, that’s no use; mane never yet saved man from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it’s his sides you must cling to with your calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself. That’s it, now abroad with you; I’ll bet my comrade a pot of beer that you’ll be a regular rough rider by the time you come back.”

And so it proved; I followed the directions of the groom, and the cob gave me every assistance. How easy is riding, after the first timidity is got over, to supple and youthful limbs; and there is no second fear. The creature soon found that the nerves of his rider were in proper tone. Turning his head half round he made a kind of whining noise, flung out a little foam, and set off.

In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil’s Mountain, and was returning along the road, bathed with perspiration, but screaming with delight; the cob laughing in his equine way, scattering foam and pebbles to the left and right, and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles an hour.

Oh, that ride! that first ride!—most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret. People may talk of first love—it is a very agreeable event, I dare say—but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob! My whole frame was shaken, it is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but what of that? By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine species. No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that first ride round the Devil’s Hill on the cob.

Oh, that cob! that Irish cob!—may the sod lie lightly over the bones of the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its kind! Oh! the days when, issuing from the barrack-gate of Templemore, we commenced our hurry-skurry just as inclination led—now across the fields—direct over stone walls and running brooks—mere pastime for the cob!—sometimes along the road to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir!—what was distance to the cob?

It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first awakened within me—a passion which, up to the present time, has been rather on the increase than diminishing. It is no blind passion; the horse being a noble and generous creature, intended by the All-Wise to be the helper and friend of man, to whom he stands next in the order of creation. On many occasions of my life I have been much indebted to the horse, and have found in him a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy were not to be obtained. It is therefore natural enough that I should love the horse; but the love which I entertain for him has always been blended with respect; for I soon perceived that, though disposed to be the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to be his slave; in which respect he differs from the dog, who will crouch when beaten; whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware of his own worth, and that he carries death within the horn of his heel. If, therefore, I found it easy to love the horse, I found it equally natural to respect him.

I much question whether philology, or the passion for languages, requires so little of an apology as the love for horses. It has been said, I believe, that the more languages a man speaks, the more a man is he; which is very true, provided he acquires languages as a medium for becoming acquainted with the thoughts and feelings of the various sections into which the human race is divided; but, in that case, he should rather be termed a philosopher than a philologist—between which two the difference is wide indeed! An individual may speak and read a dozen languages, and yet be an exceedingly poor creature, scarcely half a man; and the pursuit of tongues for their own sake, and the mere satisfaction of acquiring them, surely argues an intellect of a very low order; a mind disposed to be satisfied with mean and grovelling things; taking more pleasure in the trumpery casket than in the precious treasure which it contains, in the pursuit of words, than in the acquisition of ideas.

I cannot help thinking that it was fortunate for myself, who am, to a certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of languages has been always modified by the love of horses; for scarcely had I turned my mind to the former, when I also mounted the wild cob, and hurried forth in the direction of the Devil’s Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on every side; that ride, amongst other things, taught me that a lad with thews and sinews was intended by nature for something better than mere word-culling; and if I have accomplished anything in after life worthy of mentioning, I believe it may partly be attributed to the ideas which that ride, by setting my blood in a glow, infused into my brain. I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless words for some opus magnum which Murray will never publish, and nobody ever read—beings without enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and Latin languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the most glorious of Homer’s rhapsodies.67 What knew he of Pegasus? he had never mounted a generous steed; the merest jockey, had the strain been interpreted to him, would have called it a brave song!—I return to the brave cob.

On a certain day I had been out on an excursion. In a crossroad, at some distance from the Satanic hill, the animal which I rode cast a shoe. By good luck a small village was at hand, at the entrance of which was a large shed, from which proceeded a most furious noise of hammering. Leading the cob by the bridle, I entered boldly. “Shoe this horse, and do it quickly, a gough,” said I to a wild grimy figure of a man, whom I found alone, fashioning a piece of iron.

“Arrigod yuit?”68 said the fellow, desisting from his work and staring at me.

“O yes, I have money,” said I, “and of the best;” and I pulled out an English shilling.

“Tabhair chugam,”69 said the smith, stretching out his grimy hand.

“No, I shan’t,” said I; “some people are glad to get their money when their work is done.”

The fellow hammered a little longer and then proceeded to shoe the cob, after having first surveyed it with attention. He performed his job rather roughly, and more than once appeared to give the animal unnecessary pain, frequently making use of loud and boisterous words. By the time the work was done, the creature was in a state of high excitement, and plunged and tore. The smith stood at a short distance, seeming to enjoy the irritation of the animal, and showing, in a remarkable manner, a huge fang, which projected from the under jaw of a very wry mouth.

“You deserve better handling,” said I, as I went up to the cob and fondled it; whereupon it whinnied, and attempted to touch my face with its nose.

“Are ye not afraid of that beast?” said the smith, showing his fang. “Arrah, it’s vicious that he looks!”

“It’s at you, then!—I don’t fear him;” and thereupon I passed under the horse, between his hind legs.

“And is that all you can do, agrah?” said the smith.

“No,” said I, “I can ride him.”

“Ye can ride him, and what else, agrah?”

“I can leap him over a six-foot wall,” said I.

“Over a wall, and what more, agrah?”

“Nothing more,” said I; “what more would you have?”

“Can you do this, agrah?” said the smith, and he uttered a word which I had never heard before, in a sharp pungent tone. The effect upon myself was somewhat extraordinary, a strange thrill ran through me; but with regard to the cob it was terrible; the animal forthwith became like one mad, and reared and kicked with the utmost desperation.

“Can you do that, agrah?” said the smith.

“What is it?” said I, retreating, “I never saw the horse so before.”

“Go between his legs, agrah,” said the smith, “his hinder legs;” and he again showed his fang.

“I dare not,” said I, “he would kill me.”

“He would kill ye! and how do ye know that, agrah?”

“I feel he would,” said I, “something tells me so.”

“And it tells ye truth, agrah; but it’s a fine beast, and it’s a pity to see him in such a state: Is agam an’t leigeas”70—and here he uttered another word71 in a voice singularly modified, but sweet and almost plaintive; the effect of it was as instantaneous as that of the other, but how different!—the animal lost all its fury and became at once calm and gentle. The smith went up to it, coaxed and patted it, making use of various sounds of equal endearment; then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, he said: “And now ye will be giving me the Sassanach tenpence, agrah?”

XIV

From the wild scenes which I have attempted to describe in the latter pages I must now transport the reader to others of a widely different character. He must suppose himself no longer in Ireland, but in the eastern corner of merry England. Bogs, ruins and mountains have disappeared amidst the vapours of the west: I have nothing more to say of them; the region in which we are now is not famous for objects of that kind; perhaps it flatters itself that it can produce fairer and better things, of some of which let me speak; there is a fine old city72 before us, and first of that let me speak.

A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you will; but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city, the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a grey old castle upon the top of that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work, that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry! the reign of idolatry has been over there for many a long year, never more, let us hope, to return; brave hearts in that old town have borne witness against it and sealed their testimony with their hearts’ blood—most precious to the Lord is the blood of His saints! we are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye not yon chalky precipice to the right of the Norman bridge?73 On this side of the stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined wall, the last relic of what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its foot is a place called the Lollards’ Hole; and with good reason, for many a saint of God has breathed his last beneath that white precipice, bearing witness against Popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch; many a grisly procession has advanced along that suburb, across the old bridge, towards the Lollards’ Hole: furious priests in front, a calm pale martyr in the midst, a pitying multitude behind. It has had its martyrs, the venerable old town!

Ah! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole circumjacent region of which it is the capital. The Angles possessed the land at an early period, which, however, they were eventually compelled to share with hordes of Danes and Northmen, who flocked thither across the sea to found hearthsteads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of Angles and Danes, still preserve much which speaks strongly of their northern ancestry; amongst them ye will find the light-brown hair of the north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild superstition, ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient history of the north and its sublime mythology; the warm heart and the strong heart of the old Danes and Saxons still beats in those regions, and there ye will find, if anywhere, old northern hospitality and kindness of manner, united with energy, perseverance and dauntless intrepidity; better soldiers or mariners never bled in their country’s battles than those nurtured in those regions and within those old walls. It was yonder, to the west, that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain and dragged the humbled banner of France in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder towards the west, and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine, in which the relic is to be seen: a sword of curious workmanship, the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl. ’Tis the sword of Cordova,74 won in bloodiest fray off St. Vincent’s promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard’s sword is to be seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall; many other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard’s sword.

Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my father retired: it was here that the old tired soldier set himself down with his little family. He had passed the greater part of his life in meritorious exertion in the service of his country, and his chief wish now was to spend the remainder of his days in quiet and respectability; his means, it is true, were not very ample; fortunate it was that his desires corresponded with them: with a small fortune of his own, and with his half-pay as a royal soldier, he had no fears for himself or for his faithful partner and helpmate; but then his children! how was he to provide for them? how launch them upon the wide ocean of the world? This was, perhaps, the only thought which gave him uneasiness, and I believe that many an old retired officer at that time, and under similar circumstances, experienced similar anxiety; had the war continued, their children would have been, of course, provided for in the army, but peace now reigned, and the military career was closed to all save the scions of the aristocracy, or those who were in some degree connected with that privileged order, an advantage which few of these old officers could boast of; they had slight influence with the great, who gave themselves very little trouble either about them or their families.

“I have been writing to the Duke,” said my father one day to my excellent mother, after we had been at home somewhat better than a year, “I have been writing to the Duke of York about a commission for that eldest boy of ours. He, however, affords me no hopes; he says that his list is crammed with names, and that the greater number of the candidates have better claims than my son.”

“I do not see how that can be,” said my mother.

“Nor do I,” replied my father. “I see the sons of bankers and merchants gazetted every month, and I do not see what claims they have to urge, unless they be golden ones. However, I have not served my king fifty years to turn grumbler at this time of life. I suppose that the people at the head of affairs know what is most proper and convenient; perhaps when the lad sees how difficult, nay, how impossible it is that he should enter the army, he will turn his mind to some other profession; I wish he may!”

“I think he has already,” said my mother; “you see how fond he is of the arts, of drawing and painting, and, as far as I can judge, what he has already done is very respectable; his mind seems quite turned that way, and I heard him say the other day that he would sooner be a Michelangelo than a general officer. But you are always talking of him; what do you think of doing with the other child?”

“What, indeed!” said my father; “that is a consideration which gives me no little uneasiness. I am afraid it will be much more difficult to settle him in life than his brother. What is he fitted for, even were it in my power to provide for him? God help the child! I bear him no ill-will, on the contrary all love and affection; but I cannot shut my eyes; there is something so strange about him! How he behaved in Ireland! I sent him to school to learn Greek, and he picked up Irish!”

“And Greek as well,” said my mother. “I heard him say the other day that he could read St. John in the original tongue.”

“You will find excuses for him, I know,” said my father. “You tell me I am always talking of my firstborn; I might retort by saying you are always thinking of the other; but it is the way of women always to side with the second-born. There’s what’s-her-name in the Bible, by whose wiles the old blind man was induced to give to his second son the blessing which was the birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his place! I should not have been so easily deceived! no disguise would ever have caused me to mistake an impostor for my firstborn. Though I must say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob; he is neither smooth nor sleek, and, though my second-born, is already taller and larger than his brother.”

“Just so,” said my mother, “his brother would make a far better Jacob than he.”

“I will hear nothing against my firstborn,” said my father, “even in the way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride—the very image of myself in my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben, though perhaps not quite so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love him, I’m sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes; and then his countenance! why, ’tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and eyes; but, then, his ways and manners! I confess I do not like them, and that they give me no little uneasiness. I know that he kept very strange company when he was in Ireland; people of evil report, of whom terrible things were said—horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once or twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no use; he put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular Irish look, just such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence and simplicity, and they full of malice and deceit all the time. I don’t like them; they are no friends to old England, or its old king, God bless him! They are not good subjects, and never were; always in league with foreign enemies. When I was in the Coldstream, long before the Revolution, I used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever opportunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me, that in the time of the Pretender there were always in London alone, a dozen of fellows connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing the king’s soldiers from their allegiance, and persuading them to desert to France to join the honest Irish, as they were called. One of these traitors once accosted him and proposed the matter to him, offering handfuls of gold if he could induce any of his comrades to go over. Meredith appeared to consent, but secretly gave information to his colonel; the fellow was seized, and certain traitorous papers found upon him; he was hanged before Newgate, and died exulting in his treason. His name was Michael Nowlan. That ever son of mine should have been intimate with the Papist Irish, and have learnt their language!”

“But he thinks of other things now,” said my mother.

“Other languages, you mean,” said my father. “It is strange that he has conceived such a zest for the study of languages; no sooner did he come home than he persuaded me to send him to that old priest to learn French and Italian, and, if I remember right, you abetted him; but, as I said before, it is in the nature of women invariably to take the part of the second-born. Well, there is no harm in learning French and Italian, perhaps much good in his case, as they may drive the other tongue out of his head. Irish! why, he might go to the university but for that; but how would he look when, on being examined with respect to his attainments, it was discovered that he understood Irish? How did you learn it? they would ask him; how did you become acquainted with the language of Papists and rebels? The boy would be sent away in disgrace.”

“Be under no apprehension, I have no doubt that he has long since forgotten it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said my father; “for, between ourselves, I love the poor child; ay, quite as well as my firstborn. I trust they will do well, and that God will be their shield and guide; I have no doubt He will, for I have read something in the Bible to that effect. What is that text about the young ravens being fed?”

“I know a better than that,” said my mother; “one of David’s own words, ‘I have been young and now am grown old, yet never have I seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.’ ”

I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own firm belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idleness is the most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind and body are continually making efforts to escape from it. It has been said that idleness is the parent of mischief, which is very true; but mischief itself is merely an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness. There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform, but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless more suited to his nature; but he is not in love with idleness. A boy may play the truant from school because he dislikes books and study; but, depend upon it, he intends doing something the while—to go fishing, or perhaps to take a walk; and who knows but that from such excursions both his mind and body may derive more benefit than from books and school? Many people go to sleep to escape from idleness; the Spaniards do; and, according to the French account, John Bull, the ’squire, hangs himself in the month of November; but the French, who are a very sensible people, attribute the action, “à une grande envie de se désennuyer;” he wishes to be doing something, say they, and having nothing better to do, he has recourse to the cord.

It was for want of something better to do that, shortly after my return home, I applied myself to the study of languages. By the acquisition of Irish, with the first elements of which I had become acquainted under the tuition of Murtagh, I had contracted a certain zest and inclination for the pursuit. Yet it is probable, that had I been launched about this time into some agreeable career, that of arms, for example, for which, being the son of a soldier, I had, as was natural, a sort of penchant, I might have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues of any kind; but, having nothing to do, I followed the only course suited to my genius which appeared open to me.

So it came to pass that one day, whilst wandering listlessly about the streets of the old town, I came to a small bookstall, and stopping, commenced turning over the books; I took up at least a dozen, and almost instantly flung them down. What were they to me? At last, coming to a thick volume, I opened it, and after inspecting its contents for a few minutes, I paid for it what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home.

It was a tessara-glot grammar—a strange old book, printed somewhere in Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to the acquirement of the French, Italian, Low Dutch, and English tongues, by means of which anyone conversant in any one of these languages could make himself master of the other three. I turned my attention to the French and Italian. The old book was not of much value; I derived some benefit from it, however, and, conning it intensely, at the end of a few weeks obtained some insight into the structure of these two languages. At length I had learnt all that the book was capable of informing me, yet was still far from the goal to which it had promised to conduct me. “I wish I had a master!” I exclaimed; and the master was at hand. In an old court of the old town lived a certain elderly personage, perhaps sixty, or thereabouts; he was rather tall, and something of a robust make, with a countenance in which bluffness was singularly blended with vivacity and grimace; and with a complexion which would have been ruddy, but for a yellow hue which rather predominated. His dress consisted of a snuff-coloured coat and drab pantaloons, the former evidently seldom subjected to the annoyance of a brush, and the latter exhibiting here and there spots of something which, if not grease, bore a strong resemblance to it; add to these articles an immense frill, seldom of the purest white, but invariably of the finest French cambric, and you have some idea of his dress. He had rather a remarkable stoop, but his step was rapid and vigorous, and as he hurried along the streets, he would glance to the right and left with a pair of big eyes like plums, and on recognising anyone would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss a tawny and ungloved hand. At certain hours of the day he might be seen entering the doors of female boarding-schools, generally with a book in his hand, and perhaps another just peering from the orifice of a capacious back pocket; and at a certain season of the year he might be seen, dressed in white, before the altar of a certain small popish chapel, chanting from the breviary in very intelligible Latin, or perhaps reading from the desk in utterly unintelligible English. Such was my preceptor in the French and Italian tongues. “Exul sacerdos; vone banished esprit.75 I came into England twenty-five years ago, ‘my dear.’ ”

XV

So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished priest, to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive instruction. I made considerable progress in the acquisition of the two languages. I found the French by far the most difficult, chiefly on account of the accent, which my master himself possessed in no great purity, being a Norman by birth. The Italian was my favourite.

“Vous serez un jour un grand philologue, mon cher,” said the old man, on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante’s Hell.

“I hope I shall be something better,” said I, “before I die, or I shall have lived to little purpose.”

“That’s true, my dear! philologist—one small poor dog. What would you wish to be?”

“Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book.”

“Quoi, Monsieur Dante? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from his country. No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How, not think so! He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody. T’other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country—died with not enough to pay his undertaker.”

“Were you not forced to flee from your country?”

“That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue.”

“Well,” said I, “you can return now; the Bourbons are restored.”

“I find myself very well here; not bad country. Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France; but all are dead there who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic, that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people hard names. Ma foi, il y a beaucoup de différence entre moi et ce sacré de Dante.”

Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern languages, besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some knowledge of Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to philology; I had other pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days, nor its delights; neither was I formed by Nature to be a pallid indoor student. No, no! I was fond of other and, I say it boldly, better things than study. I had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun likewise. In our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its lock, in rather antique characters, “Tower, 1746;” with this weapon I had already, in Ireland, performed some execution among the rooks and choughs, and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and amusement to me, in the winter season, especially on occasions of severe frost when birds abounded. Sallying forth with it at these times, far into the country, I seldom returned at night without a string of bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck. When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at the number of birds which I slaughtered, than that I never blew my hands, face, and old honeycombed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces.

But the winter, alas! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more than three or four months; so, during the rest of the year, when not occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other diversions. I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the angle. Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits, the rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour of carrying a noble firelock. There is a time, however, for all things; and we return to any favourite amusement with the greater zest, from being compelled to relinquish it for a season. So, if I shot birds in winter with my firelock, I caught fish in summer, or attempted so to do, with my angle. I was not quite so successful, it is true, with the latter as with the former—possibly because it afforded me less pleasure. It was, indeed, too much of a listless pastime to inspire me with any great interest. I not unfrequently fell into a doze whilst sitting on the bank, and more than once let my rod drop from my hands into the water.

At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the southwest, is a small river, the waters of which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its course from its spring-head, high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia, till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are there stilled for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks the side of the slope; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the nearest of which, when the sun is nigh its meridian, fling a broad shadow upon the face of the pool; through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall. It has a stately look, that old building, indistinctly seen, as it is, among those umbrageous trees; you might almost suppose it an earl’s home;76 and such it was, or rather upon its site stood an earl’s home, in days of old, for there some old Kemp, some Sigurd, or Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearthstead, settled down in the gray old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was a portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl’s Home, though the hearth of Sigurd is now no more, and the bones of the old Kemp, and of Sigrith his dame, have been mouldering for a thousand years in some neighbouring knoll—perhaps yonder, where those tall Norwegian pines shoot up so boldly into the air. It is said that the old earl’s galley was once moored where is now that blue pool, for the waters of that valley were not always sweet; yon valley was once an arm of the sea, a salt lagoon, to which the war-barks of “Sigurd, in search of a home,” found their way.

I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of that rivulet, with my rod in my hand, and, when tired with angling, would stretch myself on the grass, and gaze upon the waters as they glided past; and not unfrequently, divesting myself of my dress, I would plunge into the deep pool which I have already mentioned, for I had long since learned to swim. And it came to pass, that on one hot summer’s day, after bathing in the pool, I passed along the meadow till I came to a shallow part, and, wading over to the opposite side, I adjusted my dress, and commenced fishing in another pool, beside which was a small clump of hazels.

And there I sat upon the bank, at the bottom of the hill which slopes down from “the Earl’s Home;” my float was on the waters, and my back was towards the old hall. I drew up many fish, small and great, which I took from off the hook mechanically and flung upon the bank, for I was almost unconscious of what I was about, for my mind was not with my fish. I was thinking of my earlier years—of the Scottish crags and the heaths of Ireland—and sometimes my mind would dwell on my studies—on the sonorous stanzas of Dante, rising and falling like the waves of the sea—or would strive to remember a couplet or two of poor Monsieur Boileau.

“Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun?” said a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell.

I started, and looked round. Close behind me stood the tall figure of a man, dressed in raiment of quaint and singular fashion, but of goodly materials. He was in the prime and vigour of manhood; his features handsome and noble, but full of calmness and benevolence; at least I thought so, though they were somewhat shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves.

“Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgest, my young friend,” he continued.

“I am sorry for it, if it be, sir,” said I, rising; “but I do not think it cruel to fish.”

“What are thy reasons for not thinking so?”

“Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture. Simon Peter was a fisherman.”

“True; and Andrew and his brother. But thou forgettest: they did not follow fishing as a diversion, as I fear thou doest. Thou readest the Scriptures?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? not daily? that is to be regretted. What profession dost thou make? I mean to what religious denomination dost thou belong, my young friend?”

“Church.”

“It is a very good profession—there is much of Scripture contained in its liturgy. Dost thou read aught besides the Scriptures?”

“Sometimes.”

“What dost thou read besides?”

“Greek,77 and Dante.”

“Indeed! then thou hast the advantage over myself; I can only read the former. Well, I am rejoiced to find that thou hast other pursuits besides thy fishing. Dost thou know Hebrew?”

“No.”

“Thou shouldst study it. Why dost thou not undertake the study?”

“I have no books.”

“I will lend thee books, if thou wish to undertake the study. I live yonder at the hall, as perhaps thou knowest. I have a library there, in which are many curious books, both in Greek and Hebrew, which I will show to thee, whenever thou mayest find it convenient to come and see me. Farewell! I am glad to find that thou hast pursuits more satisfactory than thy cruel fishing.”

And the man of peace departed, and left me on the bank of the stream. Whether from the effect of his words, or from want of inclination to the sport, I know not, but from that day I became less and less a practitioner of that “cruel fishing.” I rarely flung line and angle into the water, but I not unfrequently wandered by the banks of the pleasant rivulet. It seems singular to me, on reflection, that I never availed myself of his kind invitation. I say singular, for the extraordinary, under whatever form, had long had no slight interest for me; and I had discernment enough to perceive that yon was no common man. Yet I went not near him, certainly not from bashfulness, or timidity, feelings to which I had long been an entire stranger. Am I to regret this? perhaps, for I might have learned both wisdom and righteousness from those calm, quiet lips, and my after-course might have been widely different. As it was, I fell in with other guess companions, from whom I received widely different impressions than those I might have derived from him. When many years had rolled on, long after I had attained manhood, and had seen and suffered much, and when our first interview had long since been effaced from the mind of the man of peace, I visited him in his venerable hall, and partook of the hospitality of his hearth. And there I saw his gentle partner and his fair children, and on the morrow he showed me the books of which he had spoken years before, by the side of the stream. In the low quiet chamber, whose one window, shaded by a gigantic elm, looks down the slope towards the pleasant stream, he took from the shelf his learned books, Zohar78 and Mishna, Toldoth Jesu and Abarbenel.79

“I am fond of these studies,” said he, “which, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, seeing that our people have been compared to the Jews. In one respect I confess we are similar to them: we are fond of getting money. I do not like this last author, this Abarbenel, the worse for having been a money-changer. I am a banker myself, as thou knowest.”

And would there were many like him, amidst the money-changers of princes! The hall of many an earl lacks the bounty, the palace of many a prelate the piety and learning, which adorn the quiet Quaker’s home!

XVI

I was standing on the castle hill80 in the midst of a fair of horses.

I have already had occasion to mention this castle. It is the remains of what was once a Norman stronghold, and is perched upon a round mound or monticle, in the midst of the old city. Steep is this mound and scarped, evidently by the hand of man; a deep gorge, over which is flung a bridge, separates it, on the south, from a broad swell of open ground called “the hill;” of old the scene of many a tournament and feat of Norman chivalry, but now much used as a showplace for cattle, where those who buy and sell beeves and other beasts resort at stated periods.

So it came to pass that I stood upon this hill, observing a fair of horses.81

The reader is already aware that I had long since conceived a passion for the equine race, a passion in which circumstances had of late not permitted me to indulge. I had no horses to ride, but I took pleasure in looking at them; and I had already attended more than one of these fairs: the present was lively enough, indeed, horse fairs are seldom dull. There was shouting and whooping, neighing and braying; there was galloping and trotting; fellows with highlows and white stockings, and with many a string dangling from the knees of their tight breeches, were running desperately, holding horses by the halter, and in some cases dragging them along; there were long-tailed steeds, and dock-tailed steeds of every degree and breed; there were droves of wild ponies, and long rows of sober cart horses; there were donkeys, and even mules: the last rare things to be seen in damp, misty England, for the mule pines in mud and rain, and thrives best with a hot sun above and a burning sand below. There were—oh, the gallant creatures! I hear their neigh upon the wind; there were—goodliest sight of all—certain enormous quadrupeds only seen to perfection in our native isle, led about by dapper grooms, their manes ribboned and their tails curiously clubbed and balled. Ha! ha!—how distinctly do they say, ha! ha!

An old man draws nigh, he is mounted on a lean pony, and he leads by the bridle one of these animals; nothing very remarkable about that creature, unless in being smaller than the rest and gentle, which they are not; he is not of the sightliest look; he is almost dun, and over one eye a thick film has gathered. But stay! there is something remarkable about that horse, there is something in his action in which he differs from all the rest. As he advances, the clamour is hushed! all eyes are turned upon him—what looks of interest—of respect—and, what is this? people are taking off their hats—surely not to that steed! Yes, verily! men, especially old men, are taking off their hats to that one-eyed steed, and I hear more than one deep-drawn ah!

“What horse is that?” said I to a very old fellow, the counterpart of the old man on the pony, save that the last wore a faded suit of velveteen, and this one was dressed in a white frock.

“The best in mother England,” said the very old man, taking a knobbed stick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at first carelessly, but presently with something like interest; “he is old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. You won’t live long, my swain; tall and overgrown ones like thee never does; yet, if you should chance to reach my years, you may boast to thy great grand boys, thou hast seen Marshland Shales.”

Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl or baron, doffed my hat; yes! I doffed my hat to the wondrous horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England; and I, too, drew a deep ah! and repeated the words of the old fellows around. “Such a horse as this we shall never see again; a pity that he is so old.”

Now during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I had been the object of some person’s observation; that eyes were fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I thought myself watched from before, sometimes from behind; and occasionally methought that, if I just turned my head to the right or left, I should meet a peering and inquiring glance; and, indeed, once or twice I did turn, expecting to see somebody whom I knew, yet always without success; though it appeared to me that I was but a moment too late, and that someone had just slipped away from the direction to which I turned, like the figure in a magic lantern. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of eyes glaring over my right shoulder; my attention, however, was so fully occupied with the objects which I have attempted to describe, that I thought very little of this coming and going, this flitting and dodging of I knew not whom or what. It was, after all, a matter of sheer indifference to me who was looking at me. I could only wish, whomsoever it might be, to be more profitably employed; so I continued enjoying what I saw; and now there was a change in the scene, the wondrous old horse departed with his aged guardian; other objects of interest are at hand; two or three men on horseback are hurrying through the crowd, they are widely different in their appearance from the other people of the fair; not so much in dress, for they are clad something after the fashion of rustic jockeys, but in their look—no light brown hair have they, no ruddy cheeks, no blue quiet glances belong to them; their features are dark, their locks long, black and shining, and their eyes are wild; they are admirable horsemen, but they do not sit the saddle in the manner of common jockeys, they seem to float or hover upon it, like gulls upon the waves; two of them are mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man with a countenance heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As they rush along, the crowd give way on all sides, and now a kind of ring or circus is formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horsemanship, rushing past each other, in and out, after the manner of a reel, the tall man occasionally balancing himself upon the saddle, and standing erect on one foot. He had just regained his seat after the latter feat, and was about to push his horse to a gallop, when a figure started forward close from beside me, and laying his hand on his neck, and pulling him gently downward, appeared to whisper something into his ear; presently the tall man raised his head, and, scanning the crowd for a moment in the direction in which I was standing, fixed his eyes full upon me, and anon the countenance of the whisperer was turned, but only in part, and the side-glance of another pair of wild eyes was directed towards my face, but the entire visage of the big black man half stooping as he was, was turned full upon mine.

But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and with another inquiring glance at myself, the big man once more put his steed into motion, and after riding round the ring a few more times darted through a lane in the crowd, and followed by his two companions disappeared, whereupon the figure who had whispered to him and had subsequently remained in the middle of the space, came towards me, and cracking a whip which he held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearly equal to that of a pocket pistol, he cried in a strange tone:—

“What! the sap-engro? Lor! the sap-engro upon the hill!”

“I remember that word,” said I, “and I almost think I remember you. You can’t be—”

“Jasper, your pal! Truth, and no lie, brother.”

“It is strange that you should have known me,” said I. “I am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have recognised you.”

“Not so strange as you may think, brother; there is something in your face which would prevent people from forgetting you, even though they might wish it; and your face is not much altered since the time you wot of, though you are so much grown. I thought it was you, but to make sure I dodged about, inspecting you. I believe you felt me, though I never touched you; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui palor—two relations. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine always does at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers in that lane.”

“And where are you staying?” said I; “in this town?”

“Not in the town; the like of us don’t find it exactly wholesome to stay in towns; we keep abroad. But I have little to do here—come with me and I’ll show you where we stay.”

We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and passing along the suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which we crossed; the chalk precipice, with the ruin on its top, was now before us; but turning to the left we walked swiftly along, and presently came to some rising ground, which ascending, we found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath.82

“You are one of them,” said I, “whom people call—”

“Just so,” said Jasper; “but never mind what people call us.”

“And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whispered? I suppose he’s one of ye. What is his name?”

“Tawno Chikno,” said Jasper, “which means the small one; we call him such because he is the biggest man of all our nation. You say he is handsome, that is not the word, brother; he’s the beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. An earl’s daughter, near London—a fine young lady with diamonds round her neck—fell in love with Tawno. I have seen that lass on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his feet, begging to be his wife—or anything else—if she might go with him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her. ‘I have a wife of my own,’ said he, ‘a lawful Rommany wife, whom I love better than the whole world, jealous though she sometimes be.’ ”

“And is she very beautiful?” said I.

“Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of taste; however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so beautiful as himself.”

We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills or downs, the sides of which were covered with furze. In the midst of this valley were various carts and low tents forming a rude kind of encampment; several dark children were playing about, who took no manner of notice of us. As we passed one of the tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman supported upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middle age, and, besides being lame, was bitterly ugly; she was very slovenly dressed, and on her swarthy features ill nature was most visibly stamped. She did not deign me a look, but addressing Jasper in a tongue which I did not understand, appeared to put some eager questions to him.

“He’s coming,” said Jasper, and passed on. “Poor fellow,” said he to me, “he has scarcely been gone an hour and she’s jealous already. Well,” he continued, “what do you think of her? you have seen her now and can judge for yourself—that ’ere woman is Tawno Chikno’s wife!”

XVII

We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight distance from the rest, and which exactly resembled the one which I have described on a former occasion; we went in and sat down, one on each side of a small fire which was smouldering on the ground, there was no one else in the tent but a tall tawny woman of middle age, who was busily knitting. “Brother,” said Jasper, “I wish to hold some pleasant discourse with you.”

“As much as you please,” said I, “provided you can find anything pleasant to talk about.”

“Never fear,” said Jasper; “and first of all we will talk of yourself. Where have you been all this long time?”

“Here and there,” said I, “and far and near, going about with the soldiers; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat down, father and family, in the town there.”

“And do you still hunt snakes?” said Jasper.

“No,” said I, “I have given up that long ago; I do better now: read books and learn languages.”

“Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting; many’s the strange talk I have had with our people about your snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and mother in the lane.”

“And where are your father and mother?”

“Where I shall never see them, brother; at least, I hope so.”

“Not dead?”

“No, not dead; they are bitchadey pawdel.”

“What’s that?”

“Sent across—banished.”

“Ah! I understand; I am sorry for them. And so you are here alone?”

“Not quite alone, brother!”

“No, not alone; but with the rest—Tawno Chikno takes care of you.”

“Takes care of me, brother!”

“Yes, stands to you in the place of a father—keeps you out of harm’s way.”

“What do you take me for, brother?”

“For about three years older than myself.”

“Perhaps; but you are of the Gorgios, and I am a Rommany Chal. Tawno Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro!”

“Is that your name?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Very much, I never heard a sweeter; it is something like what you call me.”

“The horseshoe master and the snake-fellow, I am the first.”

“Who gave you that name?”

“Ask Pharaoh.”

“I would, if he were here, but I do not see him.”

“I am Pharaoh.”

“Then you are a king.”

“Chachipen, pal.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Where are your languages? You want two things, brother: mother sense and gentle Rommany.”

“What makes you think that I want sense?”

“That, being so old, you can’t yet guide yourself!”

“I can read Dante, Jasper.”

“Anan, brother.”

“I can charm snakes, Jasper.”

“I know you can, brother.”

“Yes, and horses too; bring me the most vicious in the land, if I whisper he’ll be tame.”

“Then the more shame for you—a snake-fellow—a horse-witch—and a lil-reader—yet you can’t shift for yourself. I laugh at you, brother!”

“Then you can shift for yourself?”

“For myself and for others, brother.”

“And what does Chikno?”

“Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the chong were mine.”

“And has he none of his own?”

“Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. When my father and mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to tell you the truth, they were, for chiving wafodo dloovu, they left me all they had, which was not a little, and I became the head of our family, which was not a small one. I was not older than you when that happened; yet our people said they had never a better krallis to contrive and plan for them and to keep them in order. And this is so well known, that many Rommany Chals, not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us for a time, in order to better themselves, more especially those of the poorer sort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of these.”

“Is that fine fellow poor?”

“One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw.”

“And you are what is called a Gypsy King?”

“Ay, ay; a Rommany Kral.”

“Are there other kings?”

“Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro.”

“Did Pharaoh make horseshoes?”

“The first who ever did, brother.”

“Pharaoh lived in Egypt.”

“So did we once, brother.”

“And you left it?”

“My fathers did, brother.”

“And why did they come here?”

“They had their reasons, brother.”

“And you are not English?”

“We are not Gorgios.”

“And you have a language of your own?”

“Avali.”

“This is wonderful.”

“Ha, ha!” cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting at the farther end of the tent, without saying a word, though not inattentive to our conversation, as I could perceive by certain glances which she occasionally cast upon us both. “Ha, ha!” she screamed, fixing upon me two eyes, which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with an expression both of scorn and malignity, “It is wonderful, is it, that we should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor people the speech they talk among themselves? That’s just like you Gorgios, you would have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We are taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give an account of ourselves. So I says to my sister’s little boy, speaking Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, ‘Run to my son Jasper, and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks abroad.’ So the Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything of us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. ‘Good woman,’ says the Poknees, ‘what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?’ ‘I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and, to save trouble, I said it in our own language.’ ‘Where did you get that language?’ says the Poknees. ‘ ’Tis our own language, sir,’ I tells him, ‘we did not steal it.’ ‘Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?’ says the Poknees. ‘I would thank you, sir,’ says I, ‘for ’tis often we are asked about it.’ ‘Well, then,’ says the Poknees, ‘it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.’ ‘Oh, bless your wisdom,’ says I, with a curtsey, ‘you can tell us what our language is without understanding it!’ Another time we meet a parson. ‘Good woman,’ says he, ‘what’s that you are talking? Is it broken language?’ ‘Of course, your reverence,’ says I, ‘we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman.’ Oh, these Gorgios! they grudge us our very language!”

“She called you her son, Jasper?”

“I am her son, brother.”

“I thought you said your parents were—”

“Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife’s mother.”

“Then you are married, Jasper?”

“Ay, truly; I am husband and father. You will see wife and chabo anon.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the gav, penning dukkerin.”

“We were talking of language, Jasper?”

“True, brother.”

“Yours must be a rum one?”

“ ’Tis called Rommany.”

“I would gladly know it.”

“You need it sorely.”

“Would you teach it me?”

“None sooner.”

“Suppose we begin now.”

“Suppose we do, brother.”

“Not whilst I am here,” said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; “not whilst I am here shall this Gorgio learn Rommany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? I goes to the farming ker with my sister to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rommany, ‘Do so-and-so,’ says I; which the farming man hearing, asks what we are talking about. ‘Nothing at all, master,’ says I; ‘something about the weather’; when who should start up from behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, crying out, ‘They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!’ so that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, ‘How came that ugly one to know what you said to me?’ Whereupon I answers, ‘It all comes of my son Jasper, who brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him.’ ‘Who was fool there?’ says my sister. ‘Who, indeed, but my son Jasper,’ I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to sit still and suffer it; which I will not do. I do not like the look of him; he looks over-gorgious. An ill day to the Romans when he masters Rommany; and when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin.”

“What do you call God, Jasper?”

“You had better be jawing,” said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream; “you had better be moving off, my Gorgio; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face. Do you know whom you have to deal with? Do you know that I am dangerous? My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!”

And a hairy one she looked! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures; but now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far down as her knees. No she-bear of Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, as, standing in the open part of the tent, with her head bent down, and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself upon me, she repeated, again and again—

“My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!—”

“I call God Duvel, brother.”

“It sounds very like Devil.”

“It doth, brother, it doth.”

“And what do you call divine, I mean godly?”

“Oh! I call that duvelskoe.”

“I am thinking of something, Jasper.”

“What are you thinking of, brother?”

“Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devilish were originally one and the same word?”

“It would, brother, it would—”

From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper, sometimes in his tent, sometimes on the heath, about which we would roam for hours, discoursing on various matters. Sometimes mounted on one of his horses, of which he had several, I would accompany him to various fairs and markets in the neighbourhood, to which he went on his own affairs, or those of his tribe. I soon found that I had become acquainted with a most singular people, whose habits and pursuits awakened within me the highest interest. Of all connected with them, however, their language was doubtless that which exercised the greatest influence over my imagination. I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a mere made-up gibberish. But I was soon undeceived. Broken, corrupted, and half in ruins as it was, it was not long before I found that it was an original speech, far more so, indeed, than one or two others of high name and celebrity, which, up to that time, I had been in the habit of regarding with respect and veneration. Indeed, many obscure points connected with the vocabulary of these languages, and to which neither classic nor modern lore afforded any clue, I thought I could now clear up by means of this strange broken tongue, spoken by people who dwelt among thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the generality of mankind designated, and with much semblance of justice, as thieves and vagabonds. But where did this speech come from, and who were they who spoke it? These were questions which I could not solve, and which Jasper himself, when pressed, confessed his inability to answer. “But, whoever we be, brother,” said he, “we are an old people, and not what folks in general imagine, broken gorgios; and, if we are not Egyptians, we are at any rate Rommany chals!”

“Rommany chals! I should not wonder after all,” said I, “that these people had something to do with the founding of Rome. Rome, it is said, was built by vagabonds; who knows but that some tribe of the kind settled down thereabouts, and called the town which they built after their name; but whence did they come originally? ah! there is the difficulty.”

But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far too profound for me, I went on studying the language, and at the same time the characters and manners of these strange people. My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, Jasper. “We’ll no longer call you Sap-engro, brother,” said he; “but rather Lav-engro, which in the language of the gorgios meaneth Word Master.” “Nay, brother,” said Tawno Chikno, with whom I had become very intimate, “you had better call him Cooro-mengro, I have put on the gloves with him, and find him a pure fist master; I like him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro myself, and was born at Brummagem.”

“I likes him for his modesty,” said Mrs. Chikno; “I never hears any ill words come from his mouth, but, on the contrary, much sweet language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my eldest to say his prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never the grace to do.” “He is the pal of my rom,” said Mrs. Petulengro, who was a very handsome woman, “and therefore I likes him, and not less for his being a rye; folks calls me high-minded, and perhaps I have reason to be so; before I married Pharaoh I had an offer from a lord—I likes the young rye, and, if he chooses to follow us, he shall have my sister. What say you, mother? should not the young rye have my sister Ursula?”

“I am going to my people,” said Mrs. Herne, placing a bundle upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property; “I am going to Yorkshire, for I can stand this no longer. You say you like him; in that we differs: I hates the gorgio, and would like, speaking Romanly, to mix a little poison with his waters. And now go to Lundra, my children, I goes to Yorkshire. Take my blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie to cheer your hearts with when ye are weary. In all kinds of weather have we lived together; but now we are parted, I goes brokenhearted. I can’t keep you company; ye are no longer Rommany. To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good mother.”

XVIII

So the gypsies departed: Mrs. Herne to Yorkshire, and the rest to London. As for myself, I continued in the house of my parents, passing my time in much the same manner as I have already described, principally in philological pursuits. But I was now sixteen, and it was highly necessary that I should adopt some profession, unless I intended to fritter away my existence, and to be a useless burden to those who had given me birth. But what profession was I to choose? there being none in the wide world perhaps for which I was suited; nor was there anyone for which I felt any decided inclination, though perhaps there existed within me a lurking penchant for the profession of arms, which was natural enough, as, from my earliest infancy, I had been accustomed to military sights and sounds; but this profession was then closed, as I have already hinted, and, as I believe, it has since continued, to those who, like myself, had no better claims to urge than the services of a father.

My father, who, for certain reasons of his own, had no very high opinion of the advantages resulting from this career, would have gladly seen me enter the Church. His desire was, however, considerably abated by one or two passages of my life, which occurred to his recollection. He particularly dwelt on the unheard-of manner in which I had picked up the Irish language, and drew from thence the conclusion that I was not fitted by nature to cut a respectable figure at an English university. “He will fly off in a tangent,” said he, “and, when called upon to exhibit his skill in Greek, will be found proficient in Irish; I have observed the poor lad attentively, and really do not know what to make of him; but I am afraid he will never make a churchman!” And I have no doubt that my excellent father was right, both in his premises and the conclusion at which he arrived. I had undoubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant divine for those of a Papist gassoon, the card-fancying Murtagh; and of late, though I kept it a strict secret, I had abandoned in a great measure the study of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation of the sonorous terzets of the Divine Comedy, in which at one time I took the greatest delight, in order to become acquainted with the broken speech, and yet more broken songs, of certain houseless wanderers whom I had met at a horse fair. Such an erratic course was certainly by no means in consonance with the sober and unvarying routine of college study. And my father, who was a man of excellent common sense, displayed it, in not pressing me to adopt a profession which required qualities of mind which he saw I did not possess.

Other professions were talked of, amongst which the law; but now an event occurred which had nearly stopped my career, and merged all minor points of solicitude in anxiety for my life. My strength and appetite suddenly deserted me, and I began to pine and droop. Some said that I had overgrown myself, and that these were the symptoms of a rapid decline; I grew worse and worse, and was soon stretched upon my bed, from which it seemed scarcely probable that I should ever more rise, the physicians themselves giving but slight hopes of my recovery; as for myself, I made up my mind to die, and felt quite resigned. I was sadly ignorant at that time, and, when I thought of death, it appeared to me little else than a pleasant sleep, and I wished for sleep, of which I got but little. It was well that I did not die that time, for I repeat that I was sadly ignorant of many important things. I did not die, for somebody coming, gave me a strange, bitter draught; a decoction, I believe, of a bitter root which grows on commons and desolate places; and the person who gave it me was an ancient female, a kind of doctress, who had been my nurse in my infancy, and who, hearing of my state, had come to see me; so I drank the draught, and became a little better, and I continued taking draughts made from the bitter root till I manifested symptoms of convalescence.

But how much more quickly does strength desert the human frame than return to it! I had become convalescent, it is true, but my state of feebleness was truly pitiable. I believe it is in that state that the most remarkable feature of human physiology frequently exhibits itself. Oh, how dare I mention the dark feeling of mysterious dread which comes over the mind, and which the lamp of reason, though burning bright the while, is unable to dispel! Art thou, as leeches say, the concomitant of disease—the result of shattered nerves? Nay, rather the principle of woe itself, the fountain head of all sorrow coexistent with man, whose influence he feels when yet unborn, and whose workings he testifies with his earliest cries, when, “drowned in tears,” he first beholds the light; for, as the sparks fly upwards, so is man born to trouble, and woe doth he bring with him into the world, even thyself, dark one, terrible one, causeless, unbegotten, without a father. Oh, how unfrequently dost thou break down the barriers which divide thee from the poor soul of man, and overcast its sunshine with thy gloomy shadow! In the brightest days of prosperity—in the midst of health and wealth—how sentient is the poor human creature of thy neighbourhood! how instinctively aware that the floodgates of horror may be cast open, and the dark stream engulf him for ever and ever! Then is it not lawful for man to exclaim, “Better that I had never been born!” Fool, for thyself thou wast not born, but to fulfil the inscrutable decrees of thy Creator; and how dost thou know that this dark principle is not, after all, thy best friend; that it is not that which tempers the whole mass of thy corruption? It may be, for what thou knowest, the mother of wisdom, and of great works; it is the dread of the horror of the night that makes the pilgrim hasten on his way. When thou feelest it nigh, let thy safety word be “Onward;” if thou tarry, thou art overwhelmed. Courage! build great works—’tis urging thee—it is ever nearest the favourites of God—the fool knows little of it. Thou wouldst be joyous, wouldst thou? then be a fool. What great work was ever the result of joy, the puny one? Who have been the wise ones, the mighty ones, the conquering ones of this earth? the joyous? I believe not. The fool is happy, or comparatively so—certainly the least sorrowful, but he is still a fool; and whose notes are sweetest, those of the nightingale, or of the silly lark?

“What ails you, my child?” said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch under the influence of the dreadful one; “what ails you? you seem afraid!”

Boy. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me.

Mother. But of what; there is no one can harm you; of what are you apprehensive?

Boy. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of, but afraid I am.

Mother. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was only an imagination, a phantom of the brain.

Boy. No armed man threatens me; and ’tis not a thing like that would cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and fight him; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and there the horror lies.

Mother. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know where you are?

Boy. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid. I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain—but, but—

And then there was a burst of “gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai.”83 Alas, alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast thou born to sorrow—Onward!84

XIX

It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that, in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, the swifter does it pass, until at last, as we approach the borders of the grave, it assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river about to precipitate itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the case, provided we can carry to the grave those pleasant thoughts and delusions which alone render life agreeable, and to which even to the very last we would gladly cling; but what becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity of human pursuits? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, dearest hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed secure. What becomes from that moment, I repeat, of the shortness of time? I put not the question to those who have never known that trial; they are satisfied with themselves and all around them, with what they have done and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions with them to the borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into it; a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such talk of the shortness of time; through the medium of that cloud the world has ever been a pleasant world to them; their only regret is that they are so soon to quit it; but oh, ye dear deluded hearts, it is not everyone who is so fortunate!

To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. The generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth, even to the least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, for they are not only disposed, but able to enjoy most things within their reach. With what trifles at that period are we content; the things from which in afterlife we should turn away in disdain please us then, for we are in the midst of a golden cloud, and everything seems decked with a golden hue. Never during any portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than during the two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which we arrived in the preceding chapter. Since then it has flagged often enough; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the circumstance of my taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to write down the passages of my life—a last resource with most people. But at the period to which I allude I was just, as I may say, entering upon life; I had adopted a profession, and—to keep up my character, simultaneously with that profession—the study of a new language; I speedily became a proficient in the one, but ever remained a novice in the other: a novice in the law, but a perfect master in the Welsh tongue.

Yes! very pleasant times were those, when within the womb of a lofty deal desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours every day, transcribing (when I imagined eyes were upon me) documents of every description in every possible hand, Blackstone kept company with Ab Gwilym85—the polished English lawyer of the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on the rights of things—with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred years before that time indited immortal cowydds86 and odes to the wives of Cambrian chieftains—more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa Bach87—generally terminating with the modest request of a little private parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no other witness than the eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be believed—rather a doubtful point—was seldom, very seldom, denied. And by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so exceedingly different, been thus brought together? From what the reader already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me reading the former; but what could have induced me to take up Blackstone, or rather the law?

I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which account, perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, the essence of which is said to be ambiguity; most questions may be answered in a few words, and this among the rest, though connected with the law. My parents deemed it necessary that I should adopt some profession, they named the law; the law was as agreeable to me as any other profession within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lavengro.

So I sat behind a desk many hours in the day, ostensibly engaged in transcribing documents of various kinds. The scene of my labours was a strange old house, occupying one side of a long and narrow court,88 into which, however, the greater number of the windows looked not, but into an extensive garden, filled with fruit trees, in the rear of a large, handsome house, belonging to a highly respectable gentleman, who, moyennant un douceur considérable, had consented to instruct my father’s youngest son in the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah! would that I could describe the good gentleman in the manner which he deserves; he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye wandering from its prayerbook that his dust lies below; to secure such respectabilities in death, he passed a most respectable life. Let no one sneer, he accomplished much; his life was peaceful, so was his death. Are these trifles? I wish I could describe him, for I loved the man, and with reason, for he was ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always been shown; and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no longer exists—a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would fain describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do press forward and keep him from my mind’s eye; there they pass, Spaniard and Moor, Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is that? what that thick pursy man in the loose, snuff-coloured greatcoat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes? that man with the bull neck, and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small grey eyes, replete with catlike expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close, and whose earlobes are pierced with small golden rings? Oh! that is not my dear old master,89 but a widely different personage. Bon jour,90 Monsieur Vidocq! expressions de ma part à Monsieur le Baron Taylor.91 But here comes at last my veritable old master!

A more respectable-looking individual was never seen; he really looked what he was, a gentleman of the law—there was nothing of the pettifogger about him. Somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in person, he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long enough to become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without keenness; but the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of his head, which was bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white, smooth, and lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves, probably because his black silk stockings never exhibited a wrinkle; they might just as well have said that he waddled, because his shoes creaked; for these last, which were always without a speck, and polished as his crown, though of a different hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly. I cannot say that I ever saw him walk fast.

He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very rich man, much richer than he did, had he not been in the habit of giving rather expensive dinners to certain great people, who gave him nothing in return, except their company; I could never discover his reasons for doing so, as he always appeared to me a remarkably quiet man, by nature averse to noise and bustle; but in all dispositions there are anomalies. I have already said that he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well here add that he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked exceedingly well.

So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents of various kinds; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining ones, there were others, some of whom likewise copied documents, while some were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others, like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work entrusted to our hands.

There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone, I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I, being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym.

Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a poetical dissertation; no, no! I know my duty too well to introduce anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very strange chance. But before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be permitted—I really must—to say a word or two about the language in which he wrote, that same “Sweet Welsh.” If I remember right, I found the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older. And here I cannot help observing cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain, encountered words which, according to the lexicographers, were venerable words, highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of the Welsh, in which, however, they were no longer used in common discourse, but were relics, precious relics, of the first speech of Britain, perhaps of the world; with which words, however, I was already well acquainted, and which I had picked up, not in learned books, classic books, and in tongues of old renown, but whilst listening to Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno talking over their everyday affairs in the language of the tents; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to deep reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the deal desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable that I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym.

A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone—wild, beautiful, solitary nature—her mountains and cascades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or ugly; little didst thou care for any of them, Dame Nature was thy love, however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love-message to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would know? by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest—see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water. Halloo! what a glimpse of glory—but where is Morfydd the while? What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach? Ay, truly; and by whom?—the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o’er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well—his speed and power? But where is Morfydd? And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there. Quite right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd? But another form is nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest thy bow, thy crossbow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just about the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave, which by thine own account reaches hell—and then thou ravest at the misfortune of thy bow, and the nonappearance of Morfydd, and abusest Reynard. Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described him like thee? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil’s in the Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd; yes, she has stolen from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee beneath those rocks—she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym; but she is not long with thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder shatters the rocks—Morfydd flees! Quite right, Ab Gwilym; thou hadst no need of her, a better theme for song is the voice of the Lord—the rock shatterer—than the frail wife of the Bwa Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better man than thou wouldst fain have had people believe.

But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed rapidly away; with Ab Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I experienced sensations akin to those I had felt of yore whilst spelling my way through the wonderful book—the delight of my childhood. I say akin, for perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder and delight; and these I had already known.

[It was my own fault if I did not acquire considerable knowledge of life and character, in the place to which my kind parents had sent me. I performed the tasks that were allotted to me in the profession I had embraced, if not very scrupulously, yet, perhaps as well as could be expected in one who was occupied by many and busy thoughts of his own. I copied what was set before me, and admitted those who knocked at the door of the sanctuary of law and conveyancing, performing the latter office indeed from choice, long after it had ceased to be part of my duty by the arrival of another, and of course a junior, pupil.

I scarcely know what induced me to take pleasure in this task, yet there can be no doubt that I did take pleasure in it, otherwise I should scarcely have performed it so readily. It has been said, I believe, that whatever we do con amore, we are sure to do well, and I dare say that, as a general rule, this may hold good. One thing is certain, that with whatever satisfaction to myself I performed the task, I was not equally fortunate in pleasing my employer, who complained of my want of discrimination and yet, strange as it may seem, this last is a quality upon which I not only particularly valued myself at the time, but still do in a high degree. I made a point never to admit any persons without subjecting them to the rigorous investigation of the pair of eyes that providence had been pleased to place in my head. To those who pleased me not, I was little better than a Cerberus whom it was very difficult to pass; whilst to others, I was all easiness and condescension, ushering them straight to the sanctum sanctorum, in which, behind a desk covered with letters and papers, stood—for he never sat down to his desk—the respectable individual whose lawful commands to obey and whose secrets to keep I had pledged myself by certain articles duly stamped and signed.

“This will never do,” said he to me one day; “you will make me a bankrupt, unless you alter your conduct. There is scarcely one of my respectable clients but complains of your incivility. I speak to you, my poor boy, as much on your own account as on mine. I quite tremble for you. Are you aware of the solecisms you commit? Only yesterday you turned Sir Edward from the door, and immediately after you admitted Parkinson the poet!92 What an insult to a gentleman to be turned from the door, and a strolling vagabond to be admitted before his eyes!”

“I can’t help it,” said I; “I used my best powers of discrimination; I looked both full in the face, and the one struck me as being an honest man, whilst the other had the very look of a slave driver.”

“In the face? Bless me! But you looked at their dress, I suppose? You looked at Sir Edward’s dress?”

“No,” said I, “I merely looked at his countenance.”

“Which you thought looked like that of a slave driver. Well, he’s been in the Indies, where he made his fortune; so, perhaps, you may not be so far out. However, be more cautious in future; look less at people’s countenances and more at their—I dare say you understand me: admit every decent person, and if you turn away anybody, pray let it be the poet Parkinson …”

Keeping the admonition of my principal in view, I admitted without word or comment, provided the possessors had a decent coat to their backs, all kinds of countenances—honest countenances, dishonest countenances, and those which were neither. Amongst all these, some of which belonged to naval and military officers, notaries public, magistrates, bailiffs, and young ecclesiastics—the latter with spotless neckcloths and close-shaven chins—there were three countenances which particularly pleased me: the first being that of an ancient earl, who wore a pigtail, and the back of whose coat was white with powder; the second, that of a yeoman ninety years old and worth £90,000, who, dressed in an entire suit of whitish corduroy, sometimes slowly trotted up the court on a tall heavy steed, which seemed by no means unused to the plough. The third was that of the poet Parkinson.

I am not quite sure that I remember the business which brought this last individual so frequently to our office, for he paid us a great many visits.

I am inclined to believe, however, that he generally carried in his pocket a bundle of printed poems of his own composition, on the sale of which he principally depended for his subsistence. He was a man of a singular, though to me by no means unpleasant countenance; he wore an old hat and a snuff-coloured greatcoat, and invariably carried in his hand a stout cudgel like a man much in the habit of walking, which he probably was, from the circumstance of his being generally covered with dust in summer, and in winter splashed with mud from head to foot.

“You cannot see the principal today, Mr. Parkinson,” said I to him once, as unannounced he entered the room where I sat alone; “he is gone out and will not return for some time.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, for I want to consult him on some particular business.”

“What business is it? Perhaps I can be of service to you. Does it relate to the common law?”

“I suppose so, for I am told it is a common assault; but I had better wait till the gentleman comes home. You are rather too young; and besides I have other matters to consult him about; I have two or three papers in my pocket …”

“You cannot see him today,” said I; “but you were talking of an assault. Has anyone been beating you?”

“Not exactly; I got into a bit of a ruffle, and am threatened with an action.”

“Oh! so you have been beating somebody.”

“And if I did, how could I help it? I’ll tell you how it happened. I have a gift of making verses, as perhaps you know—in fact, everybody knows. When I had sowed my little trifle of corn in the bit of ground that my father left me, having nothing better to do, I sat down and wrote a set of lines to my lord, in which I told him what a fine old gentleman he was. Then I took my stick and walked off to ———, where, after a little difficulty, I saw my lord, and read the verses to him which I had made, offering to print them if he thought proper. Well, he was mightily pleased with them, and said they were too good to be printed, and begged that I would do no such thing, which I promised him I would not, and left him, not before, however, he had given me a King James’ guinea, which they say is worth two of King George’s. Well, I made my bow and went to the village, and in going past the alehouse I thought I would just step in, which I did. The house was full of people, chiefly farmers, and when they saw me they asked me to sit down and take a glass with them, which I did, and being called upon for a song I sang one, and then began talking about myself and how much my lord thought of me, and I repeated the lines which I had written to him, and showed them the James’ guinea he had given me. You should have seen the faces they cast upon me at the sight of the gold; they couldn’t stand it, for it was a confirmation to their envious hearts of all I had told them. Presently one called me a boasting fool, and getting up said that my lord was a yet greater fool for listening to me, and then added that the lines I had been reading were not of my own making. ‘No, you dog,’ said he, ‘they are not of your own making; you got somebody to make them for you.’ Now, I do not mind being called a boaster, nor a dog either, but when he told me that my verses were not my own, I couldn’t contain myself, so I told him he lied, whereupon he flung a glass of liquor in my face, and I knocked him down.”

“Mr. Parkinson,” said I, “are you much in the habit of writing verses to great people?”

“Great and small. I consider nothing too high or too low. I have written verses upon the king, and upon a prize ox; for the first I got nothing, but the owner of the ox at Christmas sent me the better part of the chine.”

“In fact, you write on all kinds of subjects.”

“And I carry them to the people whom I think they’ll please.”

“And what subjects please best?”

“Animals; my work chiefly lies in the country, and people in the country prefer their animals to anything else.”

“Have you ever written on amatory subjects?”

“When young people are about to be married, I sometimes write in that style; but it doesn’t take. People think, perhaps, that I am jesting at them, but no one thinks I am jesting at his horse or his ox when I speak well of them. There was an old lady who had a peacock; I sent her some lines upon the bird; she never forgot it, and when she died she left me the bird stuffed and ten pounds.”

“Mr. Parkinson, you put me very much in mind of the Welsh bards.”

“The Welsh what?”

“Bards. Did you never hear of them?”

“Can’t say that I ever did.”

“You do not understand Welsh?”

“I do not.”

“Well, provided you did, I should be strongly disposed to imagine that you imitated the Welsh bards.”

“I imitate no one,” said Mr. Parkinson; “though if you mean by the Welsh bards the singing bards of the country, it is possible we may resemble one another; only I would scorn to imitate anybody, even a bard.”

“I was not speaking of birds, but bards—Welsh poets—and it is surprising how much the turn of your genius coincides with theirs. Why, the subjects of hundreds of their compositions are the very subjects which you appear to delight in, and are the most profitable to you—beeves, horses, hawks—which they described to their owners in colours the most glowing and natural, and then begged them as presents. I have even seen in Welsh an ode to a peacock.”

“I can’t help it,” said Parkinson, “and I tell you again that I imitate nobody.”

“Do you travel much about?”

“Aye, aye. As soon as I have got my seed into the ground, or my crop into my barn, I lock up my home and set out from house to house and village to village, and many is the time I sit down beneath the hedges and take out my pen and inkhorn. It is owing to that, I suppose, that I have been called the flying poet.”

“It appears to me, young man,” said Parkinson, “that you are making game of me.”

“I should as much scorn to make game of anyone, as you would scorn to imitate anyone, Mr. Parkinson.”

“Well, so much the better for us both. But we’ll now talk of my affair. Are you man enough to give me an opinion upon it?”

“Quite so,” said I, “Mr. Parkinson. I understand the case clearly, and I unhesitatingly assert that any action for battery brought against you would be flung out of court, and the bringer of said action be obliged to pay the costs, the original assault having been perpetrated by himself when he flung the liquor in your face; and to set your mind perfectly at ease I will read to you what Lord Chief Justice Blackstone says upon the subject.”

“Thank you,” said Parkinson, after I had read him an entire chapter on the rights of persons, expounding as I went along. “I see you understand the subject, and are a respectable young man—which I rather doubted at first from your countenance, which shows the folly of taking against a person for the cast of his face or the glance of his eye. Now, I’ll maintain that you are a respectable young man, whoever says to the contrary; and that some day or other you will be an honour to your profession and a credit to your friends. I like chapter and verse when I ask a question, and you have given me both; you shall never want my good word; meanwhile, if there is anything that I can oblige you in—”

“There is, Mr. Parkinson, there is.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It has just occurred to me that you could give me a hint or two at versification. I have just commenced, but I find it no easy matter, the rhymes are particularly perplexing.”

“Are you quite serious?”

“Quite so; and to convince you, here is an ode of Ab Gwilym which I am translating, but I can get no farther than the first verse.”

“Why, that was just my case when I first began,” said Parkinson.

“I think I have been tolerably successful in the first verse, and that I have not only gotten the sense of the author, but that alliteration, which, as you may perhaps be aware, is one of the most peculiar features of Welsh poetry. In the ode to which I allude the poet complains of the barbarity of his mistress, Morfydd, and what an unthankful task it is to be the poet of a beauty so proud and disdainful, which sentiment I have partly rendered thus:—

Mine is a task by no means merry,

in which you observe that the first word of the line and the last two commence with the same letter, according to the principle of Welsh prosody. But now cometh the difficulty. What is the rhyme for merry?”

“Londonderry,” said the poet without hesitation, “as you will see by the poem which I addressed to Mr. C.,93 the celebrated Whig agriculturist, on its being reported that the king was about to pay him a visit:—

But if in our town he would wish to be merry
Pray don’t let him bring with him Lord Londonderry,

which two lines procured me the best friend I ever had in my life.”

“They are certainly fine lines,” I observed, “and I am not at all surprised that the agriculturist was pleased with them; but I am afraid that I cannot turn to much account the hint which they convey. How can I possibly introduce Londonderry into my second line?”

“I see no difficulty,” said Parkinson; “just add:—

I sing proud Mary of Londonderry

to your first line, and I do not see what objection could be made to the couplet, as they call it.”

“No farther,” said I, “than that she was not of Londonderry, which was not even built at the time she lived.”

“Well, have your own way,” said Parkinson; “I see that you have not had the benefit of a classical education.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Why, you never seem to have heard of poetical license.”

“I see,” said I, “that I must give up alliteration. Alliteration and rhyme together will, I am afraid, be too much for me. Perhaps the couplet had best stand thus:—

I long have had a duty hard,
I long have been fair Morfydd’s bard.

“That won’t do,” said Parkinson.

“Why not?”

“Because ’tis not English. Bard, indeed! I tell you what, young man, you have no talent for poetry; if you had, you would not want my help. No, no; cleave to your own profession and you will be an honour to it, but leave poetry to me. I counsel you as a friend. Good morning to you.”]

XX

“I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of ours to the law,” said my father to my mother, as they sat together one summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall poplars.

Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and, praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly requited toil; there he sat, with locks of silver gray which set off so nobly his fine bold but benevolent face, his faithful consort at his side, and his trusty dog at his feet—an eccentric animal of the genuine regimental breed, who, born amongst redcoats, had not yet become reconciled to those of any other hue, barking and tearing at them when they drew near the door, but testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by hospitable waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance—at present a very unfrequent occurrence.

“I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the law,” said my father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo cane.

“Why, what makes you think so?” said my mother.

“I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with the animal here,” said my father; “and, as I walked along, I overtook the boy’s master, Mr. S——.94 We shook hands, and after walking a little way farther, we turned back together, talking about this and that; the state of the country, the weather, and the dog, which he greatly admired; for he is a good-natured man, and has a good word for everybody, though the dog all but bit him when he attempted to coax his head; after the dog, we began talking about the boy; it was myself who introduced that subject: I thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting on, so I asked what he thought of my son; he hesitated at first, seeming scarcely to know what to say; at length he came out with ‘Oh, a very extraordinary youth, a most remarkable youth, indeed, captain!’ ‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘I am glad to hear it, but I hope you find him steady?’ ‘Steady, steady,’ said he, ‘why, yes, he’s steady, I cannot say that he is not steady.’ ‘Come, come,’ said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, ‘I see plainly that you are not altogether satisfied with him; I was afraid you would not be, for, though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his imperfections: but do tell me what particular fault you have to find with him; and I will do my best to make him alter his conduct.’ ‘No fault to find with him, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a remarkable youth, an extraordinary youth, only’—As I told you before, Mr. S—— is the best-natured man in the world, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could get him to say a single word to the disadvantage of the boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear it; though I must confess I was somewhat prepared for it. It appears that the lad has a total want of discrimination.”

“I don’t understand you,” said my mother.

“You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the conduct of that child. I am not, however, so blind; want of discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive. It appears that, since he has been placed where he is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S—— told me, as he was engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him; and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private room, and installed in an armchair, like a justice of the peace, instead of telling him to go about his business—now what did that show, but a total want of discrimination?”

“I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with,” said my mother.

“I don’t know what worse we could reproach him with,” said my father: “I mean of course as far as his profession is concerned: discrimination is the very keystone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don’t believe that would do in the world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who, by the by, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has £7,000 a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S—— turned up her eyes, Mr. S——, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital joke.”

“I think so too,” said my mother.

“I do not,” said my father; “that a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own—I mean one which militates against all established authority—is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one of an independent spirit get on in the army; the secret of success in the army is the spirit of subordination.”

“Which is a poor spirit after all,” said my mother; “but the child is not in the army.”

“And it is well for him that he is not,” said my father; “but you do not talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years! I confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad.”

[“I am not,” said my mother; “I have no doubt that Providence will take care of him.”

“I repeat that I am exceedingly uneasy,” said my father; “I can’t help being so, and would give my largest piece of coin to know what kind of part he will play in life.”

“Such curiosity is blamable,” said my mother, “highly so. Let us leave these things to Providence, and hope for the best; but to wish to pry into the future, which is hidden from us, and wisely too, is mighty wicked. Tempt not Providence. I early contracted a dread of that sin. When I was only a child, something occurred connected with diving into the future, which had, I hope, a salutary effect on my subsequent conduct. The fright which I got then, I shall never forget. But it is getting dark, and we had better go into the house.”

“We are well enough here,” said my father; “go on with your discourse. You were speaking of tempting Providence, and of having been frightened.”

“It was a long time ago,” said my mother, “when I was quite a child, and I was only a humble assistant in the affair. Your wish to dive into the future brought it to my recollection. It was, perhaps, only a foolish affair after all, and I would rather not talk about it, especially as it is growing dark. We had better go in.”

“A tale with any terror in it is all the better for being told in the dark hour,” said my father; “you are not afraid, I hope.”

“Afraid, indeed! Of what should I be afraid? And yet I know not how it is, I feel a chill, as if something was casting a cold shadow upon me. By the by, I have often heard that child talk of an indescribable fear which sometimes attacks him and which he calls the shadow. I wonder if it at all resembles what I am feeling now!”

“Never mind the child or his shadow,” said my father, “but let us hear the story.”

“I have no objection to tell it; but perhaps after all it is mere nonsense and will only make you laugh.”

“Why, then, so much the better; it will perhaps drive from my head what Mr. Simpson told me, which I certainly considered to be no laughing matter, though you and he did. I would hear the story by all means.”

“Well, so you shall. ’Tis said, however, that a superstition lies at the bottom of it, as old as the Danes. So, at least, says the child, who by some means or other has of late become acquainted with their language. He says that of old they worshipped a god whose name was Frey, and that this Frey had a wife.”

“Indeed!” said my father, “and who told you this?”

“Why, the child,” said my mother hesitatingly; “it was he that told me.”

“I am afraid that it will indeed prove a foolish story,” said my father; “the child is mixed up with it already.”

“He is not mixed up with it,” said my mother. “What I am about to relate occurred many a long year before he was born. But he is fond of hearing odd tales; and some time ago when he was poorly, I told him this one amongst others, and it was then he made the observation that it is a relic of the worship of the Danes. Truly the child talked both sensibly and learnedly. The Danes, he said, were once a mighty people, and were masters of the land where we at present are; that they had gods of their own, strange and wild like themselves, and that it was their god Frey who gave his name to what we call Friday.”

“All this may be true,” said my father, “but I should never think of quoting the child as an authority.”

“You must not be too hard on him,” said my mother. “So this Frey had a wife whose name was Freya,95 and the child says that the old pagans considered them as the gods of love and marriage, and worshipped them as such; and that all young damsels were in the habit of addressing themselves to Freya in their love adventures, and of requesting her assistance. He told me, and he quite frightened me when he said it, that a certain night ceremony, in which I took part in my early youth, and which is the affair to which I have alluded, was in every point heathenish, being neither more nor less than an invocation to this Freya, the wife of the old pagan god.”

“And what ceremony might it be?” demanded my father. “It is getting something dark,” he added, glancing around.

“It is so,” said my mother; “but these tales, you know, are best suited to the dark hour. The ceremony was rather a singular one; the child, however, explains it rationally enough. He says that this Freya was not only a very comely woman, but also particularly neat in her person, and that she invariably went dressed in snow-white linen.”

“And how came the child to know all this?” demanded my father.

“Oh, that’s his affair. I am merely repeating what he tells me. He reads strange books and converses with strange people. What he says, however, upon this matter, seems sensible enough. This Freya was fond of snow-white linen.”

“And what has that to do with the story?”

“Everything. I have told you that the young maidens were in the habit of praying to her and requesting her favour and assistance in their love adventures, which it seems she readily granted to those whom she took any interest in. Now the readiest way to secure this interest and to procure her assistance in any matter of the heart, was to flatter her on the point where she was the most sensible. Whence the offering.”

“And what was the offering?”

“It was once a common belief that the young maiden who should wash her linen white in pure running water and should ‘watch’ it whilst drying before a fire from eleven to twelve at night, would, at the stroke of midnight, see the face of the man appear before her who was destined to be her husband, and the child says that this was the ‘Wake of Freya.’ ”96

“I have heard of it before,” said my father, “but under another name. So you were engaged in one of these watchings.”

“It was no fault of mine,” said my mother; “for, as I told you, I was very young, scarcely ten years of age; but I had a sister considerably older than myself, a nice girl, but somewhat giddy and rather unsettled. Perhaps, poor thing, she had some cause; for a young man to whom she had been betrothed, had died suddenly, which was of course a terrible disappointment to her. Well, it is at such times that strange ideas, temptations perhaps, come into our head. To be brief, she had a mighty desire to know whether she was doomed to be married or not. I remember that at that time there were many odd beliefs and superstitions which have since then died away; for those times were not like these; there were highwaymen in the land, and people during the winter evenings used to sit round the fire and tell wonderful tales of those wild men and their horses; and these tales they would blend with ghost stories and the like. My sister was acquainted with all the tales and superstitions afloat and believed in them. So she determined upon the wake, the night-watch of Freya, as the child calls it. But with all her curiosity she was a timid creature, and was afraid to perform the ceremony alone. So she told me of her plan, and begged me to stand by her. Now, though I was a child, I had a spirit of my own and likewise a curiosity; and though I had other sisters, I loved her best of all of them, so I promised her that I would stand by her. Then we made our preparations. The first thing we did was to walk over to the town, which was about three miles distant—the pretty little rural town which you and the child admire so much, and in the neighbourhood of which I was born—to purchase the article we were in need of. After a considerable search we found such an one as we thought would suit. It was of the best Holland, and I remember that it cost us all the little pocket money we could muster. This we brought home; and that same night my sister put it on and wore it for that once only. We had washed it in a brook on the other side of the moor. I remember the spot well; it was in a little pool beneath an old hollow oak. The next night we entered on the ceremony itself.

“It happened to be Saturday, which was lucky for us, as my father that night would be at the town, whither he went every Saturday to sell grain; for he farmed his own little estate, as you know.”

“I remember him well,” said my father; “he preferred ale to wine.”

“My father was of the old race,” said my mother, “and lived in the days of the highwaymen and their horses, when ‘ale was ale,’ as he used to say, and ‘was good for man and beast.’ We knew that on the night in question he would not be home till very late; so we offered to sit up for him in lieu of the servant, who was glad enough in such weather, and after a hard day’s work, to escape to her bed. My mother was indisposed and had retired to rest early. Well do I remember that night; it was the beginning of December, and the weather for some time past had been piercingly cold. The wind howled through the leafless boughs, and there was every appearance of an early and severe winter, as indeed befell. Long before eleven o’clock all was hushed and quiet within the house, and indeed without (nothing was heard), except the cold wind which howled mournfully in gusts. The house was an old farmhouse, and we sat in the large kitchen with its stone floor, awaiting the first stroke of the eleventh hour. It struck at last, and then all pale and trembling we hung the garment to dry before the fire which we had piled up with wood, and set the door ajar, for that was an essential point. The door was lofty and opened upon the farmyard, through which there was a kind of thoroughfare, very seldom used, it is true, and at each end of it there was a gate by which wayfarers occasionally passed to shorten the way. There we sat without speaking a word, shivering with cold and fear, listening to the clock which went slowly, tick, tick, and occasionally starting as the door creaked on its hinges, or a half-burnt billet fell upon the hearth. My sister was ghastly white, as white as the garment which was drying before the fire. And now half an hour had elapsed and it was time to turn. … This we did, I and my sister, without saying a word, and then we again sank on our chairs on either side of the fire. I was tired, and as the clock went tick-a-tick, I began to feel myself dozing. I did doze, I believe. All of a sudden I sprang up. The clock was striking one, two, but ere it could give the third chime, mercy upon us! we heard the gate slam to with a tremendous noise …”

“Well, and what happened then?”

“Happened! before I could recover myself, my sister had sprung to the door and both locked and bolted it. The next moment she was in convulsions. I scarcely knew what happened; and yet it appeared to me for a moment that something pressed against the door with a low moaning sound. Whether it was the wind or not, I can’t say. I shall never forget that night. About two hours later, my father came home. He had been set upon by a highwayman whom he beat off.”

“And what was the result?”

“The result? why, my sister was ill for many weeks. Poor thing, she never throve, married poorly, flung herself away.”

“I don’t see much in the story,” said my father; “I should have laughed at it, only there is one thing I don’t like.”

“What is that?”

“Why, the explanation of that strange child. It seems so odd that he should be able to interpret it. The idea came this moment into my head. I daresay it’s all nonsense, but, but …”

“Oh, I daresay it’s nonsense. Let us go in.”

“If, after all, it should have been the worship of a demon! Your sister was punished, you say—she never throve; now how do we know that you may not be punished too? That child with his confusion of tongues—”

“I really think you are too hard upon him. After all, though not, perhaps, all you could wish, he is not a bad child; he is always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in; he is in the room above us; at least he was two hours ago. I left him there bending over his books; I wonder what he has been doing all this time. Let us go in, and he shall read to us.”]

“I am getting old,” said my father; “and I love to hear the Bible read to me, for my own sight is something dim; yet I do not wish the child to read to me this night, I cannot so soon forget what I have heard; but I hear my eldest son’s voice, he is now entering the gate; he shall read the Bible to us this night. What say you?”

XXI

The eldest son! The regard and affection which my father entertained for his firstborn were natural enough, and appeared to none more so than myself, who cherished the same feelings towards him. What he was as a boy the reader already knows, for the reader has seen him as a boy; fain would I describe him at the time of which I am now speaking, when he had attained the verge of manhood, but the pen fails me, and I attempt not the task; and yet it ought to be an easy one, for how frequently does his form visit my mind’s eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of day, and in the night watches; but last night I saw him in his beauty and his strength; he was about to speak, and my ear was on the stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was I alone, and the night storm was howling amidst the branches of the pines which surround my lonely dwelling: “Listen to the moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,”—a saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom; I listened, and thought of life and death. … Of all human beings that I have ever known, that elder brother was the most frank and generous, ay, and the quickest and readiest, and the best adapted to do a great thing needful at the critical time, when the delay of a moment would be fatal. I have known him dash from a steep bank into a stream in his full dress, and pull out a man who was drowning; yet there were twenty others bathing in the water, who might have saved him by putting out a hand, without inconvenience to themselves, which, however, they did not do, but stared with stupid surprise at the drowning one’s struggles. Yes, whilst some shouted from the bank to those in the water to save the drowning one, and those in the water did nothing, my brother neither shouted nor stood still, but dashed from the bank and did the one thing needful, which, under such circumstances, not one man in a million would have done. Now, who can wonder that a brave old man should love a son like this, and prefer him to any other?

“My boy, my own boy, you are the very image of myself the day I took off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben,” said my father, on meeting his son wet and dripping, immediately after his bold feat. And who cannot excuse the honest pride of the old man—the stout old man?

Ay, old man, that son was worthy of thee, and thou wast worthy of such a son; a noble specimen wast thou of those strong single-minded Englishmen, who, without making a parade either of religion or loyalty, feared God and honoured their king, and were not particularly friendly to the French, whose vaunting polls they occasionally broke, as at Minden and Malplaquet, to the confusion vast of the eternal foes of the English land. I, who was so little like thee that thou understoodst me not, and in whom with justice thou didst feel so little pride, had yet perception enough to see all thy worth, and to feel it an honour to be able to call myself thy son; and if at some no distant time, when the foreign enemy ventures to insult our shore, I be permitted to break some vaunting poll, it will be a triumph to me to think that, if thou hadst lived, thou wouldst have hailed the deed, and mightest yet discover some distant semblance to thyself, the day when thou didst all but vanquish the mighty Brain.

I have already spoken of my brother’s taste for painting, and the progress he had made in that beautiful art. It is probable that, if circumstances had not eventually diverted his mind from the pursuit, he would have attained excellence, and left behind him some enduring monument of his powers, for he had an imagination to conceive, and that yet rarer endowment, a hand capable of giving life, body, and reality to the conceptions of his mind; perhaps he wanted one thing, the want of which is but too often fatal to the sons of genius, and without which genius is little more than a splendid toy in the hands of the possessor—perseverance, dogged perseverance, in his proper calling; otherwise, though the grave had closed over him, he might still be living in the admiration of his fellow-creatures. O ye gifted ones, follow your calling, for, however various your talents may be, ye can have but one calling capable of leading ye to eminence and renown; follow resolutely the one straight path before you, it is that of your good angel, let neither obstacles nor temptations induce ye to leave it; bound along if you can; if not on hands and knees follow it, perish in it, if needful; but ye need not fear that; no one ever yet died in the true path of his calling before he had attained the pinnacle. Turn into other paths, and for a momentary advantage or gratification ye have sold your inheritance, your immortality. Ye will never be heard of after death.

“My father has given me a hundred and fifty pounds,” said my brother to me one morning, “and something which is better—his blessing. I am going to leave you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where? to the great city; to London,97 to be sure.”

“I should like to go with you.”

“Pooh,” said my brother, “what should you do there? But don’t be discouraged, I daresay a time will come when you too will go to London.”

And, sure enough, so it did, and all but too soon.

“And what do you purpose doing there?” I demanded.

“Oh, I go to improve myself in art, to place myself under some master of high name, at least I hope to do so eventually. I have, however, a plan in my head, which I should wish first to execute; indeed, I do not think I can rest till I have done so; everyone talks so much about Italy, and the wondrous artists which it has produced, and the wondrous pictures which are to be found there; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the great city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the grand miracle of art.”

“And what do you call it?”

“The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael,98 and it is said to be the greatest work of the greatest painter which the world has ever known. I suppose it is because everybody says so, that I have such a strange desire to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its locality, and think that I could almost find my way to it blindfold. When I have crossed the Tiber, which, as you are aware, runs through Rome, I must presently turn to the right, up a rather shabby street, which communicates with a large square, the farther end of which is entirely occupied by the front of an immense church, with a dome, which ascends almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter’s.”

“Ay, ay,” said I, “I have read about that in Keysler’s Travels.”

“Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on either side, casting up water in showers; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk, brought from Egypt, and covered with mysterious writing; on your right rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading-strings, calls the Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God’s Lieutenant-General upon earth.”

“Ay, ay,” said I, “I have read of him in Fox’s Book of Martyrs.”

“Well, I do not go straight forward up the flight of steps conducting into the church, but I turn to the right, and, passing under the piazza, find myself in a court of the huge bulky house; and then ascend various staircases, and pass along various corridors and galleries, all of which I could describe to you, though I have never seen them; at last a door is unlocked, and we enter a room rather high, but not particularly large, communicating with another room, into which, however, I do not go, though there are noble things in that second room—immortal things, by immortal artists; amongst others, a grand piece of Corregio;99 I do not enter it, for the grand picture of the world is not there: but I stand still immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before me, neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things both on the right and left, for immediately before me at the farther end, hanging against the wall, is a picture which arrests me, and I can see nothing else, for that picture at the farther end hanging against the wall is the picture of the world …”

Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London town or to old Rome, may success attend thee; yet strange fears assail me and misgivings on thy account. Thou canst not rest, thou say’st, till thou hast seen the picture in the chamber at old Rome hanging over against the wall; ay, and thus thou dost exemplify thy weakness—thy strength too, it may be—for the one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee, could only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if thou must go; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy native land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, with straining eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made excellence thine own; thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at the picture over against the door in the high chamber of old Rome. Seekest thou inspiration? thou needest it not, thou hast it already; and it was never yet found by crossing the sea. What hast thou to do with old Rome, and thou an Englishman? “Did thy blood never glow at the mention of thy native land?” as an artist merely? Yes, I trow, and with reason, for thy native land need not grudge old Rome her “pictures of the world;” she has pictures of her own, “pictures of England;” and is it a new thing to toss up caps and shout—England against the world? Yes, against the world in all, in all; in science and in arms, in minstrel strain, and not less in the art “which enables the hand to deceive the intoxicated soul by means of pictures.”100 Seek’st models? to Gainsborough and Hogarth turn, not names of the world, maybe, but English names—and England against the world! A living master? why, there he comes! thou hast had him long, he has long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet far from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou shouldst persist and wrestle, even as he has done, ’midst gloom and despondency—ay, and even contempt; he who now comes up the creaking stair to thy little studio in the second floor to inspect thy last effort before thou departest, the little stout man whose face is very dark, and whose eye is vivacious; that man has attained excellence, destined some day to be acknowledged, though not till he is cold, and his mortal part returned to its kindred clay. He has painted, not pictures of the world, but English pictures, such as Gainsborough himself might have done; beautiful rural pieces, with trees which might well tempt the wild birds to perch upon them: thou needest not run to Rome, brother, where lives the old Mariolater, after pictures of the world, whilst at home there are pictures of England; nor needest thou even go to London, the big city, in search of a master, for thou hast one at home in the old East Anglian town who can instruct thee whilst thou needest instruction. Better stay at home, brother, at least for a season, and toil and strive ’midst groanings and despondency till thou hast attained excellence even as he has done—the little dark man with the brown coat and the top-boots, whose name will one day be considered the chief ornament of the old town, and whose works will at no distant period rank among the proudest pictures of England—and England against the world!—thy master, my brother, thy, at present, all too little considered master—Crome.

XXII

But to proceed with my own story: I now ceased all at once to take much pleasure in the pursuits which formerly interested me, I yawned over Ab Gwilym; even as I now in my mind’s eye perceive the reader yawning over the present pages. What was the cause of this? Constitutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty? Both it is probable had some influence in the matter, but I rather think that the latter feeling was predominant. The parting words of my brother had sunk into my mind. He had talked of travelling in strange regions and seeing strange and wonderful objects, and my imagination fell to work and drew pictures of adventures wild and fantastic, and I thought what a fine thing it must be to travel, and I wished that my father would give me his blessing, and the same sum that he had given my brother, and bid me go forth into the world; always forgetting that I had neither talents nor energies at this period which would enable me to make any successful figure on its stage.

And then I again sought up the book which had so captivated me in my infancy, and I read it through; and I sought up others of a similar character, and in seeking for them I met books also of adventure, but by no means of a harmless description, lives of wicked and lawless men, Murray and Latroon101—books of singular power, but of coarse and prurient imagination—books at one time highly in vogue; now deservedly forgotten, and most difficult to be found.

And when I had gone through these books, what was my state of mind? I had derived entertainment from their perusal, but they left me more listless and unsettled than before, and I really knew not what to do to pass my time. My philological studies had become distasteful, and I had never taken any pleasure in the duties of my profession. I sat behind my desk in a state of torpor, my mind almost as blank as the paper before me, on which I rarely traced a line. It was always a relief to hear the bell ring, as it afforded me an opportunity of doing something which I was yet capable of doing, to rise and open the door and stare in the countenances of the visitors. All of a sudden I fell to studying countenances, and soon flattered myself that I had made considerable progress in the science.

“There is no faith in countenances,” said some Roman of old; “trust anything but a person’s countenance.” “Not trust a man’s countenance?” say some moderns, “why, it is the only thing in many people that we can trust; on which account they keep it most assiduously out of the way. Trust not a man’s words if you please, or you may come to very erroneous conclusions; but at all times place implicit confidence in a man’s countenance, in which there is no deceit; and of necessity there can be none. If people would but look each other more in the face, we should have less cause to complain of the deception of the world; nothing so easy as physiognomy nor so useful.” Somewhat in this latter strain I thought, at the time of which I am speaking. I am now older, and let us hope, less presumptuous. It is true that in the course of my life I have scarcely ever had occasion to repent placing confidence in individuals whose countenances have prepossessed me in their favour; though to how many I may have been unjust, from whose countenances I may have drawn unfavourable conclusions, is another matter.

But it had been decreed by Fate, which governs our every action, that I was soon to return to my old pursuits. It was written that I should not yet cease to be Lavengro, though I had become, in my own opinion, a kind of Lavater. It is singular enough that my renewed ardour for philology seems to have been brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in which had I not indulged, the event which I am about to relate, as far as connected with myself, might never have occurred. Amongst the various countenances which I admitted during the period of my answering the bell, there were two which particularly pleased me, and which belonged to an elderly yeoman and his wife, whom some little business had brought to our law sanctuary. I believe they experienced from me some kindness and attention, which won the old people’s hearts. So, one day, when their little business had been brought to a conclusion, and they chanced to be alone with me, who was seated as usual behind the deal desk in the outer room, the old man with some confusion began to tell me how grateful himself and dame felt for the many attentions I had shown them, and how desirous they were to make me some remuneration. “Of course,” said the old man, “we must be cautious what we offer to so fine a young gentleman as yourself; we have, however, something we think will just suit the occasion, a strange kind of thing which people say is a book, though no one that my dame or myself have shown it to can make anything out of it; so as we are told that you are a fine young gentleman, who can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, we thought, I and my dame, that it would be just the thing you would like; and my dame has it now at the bottom of her basket.”

“A book,” said I, “how did you come by it?”

“We live near the sea,” said the old man; “so near that sometimes our thatch is wet with the spray; and it may now be a year ago that there was a fearful storm, and a ship was driven ashore during the night, and ere the morn was a complete wreck. When we got up at daylight, there were the poor shivering crew at our door; they were foreigners, red-haired men, whose speech we did not understand; but we took them in, and warmed them, and they remained with us three days; and when they went away they left behind them this thing, here it is, part of the contents of a box which was washed ashore.”

“And did you learn who they were?”

“Why, yes; they made us understand that they were Danes.”

Danes! thought I, Danes! and instantaneously, huge and grizly, appeared to rise up before my vision the skull of the old pirate Dane, even as I had seen it of yore in the pent-house of the ancient church to which, with my mother and my brother, I had wandered on the memorable summer eve.

And now the old man handed me the book; a strange and uncouth-looking volume enough. It was not very large, but instead of the usual covering was bound in wood, and was compressed with strong iron clasps. It was a printed book, but the pages were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and resembled those generally termed Gothic.

“It is certainly a curious book,” said I; “and I should like to have it, but I can’t think of taking it as a gift, I must give you an equivalent, I never take presents from anybody.”

The old man whispered with his dame and chuckled, and then turned his face to me and said, with another chuckle: “Well, we have agreed about the price; but maybe you will not consent.”

“I don’t know,” said I; “what do you demand?”

“Why, that you shake me by the hand, and hold out your cheek to my old dame, she has taken an affection to you.”

“I shall be very glad to shake you by the hand,” said I, “but as for the other condition it requires consideration.”

“No consideration at all,” said the old man, with something like a sigh; “she thinks you like her son, our only child that was lost twenty years ago in the waves of the North Sea.”

“Oh, that alters the case altogether,” said I, “and of course I can have no objection.”

And now, at once, I shook off my listlessness, to enable me to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than the above event. The Danes, the Danes! And I was at last to become acquainted, and in so singular a manner, with the speech of a people which had as far back as I could remember exercised the strongest influence over my imagination, as how should they not!—in infancy there was the summer-eve adventure, to which I often looked back, and always with a kind of strange interest, with respect to those to whom such gigantic and wondrous bones could belong as I had seen on that occasion; and more than this, I had been in Ireland, and there, under peculiar circumstances, this same interest was increased tenfold. I had mingled much whilst there with the genuine Irish—a wild, but kindhearted race, whose conversation was deeply imbued with traditionary lore, connected with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing commonplace, for they never mentioned them but in terms which tallied well with my own preconceived ideas. For at an early period the Danes had invaded Ireland, and had subdued it, and, though eventually driven out, had left behind them an enduring remembrance in the minds of the people, who loved to speak of their strength and their stature, in evidence of which they would point to the ancient raths or mounds, where the old Danes were buried, and where bones of extraordinary size were occasionally exhumed. And as the Danes surpassed other people in strength, so, according to my narrators, they also excelled all others in wisdom, or rather in Draoitheac,102 or Magic, for they were powerful sorcerers, they said, compared with whom the fairy men of the present day knew nothing at all, at all! and, amongst other wonderful things, they knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mysterious interest, which I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by my sojourn in Ireland.

And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from its appearance, might be supposed to have belonged to the very old Danes indeed; but how was I to turn it to any account? I had the book, it is true, but I did not understand the language and how was I to overcome that difficulty? hardly by poring over the book; yet I did pore over the book, daily and nightly, till my eyes were dim, and it appeared to me every now and then I encountered words which I understood—English words, though strangely disguised; and I said to myself, courage! English and Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come when I shall understand this Danish; and then I pored over the book again, but with all my poring I could not understand it; and then I became angry, and I bit my lips till the blood came; and I occasionally tore a handful from my hair and flung it upon the floor, but that did not mend the matter, for still I did not understand the book, which, however, I began to see was written in rhyme—a circumstance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the lines not differing from that which is employed in prose; and its being written in rhyme made me only the more eager to understand it.

But I toiled in vain, for I had neither grammar nor dictionary of the language; and when I sought for them could procure neither; and I was much dispirited, till suddenly a bright thought came into my head, and I said, although I cannot obtain a dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in this language, and if I can procure a Bible, I can learn the language, for the Bible in every tongue contains the same thing, and I have only to compare the words of the Danish Bible with those of the English, and, if I persevere, I shall in time acquire the language of the Danes; and I was pleased with the thought, which I considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my lips, or tore my hair, but took my hat, and, going forth, I flung my hat into the air.

And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and commenced running, directing my course to the house of the Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little library, dusting his books; and the Antinomian clergyman was a tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad brim and a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly nasal; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, “Have you a Danish Bible?” and he replied, “What do you want it for, friend?” and I answered, “to learn Danish by;” “and may be to learn thy duty,” replied the Antinomian preacher. “Truly, I have it not; but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire.”

And when I heard these words of the old man, I was very glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter into conversation with him; and I said, “Why are you an Antinomian? For my part, I would rather be a dog than belong to such a religion.” “Nay, friend,” said the Antinomian, “thou forejudgest us; know that those who call us Antinomians call us so despitefully, we do not acknowledge the designation.” “Then you do not set all law at nought?” said I. “Far be it from us,” said the old man, “we only hope that, being sanctified by the Spirit from above, we have no need of the law to keep us in order. Did you ever hear tell of Lodowick Muggleton?” “Not I.” “That is strange; know then that he was the founder of our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though opprobriously, termed Muggletonians,103 for we are Christians. Here is his book, which, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase, you are fond of rare books, and this is both curious and rare; I will sell it cheap. Thank you, and now be gone, I will do all I can to procure the Bible.”

And in this manner I procured the Danish Bible, and I commenced my task; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the volume which had excited my curiosity, saying, “Out of this closet thou comest not till I deem myself competent to read thee,” and then I sat down in right earnest, comparing every line in the one version with the corresponding one in the other; and I passed entire nights in this manner, till I was almost blind, and the task was tedious enough at first, but I quailed not, and soon began to make progress. And at first I had a misgiving that the old book might not prove a Danish book, but was soon reassured by reading many words in the Bible which I remembered to have seen in the book; and then I went on right merrily, and I found that the language which I was studying was by no means a difficult one, and in less than a month I deemed myself able to read the book.

Anon, I took the book from the closet, and proceeded to make myself master of its contents; I had some difficulty, for the language of the book, though in the main the same as the language of the Bible, differed from it in some points, being apparently a more ancient dialect; by degrees, however, I overcame this difficulty, and I understood the contents of the book, and well did they correspond with all those ideas in which I had indulged connected with the Danes. For the book was a book of ballads, about the deeds of knights and champions, and men of huge stature; ballads which from time immemorial had been sung in the North, and which some two centuries before the time of which I am speaking had been collected by one Anders Vedel,104 who lived with a certain Tycho Brahe, and assisted him in making observations upon the heavenly bodies, at a place called Uranias Castle, on the little island of Hveen, in the Cattegat.

XXIII

It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that two individuals105 were seated together in a certain room, in a certain street of the old town which I have so frequently had occasion to mention in the preceding pages; one of them was an elderly, and the other a very young man, and they sat on either side of the fireplace, beside a table, on which were fruit and wine; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited nothing remarkable. Over the mantelpiece, however, hung a small picture with naked figures in the foreground, and with much foliage behind. It might not have struck every beholder, for it looked old and smoke-dried; but a connoisseur, on inspecting it closely, would have pronounced it to be a Judgment of Paris, and a masterpiece of the Flemish School.

The forehead of the elder individual was high, and perhaps appeared more so than it really was, from the hair being carefully brushed back, as if for the purpose of displaying to the best advantage that part of the cranium; his eyes were large and full, and of a light brown, and might have been called heavy and dull, had they not been occasionally lighted up by a sudden gleam—not so brilliant, however, as that which at every inhalation shone from the bowl of the long clay pipe he was smoking, but which, from a certain sucking sound which about this time began to be heard from the bottom, appeared to be giving notice that it would soon require replenishment from a certain canister, which, together with a lighted taper, stood upon the table beside him.

“You do not smoke?” said he, at length, laying down his pipe, and directing his glance to his companion.

Now there was at least one thing singular connected with this last, namely, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming grey. He had very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been somewhat below the usual height.

“No, I can’t smoke,” said the youth in reply to the observation of the other. “I have often tried, but could never succeed to my satisfaction.”

“Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?” said the senior, half-speaking to himself.

“I dare say not,” said the youth; “but I shan’t break my heart on that account.”

“As for breaking your heart, of course you would never think of such a thing; he is a fool who breaks his heart on any account; but it is good to be a German, the Germans are the most philosophic people in the world, and the greatest smokers; now I trace their philosophy to their smoking.”

“I have heard say their philosophy is all smoke—is that your opinion?”

“Why, no; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nerves, and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which everyone has his share) not only decently, but dignifiedly. Suicide is not a national habit in Germany as it is in England.”

“But that poor creature, Werther, who committed suicide, was a German.”

“Werther is a fictitious character, and by no means a felicitous one; I am no admirer either of Werther or his author. But I should say that, if there was a Werther in Germany, he did not smoke. Werther, as you very justly observe, was a poor creature.”

“And a very sinful one; I have heard my parents say that suicide is a great crime.”

“Broadly, and without qualification, to say that suicide is a crime, is speaking somewhat unphilosophically. No doubt suicide, under many circumstances, is a crime, a very heinous one. When the father of a family, for example, to escape from certain difficulties, commits suicide, he commits a crime; there are those around him who look to him for support, by the law of nature, and he has no right to withdraw himself from those who have a claim upon his exertions; he is a person who decamps with other people’s goods as well as his own. Indeed, there can be no crime which is not founded upon the depriving others of something which belongs to them. A man is hanged for setting fire to his house in a crowded city, for he burns at the same time or damages those of other people; but if a man who has a house on a heath sets fire to it, he is not hanged, for he has not damaged or endangered any other individual’s property, and the principle of revenge, upon which all punishment is founded, has not been aroused. Similar to such a case is that of the man who, without any family ties, commits suicide; for example, were I to do the thing this evening, who would have a right to call me to account? I am alone in the world, have no family to support and, so far from damaging anyone, should even benefit my heir by my accelerated death. However, I am no advocate for suicide under any circumstances; there is something undignified in it, unheroic, un-Germanic. But if you must commit suicide—and there is no knowing to what people may be brought—always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of. I remember a female Quaker who committed suicide by cutting her throat, but she did it decorously and decently: kneeling down over a pail, so that not one drop fell upon the floor, thus exhibiting in her last act that nice sense of neatness for which Quakers are distinguished. I have always had a respect for that woman’s memory.”

And here, filling his pipe from the canister, and lighting it at the taper, he recommenced smoking calmly and sedately.

“But is not suicide forbidden in the Bible?” the youth demanded.

“Why, no; but what though it were!—the Bible is a respectable book, but I should hardly call it one whose philosophy is of the soundest. I have said that it is a respectable book; I mean respectable from its antiquity, and from containing, as Herder says, ‘the earliest records of the human race,’ though those records are far from being dispassionately written, on which account they are of less value than they otherwise might have been. There is too much passion in the Bible, too much violence; now, to come to all truth, especially historic truth, requires cool, dispassionate investigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been famous. We are ourselves not famous for it, for we are a passionate people; the Germans are not—they are not a passionate people—a people celebrated for their oaths: we are. The Germans have many excellent historic writers, we—’tis true we have Gibbon. You have been reading Gibbon—what do you think of him?”

“I think him a very wonderful writer.”

“He is a wonderful writer—one sui generis—uniting the perspicuity of the English—for we are perspicuous—with the cool, dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after the truth, found it, and made it clear.”

“Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer.”

“Why, yes; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood? Many people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood; they have followed him in his researches, and have never found him once tripping. Oh, he’s a wonderful writer! his power of condensation is admirable; the lore of the whole world is to be found in his pages. Sometimes in a single note he has given us the result of the study of years; or, to speak metaphorically, ‘he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto.’ ”

“But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith?”

“Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration—of Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have nothing to do. Of all historic characters, Jesus is the most beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilised people—the worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarism—it is mere fetish; the savages of West Africa are all spirit worshippers. But there is something philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who have attained a much higher state of civilisation than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances; who was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against that violent dogma, ‘an eye for an eye’; who shouted conquer, but conquer with kindness; who said put up the sword, a violent, unphilosophic weapon; and who finally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha.”

“But he was something more than a hero; he was the Son of God, wasn’t he?”

The elderly individual made no immediate answer; but, after a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed: “Come, fill your glass! How do you advance with your translation of Tell?”

“It is nearly finished; but I do not think I shall proceed with it; I begin to think the original somewhat dull.”

“There you are wrong; it is the masterpiece of Schiller, the first of German poets.”

“It may be so,” said the youth. “But, pray excuse me, I do not think very highly of German poetry. I have lately been reading Shakespeare, and, when I turn from him to the Germans—even the best of them—they appear mere pygmies. You will pardon the liberty I perhaps take in saying so.”

“I like that everyone should have an opinion of his own,” said the elderly individual; “and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, ‘crackling bombast,’ as I think I have said in one of my essays?”

“I daresay he is,” said the youth; “but I can’t help thinking him the greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of Lancaster, than the Iliad itself. The events described are as lofty as those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer.”

“You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again—but the Germans?”

“I don’t admire the Germans,” said the youth, somewhat excited. “I don’t admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can’t be much depended upon as soldiers; and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside, I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen Lay to the present.”

“Ah, the Koempe Viser?” said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the declamation of his young companion. “There are singular things in that book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm Ungarswayne,106 who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved,107 who roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who cannot answer, and rewarding those who can with golden bracelets. Were it not for the violence, I should say that ballad has a philosophic tendency. I thank you for making me acquainted with the book, and I thank the Jew Mousha108 for making me acquainted with you.”

“That Mousha was a strange customer,” said the youth, collecting himself.

“He was a strange customer,” said the elder individual, breathing forth a gentle cloud. “I love to exercise hospitality to wandering strangers, especially foreigners; and when he came to this place, pretending to teach German and Hebrew, I asked him to dinner. After the first dinner, he asked me to lend him five pounds; I did lend him five pounds. After the fifth dinner, he asked me to lend him fifty pounds; I did not lend him the fifty pounds.”

“He was as ignorant of German as of Hebrew,” said the youth; “on which account he was soon glad, I suppose, to transfer his pupil to someone else.”

“He told me,” said the elder individual, “that he intended to leave a town where he did not find sufficient encouragement; and, at the same time, expressed regret at being obliged to abandon a certain extraordinary pupil, for whom he had a particular regard. Now I, who have taught many people German from the love which I bear to it, and the desire which I feel that it should be generally diffused, instantly said, that I should be happy to take his pupil off his hands, and afford him what instruction I could in German, for, as to Hebrew, I have never taken much interest in it. Such was the origin of our acquaintance. You have been an apt scholar. Of late, however, I have seen little of you—what is the reason?”

The youth made no answer.

“You think, probably, that you have learned all I can teach you? Well, perhaps you are right.”

“Not so, not so,” said the young man eagerly; “before I knew you I knew nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father’s health has been very much broken, and he requires attention; his spirits also have become low, which, to tell you the truth, he attributes to my misconduct. He says that I have imbibed all kinds of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in all probability, prove my ruin, both here and hereafter; which—which—”

“Ah! I understand,” said the elder, with another calm whiff. “I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would fain have cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not been reciprocated. I met him, the other day, up the road, with his cane and dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation.”

“He has certain opinions of his own,” said the youth, “which are widely different from those which he has heard that you profess.”

“I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own,” said the elderly individual. “I hold certain opinions; but I should not respect an individual the more for adopting them. All I wish for is tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise. I have always loved the truth, and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my misfortune.”

“Are you happy?” said the young man.

“Why, no! And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions. My life, upon the whole, I consider a failure; on which account I would not counsel you, or anyone, to follow my example too closely. It is getting late, and you had better be going, especially as your father, you say, is anxious about you. But, as we may never meet again, I think there are three things which I may safely venture to press upon you. The first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should never be lost sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentlenesses is at all times compatible with independence of thought and action. The second thing which I would wish to impress upon you is, that there is always some eye upon us; and that it is impossible to keep anything we do from the world, as it will assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon as it is his interest to do so. The third thing which I would wish to press upon you—”

“Yes,” said the youth, eagerly bending forward.

“Is—” and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe upon the table—“that it will be as well to go on improving yourself in German!”

XXIV

“Holloa, master! can you tell us where the fight109 is likely to be?”

Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick fellow in brown top-boots, and bareheaded, who stood, with his hands in his pockets, at the door of a country alehouse as I was passing by.

Now, as I knew nothing about the fight, and as the appearance of the man did not tempt me greatly to enter into conversation with him, I merely answered in the negative and continued my way.

It was a fine lovely morning in May, the sun shone bright above, and the birds were carolling in the hedgerows. I was wont to be cheerful at such seasons, for, from my earliest recollection, sunshine and the song of birds have been dear to me; yet, about that period, I was not cheerful, my mind was not at rest; I was debating within myself, and the debate was dreary and unsatisfactory enough. I sighed, and turning my eyes upward, I ejaculated: “What is truth?” But suddenly, by a violent effort breaking away from my meditations, I hastened forward; one mile, two miles, three miles were speedily left behind; and now I came to a grove of birch and other trees, and opening a gate I passed up a kind of avenue, and soon arriving before a large brick house, of rather antique appearance, knocked at the door.

In this house there lived a gentleman with whom I had business. He was said to be a genuine old English gentleman, and a man of considerable property; at this time, however, he wanted a thousand pounds, as gentlemen of considerable property every now and then do. I had brought him a thousand pounds in my pocket, for it is astonishing how many eager helpers the rich find, and with what compassion people look upon their distresses. He was said to have good wine in his cellar.

“Is your master at home?” said I, to a servant who appeared at the door.

“His worship is at home, young man,” said the servant, as he looked at my shoes, which bore evidence that I had come walking. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he added, as he looked me in the face.

“Ay, ay, servants,” thought I, as I followed the man into the house, “always look people in the face when you open the door, and do so before you look at their shoes, or you may mistake the heir of a Prime Minister for a shopkeeper’s son.”

I found his worship a jolly, red-faced gentleman, of about fifty-five; he was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fashioned leather sofa, with two small, thoroughbred, black English terriers, one on each side of him. He had all the appearance of a genuine old English gentleman who kept good wine in his cellar.

“Sir,” said I, “I have brought you a thousand pounds;” and I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had ceased their barking, which is natural to all such dogs at the sight of a stranger.

And when the magistrate had received the money, and signed and returned a certain paper which I handed to him, he rubbed his hands, and looking very benignantly at me, exclaimed:—

“And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, perhaps you can tell me where the fight is to take place?”

“I am sorry, sir,” said I, “that I can’t inform you, but everybody seems to be anxious about it;” and then I told him what had occurred to me on the road with the alehouse keeper.

“I know him,” said his worship; “he’s a tenant of mine, and a good fellow, somewhat too much in my debt, though. But how is this, young gentleman, you look as if you had been walking; you did not come on foot?”

“Yes, sir, I came on foot.”

“On foot! why, it is sixteen miles.”

“I shan’t be tired when I have walked back.”

“You can’t ride, I suppose?”

“Better than I can walk.”

“Then why do you walk?”

“I have frequently to make journeys connected with my profession; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride, just as the whim takes me.”

“Will you take a glass of wine?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right; what shall it be?”

“Madeira!”

The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee; “I like your taste,” said he, “I am fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can give you such a one as you will not drink every day; sit down, young gentleman, you shall have a glass of Madeira, and the best I have.”

Thereupon he got up, and, followed by his two terriers, walked slowly out of the room.

I looked round the room, and, seeing nothing which promised me much amusement, I sat down, and fell again into my former train of thought.

“What is truth?” said I.

“Here it is,” said the magistrate, returning at the end of a quarter of an hour, followed by the servant with a tray; “here’s the true thing, or I am no judge, far less a justice. It has been thirty years in my cellar last Christmas. There,” said he to the servant, “put it down, and leave my young friend and me to ourselves. Now, what do you think of it?”

“It is very good,” said I.

“Did you ever taste better Madeira?”

“I never before tasted Madeira.”

“Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is?”

“I ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is.”

“Well, there is logic in that, as Parr110 would say; you have heard of Parr?”

“Old Parr?”

“Yes, old Parr, but not that Parr; you mean the English, I the Greek Parr, as people call him.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Perhaps not—rather too young for that, but were you of my age, you might have cause to know him, coming from where you do. He kept school there, I was his first scholar; he flogged Greek into me till I loved him—and he loved me. He came to see me last year, and sat in that chair; I honour Parr—he knows much, and is a sound man.”

“Does he know the truth?”

“Know the truth! he knows what’s good, from an oyster to an ostrich—he’s not only sound but round.”

“Suppose we drink his health?”

“Thank you, boy: here’s Parr’s health, and Whiter’s.”111

“Who is Whiter?”

“Don’t you know Whiter? I thought everybody knew Reverend Whiter, the philologist, though I suppose you scarcely know what that means. A man fond of tongues and languages, quite out of your way—he understands some twenty; what do you say to that?”

“Is he a sound man?”

“Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say; he has got queer notions in his head—wrote a book to prove that all words came originally from the earth—who knows? Words have roots, and roots live in the earth; but, upon the whole, I should not call him altogether a sound man, though he can talk Greek nearly as fast as Parr.”

“Is he a round man?”

“Ay, boy, rounder than Parr; I’ll sing you a song, if you like, which will let you into his character:—

‘Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old,
And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold,
An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride,
And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side;
With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal,
Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call.’

Here’s to Whiter’s health—so you know nothing about the fight?”

“No, sir; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information. Boxing is a noble art.”

“Can you box?”

“A little.”

“I tell you what, my boy; I honour you, and, provided your education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter; both can box. Boxing is, as you say, a noble art—a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace! I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prizefight. I saw the Game Chicken112 beat Gulley.”

“Did you ever see Big Ben?”

“No, why do you ask?” But here we heard a noise, like that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little time, the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in the room.

“Sir,” said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, “here are two gentlemen waiting to speak to you.”

“Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said the servant; “but they look like sporting gentlemen,113 and—and”—here he hesitated; “from a word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight.”

“About the fight,” said the magistrate. “No, that can hardly be; however, you had better show them in.”

Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the servant ushered two men into the apartment. Again there was a barking, but louder than that which had been directed against myself, for here were two intruders; both of them were remarkable looking men, but to the foremost of them the most particular notice may well be accorded: he was a man somewhat under thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue coat, white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with small golden buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb’s-wool stockings, and on his feet shoes reaching to the ankles; round his neck was a handkerchief of the blue and bird’s-eye pattern; he wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and appeared not to delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light brown, being closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat narrow; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp than broad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were grey, with an expression in which there was sternness blended with something approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain pockmarks, which here and there studded his countenance; his form was athletic, but lean; his arms long. In the whole appearance of the man there was a blending of the bluff and the sharp. You might have supposed him a bruiser; his dress was that of one in all its minutiae; something was wanting, however, in his manner—the quietness of the professional man; he rather looked liked one performing the part—well—very well—but still performing a part. His companion!—there, indeed, was the bruiser—no mistake about him: a tall, massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring; he wore white topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat.

As the first advanced towards the table, behind which the magistrate sat, he doffed a white castor from his head, and made rather a genteel bow; looking at me, who sat somewhat on one side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition.

“May I request to know who you are, gentlemen?” said the magistrate.

“Sir,” said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, “allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. ———, the celebrated pugilist;” and he motioned with his hand towards the massive man with the flattened nose.

“And your own name, sir?” said the magistrate.

“My name is no matter,” said the man; “were I to mention it to you, it would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It is neither Kean nor Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to distinguish myself like either of those individuals, or even like my friend here. However, a time may come—we are not yet buried; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high—

‘Like bird that’s bred amongst the Helicons.’ ”

And here a smile half-theatrical passed over his features.

“In what can I oblige you, sir?” said the magistrate.

“Well, sir; the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; ’twould be a favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe.”

My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air: “Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request.”

“Not comply!” said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with a hoarse and savage tone: “Not comply! why not?”

“It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!”

“Why so?”

“I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor to any man.”

“Let me beg of you to alter your decision,” said the man in a tone of profound respect.

“Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate.”

“Magistrate! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and a Harmanbeck.”114

“Sir!” said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery with wrath.

But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment; and in a moment more the heavy footsteps of himself and his companion were heard descending the staircase.

“Who is that man?” said my friend, turning towards me.

“A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which I come.”

“He appeared to know you.”

“I have occasionally put on the gloves with him.”

“What is his name?”115

XXV

There was one question which I was continually asking myself at this period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the reader who has followed me through the last chapter. “What is truth?” I had involved myself imperceptibly in a dreary labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I turned, no reasonable prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means by which I had brought myself into this situation may be very briefly told; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I might become wise, and I had read and pondered over the words of the wise, so called, till I had made myself master of the sum of human wisdom; namely, that everything is enigmatical and that man is an enigma to himself; thence the cry of “What is truth?” I had ceased to believe in the truth of that in which I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I could put any fixed or deliberate belief. I was, indeed, in a labyrinth! In what did I not doubt? With respect to crime and virtue I was in doubt; I doubted that the one was blameable and the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity? Assuredly; time and chance govern all things: yet how can this be? alas!

Then there was myself; for what was I born? Are not all things born to be forgotten? That’s incomprehensible: yet is it not so? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a butterfly? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah! that was a pang indeed; ’tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fishpools, saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun? If so, of what profit is life?

In truth, it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as the wise man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform must necessarily be of very temporary duration; and if so, why do it? I said to myself, whatever name I can acquire, will it endure for eternity? scarcely so. A thousand years? Let me see! What have I done already? I have learnt Welsh, and have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand lines, into English rhyme; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach into corresponding English metre. Good! have I done enough already to secure myself a reputation of a thousand years? No, no! certainly not; I have not the slightest ground for hoping that my translations from the Welsh and Danish will be read at the end of a thousand years. Well, but I am only eighteen, and I have not stated all that I have done; I have learnt many other tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then be very learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have translated the Talmud, and some of the great works of the Arabians. Pooh! all this is mere learning and translation, and such will never secure immortality. Translation is at best an echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be heard after the lapse of a thousand years. No! all I have already done, and all I may yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing—mere pastime; something else must be done. I must either write some grand original work, or conquer an empire; the one just as easy as the other. But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, under favourable circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well! but what’s a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me! I may just as well sit still.

“Would I had never been born!” I said to myself; and a thought would occasionally intrude. But was I ever born? Is not all that I see a lie—a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, and earth, and sky? Berkeley’s doctrine—Spinosa’s doctrine! Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinosa. I have still never read them; who are they, men of yesterday? “All is a lie—all a deceitful phantom,” are old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those, who, casting aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the “universal all” is almost coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie—a deceitful phantom—was said when the world was yet young; its surface, save a scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddha; and Buddha lived thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his sunny fishpools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, “There is nothing new under the sun!”

One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended halfway up the side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half a dozen men; some sitting, others standing. They were dressed in sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in plain and rather uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all were bareheaded—sitting or standing, all were bareheaded. One of them, a tall man, was speaking, as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn “to the glory of God”—that was the word. It was a strange-sounding hymn, as well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and of children—of those who could sing and of those who could not—a thousand voices all joined, and all joined heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers, and mechanics, and their wives and children—dusty people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over—and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious solemnity was being done—in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their melodious tones in presence of Batuschca116 and his cardinals—on the ice of the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky117 guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph—when the hymn was over, another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a practised one—once or twice he hesitated as if for words to express his meaning, but still he held on, talking of faith, and how it could remove mountains: “It is the only thing we want, brethren, in this world; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will enable us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot, however hard it may be—and the lot of all mankind is hard—the lot of the poor is hard, brethren—and who knows more of the poor than I?—a poor man myself, and the son of a poor man: but are the rich better off? not so, brethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too: I am not rich myself, but I have seen the rich with careworn countenances; I have also seen them in madhouses; from which you may learn, brethren, that the lot of all mankind is hard; that is, till we lay hold of faith, which makes us comfortable under all circumstances; whether we ride in gilded chariots or walk barefooted in quest of bread; whether we be ignorant, whether we be wise—for riches and poverty, ignorance and wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar temptations. Well, under all these troubles, the thing which I would recommend you to seek is one and the same—faith; faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us and allotted to each his station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do it, therefore, but always in faith; without faith we shall find ourselves sometimes at fault; but with faith never—for faith can remove the difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us; for as every man has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It will likewise teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we must one day part with it. It will teach us to face death with resignation, and will preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling of the river Jordan.”

And when he had concluded his address, he said: “Let us sing a hymn, one composed by Master Charles Wesley—he was my countryman, brethren.

‘Jesus, I cast my soul on Thee,
Mighty and merciful to save;
Thou shalt to death go down with me
And lay me gently in the grave.
This body then shall rest in hope,
This body which the worms destroy;
For Thou shalt surely raise me up,
To glorious life and endless joy.’ ”

Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm, serious look! I saw thee once again, and that was lately—only the other day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the seaside, that I saw the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a lookout for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quicksands. There he stood on the monticle, preaching to weatherworn fishermen and mariners gathered below upon the sand. “Who is he?” said I to an old fisherman, who stood beside me with a book of hymns in his hand; but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that was the only answer I received. Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not that of one who hesitates. There he stood—no longer a young man, for his black locks were become gray, even like my own; but there was the intelligent face, and the calm, serious look which had struck me of yore. There stood the preacher, one of those men—and, thank God, their number is not few—who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty, and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian England. I would have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might speak to him and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me: “Why loiterest thou here?—knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?” and he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, “Farewell, brother! the seed came up at last, after a long period!” and then I gave the speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping horse, I said: “Would that my life had been like his—even like that man’s!”

I now wandered along the heath, till I came to a place where, beside a thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the setting sun.

“That’s not you, Jasper?”

“Indeed, brother!”

“I’ve not seen you for years.”

“How should you, brother?”

“What brings you here?”

“The fight, brother.”

“Where are the tents?”

“On the old spot, brother.”

“Any news since we parted?”

“Two deaths, brother.”

“Who are dead, Jasper?”

“Father and mother, brother.”

“Where did they die?”

“Where they were sent, brother.”

“And Mrs. Herne?”

“She’s alive, brother.”

“Where is she now?”

“In Yorkshire, brother.”

“What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?” said I, as I sat down beside him.

“My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing:—

‘Cana marel o manus chivios andé puv,
Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi.’

When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast into the earth, and there is an end of the matter.”

“And do you think that is the end of a man?”

“There’s an end of him, brother, more’s the pity.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Life is sweet, brother.”

“Do you think so?”

“Think so! There’s night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there’s likewise the wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?”

“I would wish to die—”

“You talk like a gorgio—which is the same as talking like a fool—were you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed! A Rommany Chal would wish to live forever!”

“In sickness, Jasper?”

“There’s the sun and stars, brother.”

“In blindness, Jasper?”

“There’s the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live forever. Dosta, we’ll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and I’ll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!”

XXVI118

How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how does the glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the grass! This is a truism, but it is one of those which are continually forcing themselves upon the mind. Many years have not passed over my head, yet during those which I can call to remembrance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the light of a national affair; when tens of thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided. But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is; all I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward—and that in the days of pugilism it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a match for two of t’other race; at present it would be a vain boast to say so, for these are not the days of pugilism.

But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the days of pugilism; it was then at its height, and consequently near its decline, for corruption had crept into the ring; and how many things, states and sects among the rest, owe their decline to this cause! But what a bold and vigorous aspect pugilism wore at that time! and the great battle was just then coming off; the day had been decided upon, and the spot—a convenient distance from the old town; and to the old town were now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown. Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England—what were the gladiators of Rome, or the bullfighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to England’s bruisers? Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them—but of that I wish not to talk, let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen. There they come, the bruisers, from far London, or from wherever else they might chance to be at that time, to the great rendezvous in the old city; some came one way, some another: some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for glory and fame are such fair things that even peers are proud to have those invested therewith by their sides; others came in their own gigs, driving their own bits of blood, and I heard one say: “I have driven through at a heat the whole 111 miles, and only stopped to bait twice.” Oh, the blood-horses of old England! but they too have had their day—for everything beneath the sun there is a season and a time. But the greater number come just as they can contrive; on the tops of coaches, for example; and amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces and sharp shining eyes; and it is these that have planted rottenness in the core of pugilism, for they are Jews, and, true to their kind, have only base lucre in view.

It was fierce old Cobbett, I think, who first said that the Jews first introduced bad faith amongst pugilists. He did not always speak the truth, but at any rate he spoke it when he made that observation. Strange people the Jews—endowed with every gift but one, and that the highest, genius divine—genius which can alone make of men demigods, and elevate them above earth and what is earthy and what is grovelling; without which a clever nation—and who more clever than the Jews?—may have Rambams in plenty, but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare; a Rothschild and a Mendoza, yes—but never a Kean nor a Belcher.

So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand fight speedily coming off; there they are met in the precincts of the old town, near the Field of the Chapel, planted with tender saplings at the restoration of sporting Charles, which are now become venerable elms, as high as many a steeple; there they are met at a fitting rendezvous, where a retired coachman, with one leg, keeps an hotel and a bowling-green. I think I now see them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown, amidst hundreds of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon them with timid wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing, though it lasts only for a day. There’s Cribb, the champion of England, and perhaps the best man in England; there he is, with his huge, massive figure, and face wonderfully like that of a lion. There is Belcher, the younger, not the mighty one, who is gone to his place, but the Teucer Belcher, the most scientific pugilist that ever entered a ring, only wanting strength to be, I won’t say what. He appears to walk before me now, as he did that evening, with his white hat, white greatcoat, thin, genteel figure, springy step, and keen, determined eye. Crosses him—what a contrast!—grim, savage Shelton, who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for anybody—hard! one blow, given with the proper play of his athletic arm, will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, undersized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light weights, so called—Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins; not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing; and “a better shentleman,” in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman. But how shall I name them all? they were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way. There was Bulldog Hudson and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew. There was Black Richmond—no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh. There was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with him. There was—what! shall I name thee last? ay, why not? I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long continue—true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford—sharp as winter, kind as spring.

Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England’s yeomen triumphed over Scotland’s king, his clans and chivalry. Hail to thee, last of England’s bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved—true English victories, unbought by yellow gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to fame—sufficient to say that Bristol’s Bull and Ireland’s Champion were vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm; and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the unvanquishable, the incorruptible. ’Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy “public” in Holborn way,119 whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. ’Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his friends: glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart—fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of yore, Broughton and Slack and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus:—

“Here’s a health to old honest John Bull,120
When he’s gone we shan’t find such another,
And with hearts and with glasses brim full,
We will drink to old England, his mother.”

But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say? Little can be said about it—it was soon over; some said that the brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose. One thing is certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no means extraordinary power. Time, time! was called; but there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his adversary victor.

There were shouts; indeed, there’s never a lack of shouts to celebrate a victory, however acquired; but there was also much grinding of teeth, especially amongst the fighting men from town. “Tom has sold us,” said they, “sold us to the yokels; who would have thought it?” Then there was fresh grinding of teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven; but what is this? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too? why, only a quarter of an hour ago—but what may not happen in a quarter of an hour? For many weeks the weather had been of the most glorious description, the eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, and so it had continued till some two hours after noon; the fight was then over; and about that time I looked up—what a glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big, fierce sun swimming high above in the midst of that blue; not a cloud—there had not been one for weeks—not a cloud to be seen, only in the far west, just on the horizon, something like the extremity of a black wing; that was only a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole northern side of the heaven is occupied by a huge black cloud, and the sun is only occasionally seen amidst masses of driving vapour; what a change! but another fight is at hand, and the pugilists are clearing the outer ring; how their huge whips come crashing upon the heads of the yokels; blood flows, more blood than in the fight: those blows are given with right goodwill, those are not sham blows, whether of whip or fist; it is with fist that grim Shelton strikes down the big yokel; he is always dangerous, grim Shelton, but now particularly so, for he has lost ten pounds betted on the brave who sold himself to the yokels; but the outer ring is cleared; and now the second fight commences; it is between two champions of less renown than the others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall thin boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle size, with a frame of adamant; that’s a gallant boy! he’s a yokel, but he comes from Brummagem, and he does credit to his extraction; but his adversary has a frame of adamant: in what a strange light they fight, but who can wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud usurping now one half of heaven, and at the sun struggling with sulphurous vapour; the face of the boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock; but there is a rush and a roar over head, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break loose; there’s wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion? yes! the fight goes on; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. “Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way, and thou art becoming confused;” the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. “Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the blows of such an antagonist.”

And now the storm was at its height; the black thundercloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one waterspout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, prizefighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud and mire; there’s a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but there’s another town farther on—the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what’s that! who’ll stay here? onward to the old town.

Hurry skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt someone seize me by the arm—I turned round and beheld Mr. Petulengro.

“I can’t hear you, Mr. Petulengro,” said I; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering.

“Dearginni,” I heard Mr. Petulengro say, “it thundereth. I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?”

“I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes.”

“Grondinni,” said Mr. Petulengro, “it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother.”

“And who has more right,” said I, “seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible.”

“Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth,” said Mr. Petulengro. “Look up there, brother!”

I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded—the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch. The gypsy’s finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky.

“What do you see there, brother?”

“A strange kind of cloud.”

“What does it look like, brother?”

“Something like a stream of blood.”

“That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.”

“A bloody fortune!” said I. “And whom may it betide?”

“Who knows!” said the gypsy.

Down the way, dashing and splashing and scattering man, horse and cart to the left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking steeds, with postillions in scarlet jackets, and leather skullcaps. Two forms were conspicuous in it; that of the successful bruiser and of his friend and backer, the sporting gentleman of my acquaintance.

“His!” said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by.

There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes, and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to “either fortune.” Many have heard of that man—many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I have nothing to do with that man’s afterlife—he fulfilled his dukkeripen. “A bad, violent man!” Softly friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen!

XXVII

My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with respect to my father’s state being raised either in my mother’s breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion.

He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his head from the hearthrug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him; though, as I entertained a great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him.

“I wish to ask you a few questions,” said he to me, one day after my mother had left the room.

“I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear father.”

“What have you been about lately?”

“I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the appointed hours.”

“And what do you do there?”

“Whatever I am ordered.”

“And nothing else?”

“Oh, yes! sometimes I read a book.”

“Connected with your profession?”

“Not always; I have been lately reading Armenian.”

“What’s that?”

“The language of a people whose country is a region on the other side of Asia Minor.”

“Well!”

“A region abounding with mountains.”

“Well!”

“Amongst which is Mount Ararat.”

“Well!”

“Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested.”

“Well!”

“It is the language of the people of those regions.”

“So you told me.”

“And I have been reading the Bible in their language.”

“Well!”

“Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people; from which I am told the modern Armenian differs considerably.”

“Well!”

“As much as the Italian from the Latin.”

“Well!”

“So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian.”

“You told me so before.”

“I found it a highly difficult language.”

“Yes.”

“Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am acquainted.”

“Yes.”

“Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them.”

“Yes.”

“And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild speech with which I became acquainted—”

“Irish?”

“No, father, not Irish—with which I became acquainted by the greatest chance in the world.”

“Yes.”

“But of which I need say nothing further at present, and which I should not have mentioned but for that fact.”

“Well!”

“Which I consider remarkable.”

“Yes.”

“The Armenian is copious.”

“Is it?”

“With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and guttural.”

“Yes.”

“Like the language of most mountainous people—the Armenians call it Haik.”121

“Do they?”

“And themselves, Haik, also; they are a remarkable people, and, though their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, they are to be found, like the Jews, all over the world.”

“Well!”

“Well, father, that’s all I can tell you about the Haiks, or Armenians.”

“And what does it all amount to?”

“Very little, father; indeed, there is very little known about the Armenians; their early history, in particular, is involved in considerable mystery.”

“And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about them, to what would it amount? to what earthly purpose could you turn it? have you acquired any knowledge of your profession?”

“Very little, father.”

“Very little! Have you acquired all in your power?”

“I can’t say that I have, father.”

“And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how it is, you have shamefully misused your opportunities; you are like one, who, sent into the field to labour, passes his time in flinging stones at the birds of heaven.”

“I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father.”

“You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt to evade deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character with your general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a want of frankness, which has distressed me; you never speak of what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself with mystery. I never knew till the present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian.”

“Because you never asked me, father; there’s nothing to conceal in the matter—I will tell you in a moment how I came to learn Armenian. A lady whom I met at one of Mrs. ———’s parties took a fancy to me, and has done me the honour to allow me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow of a rich clergyman, and on her husband’s death came to this place to live bringing her husband’s library with her. I soon found my way to it, and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or relating to the language.”

“And why did you not tell me of this before?”

“Because you never questioned me; but, I repeat, there is nothing to conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put her in mind of Alfieri’s Saul.”

“And do you still visit her?”

“No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however.”

“Saul,” said my father, musingly, “Saul, I am afraid she was only too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven—he became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him.”

“He was, indeed, an awful character—I hope I shan’t turn out like him.”

“God forbid!” said my father, solemnly; “but in many respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of it, by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you did not do, you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is your want of candour—you are my son, but I know little of your real history; you may know fifty things for what I am aware; you may know how to shoe a horse, for what I am aware.”

“Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horseshoes.”

“Perhaps so,” said my father; “and it only serves to prove what I was just saying, that I know little about you.”

“But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you may wish to know—shall I inform you how I learnt to make horseshoes?”

“No,” said my father; “as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, openhearted boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question—what do you propose to do?”

“To do, father?”

“Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon be expired, and I shall be no more.”

“Do not talk so, my dear father, I have no doubt that you will soon be better.”

“Do not flatter yourself; I feel that my days are numbered. I am soon going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am weary. There, there, don’t weep! Tears will help me as little as they will you; you have not yet answered my question. Tell me what you intend to do?”

“I really do not know what I shall do.”

“The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my life. The property which I shall leave behind me will be barely sufficient for the maintenance of your mother respectably. I again ask you what you intend to do. Do you think you can support yourself by your Armenian or your other acquirements?”

“Alas! I think little at all about it; but I suppose I must push into the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son of him who fought Big Ben: if I can’t succeed, and am driven to the worst, it is but dying—”

“What do you mean by dying?”

“Leaving the world; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have never held life in much value, and everyone has a right to dispose as he thinks best of that which is his own.”

“Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and where you imbibed that horrible doctrine, and many similar ones which I have heard from your own mouth; but I wish not to reproach you—I view in your conduct a punishment for my own sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil have been my days upon the earth; little have I done to which I can look back with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years, and I have fought with—Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say!—but you mentioned the man’s name, and our minds willingly recall our ancient follies. Few and evil have been my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he had many undutiful children, whilst I have only—; but I will not reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful; perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, don’t weep; but take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his children.”

My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. “He wishes me to go with him to Italy,” added he, “but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention.” But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father’s complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother seemed to prey upon his mind. “I wish he were here,” he would frequently exclaim, “I can’t imagine what has become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time.” He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed—almost on terms of familiarity—with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib;122 and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. “Pity,” he added, “that when old—old as I am now—he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son’s bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl’s; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time.”

“Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you.”

“Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?”

“No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don’t be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben.”

“You are a strange lad,” said my father; “and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don’t you know that it is one of my temptations? You wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities—something about him. I will tell you—his—skin when he flung off his clothes—and he had a particular knack in doing so—his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought, he stood so—if I remember right—his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here.”

XXVIII

At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. “You have been long absent!” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “perhaps too long; but how is my father?”

“Very poorly,” said I, “he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?”

“Far and wide,” said my brother; “but I can’t tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness.”

“Stay a moment,” said I. “Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?”

“Not quite,” said my brother, “not quite; indeed I wish—but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father.”

There was another question on my tongue, but I forebore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father.

I forebore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome.

What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my brother’s arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was composed enough, however. “I ought to be grateful,” said he; “I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?”

My father’s end was evidently at hand.

And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel deeply and yet make no outward sign.

And now for the closing scene.

At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother, and I also knew its import; yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless—the stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a violent effort bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly about the room; she had awoke and found my father senseless in the bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and snatching up a light that was burning, he held it to my father’s face. “The surgeon, the surgeon!” he cried; then dropping the light, he ran out of the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed heavily against my bosom—at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right, there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes. I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support my dying father. There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life was much on his lips, the name of—but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was over; but I was mistaken—my father moved and revived for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly—it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up his soul.

XXIX

“One-and-ninepence, sir, or the things which you have brought with you will be taken away from you!”

Such were the first words which greeted my ears, one damp, misty morning in March,123 as I dismounted from the top of a coach in the yard of a London inn.

I turned round, for I felt that the words were addressed to myself. Plenty of people were in the yard—porters, passengers, coachmen, ostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on anything but myself, with the exception of one individual whose business appeared to lie with me, and who now confronted me at the distance of about two yards.

I looked hard at the man—and a queer kind of individual he was to look at—a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle size, dressed in a coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight pantaloons of blue stuff, tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings, and thin shoes, like those of a dancing-master; his features were not ugly, but rather haggard, and he appeared to owe his complexion less to nature than carmine; in fact, in every respect, a very queer figure.

“One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away from you!” he said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer to me.

I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word answered. Our eyes met; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy impudent air which he before wore. He glanced, for a moment, at my fist, which I had by this time clenched, and his features became yet more haggard; he faltered; a fresh “one-and-ninepence” which he was about to utter, died on his lips; he shrank back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him.

“One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from me!” said I to myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom I had delivered my scanty baggage; “am I to expect many of these greetings in the big world? Well, never mind; I think I know the countersign!” And I clenched my fist yet harder than before.

So I followed the porter through the streets of London, to a lodging which had been prepared for me by an acquaintance. The morning, as I have before said, was gloomy, and the streets through which I passed were dank and filthy; the people, also, looked dank and filthy; and so, probably, did I, for the night had been rainy, and I had come upwards of a hundred miles on the top of a coach; my heart had sunk within me by the time we reached a dark narrow street in which was the lodging.124

“Cheer up, young man,” said the porter, “we shall have a fine afternoon!”

And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been prepared for me. It consisted of a small room, up two pair of stairs, in which I was to sit, and another still smaller above it, in which I was to sleep. I remember that I sat down, and looked disconsolate about me—everything seemed so cold and dingy. Yet how little is required to make a situation—however cheerless at first sight—cheerful and comfortable. The people of the house, who looked kindly upon me, lighted a fire in the dingy grate; and, then, what a change!—the dingy room seemed dingy no more! Oh, the luxury of a cheerful fire after a chill night’s journey! I drew near to the blazing grate, rubbed my hands and felt glad.

And, when I had warmed myself, I turned to the table, on which, by this time, the people of the house had placed my breakfast; and I ate and I drank; and, as I ate and drank, I mused within myself, and my eyes were frequently directed to a small green box, which constituted part of my luggage, and which, with the rest of my things, stood in one corner of the room, till at last, leaving my breakfast unfinished, I rose, and, going to the box, unlocked it, and took out two or three bundles of papers tied with red tape, and, placing them on the table, I resumed my seat and my breakfast, my eyes intently fixed upon the bundles of papers all the time.

And when I had drained the last cup of tea out of a dingy teapot, and ate the last slice of the dingy loaf, I untied one of the bundles, and proceeded to look over the papers, which were closely written over in a singular hand, and I read for some time, till at last I said to myself, “It will do.” And then I looked at the other bundle for some time, without untying it; and at last I said, “It will do also.” And then I turned to the fire, and, putting my feet against the sides of the grate, I leaned back on my chair, and, with my eyes upon the fire, fell into deep thought.

And there I continued in thought before the fire, until my eyes closed, and I fell asleep; which was not to be wondered at, after the fatigue and cold which I had lately undergone on the coach-top; and, in my sleep, I imagined myself still there, amidst darkness and rain, hurrying now over wild heaths, and now along roads overhung with thick and umbrageous trees, and sometimes methought I heard the horn of the guard, and sometimes the voice of the coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his horses, as they toiled through the deep and miry ways. At length a tremendous crack of a whip saluted the tympanum of my ear, and I started up broad awake, nearly oversetting the chair on which I reclined—and, lo! I was in the dingy room before the fire, which was by this time half-extinguished. In my dream I had confounded the noise of the street with those of my night journey; the crack which had aroused me I soon found proceeded from the whip of a carter, who, with many oaths, was flogging his team below the window.

Looking at a clock which stood upon the mantelpiece, I perceived that it was past eleven; whereupon I said to myself, “I am wasting my time foolishly and unprofitably, forgetting that I am now in the big world, without anything to depend upon save my own exertions;” and then I adjusted my dress, and, locking up the bundle of papers which I had not read, I tied up the other, and, taking it under my arm, I went downstairs; and, after asking a question or two of the people of the house, I sallied forth into the street with a determined look, though at heart I felt somewhat timorous at the idea of venturing out alone into the mazes of the mighty city, of which I had heard much, but of which, of my own knowledge, I knew nothing.

I had, however, no great cause for anxiety in the present instance; I easily found my way to the place which I was in quest of—one of the many new squares on the northern side of the metropolis, and which was scarcely ten minutes’ walk from the street in which I had taken up my abode. Arriving before the door of a tolerably large house which bore a certain number, I stood still for a moment in a kind of trepidation, looking anxiously at the door; I then slowly passed on till I came to the end of the square, where I stood still and pondered for awhile. Suddenly, however, like one who has formed a resolution, I clenched my right hand, flinging my hat somewhat on one side, and, turning back with haste to the door before which I had stopped, I sprang up the steps, and gave a loud rap, ringing at the same time the bell of the area. After the lapse of a minute the door was opened by a maidservant of no very cleanly or prepossessing appearance, of whom I demanded, in a tone of some hauteur, whether the master of the house was at home. Glancing for a moment at the white paper bundle beneath my arm, the handmaid made no reply in words, but, with a kind of toss of her head, flung the door open, standing on one side as if to let me enter. I did enter; and the handmaid, having opened another door on the right hand, went in, and said something which I could not hear; after a considerable pause, however, I heard the voice of a man say, “Let him come in;” whereupon the handmaid, coming out, motioned me to enter, and, on my obeying, instantly closed the door behind me.

XXX

There were two individuals in the room in which I now found myself; it was a small study, surrounded with bookcases, the window looking out upon the square. Of these individuals he who appeared to be the principal125 stood with his back to the fireplace. He was a tall, stout man, about sixty, dressed in a loose morning gown. The expression of his countenance would have been bluff but for a certain sinister glance, and his complexion might have been called rubicund but for a considerable tinge of bilious yellow. He eyed me askance as I entered. The other, a pale, shrivelled-looking person, sat at a table apparently engaged with an account-book; he took no manner of notice of me, never once lifting his eyes from the page before him.

“Well, sir, what is your pleasure?” said the big man, in a rough tone, as I stood there looking at him wistfully—as well I might—for upon that man, at the time of which I am speaking, my principal, I may say my only, hopes rested.

“Sir,” said I, “my name is so-and-so,126 and I am the bearer of a letter to you from Mr. so-and-so, an old friend and correspondent of yours.”

The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious and lowering expression which it had hitherto exhibited; he strode forward and, seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze.

“My dear sir,” said he, “I am rejoiced to see you in London. I have been long anxious for the pleasure—we are old friends, though we have never before met. Taggart,”127 said he to the man who sat at the desk, “this is our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our other excellent correspondent.”

The pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately raised his head from the account-book, and surveyed me for a moment or two; not the slightest emotion was observable in his countenance. It appeared to me, however, that I could detect a droll twinkle in his eye; his curiosity, if he had any, was soon gratified; he made me a kind of bow, pulled out a snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff, and again bent his head over the page.

“And now, my dear sir,” said the big man, “pray sit down, and tell me the cause of your visit. I hope you intend to remain here a day or two.”

“More than that,” said I, “I am come to take up my abode in London.”

“Glad to hear it; and what have you been about of late? got anything which will suit me? Sir, I admire your style of writing, and your manner of thinking; and I am much obliged to my good friend and correspondent for sending me some of your productions. I inserted them all, and wished there had been more of them—quite original, sir, quite; took with the public, especially the essay about the nonexistence of anything. I don’t exactly agree with you, though; I have my own peculiar ideas about matter—as you know, of course, from the book I have published. Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy—no such thing as matter—impossible that there should be—ex nihilo—what is the Greek? I have forgot—very pretty indeed; very original.”

“I am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to write such trash, and yet more to allow it to be published.”

“Trash! not at all; a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy; of course you were wrong in saying there is no world. The world must exist, to have the shape of a pear; and that the world is shaped like a pear, and not like an apple, as the fools of Oxford say, I have satisfactorily proved in my book. Now, if there were no world, what would become of my system? But what do you propose to do in London?”

“Here is the letter, sir,” said I, “of our good friend, which I have not yet given to you; I believe it will explain to you the circumstances under which I come.”

He took the letter, and perused it with attention. “Hem!” said he, with a somewhat altered manner, “my friend tells me that you are come up to London with the view of turning your literary talents to account, and desires me to assist you in my capacity of publisher in bringing forth two or three works which you have prepared. My good friend is perhaps not aware that for some time past I have given up publishing—was obliged to do so—had many severe losses—do nothing at present in that line, save sending out the Magazine128 once a month; and, between ourselves am thinking of disposing of that—wish to retire—high time at my age—so you see—”

“I am very sorry, sir, to hear that you cannot assist me” (and I remember that I felt very nervous); “I had hoped—”

“A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a drug. Taggart, what o’clock is it?”

“Well, sir!” said I, rising, “as you cannot assist me, I will now take my leave; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, and will trouble you no longer.”

“Oh, don’t go. I wish to have some further conversation with you; and perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you. I honour merit, and always make a point to encourage it when I can; but—Taggart, go to the bank, and tell them to dishonour the bill twelve months after date for thirty pounds which becomes due tomorrow. I am dissatisfied with that fellow who wrote the fairy tales, and intend to give him all the trouble in my power. Make haste.”

Taggart did not appear to be in any particular haste. First of all, he took a pinch of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly and deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, rather more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned his coat, and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a corner, made me a low bow, and quitted the room.

“Well, sir, where were we? Oh, I remember, we were talking about merit. Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially when it comes so highly recommended as in the present instance. Sir, my good friend and correspondent speaks of you in the highest terms. Sir, I honour my good friend, and have the highest respect for his opinion in all matters connected with literature—rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend has done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest of my correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation caused by the appearance of his article about a certain personage whom he proved—and I think satisfactorily—to have been a legionary soldier—rather startling, was it not? The S——129 of the world a common soldier, in a marching regiment!—original, but startling; sir, I honour my good friend.”

“So you have renounced publishing, sir,” said I, “with the exception of the Magazine?”

“Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle; and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the undertaking—what do you think of the matter?”

“I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess; however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your assistance—”

“Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying—what is that you have got under your arm?”

“One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both profit and reputation.”

“Indeed! what do you call it?”

“Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself, with notes philological, critical and historical.”

“Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to the world tomorrow.”

“I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would permit me to read one to you;” and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and with a voice trembling with eagerness, I read to the following effect:—

Buckshank bold and Elfinstone,
And more than I can mention here,
They caused to be built so stout a ship,
And unto Iceland they would steer.

They launched the ship upon the main,
Which bellowed like a wrathful bear;
Down to the bottom the vessel sank,
A laidly Trold has dragged it there.

Down to the bottom sank young Roland,
And round about he groped awhile;
Until he found the path which led
Unto the bower of Ellenlyle.

“Stop!” said the publisher; “very pretty, indeed, and very original; beats Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott, either, save as a novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do? What else have you got?”

“The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with notes critical, philological and historical.”

“Pass on—what else?”

“Nothing else,” said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, “unless it be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little value.”

“Wild?”

“Yes, sir, very wild.”

“Like the Miller of the Black Valley?”

“Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley.”

“Well, that’s better,” said the publisher; “and yet, I don’t know, I question whether anyone at present cares for the miller himself. No, sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more than my good friend and correspondent; but, sir, I see you are a young gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don’t you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?”

“Evangelical tales, sir?”

“Yes, sir, evangelical novels.”

“Something in the style of Herder?”

“Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder—thanks to my good friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I dare not insert in my periodical; it would sink it, sir. No, sir, something in the style of the Dairyman’s Daughter.”

“I never heard of the work till the present moment.”

“Then, sir, procure it by all means. Sir, I could afford as much as ten pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the Dairyman’s Daughter; that is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present day! It is not the Miller of the Black Valley—no, sir, nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste; the evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir—the canting scoundrels—”

“But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly taste?”

“Then, sir, I must give up business altogether. Sir, I have a great respect for the goddess Reason—an infinite respect, sir; indeed, in my time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her; but, sir, I cannot altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason. Sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as is well known; but I must also be a friend to my own family. It is with the view of providing for a son of mine that I am about to start the Review of which I was speaking. He has taken it into his head to marry, sir, and I must do something for him, for he can do but little for himself. Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and likewise a friend to Reason; but I tell you frankly that the Review which I intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is established, will be conducted on Oxford principles.”130

“Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir?”

“I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are synonymous.”

Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed that I should become a contributor to the Oxford Review.131 I stipulated, however, that, as I knew little of politics, and cared less, no other articles should be required from me than such as were connected with belles-lettres and philology; to this the big man readily assented. “Nothing will be required from you,” said he, “but what you mention; and now and then, perhaps, a paper on metaphysics. You understand German, and perhaps it would be desirable that you should review Kant; and in a review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about ex nihilo.” He then reverted to the subject of the Dairyman’s Daughter, which I promised to take into consideration. As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday.

“That’s a strange man!” said I to myself, after I had left the house, “he is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman’s Daughters. But what can I do? I am almost without a friend in the world. I wish I could find someone who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym. In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame and profit. But how is this?—what a beautiful sun!—the porter was right in saying that the day would clear up—I will now go to my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts and then take a stroll about the big city.”

XXXI

So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, as I have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the great city to advantage, and the wonders thereof, and much I admired all I saw; and, amongst other things, the huge cathedral, standing so proudly on the most commanding ground in the big city; and I looked up to the mighty dome, surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself: “That dome must needs be the finest in the world;” and I gazed upon it till my eyes reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome would fall and crush me; and I shrank within myself, and struck yet deeper into the heart of the big city.

“O Cheapside! Cheapside!” said I, as I advanced up that mighty thoroughfare, “truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise and riches! Men talk of the bazaars of the East—I have never seen them, but I dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes. O thou pride of London’s east!—mighty mart of old renown!—for thou art not a place of yesterday: long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist—a place of throng and bustle—a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen. Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself,132 wild Glendower’s bard, had a word of praise for London’s ‘Cheape,’ for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes. Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present day, as I believe they do? But, let others do as they will, I, at least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the world—a place of wonder and astonishment!—and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should endure forever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages—may it be the world’s resort for merchandise, world without end.”

And when I had passed through the Cheape I entered another street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its founders; and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for it had no interest for me, though I had a kind of consciousness that mighty things were being transacted behind its walls; but it wanted the throng, bustle and outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never been spoken of by “ruddy bards!” And, when I had got to the end of the street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, deliberating within myself whether I should turn to the right or the left, or go straight forward, and at last I turned to the right, down a street of rapid descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge which traversed the river which runs by the big city.

A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and seemingly of great antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high balustrade, and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular bench. Though the bridge was wide—very wide—it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and wagons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruitstall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal arch, looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented itself—and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; spacious wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar’s Castle,133 with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the sky chimneys taller than Cleopatra’s Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of that black smoke which forms the canopy—occasionally a gorgeous one—of the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the Thames—the Maëlstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch—a grisly pool, which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I should have leapt into its depths?—I have heard of such things—but for a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and a woman sat at the stern. I shall never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!—a boat—a small boat—passing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful waterway, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow—there is no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex. No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped over the threatening horror, and the next moment was out of danger, the boatman—a true boatman of Cockaigne that—elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman that—of a certain class—waving her shawl. Whether anyone observed them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so excited, that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me.

“Nay, dear! don’t—don’t!” said she. “Don’t fling yourself over—perhaps you may have better luck next time!”

“I was not going to fling myself over,” said I, dropping from the balustrade; “how came you to think of such a thing?”

“Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself.”

“Ill luck,” said I, going into the stone bower and sitting down. “What do you mean? ill luck in what?”

“Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking, perhaps.”

“Are you coming over me with dialects,” said I, “speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?”

“Nay, dear! don’t look so strange with those eyes of your’n, nor talk so strangely; I don’t understand you.”

“Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?”

“Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then.”

“Do you take me for a thief?”

“Nay, dear! don’t make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot’ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son’s own mother, I assure you.”

“So you think there’s no harm in stealing?”

“No harm in the world, dear! Do you think my own child would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and what’s more, would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking? She, too, was what they call a thief and a cutpurse; ay, and was transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back—for come back she did, and rich too—for it is an assurance to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her.”

“What was her name?”

“Her name, blessed Mary Flanders.”134

“Will you let me look at the book?”

“Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it.”

I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and dog’s-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no mistake! His pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old volume—the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book which first taught me to read. I covered my face with my hand, and thought of my childhood.

“This is a singular book,” said I at last; “but it does not appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral.”

“A deep what, dear?”

“A—but no matter, I will give you a crown for this volume.”

“No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown.”

“I am poor,” said I; “but I will give you two silver crowns for your volume.”

“No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for the golden one in the king’s tower down there; without my book I should mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won’t sell you my book; but, if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for, if you had been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with; I love baccy, dear, more by token that it comes from the plantations to which the blessed woman was sent.”

“What’s a tanner?” said I.

“Lor! don’t you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; and, as you were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you that those of our trade never calls them crowns, but bulls; but I am talking nonsense, just as if you did not know all that already, as well as myself; you are only shamming—I’m no trap, dear, nor more was the blessed woman in the book. Thank you, dear—thank you for the tanner; if I don’t spend it, I’ll keep it in remembrance of your sweet face. What, you are going?—well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have any clies to sell at any time, I’ll buy them of you; all safe with me; I never ’peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, God bless you! and give you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and thank you for the tanner.”

XXXII

“Tanner!” said I musingly, as I left the bridge; “Tanner! what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions? Tanner! I can’t trace the connection between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I have it,” I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, “tanner, in this instance, is not an English word.” Is it not surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno, is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed words in Aeschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner—Tawno! the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengros, though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation, signifieth a little child.

So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been wandering.

[At last I came to a kind of open place from which three large streets branched, and in the middle of the place stood the figure of a man on horseback. It was admirably executed, and I stood still to survey it.

“Is that the statue of Cromwell?” said I to a drayman who was passing by, driving a team of that enormous breed of horses which had struck me on the bridge.

“Who?” said the man in a surly tone, stopping short.

“Cromwell,” said I; “did you never hear of Oliver Cromwell?”

“Oh, Oliver,” said the drayman, and a fine burst of intelligence lighted up his broad English countenance. “To be sure I have; yes, and read of him too. A fine fellow was Oliver, master, and the poor man’s friend. Whether that’s his figure, though, I can’t say. I hopes it be.” Then touching his hat to me, he followed his gigantic team, turning his head to look at the statue as he walked along.

That man had he lived in Oliver’s time would have made a capital ironside, especially if mounted on one of those dray horses of his. I remained looking at the statue some time longer. Turning round, I perceived that I was close by a bookseller’s shop,135 into which, after deliberating a moment, I entered. An elderly, good-tempered looking man was standing behind the counter.

“Have you the Dairyman’s Daughter?” I demanded.

“Just one copy, young gentleman,” said the bookseller, rubbing his hands; “you are just in time, if you want one; all the rest are sold.”

“What kind of character does it bear?”

“Excellent character, young gentleman; great demand for it; held in much esteem, especially by the Evangelical party.”

“Who are the Evangelical party?”

“Excellent people, young gentleman, and excellent customers of mine,” rubbing his hands; “but setting that aside,” he continued gravely, “religious, good men.”

“Not a set of canting scoundrels?”

The bookseller had placed a small book upon the counter; but he now suddenly snatched it up and returned it to the shelf; then looking at me full in the face, he said, quietly: “Young gentleman, I do not wish to be uncivil, but you had better leave the shop.”

“I beg your pardon if I have offended you, but I was merely repeating what I had heard.”

“Whoever told you so must be either a bad, or a very ignorant, man.”

“I wish for the book.”

“You shall not have it at any price.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons,” said the bookseller.

“Will you have the kindness,” said I, “to tell me whose statue it is which stands there on horseback?”

“Charles the First.”

“And where is Cromwell’s?”

“You may walk far enough about London, or, indeed, about England, before you will find a statue of Cromwell, young gentleman.”

“Well, I could not help thinking that was his.”

“How came you to think so?”

“I thought it would be just the place for a statue to the most illustrious Englishman. It is where I would place one were I prime minister.”

“Well, I do think that Charles would look better a little farther down, opposite to Whitehall, for example,” said the bookseller, rubbing his hands. “Do you really wish to have the book?”

“Very much.”

“Well, here it is; no price, young gentleman; no price—can’t break my word—give the money, if you like, to the beggars in the street. Cromwell is the first Englishman who endeavoured to put all sects on an equality. Wouldn’t do, though—world too fond of humbug—still is. However, good day, young gentleman, and when you are prime minister, do not forget the two statues.”]

I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere—the people, their language, the horses, the tout ensemble—even the stones of London are different from others—at least it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. “A regular Arabian nights’ entertainment!” said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with lustres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors.

But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o’clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands. Without a moment’s hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. “Bring me some claret,” said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses; placing the latter on the table, he produced a corkscrew, drew the cork in a twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I don’t know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I’ll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from; and, filling one of the glasses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then, placing the empty glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, and said—nothing; whereupon the waiter, who had been observing the whole process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more low than before, and turning on his heel, retired with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is all right; the young man is used to claret.

And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the wine, which I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of the London Journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless true, that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a newspaper of any description. I of course had frequently seen journals, and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they to me?—I cared not for news. But here I was now with my claret before me, perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London Journals—it was not the ——— and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature appeared to be opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an unpleasant one; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so very common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big town, when, for the life of me, I don’t think I could write anything half so clever as what I have been reading. And then I laid down the paper, and fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a glass of wine, and pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been reading, thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but talent and cleverness I think I have heard someone say are very commonplace things, only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever man; but, after all, was he not something much better? I don’t think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the book which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have written the article on which I now hold my forefinger—and I do not believe he could—why should I feel discouraged at the consciousness that I, too, could not write it? I certainly could no more have written the article than he could; but then, like him, though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote the book I saw upon the bridge, I think I could—and here I emptied the glass of claret—write something better.

Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before struck with the fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now equally so with its commonplaceness and want of originality on every subject; and it was evident to me that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, translated Kaempe Viser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno.

And as I sat conning the newspaper three individuals entered the room, and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of which I was. They were all three very well dressed; two of them elderly gentlemen, the third a young man about my own age, or perhaps a year or two older. They called for coffee; and, after two or three observations, the two eldest commenced a conversation in French, which, however, though they spoke it fluently enough, I perceived at once was not their native language; the young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and when they addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but rarely, merely replied by a monosyllable. I have never been a listener, and I paid but little heed to their discourse, nor indeed to themselves; as I occasionally looked up, however, I could perceive that the features of the young man, who chanced to be seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of constraint and vexation. This circumstance caused me to observe him more particularly than I otherwise should have done: his features were handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair, and a high-arched forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two elder individuals, having finished their coffee, called for the waiter, and then rose as if to depart, the young man, however, still remaining seated in the box. The others, having reached the door, turned round, and, finding that the youth did not follow them, one of them called to him with a tone of some authority; whereupon the young man rose, and, pronouncing half audibly the word “botheration,” rose and followed them. I now observed that he was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about ten minutes, finding nothing more worth reading in the newspaper, I laid it down, and though the claret was not yet exhausted, I was thinking of betaking myself to my lodgings, and was about to call the waiter, when I heard a step in the passage, and in another moment, the tall young man entered the room, advanced to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to me, again pronounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same word.

“A troublesome world this, sir,” said I, looking at him.

“Yes,” said the young man, looking fixedly at me; “but I am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads—at least I can say so of myself,” he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, “I beg pardon,” he said, “but am I not addressing one of my own country?”

“Of what country are you?” said I.

“Ireland.”

“I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass of wine?”

“Ah, de tout mon coeur, as the parasite said to Gil Blas,” cried the young man, laughing. “Here’s to our better acquaintance!”

And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the acquaintance of the young man, I had, indeed, made a valuable acquisition; he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis Ardry.136 Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of.

We left the house together.

“We shall soon see each other again,” said he, as we separated at the door of my lodging.

XXXIII

On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man that I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. “Let us take a turn in the square,” said he, “we shall not dine for half an hour.”

“Well,” said he, as we were walking in the square, “what have you been doing since I last saw you?”

“I have been looking about London,” said I, “and I have bought the Dairyman’s Daughter; here it is.”

“Pray put it up,” said the publisher; “I don’t want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?”

“I do not,” said I.

“How is that?” said the publisher, looking at me.

“Because,” said I, “the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart.”

“By the subject you mean—”

“Religion.”

“And a’n’t you acquainted with religion?”

“Very little.”

“I am sorry for that,” said the publisher seriously, “for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the Dairyman’s Daughter, or I really don’t know whom I could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to himself; and after all, I question whether his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel.”

“Then you do not wish for an imitation of the Dairyman’s Daughter?”

“I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions after dinner.”

At dinner, besides the publisher and myself, were present his wife and son, with his newly-married bride;137 the wife appeared a quiet, respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike. Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on rice and vegetables, prepared in various ways.

“You eat no animal food, sir?” said I.

“I do not, sir,” said he; “I have forsworn it upwards of twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away life—the brutes have as much right to live as ourselves.”

“But,” said I, “if the brutes were not killed, there would be such a superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun with them.”

“I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there is plenty of room.”

“But,” said I, “Nature intended that they should be destroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is well for themselves and the world that they do so. What would be the state of things if every insect, bird and worm were left to perish of old age?”

“We will change the subject,” said the publisher; “I have never been a friend to unprofitable discussions.”

I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance was dressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; at that moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read in the history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed, for I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man.

The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he would willingly have attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of which he handed to myself, and the other to his son, saying: “Suppose you two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you,” said he, addressing himself to me, “but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with respect to meat, I am a Muhammadan with respect to wine.”

So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the young man asked me various questions; for example—how I liked London?—Whether I did not think it a very fine place?—Whether I was at the play the night before?—and whether I was in the park that afternoon? He seemed preparing to ask me some more questions; but, receiving a furious look from his father, he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank it off, looked at the table for about a minute, then got up, pushed back his chair, made me a bow, and left the room.

“Is that young gentleman, sir,” said I, “well versed in the principles of criticism?”

“He is not, sir,” said the publisher; “and, if I place him at the head of the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope of procuring him a maintenance; of the principle of a thing he knows nothing, except that the principle of bread is wheat, and that the principle of that wine is grape. Will you take another glass?”

I looked at the decanter; but not feeling altogether so sure as the publisher’s son with respect to the principle of what it contained, I declined taking any more.

“No, sir,” said the publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, “he knows nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more to do with the reviewals than carrying about the books to those who have to review them; the real conductor of the Review will be a widely different person, to whom I will, when convenient, introduce you. And now we will talk of the matter which we touched upon before dinner: I told you then that I had changed my mind with respect to you; I have been considering the state of the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the conclusion that, though you might be profitably employed upon evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, and consequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives and trials.”138

“Newgate lives and trials!”

“Yes, sir,” said the publisher, “Newgate lives and trials; and now, sir, I will briefly state to you the services which I expect you to perform, and the terms I am willing to grant. I expect you, sir, to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain by no manner of means less than one thousand pages; the remuneration which you will receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewise intended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers and manuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one of your employments, sir—such the terms. In the second place, you will be expected to make yourself useful in the Review—generally useful, sir—doing whatever is required of you; for it is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers, especially young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments, sir, namely, compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after due consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you no further, sir—at least for the present; but, sir, this morning I received a letter from my valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms of strong admiration (I don’t overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says that it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be turned to account. Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encourage merit and talent; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German.”

“Sir,” said I, rubbing my hands, “you are very kind, and so is our mutual friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful in German; and if you think a good translation from Goethe—his Sorrows for example, or more particularly his ‘Faust’—”

“Sir,” said the publisher, “Goethe is a drug; his Sorrows are a drug, so is his Faustus, more especially the last, since that fool ——— rendered him into English.139 No, sir, I do not want you to translate Goethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate anything from the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into German. I am willing to encourage merit, sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter has spoken very highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy into German.”

“Your book of philosophy into German, sir?”

“Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a drug, sir, in Germany, as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend to print the translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitable speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be well executed, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will be determined by the success of your translation.”

“But, sir—”

“Sir,” said the publisher, interrupting me, “you have heard my intentions; I consider that you ought to feel yourself highly gratified by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with a writer, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now, sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir; I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon alone—profitably, I hope, sir—in musing on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity of man.”

XXXIV

“What can’t be cured must be endured,” and “it is hard to kick against the pricks.”

At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought me of the proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and determined to act up to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face of the publisher, and to bear—what I could not cure—his arrogance and vanity. At present, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad that I came to that determination, which I did my best to carry into effect.

Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made his appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes under his arm, which he placed on the table. “I have brought you two volumes of lives, sir,” said he, “which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find them of service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally and encourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge for them, though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware that, by our agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?”

“No,” said I, “not yet.”

“Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; you must visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the bystreets and blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find the description of literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; it will not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town. Tonight you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for the Review. And, by the by, sir, it will be as well for you to review my book of philosophy for the Review, the other Reviews not having noticed it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of philosophy for the Review.”

“I shall be happy to do my best, sir.”

“Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable to expect anything beyond a person’s best. And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the future editor of the Review. As you are to cooperate, sir, I deem it right to make you acquainted.”

The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilion were covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic—a young gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor’s translation of Quintilian.140

“Sir,” said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the editor, “you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am prepared to say that man’s translation is a drug, judging from the heap of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for your compilation.”

The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very forlorn-looking street. “Sir,” said he, after looking down it with attention, “I should not wonder if in that street you find works connected with the description of literature which is required for your compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way.”

I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even for the first volume of my compilation.

XXXV

One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffeehouse. As it is necessary that the reader should know something more about this young man, who will frequently appear in the course of these pages, I will state in a few words who and what he was. He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Ireland; his parents, whose only child he was, had long been dead. His father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property considerably embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell into the hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by whom the property was managed to the best advantage, and every means taken to educate the young man in a manner suitable to his expectations. At the age of sixteen he was taken from a celebrated school in England at which he had been placed, and sent to a small French University, in order that he might form an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand language of the continent. There he continued three years, at the end of which he went, under the care of a French abbé, to Germany and Italy. It was in this latter country that he first began to cause his guardians serious uneasiness. He was in the heyday of youth when he visited Italy, and he entered wildly into the various delights of that fascinating region, and, what was worse, falling into the hands of certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, he was fleeced of considerable sums of money. The abbé, who, it seems, was an excellent individual of the old French school, remonstrated with his pupil on his dissipation and extravagance; but, finding his remonstrances vain, very properly informed the guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They were not slow in commanding Francis Ardry home; and, as he was entirely in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been about three months in London when I met him in the coffee-room, and the two elderly gentlemen in his company were his guardians. At this time they were very solicitous that he should choose for himself a profession, offering to his choice either the army or law—he was calculated to shine in either of these professions—for, like many others of his countrymen, he was brave and eloquent; but he did not wish to shackle himself with a profession. As, however, his minority did not terminate till he was three-and-twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years, during which he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it expedient to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, temporising with the old gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his many irregularities, he was a great favourite, and at whose death he expected to come into a yet greater property than that which he inherited from his parents.

Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry—of my friend Francis Ardry; for the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner with which the reader is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friendship which endured through many long years of separation, and which still endures certainly on my part, and on his—if he lives; but it is many years since I have heard from Francis Ardry.

And yet many people would have thought it impossible for our friendship to have lasted a week, for in many respects no two people could be more dissimilar. He was an Irishman, I an Englishman; he fiery, enthusiastic and openhearted, I neither fiery, enthusiastic nor openhearted; he fond of pleasure and dissipation, I of study and reflection. Yet it is of such dissimilar elements that the most lasting friendships are formed: we do not like counterparts of ourselves. “Two great talkers will not travel far together,” is a Spanish saying; I will add, “Nor two silent people;” we naturally love our opposites.

So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see him, for I had just flung my books and papers aside, and was wishing for a little social converse; and when we had conversed for some little time together, Francis Ardry proposed that we should go to the play to see Kean; so we went to the play, and saw—not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show himself, but—a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who people said was a much better man than Kean—as I have no doubt he was—though whether he was a better actor I cannot say, for I never saw Kean.141

Two or three evenings after, Francis Ardry came to see me again, and again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took me to—shall I say?—why not?—a gaming-house, where I saw people playing, and where I saw Francis Ardry play and lose five guineas, and where I lost nothing, because I did not play, though I felt somewhat inclined; for a man with a white hat and a sparkling eye held up a box which contained something which rattled, and asked me to fling the bones. “There is nothing like flinging the bones!” said he, and then I thought I should like to know what kind of thing flinging the bones was; I, however, restrained myself. “There is nothing like flinging the bones!” shouted the man, as my friend and myself left the room.

Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry! but for him I should not have obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and eccentric places of London. Some of the places to which he took me were very strange places indeed! but, however strange the places were, I observed that the inhabitants thought there were no places like their several places, and no occupations like their several occupations; and among other strange places to which Francis Ardry conducted me, was a place not far from the abbey church of Westminster.

Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a confused hubbub of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, and the cries of various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of cockpit, around which a great many people, seeming of all ranks, but chiefly of the lower, were gathered, and in it we saw a dog destroy a great many rats in a very small period; and when the dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight between a dog and a bear, then a fight between two dogs, then ———

After the diversions of the day were over, my friend introduced me to the genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, with a very sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey coat, and top boots. “Joey,”142 said he, “this is a friend of mine.” Joey nodded to me with a patronising air. “Glad to see you, sir!—want a dog?”

“No,” said I.

“You have got one, then—want to match him?”

“We have a dog at home,” said I, “in the country; but I can’t say I should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog-fighting.”

“Not like dog-fighting!” said the man, staring.

“The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town.”

“So I should think; he looks rather green—not like dog-fighting!”

“Nothing like it, is there, Joey?”

“I should think not; what is like it? A time will come, and that speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow dog-fighting.”

“Do you think so?” said I.

“Think so? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn’t give up for it?”

“Why,” said I, modestly, “there’s religion.”

“Religion! How you talk. Why, there’s myself, bred and born an Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn’t I give up religion for dog-fighting? Religion, indeed! If it were not for the rascally law, my pit would fill better on Sundays than any other time. Who would go to church when they could come to my pit? Religion! why, the parsons themselves come to my pit; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one of them, asking me to send him a dog.”

“Well, then, politics,” said I.

“Politics! Why, the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt himself, if he were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of the best of them here tonight, all great horators. Get on with you, what comes next?”

“Why, there’s learning and letters.”

“Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting! Why, there’s the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here in shoals, leaving books, and letters, and masters too. To tell you the truth, I rather wish they would mind their letters, for a more precious set of young blackguards I never seed. It was only the other day I was thinking of calling in a constable for my own protection, for I thought my pit would have been torn down by them.”

Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random.

“You show by your own conduct,” said I, “that there are other things worth following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat-catching and badger-baiting as well.”

The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt.

“Your friend here,” said he, “might well call you a new one. When I talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching and badger-baiting, ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks religiously, when I says one I means not one but three. And talking of religion puts me in mind that I have something else to do besides chaffing here, having a batch of dogs to send off by this night’s packet to the Pope of Rome.”

But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, whether strange or commonplace, so at least I thought, and I ceased to accompany my friend in his rambles about town, and to partake of his adventures. Our friendship, however, still continued unabated, though I saw, in consequence, less of him. I reflected that time was passing on, that the little money I had brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had nothing to depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I returned with redoubled application to my pursuits.

XXXVI

I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate; I reviewed books for the Review established on an entirely new principle; and I occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher’s philosophy. In this last task I experienced more than one difficulty. I was a tolerable German scholar, it is true, and I had long been able to translate from German into English with considerable facility; but to translate from a foreign language into your own, is a widely different thing from translating from your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to render the publisher into German, I was conscious of making miserable failures, from pure ignorance of German grammar; however, by the assistance of grammars and dictionaries, and by extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all the difficulties connected with the German language. But alas! another difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German—a difficulty connected with the language of the publisher—the language which the great man employed in his writings was very hard to understand; I say in his writings, for his colloquial English was plain enough. Though not professing to be a scholar, he was much addicted, when writing, to the use of Greek and Latin terms, not as other people used them, but in a manner of his own, which set the authority of dictionaries at defiance; the consequence was, that I was sometimes utterly at a loss to understand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour did I pass at this period staring at periods of the publisher, and wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a shake of the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed; the awful words traduttore traditore commenced ringing in my ears, and I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English, had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the minstrels of the Kiaempe Viser in this manner? No. Had I treated Ab Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his “Ode to the Mist,” in which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty? No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my own thoughts and ideas for the publisher’s, who had put himself into my hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling!—so I told the Germans in the publisher’s own way, the publisher’s tale of an apple and a pear.

I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher’s opinion with respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?—it would certainly gain in appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of his publication for the Review. And yet I don’t know, said I, after a long fit of musing—I don’t know but what there is more to be said for the Oxford theory.143 The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don’t know that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a pear; I have always liked pears, but I don’t like the world. The world to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have never liked apples. I will uphold the Oxford theory; besides, I am writing in an Oxford Review, and am in duty bound to uphold the Oxford theory. So in my notice I asserted that the world was round; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to prove that the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to shape and properties. “An apple is round,” said I, “and the world is round; the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit, and who has tasted much of the world without having his teeth set on edge?” I, however, treated the publisher, upon the whole, in the most urbane and Oxford-like manner; complimenting him upon his style, acknowledging the general soundness of his views, and only differing with him in the affair of the apple and pear.

I did not like reviewing at all—it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher’s philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed “Lavengro.” I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing. The Review to which I was attached was, as has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature of the day. When I say it professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be sent to it; for, of course, the Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review. I don’t think, however, that the Review had much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging. I was connected with several departments of the Review, though more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An English translation of Kant’s philosophy made its appearance on my table the day before its publication. In my notice of this work, I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans a quid pro quo. I believe at that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own expense. All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors. If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, as a reviewer, I answer, I did not forget that I was connected with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no personalities—no vituperation—no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed, as an Oxford undergraduate might have expressed it, or master of arts. How the authors whose publications were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were printed. I did not like reviewing.

Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked that of compiling the Newgate Lives and Trials the best; that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough; but the lives—how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in what racy, genuine language were they told. What struck me most with respect to these lives was the art which the writers, whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to tell one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. People are afraid to put down what is common on paper, they seek to embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations and reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to shine can never tell a plain story. “So I went with them to a music booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk their flash language, which I did not understand,” says, or is made to say, Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of which I am speaking. I have always looked upon this sentence as a masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very clear. As I gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as good in the Newgate Lives, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher’s philosophy—his tale of an apple and pear.

Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when quite a boy, as in one of the early chapters I have hinted, I had been a necessitarian; I had even written an essay on crime (I have it now before me, penned in a round, boyish hand), in which I attempted to prove that there is no such thing as crime or virtue, all our actions being the result of circumstances or necessity. These doubts were now again reviving in my mind; I could not for the life of me imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets; any more than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop Latimer (the reader is aware that I had read Fox’s Book of Martyrs) should have been anything else than Bishop Latimer. I had a very ill-regulated mind at that period.

My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying dream began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having toiled for hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on my chair, look about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an unsnuffed candle, or upon the heaps of books and papers before me, and exclaim: “Do I exist? Do these things, which I think I see about me, exist, or do they not? Is not everything a dream—a deceitful dream? Is not this apartment a dream—the furniture a dream? The publisher a dream—his philosophy a dream? Am I not myself a dream—dreaming about translating a dream? I can’t see why all should not be a dream; what’s the use of the reality?” And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened smoky light. “I can’t see, for the life of me, the use of all this; therefore, why should I think that it exists? If there was a chance, a probability of all this tending to anything, I might believe; but—” and then I would stare and think, and after some time shake my head and return again to my occupations for an hour or two; and then I would perhaps shake, and shiver, and yawn, and look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping apartment; and then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before me; and sometimes I would return to my papers and books; but oftener I would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, and proceed to my sleeping chamber.

They say that light fare begets light dreams; my fare at that time was light enough, but I had anything but light dreams, for at that period I had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, and amongst other things I dreamt that the whole world had taken to dog-fighting; and that I, myself, had taken to dog-fighting, and that in a vast circus I backed an English bulldog against the bloodhound of the Pope of Rome.

XXXVII

One morning I arose somewhat later that usual, having been occupied during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. On descending from my chamber into the sitting-room I found a person seated by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to the table, on which were the usual preparations for my morning’s meal. Forthwith I gave a cry, and sprang forward to embrace the person; for the person by the fire, whose glance was directed to the table, was no one else than my brother.

“And how are things going on at home?” said I to my brother, after we had kissed and embraced. “How is my mother, and how is the dog?”

“My mother, thank God, is tolerably well,” said my brother, “but very much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not so well; but we will talk more of these matters anon,” said my brother, again glancing at the breakfast things: “I am very hungry, as you may suppose, after having travelled all night.”

Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome—I may say more than welcome; and, when the rage of my brother’s hunger was somewhat abated, we recommenced talking about the matters of our little family, and my brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her fits of crying, but said that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she appeared to be taking comfort; and if I am not much mistaken, my brother told me that my mother had of late the prayerbook frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible.

We were silent for a time; at last I opened my mouth and mentioned the dog.

“The dog,” said my brother, “is, I am afraid, in a very poor way; ever since the death he has done nothing but pine and take on. A few months ago, you remember, he was as plump and fine as any dog in the town; but at present he is little more than skin and bone. Once we lost him for two days, and never expected to see him again, imagining that some mischance had befallen him; at length I found him—where do you think? Chancing to pass by the churchyard,144 I found him seated on the grave!”

“Very strange,” said I; “but let us talk of something else. It was very kind of you to come and see me.”

“Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though of course I am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious about you, like my mother, who has received only one letter from you since your departure. No, I did not come up on purpose to see you; but on quite a different account. You must know that the corporation of our town have lately elected a new mayor,145 a person of many qualifications—big and portly, with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any time go three miles to hear anyone sing ‘God save the King’; moreover, a giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present mayor; who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite; so much so that the town is anxious to have his portrait painted in a superior style, so that remote posterity may know what kind of man he was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside and whispered. ‘He’ll do,’ I heard one say; ‘yes, he’ll do,’ said another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his back,146 who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and made a long speech (the old town has been always celebrated for orators) in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my productions (the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic taste), and, what do you think? offered me the painting of the mayor’s portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble.

“Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker, of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that Crome was dead. ‘Crome,’ said the little man, ‘Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting landscapes and farmhouses, but he would not do in the present instance, were he alive. He had no conception of the heroic, sir. We want some person capable of representing our mayor striding under the Norman arch out of the cathedral.’ At the mention of the heroic, an idea came at once into my head. ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘if you are in quest of the heroic, I am glad that you came to me; don’t mistake me,’ I continued, ‘I do not mean to say that I could do justice to your subject, though I am fond of the heroic; but I can introduce you to a great master of the heroic, fully competent to do justice to your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be the painting of the picture given, but to a friend of mine, the great master of the heroic, to the best, the strongest, πω κρατιστω,’ I added, for, being amongst orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell.”

“Well,” said I, “and what did the orators say?”

“They gazed dubiously at me and at one another,” said my brother; “at last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo was; adding, that he had never heard of such a person; that, from my recommendation of him, he had no doubt that he was a very clever man, but that they should like to know something more about him before giving the commission to him. That he had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered to be an excellent judge of pictures; but he supposed that I scarcely—Whereupon, interrupting the watchmaker, I told him that I alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie, but to the painter of Lazarus rising from the grave, a painter under whom I had myself studied during some months that I had spent in London, and to whom I was indebted for much connected with the heroic.”147

“I have heard of him,” said the watchmaker, “and his paintings too; but I am afraid that he is not exactly the gentleman by whom our mayor would wish to be painted. I have heard say that he is not a very good friend to Church and State. Come, young man,” he added, “it appears to me that you are too modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and—why should I mince the matter?—the money is to be collected in the town, why should it go into a stranger’s pocket, and be spent in London?”

Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art had nothing to do with Church and State, at least with English Church and State, which had never encouraged it; and that, though Church and State were doubtless very fine things, a man might be a very good artist who cared not a straw for either. I then made use of some more Greek words, and told them how painting was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of nobody; that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the Muse if, on the present occasion, I did not recommend them a man whom I considered to be a much greater master of the heroic than myself; and that, with regard to the money being spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not weigh for a moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a true heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, that at last they said that I should have my own way; and that if I pleased to go up to London, and bring down the painter of Lazarus to paint the mayor, I might; so they then bade me farewell, and I have come up to London.

“To put a hundred pounds into the hands of—”

“A better man than myself,” said my brother, “of course.”

“And have you come up at your own expense?”

“Yes,” said my brother, “I have come up at my own expense.”

I made no answer, but looked in my brother’s face. We then returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and the dog.

After some time my brother said: “I will now go to the painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him.”148 Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street.

XXXVIII

The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him, a maidservant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously; it was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye; his hair was dark brown, and cut à la Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is, there was little before and much behind; he did not wear a neckcloth, but, in its stead, a black ribbon, so that his neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed; he had a broad, muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad to see him.

“What brings you to London?” said he.

Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter glisten. “Really,” said he, when my brother had concluded, “it was very kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman arch.149 I’ll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don’t mind telling you, I thought it was some dun. I don’t know how it is, but in the capital they have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture; I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I’ll go; when shall we set off?”

Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art. “I’ll stick to the heroic,” said the painter; “I now and then dabble in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there is nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture,” said he, pointing to the canvas; “the subject is ‘Pharaoh dismissing Moses from Egypt,’ after the last plague—the death of the firstborn; it is not far advanced—that finished figure is Moses:” they both looked at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that there was something defective—something unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch. “I intend this to be my best picture,” said the painter; “what I want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for Pharaoh.” Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open for some time. “Who is this?” said he at last. “Oh, this is my brother, I forgot to introduce him—”

We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the painter. “He is a noble fellow,” said my brother; “but, like many other noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of the brush—all the land and waterscape painters hate him—but, above all, the race of portrait painters, who are ten times more numerous than the other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape from their malice—that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman arch.”

I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he said: “The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you would make a capital Pharaoh.” “I have no wish to appear on canvas,” said I; “moreover, he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro.” “Petulengro?” said my brother; “a strange kind of fellow came up to me some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by the by, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?” And then it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short, and I told my brother so. “Ah!” said my brother.

On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it.

The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull’s head, black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding; a man six foot high at the least. To his bull’s head, black hair and body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which the portrait did not correspond with the original—the legs were disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses and the mayor.

Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I think the painter’s attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the door of the “Checquers” or the “Brewers Three.” The painter in question had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something quite as good—another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture might have been made by my brother’s friend, if, instead of making the mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the sign of the “Checquers,” or the “Three Brewers,” with mace—yes, with mace—the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch behind the mayor—but likewise with Snap,150 and with whiffler,151 quart pot, and frying pan, Billy Blind, and Owlenglass,152 Mr. Petulengro and Pakomovna; then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or anyone else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or, indeed, out of English figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic posture-making. Italy—what was I going to say about Italy?

XXXIX

And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people’s business—at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects—I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half-filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the city of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher’s philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular—for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily—it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials, I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing—what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial—his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Königsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance, was the publisher’s remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. “Where is Brandt and Struensee?”153 cries the publisher; “I am sure I don’t know,” I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey’s rats. “Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or—” “Have you found Brandt and Struensee?” cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. “No,” I reply, “I can hear nothing about them;” whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey’s bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher’s sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes—he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. “How is this?” he exclaims; “I can scarcely believe my eyes—the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record—what gross, what utter negligence! Where’s the life of Farmer Patch? Where’s the trial of Yeoman Patch?”

“What a life! what a dog’s life!” I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher.

One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement—the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Symms—Gentleman Harry as they called him—is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good-looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the city. What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry “There it comes!” and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty.

“Whose body is in that hearse?” said I to a dapper-looking individual seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession.

“The mortal relics of Lord Byron,”154 said the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his words and smirking, “the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ——shire.”

“An illustrious poet, was he?” said I.

“Beyond all criticism,” said the dapper man; “all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model.”

I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper’s assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doted on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half-god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind.

“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper-looking man, “great poet, but unhappy.”

Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing—that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy and with reason. Was he a real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I eagerly to myself; a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron’s; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and whatnot, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness—witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice—fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling—a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don’t know; didn’t he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to—to—what a destiny! rank, beauty, fashion, immortality—he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men—I wish I could think he was unhappy.

I turned away.

“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper man, turning away too, “but unhappy—fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy.”

Hurrying down the street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.

“What means the multitude yonder?” he demanded.

“They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.”

“I have seen the man,” said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, “so I can dispense with seeing the hearse—I saw the living man at Venice—ah, a great poet.”

[“I don’t think so,” said I.

“Hey!” said Francis Ardry.155

“A perfumed lordling.”

“Ah!”

“With a white hand loaded with gawds.”

“Ah!”

“Who wrote verses.”

“Ah!”

“Replete with malignity and sensualism.”

“Yes!”

“Not half so great a poet as Milton.”

“No?”

“Nor Butler.”

“No?”

“Nor Otway.”

“No?”

“Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally patrons and publishers, took poison at last.”

“No?” said Francis Ardry.

“Why do you keep saying ‘No’? I tell you that I am no admirer of Byron.”

“Well,” said Frank, “don’t say so to anyone else. It will be thought that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost think you are.”

“Envious of him!” said I; “how should I be envious of him? Besides, the man’s dead, and a live dog, you know—”

“You do not think so,” said Frank, “and at this moment I would wager something that you would wish for nothing better than to exchange places with that lordling, as you call him, cold as he is.”

“Well, who knows?” said I. “I really think the man is overvalued. There is one thing connected with him which must ever prevent anyone of right feelings from esteeming him; I allude to his incessant abuse of his native land, a land, too, which had made him its idol.”

“Ah! you are a great patriot, I know,” said Frank. “Come, as you are fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, par excellence.”

“If you mean Eolus Jones,” said I, “you need not trouble yourself; I have seen him already.”

“I don’t mean him,” said Frank. “By the by, he came to me the other day to condole with me, as he said, on the woes of my bleeding country. Before he left me he made me bleed, for he persuaded me to lend him a guinea. No, I don’t mean him, nor anyone of his stamp; I mean an Irish patriot, one who thinks he can show his love for his country in no better way than by beating the English.”

“Beating the English?” said I; “I should like to see him.”

Whereupon taking me by the arm, Francis Ardry conducted me through various alleys, till we came to a long street which seemed to descend towards the south.

“What street is this?” said I, when we had nearly reached the bottom.

“It is no street at all,” said my friend; “at least it is not called one in this city of Cockaine; it is a lane, even that of St. Martin; and that church that you see there is devoted to him. It is one of the few fine churches in London. Malheureusement,156 as the French say, it is so choked up by buildings that it is impossible to see it at twenty yards’ distance from any side. Whenever I get into Parliament, one of my first motions shall be to remove some twenty score of the aforesaid buildings. But I think we have arrived at the house to which I wished to conduct you.”

“Yes, I see, Portobello.”

About twenty yards from the church, on the left-hand side of the street or lane, was a mean-looking house having something of the appearance of a fifth-rate inn. Over the door was written in large characters the name of the haven, where the bluff old Vernon achieved his celebrated victory over the whiskered Dons. Entering a passage on one side of which was a barroom, Ardry enquired of a middle-aged man who stood in it in his shirtsleeves, whether the captain was at home. Having received for an answer a surly kind of “yes,” he motioned me to follow him, and after reaching the end of the passage, which was rather dark, he began to ascend a narrow, winding stair. About halfway up he suddenly stopped, for at that moment a loud, hoarse voice from a room above commenced singing a strange kind of ditty.

“The captain is singing,” said Frank, “and, as I live, ‘Carolan’s Receipt for drinking whisky.’157 Let us wait a moment till he has done, as he would probably not like to be interrupted in his melody.”

Carolan’s Receipt

‘Whether sick or sound my receipt was the same,
To Stafford I stepp’d and better became;
A visit to Stafford’s bounteous hall
Was the best receipt of all, of all.

‘Midnight fell round us and drinking found us,
At morn again flow’d his whisky;
By his insight he knew ’twas the only way true
To keep Torlough alive and frisky.

‘Now deep healths quaffing, now screeching now laughing,
At my harp-strings tearing, and to madness nearing:
That was the life I led, and which I yet do;
For I will swear it, and to all the world declare it,
If you would fain be happy, you must aye be—’

“Fou!” said Francis Ardry, suddenly pushing open the door of the room from which the voice proceeded; “That’s the word, I think, captain.”

“By my shoul, Mr. Francis Ardry, you enter with considerable abruptness, sir,” said one of two men who were seated smoking at a common deal table, in a large ruinous apartment in which we now found ourselves. “You enter with considerable abruptness sir,” he repeated; “do you know on whom you are intruding?”

“Perfectly well,” said Francis; “I am standing in the presence of Torlough O’ Donahue, formerly captain in a foreign service, and at present resident in London for the express purpose of beating all the English—”

“And some of the Irish too, sir, if necessary,” said the captain with a menacing look. “I do not like to be broken in upon as if I were a nobody. However, as you are here, I suppose I must abide by it. I am not so little of a gentleman as to be deficient in the rudiments of hospitality. You may both of you sit down and make yourselves aisy.”

But this was no such easy matter, the only two chairs in the room being occupied by the captain and the other. I therefore leaned against the door, while Ardry strolled about the apartment.

The captain might be about forty. His head was immensely large, his complexion ruddy, and his features rough, coarse and strongly expressive of sullenness and ill-nature. He was about the middle height, with a frame clumsily made, but denoting considerable strength. He wore a blue coat, the lappets of which were very narrow, but so long that they nearly trailed upon the ground. Yellow leathern breeches unbuttoned at the knee, dazzling white cotton stockings and shoes with buckles, adorned his nether man.

His companion, who was apparently somewhat older than himself, was dressed in a coarse greatcoat and a glazed hat exactly resembling those worn by hackneys. He had a quiet, droll countenance, very much studded with carbuncles, and his nose, which was very long, was of so hooked a description that the point of it nearly entered his mouth.

“Who may this friend of yours be?” said the captain to Ardry, after staring at me.

“A young gentleman much addicted to philosophy, poetry and philology.”

“Is he Irish?”

“No, he is English; but I have heard him say that he has a particular veneration for Ireland.”

“He has, has he; by my shoul, then, all the better for him. If he had not … Can he fight?”

“I think I have heard him say that he can use his fists when necessary.”

“He can, can he? by my shoul, I should like to try him. But first of all I have another customer to dispose of. I have just determined to send a challenge to Bishop Sharpe whom these English call the best of their light weights.158 Perhaps he is, but if I don’t—”

“The Bishop is a good man,” interrupted his companion of the greatcoat and glazed hat, in a strange croaky tone.

“Is it a good man that you are calling him?” said the captain. “Well, be it so; the more merit in my baiting him.”

“That’s true; but you have not beat him yet,” said his companion.

“Not bate him yet? Is not there the paper that I am going to write the challenge on? and is not there the pen and the ink that I am going to write it with? and is not there yourself, John Turner, my hired servant, that’s bound to take him the challenge when ’tis written?”

“That’s true; here we are all four—pen, ink, paper, and John Turner; but there’s something else wanted to beat Bishop Sharpe.”

“What else is wanted?” shouted the captain.

“Why, to be a better man than he.”

“And ain’t I that man?”

“Why, that remains to be seen.”

“Ain’t I an Irishman?”

“Yes, I believe you to be an Irishman. No one, to hear you talk, but would think you that, or a Frenchman. I was in conversation with one of that kind the other day. Hearing him talk rather broken, I asked him what countryman he was. ‘What countryman are you?’ said I.—‘I?’ said he, ‘I am one Frenchman,’ and then he looked at me as if I should sink into the earth under his feet.—‘You are not the better for that,’ said I; ‘you are not the better for being a Frenchman, I suppose,’ said I.—‘How?’ said he; ‘I am of the great nation which has won all the battles in the world.’—‘All the battles in the world?’ said I. ‘Did you ever hear of the battle of Waterloo?’ said I. You should have seen how blue he looked. ‘Ah! you can’t get over that,’ said I; ‘you can’t get over the battle of Waterloo,’ said I.”

“Is it the battle of Waterloo you are speaking of, you spalpeen? And to one who was there, an Irish cavalier, fighting in the ranks of the brave French! By the powers! if the sacrifice would not be too great, I would break this pipe in your face.”

“Why, as to that, two can play at that,” said he of the glazed hat, smoking on very composedly. “I remember I once said so to young Cope—you have heard of young Cope. I was vally to young Cope and servant of all work twenty year ago at Brighton. So one morning after I had carried up his boots, he rings the bell as if in a great fury. ‘Do you call these boots clean?’ said young Cope, as soon as I showed myself at the door. ‘Do you call these clean?’ said he, flinging one boot at my head, and then the other. ‘Two can play at that game,’ said I, catching the second boot in my hand, ‘two can play at that game,’ said I, aiming it at young Cope’s head—not that I meant to fling it at young Cope’s head, for young Cope was a gentleman; yes, a gentleman, captain, though not Irish, for he paid me my wages.”

These last words seemed to have a rather quieting effect upon the captain, who at the commencement of the speech had grasped his pipe somewhat below the bowl and appeared by his glance to be meditating a lunge at the eye of his eccentric servant, who continued smoking and talking with great composure. Suddenly replacing the end of his pipe in his mouth, the man turned to me, and in a tone of great hauteur said:—

“So, sir, I am told by your friend there, that you are fond of the humanities.”

“Yes,” said I, “I am very fond of humanity, and was always a great admirer of the lines of Gay:—

‘Cowards are cruel, but the brave
Love mercy and delight to save.’ ”

“By my shoul, sir, it’s an ignorant beast I’m thinking ye. It was not humanity I was speaking of, but the humanities, which have nothing at all to do with it.” Then turning to Frank, he demanded, “Was it not yourself, Mr. Francis Ardry, that told me, when you took the liberty of introducing this person to me, that he was addicted to philosophy, prosody, and whatnot?”

“To be sure I did,” said Frank.

“Well, sir, and are not those the humanities, or are you as ignorant as your friend here?”

“You pretend to be a humanist, sir,” said he to me, “but I will take the liberty of showing your utter ignorance. Now, sir, do you venture to say that you can answer a question connected with the Irish humanities?”

“I must hear it first,” said I.

“You must hear it, must ye? Then you shall hear it to your confusion. A pretty humanist I will show you to be; open your ears, sir!”—

‘Triuir ata sé air mo bhás.’159

“Now, sir, what does the poet mean by saying that there are three looking after his death? Whom does he allude to, sir? hey?”

“The devil, the worms, and his children,” said I, “who are looking after three things which they can’t hope to get before he is dead—the children his property, the worms his body, and the devil his soul, as the man says a little farther on.”

The captain looked at me malignantly.

“Now, sir, are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“Wherefore?” said I. “Have I not given the meaning of the poem?”

“You have expounded the elegy, sir, fairly enough; I find no fault with your interpretation. What I mean is this: Are you not ashamed to be denying your country?”

“I never denied my country; I did not even mention it. My friend there told you I was an Englishman, and he spoke the truth.”

“Sorrow befall you for saying so,” said the captain. “But I see how it is, you have been bought; yes, sir, paid money, to deny your country; but such has ever been the policy of the English; they can’t bate us, so they buy us. Now here’s myself. No sooner have I sent this challenge to Bishop Sharpe by the hands of my hired servant, than I expect to have a hundred offers to let myself be beat. What is that you say, sir?” said he, addressing his companion who had uttered a kind of inaudible sound—“No hopes of that, did you say? Do you think that I could be bate without allowing myself to be bate? By the powers!—but you are beneath my notice.”

“Well, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on me, “though you have cheek enough to deny your own country, I trust you have not enough to deny the merit of the elegy. What do you think of the elegy, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff,” said I.

“Hear him!” said the captain looking about him. “But he has been bought, paid money, to deny his own country and all that belongs to it. Well, sir, what do you think of Carolan, Carolan the Great? What do you think of his Receipt, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff, too.”

“Very well, sir, very well; but I hope to make you give me a receipt for all this before you leave. One word more. I suppose you’ll next deny that we have any poetry or music at all.”

“Far be it from me to say any such thing. There is one song connected with Ireland which I have always thought very fine, and likewise the music that accompanies it.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir; there is one piece of Irish poetry and music which meets your approbation! Pray name the piece, sir.”

“ ‘Croppies Lie Down!’ ”

The captain sprang to his feet like one electrified.

“What, sir?” said he.

“ ‘Croppies Lie Down!’ ”

The captain dashed his pipe to shivers against the table; then tucking up the sleeves of his coat, he advanced to within a yard of me, and pushing forward his head somewhat in the manner of a bulldog when about to make a spring, he said in a tone of suppressed fury: “I think I have heard of that song before, sir; but nobody ever yet cared to sing it to me. I should admire to hear from your lips what it is. Perhaps you will sing me a line or two.”

“With great pleasure,” said I:—

“There are many brave rivers run into the sea,
But the best of them all is Boyne water for me;
There Croppies were vanquished and terrified fled,
With Jamie the runagate king at their head.
When crossing the ford
In the name of the Lord,
The conqueror brandished his conquering sword;
Then down, down, Croppies lie down!’

“By the powers! a very pretty song, and much obliged am I to ye for singing it, more especially as it gives me an opportunity of breaking your head, you long-limbed descendant of a Boyne trooper. You must deny your country, must ye? ye dingy renegade!—the black North, but old Ireland still. But here’s Connemara for ye—take this—and this—Och, murther!—What have we got here … ?”

“Who and what is this O’Donahue?” said I to Frank Ardry after we had descended into the street.

“An ill-tempered Irishman,” said Frank, “the most disagreeable animal alive, once a rare bird on the earth. His father, after having taught him some Irish and less Latin, together with an immoderate hatred of the English, sent him abroad at the age of sixteen to serve the French. In that service he continued until the time of the general peace, when he quitted it for the Austrian. I first became acquainted with him at Vienna, where he bore the rank of captain, but had the character of a notorious gambler. It was owing, I believe, to his gambling practices that he was eventually obliged to leave the Austrian service. He has been in London about six months, where he supports himself as best he can, chiefly, I believe, by means of the gaming-table. His malignity against England has of late amounted almost to insanity, and has been much increased by the perusal of Irish newspapers which abound with invective against England and hyperbolical glorification of Ireland and the Irish. The result is that he has come to the conclusion that the best way for him to take revenge for the injuries of Ireland and to prove the immense superiority of the Irish over the English will be to break the head of Bishop Sharpe in the ring.”

“Well,” said I, “I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there be, should not be settled in the ring.”

“Nor I either,” said Frank, “and I could wish my countrymen to choose none other than O’Donahue. With respect to England and Bishop Sharpe …”

At that moment a voice sounded close by me: “Coach, your honour, coach? Will carry you anywhere you like.” I stopped, and lo the man of the greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side.

“What do you want?” said I. “Have you brought me any message from your master?”

“Master? What master? Oh! you mean the captain. I left him rubbing his head. No, I don’t think you will hear anything from him in a hurry; he has had enough of you. All I wish to know is whether you wish to ride.”

“I thought you were the captain’s servant.”

“Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about the Park, but he’s no master of mine—he doesn’t pay me. Who cares? I don’t serve him for money. I like to hear his talk about Bishop Sharpe and beating the English—Lord help him! Now, where do you wish to go? Any coach you like—any coachman—and nothing to pay.”

“Why do you wish me to ride?” said I.

“Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain. I think what he got will satisfy him for a time. No more talk about Bishop Sharpe for a week at least. Come, come along, both of you. The stand is close by, and I’ll drive you myself.”

“Will you ride?” said I to Francis Ardry.

“No,” said Frank.

“Then come alone. Where shall I drive you?”

“To London Bridge.”]

XL

So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall were to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse—a fascination: I had resisted it—I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the eddies—what had I to live for?—what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch—should I yield to the impulse—why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or—Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it—I looked forward, far down the stream in the distance. “Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance—I stared—I stared—a Fata Morgana—it was gone—”

I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with the intention of returning home; just halfway over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall.

“Well, mother,” said I, “how are you?” The old woman lifted her head with a startled look.

“Don’t you know me?” said I.

“Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes,” said she, as her features beamed with recollection, “I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?”

“Nothing at all,” said I.

“Bad luck?”

“Yes,” said I, “bad enough, and ill usage.”

“Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” said I, sitting down on the stone bench; “I thought you had left the bridge—why have you changed your side?”

The old woman shook.

“What is the matter with you,” said I, “are you ill?”

“No, child, no; only—”

“Only what? Any bad news of your son?”

“No child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child—every heart has its bitters.”

“That’s true,” said I; “well, I don’t want to know your sorrows; come, where’s the book?”

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. “Book, child, what book?”

“Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.”

“Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child—I have lost it, have left it at home.”

“Lost it,” said I; “left it at home—what do you mean? Come, let me have it.”

“I ha’n’t got it, child.”

“I believe you have got it under your cloak.”

“Don’t tell anyone, dear; don’t—don’t,” and the apple-woman burst into tears.

“What’s the matter with you?” said I, staring at her.

“You want to take my book from me?”

“Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what’s the matter?”

“Why, all about that book.”

“The book?”

“Yes, they wanted to take it from me.”

“Who did?”

“Why, some wicked boys. I’ll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand; up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. ‘What book is this?’ said he, grinning at it. ‘What do you want with my book?’ said I, clutching at it over my stall, ‘give me my book.’ ‘What do you want a book for?’ said he, holding it back; ‘I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames.’ ‘Give me my book,’ I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the boys—off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could. I thought of my fruit; but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. ‘My book! my book!’ I shrieked, ‘murder! theft! robbery!’ I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn’t care—I followed the rascals. ‘Stop them! stop them!’ I ran nearly as fast as they—they couldn’t run very fast on account of the crowd. At last someone stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was. ‘Has he robbed you?’ said the man. ‘Robbed me, indeed; why, he had got my book.’ ‘Oh, your book,’ said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but—”

“Well, go on.”

“My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn’t keep my stall for two days, I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn’t bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged.”

“For what.”

“Why for stealing my book.”

“I thought you didn’t dislike stealing, that you were ready to buy things—there was your son, you know—”

“Yes, to be sure.”

“He took things.”

“To be sure he did.”

“But you don’t like a thing of yours to be taken.”

“No, that’s quite a different thing; what’s stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book; there’s a wide difference—don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I’m glad you do. Would you like to look at the book?”

“Well, I think I should.”

“Honour bright?” said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes.

“Honour bright,” said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes.

“Well then, dear, here it is,” said she, taking it from under her cloak; “read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth. Don’t sit so near the edge—you might—”

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and giving her another tanner, walked away.

XLI

Time passed away, and with it the Review,160 which, contrary to the publisher’s expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield’s remark, that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low.

So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations—the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian—the inferior members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials. Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication.

“Sir,” said the publisher, “what do you want the money for?”

“Merely to live on,” I replied; “it is very difficult to live in this town without money.”

“How much money did you bring with you to town?” demanded the publisher.

“Some twenty or thirty pounds,” I replied.

“And you have spent it already?”

“No,” said I, “not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.”

“Sir,” said the publisher, “I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!”

“On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?”

“Sir,” said the publisher, “you eat meat.”

“Yes,” said I, “I eat meat sometimes: what should I eat?”

“Bread, sir,” said the publisher; “bread and cheese.”

“So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it—it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteen pence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.”

“Then, sir, eat bread—bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.”

However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty percent, consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would.

But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so; his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find, the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life of “Gentleman Harry.” “They are drugs, sir,” said the publisher, “drugs; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar—has it not, Taggart?”

Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning’s visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart’s pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man—yet there was much in Taggart—and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way.

“Well, young gentleman,” said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, “how do you like authorship?”

“I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,” said I.

“What do you call authorship?” said Taggart.

“I scarcely know,” said I; “that is, I can scarcely express what I think it.”

“Shall I help you out?” said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me.

“If you like,” said I.

“To write something grand,” said Taggart, taking snuff; “to be stared at—lifted on people’s shoulders—”

“Well,” said I, “that is something like it.”

Taggart took snuff. “Well,” said he, “why don’t you write something grand?”

“I have,” said I.

“What?” said Taggart.

“Why,” said I, “there are those ballads.”

Taggart took snuff.

“And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.”

Taggart took snuff again.

“You seem to be very fond of snuff,” said I, looking at him angrily.

Taggart tapped his box.

“Have you taken it long?”

“Three-and-twenty years.”

“What snuff do you take?”

“Universal mixture.”

“And you find it of use?”

Taggart tapped his box.

“In what respect?” said I.

“In many—there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.”

“Have you been long here?”

“Three-and-twenty years.”

“Dear me,” said I; “and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch—pah, I don’t like it,” and I sneezed.

“Take another pinch,” said Taggart.

“No,” said I, “I don’t like snuff.”

“Then you will never do for authorship—at least for this kind.”

“So I begin to think—what shall I do?”

Taggart took snuff.

“You were talking of a great work—what shall it be?”

Taggart took snuff.

“Do you think I could write one?”

Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, however.

“It would require time,” said I, with half a sigh.

Taggart tapped his box.

“A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads—”

Taggart took snuff.

“If published would do me credit. I’ll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher.”

Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.

XLII

Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half-open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door, but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, “Come in—come in by all means,” and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons.

On entering the room I perceived another individual to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short, spare man of about sixty; his hair was of a badger grey, and his face was covered with wrinkles—without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, cracked voice, “that won’t do, sir; that won’t do—more vehemence—your argument is at present particularly weak; therefore, more vehemence—you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir;” and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. “Good, sir—good!” he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. “Infinitely good!” he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; “and now, sir, abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline—gradually, sir; not too fast. Good, sir—very good!” as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence. “And now a little pathos, sir—try them with a little pathos. That won’t do, sir—that won’t do,”—as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic—“that will never pass for pathos—with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir.”

Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh. “Ha, ha!” said the other, good humouredly, “you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole, I think you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four.”

Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half-bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed.

“Who is that gentleman?” said I to Francis Ardry as soon as we were alone.

“Oh, that is ———” said Frank smiling, “the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution.”

“And what need have you of elocution?”

“Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians,” said Francis, “who insist that I should, with the assistance of ———,161 qualify myself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them, for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them.”

“But,” said I, “you are a Roman Catholic, and I thought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?”

“Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are fixed on something better than politics.”

“I understand you,” said I; “dog-fighting—well, I can easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting—”162

“I was not thinking of dog-fighting,” said Francis Ardry, interrupting me.

“Not thinking of dog-fighting!” I ejaculated.

“No,” said Francis Ardry, “something higher and much more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts.”

“Dear me,” said I, “I thought I heard you say, that there was nothing like it!”

“Like what?” said Francis Ardry.

“Dog-fighting, to be sure,” said I.

“Pooh,” said Francis Ardry; “who but the gross and unrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and sleeping thoughts is love—divine love—there is nothing like that. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you.”

And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name,163 who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover—for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world—succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. “I am looking out for a handsome gig and horse,” said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration; “it were a burning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach.”

“But,” said I, “will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?”

“It will prevent me devoting all my time,” said Francis Ardry, “as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible—unless I have recourse to Jews and moneylenders—to support Annette, present her with articles of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying her angelic person through the streets of London.”

After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing: “So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?”

“Yes,” said Francis Ardry starting from his reverie; “everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion—a barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging myself and others behind him—he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard ——— himself,164 who has heard him speak, say that he will cut a figure.”

“And is ——— competent to judge?” I demanded.

“Who but he?” said Francis Ardry; “no one questions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to consult him; C——165 himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in ———166 for consultation.”

“As to matter, or manner?” said I.

“Chiefly the latter,” said Francis Ardry, “though he is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part—‘I want paunch,’ said he.”

“It is not always indispensable,” said I; “there is an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch; but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which wants ———?”

“No more deficient in it than in brass,” said Francis Ardry.

“Well,” said I, “whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up—I love religious liberty.”

“We shall succeed,” said Francis Ardry; “John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself.”

“There is one thing,” said I, “connected with this matter which surprises me—your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable.”

“You would not have cause to complain of my indifference,” said Frank, “provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, ‘and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?’ so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow—a half-Italian, half-English priest—who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a temporal guide—has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water, and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics and religious movements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her.”

XLIII

By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some progress in translating the publisher’s philosophy into German. But about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what other resource had I? another publisher? But what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym; but then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One asked me if I had anything else—he was a snuff-taker—I said yes; and going home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never opened it.

I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not see Glorious John. I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now gone to his rest, but I—what was I going to say?—the world will never forget Glorious John.

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being—to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of paper.

“Sir,” said he, “you know nothing of German; I have shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it is utterly unintelligible to them.” “Did they see the Philosophy?” I replied. “They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand English.” “No more do I,” I replied, “if that Philosophy be English.”

The publisher was furious—I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff to those who can’t take it, silent contempt; at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!

XLIV

It was past midwinter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned to the other side of the bridge to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had done after repeated conversations with me; “she liked the old place best,” she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal. “You may keep it, dear,” said the old woman, with a sigh; “you may carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own.”

Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed: “Is it possible that you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of comfort so long?”

Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again; also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter and beefsteaks were no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter.

“Ah,” said I, “you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health.” I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected with her youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind. There were certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, “Thou shalt not steal.”

On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, who followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother’s house, and which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her life.

But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on the words, “Thou shalt not steal;” she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with her.

On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing; her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though poor.

So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the world. If education was a benefit to some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her mother’s closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it, and—and I felt myself getting into a maze; what is right? thought I; what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every action is bound up with necessity.

“Necessity!” I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints.

“Ah, it is a bad thing,” said the old woman.

“What is a bad thing?” said I.

“Why, to be poor, dear.”

“You talk like a fool,” said I, “riches and poverty are only different forms of necessity.”

“You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother a fool.”

“You are not my mother,” said I.

“Not your mother, dear?—no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool—and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip.”

“After all, I don’t know that you are not my mother.”

“Don’t you, dear? I’m glad of it; I wish you would make it out.”

“How should I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist.”

“What people, dear?”

“You and I.”

“Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so.”

“Don’t abuse it,” said I; “the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists.”

“I wish it did not,” said the old woman; “but it shan’t long; I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river—the voices of night tell me to do so.”

“Tell the voices,” said I, “that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?”

“All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.”

“Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all.”

“Anything at all! Why, a’n’t we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my—”

“Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say—I don’t know; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear.”

“Don’t talk so, dear.”

“I won’t; we will suppose that we all exist—world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?”

“Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.”

“I have read it, and have no further use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books.”

“Then I will fling it into the river.”

“Don’t do that; here, give it me. Now what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it.”

“I am so no longer.”

“But how will you pass your time? what will you read?”

“I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school: the primer or the other.”

“What was the other?”

“I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus.”

“Ah, I know it.”

“You have read it? is it a nice book—all true?”

“True, true—I don’t know what to say; but if the world be true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don’t see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true. By the by, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book.”

“What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?”

“Yes, the language of those who bring you things.”

“The language of those who did, dear; they bring them now no longer. They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calfskin.”

“That’s metaphor,” said I, “English, but metaphorical; what an odd language! So you would like to have a Bible—shall I buy you one?”

“I am poor, dear—no money since I left off the other trade.”

“Well, then, I’ll buy you one.”

“No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know—I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.”

“That will never do,” said I, “more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do—try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?”

“Well, dear,” said the old woman, “do as you please; I should like to see the—what do you call it?—Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true.”

“Yes,” said I, “seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt—I seem to think—these apples and pears seem to be—and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other.”

A person had stopped before the apple-woman’s stall, and was glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle stature; his features were keen, but rather hard; there was a slight obliquity in his vision. Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinizingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of Southwark.

“Do you know who that man is?” said I to the old woman.

“No,” said she, “except that he is one of my best customers: he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don’t know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking men—Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them.”

XLV

In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had entrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket. I went to several shops, and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty. When, however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined treating with me, saying that they did not do business in that way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw written, “Books bought and exchanged:” there was a smartish young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers. “You exchange?” said I. “Yes,” said he, “sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?” “A Bible,” said I. “Ah,” said he, “there’s a great demand for Bibles just now; all kinds of people are become very pious of late,” he added, grinning at me; “I am afraid I can’t do business with you, more especially as the master is not at home. What book have you brought?” Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter. The young fellow opened the book, and inspecting the titlepage, burst into a loud laugh. “What do you laugh for?” said I, angrily, and half clenching my fist. “Laugh!” said the young fellow; “laugh! who could help laughing?” “I could,” said I; “I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this book for a Bible.” “You do?” said the young fellow; “well, I daresay there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either. Master’s a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I’d buy it of you, but, to tell you the truth, I am quite empty here,” said he, pointing to his pocket, “so I am afraid we can’t deal.”

Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, “what am I to do?” said I; “I really want a Bible.”

“Can’t you buy one?” said the young man; “have you no money?”

“Yes,” said I, “I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?”

“I don’t know,” said the young man, thoughtfully, laying down the book on the counter; “I don’t know what you can do. I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job, the trade are rather precise.” All at once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. “Take my advice,” said he; “there is a firm established in this neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will exchange with you?”

Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange—which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success.

I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square, and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, “Bibles, and other religious books.”

At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I—Bibles, doubtless. I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament. “Come, young lad,” said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, “put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one.”

Deal, thought I, deal—the man seems to know what I am coming about—and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold.

Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men—he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion.

“What is your business, young man?” said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion.

“I want a Bible,” said I.

“What price, what size?” said the precise-looking man.

“As to size,” said I, “I should like to have a large one—that is, if you can afford me one—I do not come to buy.”

“Oh, friend,” said the precise-looking man, “if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken—we—”

“I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing,” said I, “or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter.”

“Oh, we don’t barter,” said the precise man, “at least Bibles; you had better depart.”

“Stay, brother,” said the man with the countenance of a lion, “let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions.”

“Not I,” I exclaimed, “I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible—I don’t believe—”

“Hey!” said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped. But with that “Hey” the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door.

There was silence for about a minute—the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder.

At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly: “Were you about to say that you don’t believe in the Bible, young man?”

“No more than in anything else,” said I; “you were talking of convictions—I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible.”

“He seems to be insane,” said the prim-looking man, “we had better order the porter to turn him out.”

“I am by no means certain,” said I, “that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream.”

“Come,” said the lion-looking man, impatiently, “a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point—you want a Bible?”

“I do,” said I, “but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.”

“And who is that person?”

“A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions—heard voices, or thought she heard them—I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.”

“What has she sent to offer in exchange?” said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech.

“A book,” said I.

“Let me see it.”

“Nay, brother,” said the precise man, “this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.”

“I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other; “perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?”

I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket—the book was gone.

“What’s the matter?” repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.

“I have it not—I have lost it!”

“A pretty story, truly,” said the precise-looking man, “lost it!”

“You had better retire,” said the other.

“How shall I appear before the party who entrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her—appearances are certainly against me.”

“They are so—you had better retire.”

I moved towards the door. “Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.”

“What is that?” said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously.

“The purchase of a Bible.”

“Purchase!” said I, “purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?”

The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, “Dear me,” said I, “it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good.”

No answer.

“Yes,” I repeated, “I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost—” and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket.

The prim-looking man smiled: “I suppose,” said he, “that he has lost his money as well as book.”

“No,” said I, “I have not;” and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns.

“O, noble goddess of the Mint!” as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, “great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man’s character!”

“Only half a crown for this Bible?” said I, putting down the money, “it is worth three;” and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase.

“Queer customer,” said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door—“don’t like him.”

“Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,” said he of the countenance of a lion.

XLVI

A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, “My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket.”

The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals—the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; “I have picked no one’s pocket,” said he. “Rascal,” said the other, “you have got my pocketbook in your bosom.” “No, I have not,” said the other; and struggling more violently than before, the pocketbook dropped from his bosom upon the ground.

The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling. “You had better take up your book,” said I; “I can hold him.” He followed my advice, and, taking up his pocketbook, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before—it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and greatcoat. “Well,” said I, at last, “what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?” nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. “Shall I let him go?”

“Go!” said the other; “go! The knave—the rascal; let him go, indeed! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. Bring him along.”

“Oh, let me go,” said the other: “let me go; this is the first offence, I assure ye—the first time I ever thought to do anything wrong.”

“Hold your tongue,” said I, “or I shall be angry with you. If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat me.”

“I never saw you before in all my life,” said the fellow, though his countenance seemed to belie his words.

“That is not true,” said I; “you are the man who attempted to cheat me of one-and-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said the other; “a confirmed thief;” and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; “I would fain see him hanged—crucified. Drag him along.”

“I am no constable,” said I; “you have got your pocketbook—I would rather you would bid me let him go.”

“Bid you let him go!” said the other almost furiously, “I command—stay, what was I going to say? I was forgetting myself,” he observed more gently; “but he stole my pocketbook; if you did but know what it contained.”

“Well,” said I, “if it contains anything valuable, be the more thankful that you have recovered it; as for the man, I will help you to take him where you please; but I wish you would let him go.”

The stranger hesitated, and there was an extraordinary play of emotion in his features; he looked ferociously at the pickpocket, and, more than once, somewhat suspiciously at myself; at last his countenance cleared, and, with a good grace, he said, “Well, you have done me a great service, and you have my consent to let him go; but the rascal shall not escape with impunity,” he exclaimed suddenly, as I let the man go, and starting forward, before the fellow could escape, he struck him a violent blow on the face. The man staggered, and had nearly fallen; recovering himself, however, he said: “I tell you what, my fellow, if I ever meet you in this street in a dark night, and I have a knife about me, it shall be the worse for you; as for you, young man,” said he to me; but, observing that the other was making towards him, he left whatever he was about to say unfinished, and, taking to his heels, was out of sight in a moment.

The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, the way in which he had been originally proceeding; he was silent for a few moments, at length he said: “You have really done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant’s pocketbook, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance; but young man,” he exclaimed, “I think I have seen you before; I thought so at first, but where I cannot exactly say: where was it?” I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple-woman. “Oh,” said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar in his smile, “I remember now. Do you frequently sit on London Bridge?” “Occasionally,” said I; “that old woman is an old friend of mine.” “Friend?” said the stranger, “I am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I am going to ’Change; time you know is precious to a merchant.” We were by this time close to Cheapside. “Farewell,” said he, “I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again.” He then shook me by the hand and went his way.

The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and after a word or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me. Our discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters.

“What do you call bread in your language?” said I.

“You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I shan’t buy any more; it’s no language of mine, dear—they call bread pannam in their language.”

“Pannam!” said I, “pannam! evidently connected with, is not derived from, the Latin panis; even as the word tanner, which signifieth a sixpence, is connected with, if not derived from, the Latin tener, which is itself connected with, if not derived from, tawno or tawner, which, in the language of Mr. Petulengro, signifieth a sucking child. Let me see, what is the term for bread in the language of Mr. Petulengro? Morro, or manro, as I have sometimes heard it called; is there not some connection between these words and panis? Yes, I think there is; and I should not wonder if morro, manro, and panis were connected, perhaps derived from the same root; but what is that root? I don’t know—I wish I did; though, perhaps, I should not be the happier. Morro—manro! I rather think morro is the oldest form; it is easier to say morro than manro. Morro! Irish, aran; Welsh, bara; English, bread. I can see a resemblance between all the words, and pannam too; and I rather think that the Petulengrian word is the elder. How odd it would be if the language of Mr. Petulengro should eventually turn out to be the mother of all the languages in the world; yet it is certain that there are some languages in which the terms for bread have no connection with the word used by Mr. Petulengro, notwithstanding that those languages, in many other points, exhibit a close affinity to the language of the horseshoe master: for example, bread, in Hebrew, is Laham,167 which assuredly exhibits little similitude to the word used by the aforesaid Petulengro. In Armenian it is—”

“Zhats!” said the stranger starting up. “By the Patriarch and the Three Holy Churches, this is wonderful! How came you to know aught of Armenian?”

XLVII

Just as I was about to reply to the interrogation of my new-formed acquaintance, a man, with a dusky countenance, probably one of the Lascars, or Mulattos, of whom the old woman had spoken, came up and whispered to him, and with this man he presently departed, not however before he had told me the place of his abode, and requested me to visit him.

After the lapse of a few days, I called at the house which he had indicated. It was situated in a dark and narrow street, in the heart of the city, at no great distance from the Bank. I entered a counting-room, in which a solitary clerk, with a foreign look, was writing. The stranger was not at home; returning the next day, however, I met him at the door as he was about to enter; he shook me warmly by the hand. “I am glad to see you,” said he, “follow me, I was just thinking of you.” He led me through the counting-room to an apartment up a flight of stairs; before ascending, however, he looked into the book in which the foreign-visaged clerk was writing, and, seemingly not satisfied with the manner in which he was executing his task, he gave him two or three cuffs, telling him at the same time that he deserved crucifixion.

The apartment above stairs, to which he led me, was large, with three windows which opened upon the street. The walls were hung with wired cases, apparently containing books. There was a table and two or three chairs; but the principal article of furniture was a long sofa, extending from the door by which we entered to the farther end of the apartment. Seating himself upon the sofa, my new acquaintance motioned me to a seat beside him, and then, looking me full in the face, repeated his former inquiry. “In the name of all that is wonderful, how came you to know aught of my language?”

“There is nothing wonderful in that,” said I; “we are at the commencement of a philological age, everyone studies languages: that is, everyone who is fit for nothing else; philology being the last resource of dullness and ennui, I have got a little in advance of the throng, by mastering the Armenian alphabet; but I foresee the time when every unmarriageable miss, and desperate blockhead, will likewise have acquired the letters of Mesroub,168 and will know the term for bread, in Armenian, and perhaps that for wine.”

“Kini,” said my companion; and that and the other word put me in mind of the duties of hospitality. “Will you eat bread and drink wine with me?”

“Willingly,” said I. Whereupon my companion, unlocking a closet, produced on a silver salver, a loaf of bread, with a silver-handled knife, and wine in a silver flask, with cups of the same metal. “I hope you like my fare,” said he, after we had both eaten and drunk.

“I like your bread,” said I, “for it is stale; I like not your wine, it is sweet, and I hate sweet wine.”

“It is wine of Cyprus,” said my entertainer; and, when I found that it was wine of Cyprus, I tasted it again, and the second taste pleased me much better than the first, notwithstanding that I still thought it somewhat sweet. “So,” said I, after a pause, looking at my companion, “you are an Armenian.”

“Yes,” said he, “an Armenian born in London, but not less an Armenian on that account. My father was a native of Ispahan, one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world. In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with considerable success. Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his property behind. Travelling in the direction of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and where he eventually died, leaving behind a large property and myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian English woman, who did not survive my birth more than three months.”

The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most matters, from buying silks of Lascars, to speculating in the funds, and that he had considerably increased the property which his father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonderfully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a person respectability and consideration in the world; to which assertion I made no answer, being not exactly prepared to contradict it.

And, when he had related to me his history, he expressed a desire to know something more of myself, whereupon I gave him the outline of my history, concluding with saying: “I am now a poor author, or rather a philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world.”

“Learning without money is anything but desirable,” said the Armenian, “as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends; I confess to you that your understanding something of my language weighs more with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocketbook the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that pocketbook papers and documents of considerable value. Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm towards you, for I am proud of my language—as I indeed well may be—what a language, noble and energetic! quite original, differing from all others both in words and structure.”

“You are mistaken,” said I; “many languages resemble the Armenian both in structure and words.”

“For example?” said the Armenian.

“For example,” said I, “the English.”

“The English,” said the Armenian; “show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian.”

“You walk on London Bridge,” said I.

“Yes,” said the Armenian.

“I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning.”

“True,” said the Armenian.

“Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with noise and foam?”

“What was it?” said the Armenian. “What was it?—you don’t mean the tide?”

“Do I not?” said I.

“Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?”

“Much,” said I; “what is the tide?”

“The ebb and flow of the sea,” said the Armenian.

“The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?”169

The Armenian gave a strong gasp; then, nodding his head thrice, “you are right,” said he, “the English word tide is the Armenian for sea; and now I begin to perceive that there are many English words which are Armenian; there is ——— and ——— and there again in French there is ——— and ——— derived from the Armenian. How strange, how singular—I thank you. It is a proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much influence over the languages of the world.”

I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to his race or language. “An inconsiderable people,” said I, “shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over the formation of the languages of the world. I am not much indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts; where as to the language of Mr. Petulengro—”

“I have heard you mention that name before,” said the Armenian; “who is Mr. Petulengro?”

And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. The Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. “Don’t speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro,” said I, “nor of anything belonging to him. He is a dark, mysterious personage; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem—Mr. Petulengro—”

“You appear agitated,” said the Armenian; “take another glass of wine; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service to you. Can you cast accounts?”

I shook my head.

“Keep books?”

“I have an idea that I could write books,” said I; “but, as to keeping them—” and here again I shook my head.

The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. “The books in these cases,” said he, “contain the masterpieces of Haik learning.”

“No,” said I, “all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible.”

“You have never read Z——?”

“No,” said I, “I have never read Z——”

“I have a plan,” said the Armenian; “I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z—— in an English dress; you shall translate Z——. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z——. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers—his philosophy—”

“I will have nothing to do with him,” said I.

“Wherefore?” said the Armenian.

“There is an old proverb,” said I, “that ‘a burnt child avoids the fire.’ I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;” and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; “and who knows,” said I, “but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences.”

The Armenian smiled. “You would find me very different from the publisher.”

“In many points I have no doubt I should,” I replied; “but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?”

“He is a Moldave,” said the Armenian; “the dog (and here his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually making mistakes.”

The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z——, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed.

XLVIII

Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the Great City. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked forward and feared; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop; but the remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my translation of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk; placing myself in a position which exposed me to such treatment, would indeed be plunging into the fire after escaping from the frying pan. The publisher, insolent and overbearing as he was, whatever he might have wished or thought, had never lifted his hand against me, or told me that I merited crucifixion.

What was I to do? turn porter? I was strong; but there was something besides strength required to ply the trade of a porter—a mind of a particularly phlegmatic temperament, which I did not possess. What should I do?—enlist as a soldier? I was tall enough; but something besides height is required to make a man play with credit the part of soldier, I mean a private one—a spirit, if spirit it can be called, which will not only enable a man to submit with patience to insolence and abuse, and even to cuffs and kicks, but occasionally to the lash. I felt that I was not qualified to be a soldier, at least a private one; far better be a drudge to the most ferocious of publishers, editing Newgate lives, and writing in eighteenpenny reviews—better to translate the Haik Esop, under the superintendence of ten Armenians, than be a private soldier in the English service; I did not decide rashly—I knew something of soldiering. What should I do? I thought that I would make a last and desperate attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym.

I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited publisher to give these translations to the world, I should acquire both considerable fame and profit; not, perhaps, a world-embracing fame such as Byron’s, but a fame not to be sneered at, which would last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from breaking;—profit, not equal to that which Scott had made by his wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and enable me to achieve some other literary enterprise. I read and reread my ballads, and the more I read them the more I was convinced that the public, in the event of their being published, would freely purchase, and hail them with the merited applause. Were not the deeds and adventures wonderful and heart-stirring, from which it is true I could claim no merit, being but the translator; but had I not rendered them into English, with all their original fire? Yes, I was confident I had; and I had no doubt that the public would say so. And then, with respect to Ab Gwilym, had I not done as much justice to him as to the Danish Ballads; not only rendering faithfully his thoughts, imagery and phraseology, but even preserving in my translation the alliterative euphony which constitutes one of the most remarkable features of Welsh prosody? Yes, I had accomplished all this; and I doubted not that the public would receive my translations from Ab Gwilym with quite as much eagerness as my version of the Danish ballads. But I found the publishers as untractable as ever, and to this day the public has never had an opportunity of doing justice to the glowing fire of my ballad versification, and the alliterative euphony of my imitations of Ab Gwilym.

I had not seen Francis Ardry since the day I had seen him taking lessons in elocution. One afternoon, as I was seated at my table, my head resting on my hands, he entered my apartment; sitting down, he inquired of me why I had not been to see him.

“I might ask the same question of you,” I replied. “Wherefore have you not been to see me?” Whereupon Francis Ardry told me that he had been much engaged in his oratorical exercises, also in escorting the young Frenchwoman about to places of public amusement; he then again questioned me as to the reason of my not having been to see him.

I returned an evasive answer. The truth was, that for some time past my appearance, owing to the state of my finances, had been rather shabby; and I did not wish to expose a fashionable young man like Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neighbourhood, to the imputation of having a shabby acquaintance. I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow; but, on that very account, I felt, under existing circumstances, a delicacy in visiting him.

It is very possible that he had an inkling of how matters stood, as he presently began to talk of my affairs and prospects. I told him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed against their blindness to their own interest in refusing to publish my translations. “The last that I addressed myself to,” said I, “told me not to trouble him again, unless I could bring him a decent novel or a tale.”

“Well,” said Frank, “and why did you not carry him a decent novel or a tale?”

“Because I have neither,” said I; “and to write them is, I believe, above my capacity. At present I feel divested of all energy—heartless and almost hopeless.”

“I see how it is,” said Francis Ardry, “you have overworked yourself, and, worst of all, to no purpose. Take my advice; cast all care aside, and only think of diverting yourself for a month at least.”

“Divert myself,” said I; “and where am I to find the means?”

“Be that care on my shoulders,” said Francis Ardry. “Listen to me—my uncles have been so delighted with the favourable accounts which they have lately received from T—— of my progress in oratory, that, in the warmth of their hearts, they made me a present yesterday of two hundred pounds. This is more money than I want, at least for the present; do me the favour to take half of it as a loan—hear me,” said he, observing that I was about to interrupt him, “I have a plan in my head—one of the prettiest in the world. The sister of my charmer is just arrived from France; she cannot speak a word of English; and, as Annette and myself are much engaged in our own matters, we cannot pay her the attention which we should wish, and which she deserves, for she is a truly fascinating creature, although somewhat differing from my charmer, having blue eyes and flaxen hair; whilst Annette, on the contrary—But I hope you will shortly see Annette. Now my plan is this—Take the money, dress yourself fashionably, and conduct Annette’s sister to Bagnigge Wells.”

“And what should we do at Bagnigge Wells?”

“Do!” said Francis Ardry. “Dance!”

“But,” said I, “I scarcely know anything of dancing.”

“Then here’s an excellent opportunity of improving yourself. Like most Frenchwomen, she dances divinely; however, if you object to Bagnigge Wells and dancing, go to Brighton, and remain there a month or two, at the end of which time you can return with your mind refreshed and invigorated, and materials, perhaps, for a tale or novel.”

“I never heard a more foolish plan,” said I, “or one less likely to terminate profitably or satisfactorily. I thank you, however, for your offer, which is, I daresay, well meant. If I am to escape from my cares and troubles, and find my mind refreshed and invigorated, I must adopt other means than conducting a French demoiselle to Brighton or Bagnigge Wells, defraying the expense by borrowing from a friend.”

XLIX

The Armenian! I frequently saw this individual, availing myself of the permission which he had given me to call upon him. A truly singular personage was he, with his love of amassing money, and his nationality so strong as to be akin to poetry. Many an Armenian I have subsequently known fond of money-getting, and not destitute of national spirit; but never another, who, in the midst of his schemes of lucre, was at all times willing to enter into a conversation on the structure of the Haik language, or who ever offered me money to render into English the fables of Z—— in the hope of astonishing the stockjobbers of the Exchange with the wisdom of the Haik Esop.

But he was fond of money, very fond. Within a little time I had won his confidence to such a degree that he informed me that the grand wish of his heart was to be possessed of two hundred thousand pounds.

“I think you might satisfy yourself with the half,” said I. “One hundred thousand pounds is a large sum.”

“You are mistaken,” said the Armenian, “a hundred thousand pounds is nothing. My father left me that or more at his death. No; I shall never be satisfied with less than two.”

“And what will you do with your riches,” said I, “when you have obtained them? Will you sit down and muse upon them, or will you deposit them in a cellar, and go down once a day to stare at them? I have heard say that the fulfilment of one’s wishes is invariably the precursor of extreme misery, and forsooth I can scarcely conceive a more horrible state of existence than to be without a hope or wish.”

“It is bad enough, I dare say,” said the Armenian; “it will, however, be time enough to think of disposing of the money when I have procured it. I still fall short by a vast sum of the two hundred thousand pounds.”

I had occasionally much conversation with him on the state and prospects of his nation, especially of that part of it which still continued in the original country of the Haiks—Ararat and its confines, which, it appeared, he had frequently visited. He informed me that since the death of the last Haik monarch, which occurred in the eleventh century, Armenia had been governed both temporally and spiritually by certain personages called patriarchs; their temporal authority, however, was much circumscribed by the Persian and Turk, especially the former, of whom the Armenian spoke with much hatred, whilst their spiritual authority had at various times been considerably undermined by the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, as the Armenian called him.

“The Papa of Rome sent his emissaries at an early period amongst us,” said the Armenian, “seducing the minds of weak-headed people, persuading them that the hillocks of Rome are higher than the ridges of Ararat; that the Roman Papa has more to say in heaven than the Armenian patriarch, and that puny Latin is a better language than nervous and sonorous Haik.”

“They are both dialects,” said I, “of the language of Mr. Petulengro, one of whose race I believe to have been the original founder of Rome; but, with respect to religion, what are the chief points of your faith? you are Christians, I believe.”

“Yes,” said the Armenian, “we are Christians in our way; we believe in God, the Holy Spirit, and Saviour, though we are not prepared to admit that the last personage is not only himself, but the other two. We believe—” and then the Armenian told me of several things which the Haiks believed or disbelieved. “But what we find most hard of all to believe,” said he, “is that the man of the molehills is entitled to our allegiance, he not being a Haik, or understanding the Haik language.”

“But, by your own confession,” said I, “he has introduced a schism in your nation, and has amongst you many that believe in him.”

“It is true,” said the Armenian, “that even on the confines of Ararat there are a great number who consider that mountain to be lower than the hillocks of Rome; but the greater number of degenerate Armenians are to be found amongst those who have wandered to the west; most of the Haik churches of the west consider Rome to be higher than Ararat—most of the Armenians of this place hold that dogma; I, however, have always stood firm in the contrary opinion.”

“Ha! ha!”—here the Armenian laughed in his peculiar manner—“talking of this matter puts me in mind of an adventure which lately befell me, with one of the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, for the Papa of Rome has at present many emissaries in this country, in order to seduce the people from their own quiet religion to the savage heresy of Rome; this fellow came to me partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this country. I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for nearly a month, deceiving and laughing at him. At last he discovered that he could make nothing of me, and departed with the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst I cried after him: ‘The roots of Ararat are deeper than those of Rome.’ ”

The Armenian had occasionally reverted to the subject of the translation of the Haik Esop, which he had still a lurking desire that I should execute; but I had invariably declined the undertaking, without, however, stating my reasons. On one occasion, when we had been conversing on the subject, the Armenian, who had been observing my countenance for some time with much attention, remarked, “Perhaps, after all, you are right, and you might employ your time to better advantage. Literature is a fine thing, especially Haik literature, but neither that nor any other would be likely to serve as a foundation to a man’s fortune: and to make a fortune should be the principal aim of everyone’s life; therefore listen to me. Accept a seat at the desk opposite to my Moldavian clerk, and receive the rudiments of a merchant’s education. You shall be instructed in the Armenian way of doing business—I think you would make an excellent merchant.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because you have something of the Armenian look.”

“I understand you,” said I; “you mean to say that I squint?”

“Not exactly,” said the Armenian, “but there is certainly a kind of irregularity in your features. One eye appears to me larger than the other—never mind, but rather rejoice; in that irregularity consists your strength. All people with regular features are fools; it is very hard for them, you’ll say, but there is no help: all we can do, who are not in such a predicament, is to pity those who are. Well! will you accept my offer? No! you are a singular individual; but I must not forget my own concerns. I must now go forth, having an appointment by which I hope to make money.”

L

The fulfilment of the Armenian’s grand wish was nearer at hand than either he or I had anticipated. Partly owing to the success of a bold speculation, in which he had some time previously engaged, and partly owing to the bequest of a large sum of money by one of his nation who died at this period in Paris, he found himself in the possession of a fortune somewhat exceeding two hundred thousand pounds; this fact he communicated to me one evening about an hour after the close of ’Change, the hour at which I generally called, and at which I mostly found him at home.

“Well,” said I, “and what do you intend to do next?”

“I scarcely know,” said the Armenian. “I was thinking of that when you came in. I don’t see anything that I can do, save going on in my former course. After all, I was perhaps too moderate in making the possession of two hundred thousand pounds the summit of my ambition; there are many individuals in this town who possess three times that sum, and are not yet satisfied. No, I think I can do no better than pursue the old career; who knows but I may make the two hundred thousand three or four?—there is already a surplus, which is an encouragement; however, we will consider the matter over a goblet of wine; I have observed of late that you have become partial to my Cyprus.”

And it came to pass that, as we were seated over the Cyprus wine, we heard a knock at the door. “Adelánte!”170 cried the Armenian; whereupon the door opened, and in walked a somewhat extraordinary figure—a man in a long loose tunic of a stuff striped with black and yellow; breeches of plush velvet, silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. On his head he wore a high-peaked hat; he was tall, had a hooked nose, and in age was about fifty.

“Welcome, Rabbi Manasseh,” said the Armenian. “I know your knock—you are welcome; sit down.”

“I am welcome,” said Manasseh, sitting down; “he—he—he! you know my knock—I bring you money—bueno!”171

There was something very peculiar in the sound of that bueno—I never forgot it.

Thereupon a conversation ensued between Rabbi Manasseh and the Armenian, in a language which I knew to be Spanish, though a peculiar dialect. It related to a mercantile transaction. The Rabbi sighed heavily as he delivered to the other a considerable sum of money.

“It is right,” said the Armenian, handing a receipt. “It is right; and I am quite satisfied.”

“You are satisfied—you have taken money. Bueno, I have nothing to say against your being satisfied.”

“Come, Rabbi,” said the Armenian, “do not despond; it may be your turn next to take money; in the meantime, can’t you be persuaded to taste my Cyprus?”

“He—he—he! señor, you know I do not love wine. I love Noah when he is himself; but, as Janus, I love him not. But you are merry, bueno; you have a right to be so.”

“Excuse me,” said I, “but does Noah ever appear as Janus?”

“He—he—he!” said the Rabbi, “he only appeared as Janus once—una vez quando estuvo borracho;172 which means—”

“I understand,” said I; “when he was ———” and I drew the side of my right hand sharply across my left wrist.

“Are you one of our people?” said the Rabbi.

“No,” said I, “I am one of the Goyim;173 but I am only half enlightened. Why should Noah be Janus, when he was in that state?”

“He—he—he! you must know that in Lasan akhades174 wine is janin.”175

“In Armenian, kini,” said I; “in Welsh, gwin; Latin, vinum; but do you think that Janus and janin are one?”

“Do I think? Don’t the commentators say so? Does not Master Leo Abarbenel say so in his Dialogues of Divine Love?”

“But,” said I, “I always thought that Janus was a god of the ancient Romans, who stood in a temple open in time of war, and shut in time of peace; he was represented with two faces, which—which—”

“He—he—he!” said the Rabbi, rising from his seat; “he had two faces, had he? And what did those two faces typify? You do not know; no, nor did the Romans who carved him with two faces know why they did so; for they were only half-enlightened, like you and the rest of the Goyim. Yet they were right in carving him with two faces looking from each other—they were right, though they knew not why; there was a tradition among them that the Janinoso176 had two faces, but they knew not that one was for the world which was gone, and the other for the world before him—for the drowned world, and for the present, as Master Leo Abarbenel says in his Dialogues of Divine Love. He—he—he!” continued the Rabbi, who had by this time advanced to the door, and, turning round, waved the two forefingers of his right hand in our faces; “the Goyim and Epicouraiyim177 are clever men, they know how to make money better than we of Israel. My good friend there is a clever man, I bring him money, he never brought me any, bueno; I do not blame him, he knows much, very much; but one thing there is my friend does not know, nor any of the Epicureans, he does not know the sacred thing—he has never received the gift of interpretation which God alone gives to the seed—he has his gift, I have mine—he is satisfied, I don’t blame him, bueno.”

And with this last word in his mouth, he departed.

“Is that man a native of Spain?” I demanded.

“Not a native of Spain,” said the Armenian, “though he is one of those who call themselves Spanish Jews, and who are to be found scattered throughout Europe, speaking the Spanish language transmitted to them by their ancestors, who were expelled from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella.”

“The Jews are a singular people,” said I.

“A race of cowards and dastards,” said the Armenian, “without a home or country; servants to servants; persecuted and despised by all.”

“And what are the Haiks?” I demanded.

“Very different from the Jews,” replied the Armenian; “the Haiks have a home—a country, and can occasionally use a good sword; though it is true they are not what they might be.”

“Then it is a shame that they do not become so,” said I; “but they are too fond of money. There is yourself, with two hundred thousand pounds in your pocket, craving for more, whilst you might be turning your wealth to the service of your country.”

“In what manner?” said the Armenian.

“I have heard you say that the grand oppressor of your country is the Persian; why not attempt to free your country from his oppression—you have two hundred thousand pounds, and money is the sinew of war?”

“Would you, then, have me attack the Persian?”

“I scarcely know what to say; fighting is a rough trade, and I am by no means certain that you are calculated for the scratch. It is not everyone who has been brought up in the school of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. All I can say is, that if I were an Armenian, and had two hundred thousand pounds to back me, I would attack the Persian.”

“Hem!” said the Armenian.

LI

One morning on getting up I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to one half-crown—throughout that day I walked about in considerable distress of mind; it was now requisite that I should come to a speedy decision with respect to what I was to do; I had not many alternatives, and, before I had retired to rest on the night of the day in question, I had determined that I could do no better than accept the first proposal of the Armenian, and translate, under his superintendence, the Haik Esop into English.

I reflected, for I made a virtue of necessity, that, after all, such an employment would be an honest and honourable one; honest, inasmuch as by engaging in it I should do harm to nobody; honourable, inasmuch as it was a literary task, which not everyone was capable of executing. It was not every one of the booksellers’ writers of London who was competent to translate the Haik Esop. I determined to accept the offer of the Armenian.

Once or twice the thought of what I might have to undergo in the translation from certain peculiarities of the Armenian’s temper almost unsettled me; but a mechanical diving of my hand into my pocket, and the feeling of the solitary half-crown, confirmed me; after all this was a life of trial and tribulation, and I had read somewhere or other that there was much merit in patience, so I determined to hold fast in my resolution of accepting the offer of the Armenian.

But all of a sudden I remembered that the Armenian appeared to have altered his intentions towards me: he appeared no longer desirous that I should render the Haik Esop into English for the benefit of the stockjobbers on Exchange, but rather that I should acquire the rudiments of doing business in the Armenian fashion, and accumulate a fortune, which would enable me to make a figure upon ’Change with the best of the stockjobbers. “Well,” thought I, withdrawing my hand from my pocket, whither it had again mechanically dived, “after all, what would the world, what would this city be, without commerce? I believe the world, and particularly this city, would cut a very poor figure without commerce; and then there is something poetical in the idea of doing business after the Armenian fashion, dealing with dark-faced Lascars and Rabbins of the Sephardim.178 Yes, should the Armenian insist upon it, I will accept a seat at the desk, opposite the Moldavian clerk. I do not like the idea of cuffs similar to those the Armenian bestowed upon the Moldavian clerk; whatever merit there may be in patience, I do not think that my estimation of the merit of patience would be sufficient to induce me to remain quietly sitting under the infliction of cuffs. I think I should, in the event of his cuffing me, knock the Armenian down. Well, I think I have heard it said somewhere, that a knockdown blow is a great cementer of friendship; I think I have heard of two people being better friends than ever after the one had received from the other a knockdown blow.”

That night I dreamed I had acquired a colossal fortune, some four hundred thousand pounds, by the Armenian way of doing business, but suddenly awoke in dreadful perplexity as to how I should dispose of it.

About nine o’clock next morning I set off to the house of the Armenian; I had never called upon him so early before, and certainly never with a heart beating with so much eagerness; but the situation of my affairs had become very critical, and I thought that I ought to lose no time in informing the Armenian that I was at length perfectly willing either to translate the Haik Esop under his superintendence, or to accept a seat at the desk opposite to the Moldavian clerk, and acquire the secrets of Armenian commerce. With a quick step I entered the counting-room, where, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, I found the clerk busied as usual at his desk.

He had always appeared to me a singular being, this same Moldavian clerk. A person of fewer words could scarcely be conceived. Provided his master were at home, he would, on my inquiring, nod his head; and, provided he were not, he would invariably reply with the monosyllable “no,” delivered in a strange guttural tone. On the present occasion, being full of eagerness and impatience, I was about to pass by him to the apartment above, without my usual inquiry, when he lifted his head from the ledger in which he was writing, and, laying down his pen, motioned to me with his forefinger, as if to arrest my progress; whereupon I stopped, and, with a palpitating heart, demanded whether the master of the house was at home? The Moldavian clerk replied with his usual guttural, and, opening his desk ensconced his head therein.

“It does not much matter,” said I, “I suppose I shall find him at home after ’Change; it does not much matter, I can return.”

I was turning away with the intention of leaving the room; at this moment, however, the head of the Moldavian clerk became visible, and I observed a letter in his hand, which he had inserted in the desk at the same time with his head; this he extended towards me, making at the same time a sidelong motion with his head, as much as to say that it contained something which interested me.

I took the letter, and the Moldavian clerk forthwith resumed his occupation. The back of the letter bore my name, written in Armenian characters. With a trembling hand I broke the seal, and, unfolding the letter, I beheld several lines also written in the letters of Mesroub, the Cadmus of the Armenians.

I stared at the lines, and at first could not make out a syllable of their meaning; at last, however, by continued staring, I discovered that, though the letters were Armenian, the words were English; in about ten minutes I had contrived to decipher the sense of the letter; it ran somewhat in this style:—

“My Dear Friend—

“The words which you uttered in our last conversation have made a profound impression upon me; I have thought them over day and night, and have come to the conclusion that it is my bounden duty to attack the Persians. When these lines are delivered to you, I shall be on the route to Ararat. A mercantile speculation will be to the world the ostensible motive of my journey, and it is singular enough that one which offers considerable prospect of advantage has just presented itself on the confines of Persia. Think not, however, that motives of lucre would have been sufficiently powerful to tempt me to the East at the present moment. I may speculate, it is true; but I should scarcely have undertaken the journey but for your pungent words inciting me to attack the Persians. Doubt not that I will attack them on the first opportunity. I thank you heartily for putting me in mind of my duty. I have hitherto, to use your own words, been too fond of money-getting, like all my countrymen. I am much indebted to you; farewell! and may every prosperity await you.”

For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as if rooted to the floor. I felt stunned—my last hope was gone; presently a feeling arose in my mind—a feeling of self-reproach. Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Armenian? Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians had I not put the idea into his head? he had told me in his epistle that he was indebted to me for the idea. But for that, he might at the present moment have been in London, increasing his fortune by his usual methods, and I might be commencing under his auspices the translation of the Haik Esop, with the promise, no doubt, of a considerable remuneration for my trouble; or I might be taking a seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and imbibing the first rudiments of doing business after the Armenian fashion, with the comfortable hope of realising, in a short time, a fortune of three or four hundred thousand pounds; but the Armenian was now gone, and farewell to the fine hopes I had founded upon him the day before. What was I to do? I looked wildly around, till my eyes rested on the Moldavian clerk, who was writing away in his ledger with particular vehemence. Not knowing well what to do or to say, I thought I might as well ask the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian had departed, and when he thought he would return. It is true it mattered little to me when he departed seeing that he was gone, and it was evident that he would not be back soon; but I knew not what to do, and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask; so I went up to the Moldavian clerk and asked him when the Armenian had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or three? Whereupon the Moldavian clerk looking up from his ledger, made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I stood astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when he considered it probable that the master would return, and whether he thought it would be two months or—my tongue faltered—two years; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet more unintelligible; as I persisted, however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained a horror of dumb people, having once heard my mother say, when I was a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better.

LII

Leaving the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some time; almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London Bridge, to the booth in which stood the stall of the old apple-woman; the sound of her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of stupor on the stone bench beside her; she was inquiring what was the matter with me.

At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance. Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman’s countenance cleared up instantly; she informed me that she had never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her honest trade—laying an emphasis on the word honest—had increased of late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, above all, that she felt no fear and horror “here,” laying her hand on her breast.

On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, she told me that she frequently did; but that the present were mild voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from the former ones; that a voice only the night previous, had cried out about “the peace of God,” in particularly sweet accents; a sentence which she remembered to have read in her early youth in the primer, but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the night before brought it to her recollection.

After a pause, the old woman said to me: “I believe, dear, that it is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought this goodly change. How glad I am now that I can read; but oh what a difference between the book you brought to me and the one you took away. I believe the one you brought is written by the finger of God, and the other by—”

“Don’t abuse the book,” said I, “it is an excellent book for those who can understand it; it was not exactly suited to you, and perhaps it had been better that you had never read it—and yet, who knows? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you would not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you say is written by the finger of God;” and, pressing my hand to my head, I fell into a deep fit of musing. “What, after all,” thought I, “if there should be more order and system in the working of the moral world than I have thought? Does there not seem in the present instance to be something like the working of a Divine hand? I could not conceive why this woman, better educated than her mother, should have been, as she certainly was, a worse character than her mother. Yet perhaps this woman may be better and happier than her mother ever was; perhaps she is so already—perhaps this world is not a wild, lying dream, as I have occasionally supposed it to be.”

But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to abandon myself much longer to these musings. I started up. “Where are you going, child?” said the woman anxiously. “I scarcely know,” said I; “anywhere.” “Then stay here, child,” said she; “I have much to say to you.” “No,” said I, “I shall be better moving about;” and I was moving away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see this woman again; and turning round I offered her my hand, and bade her goodbye. “Farewell, child,” said the old woman, “and God bless you!” I then moved along the bridge until I reached the Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects.

At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it would appear, to the southeast. I was walking at a great rate—there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a great rate; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate; and all, men, carts and carriages, going in the selfsame direction, namely, to the southeast. I stopped for a moment and deliberated whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in that direction? I could not say that I had any particular business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back? only walk about well-known streets; and, if I must walk, why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its terraces led? I was here in a terra incognita, and an unknown place had always some interest for me; moreover, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group of the crowd, and almost vieing in speed with some of the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches; and by dint of walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the river; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the crowd which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting away as much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best to enter into the diversions of the fair; staring at the wonderful representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows of wild beasts, which, by the by, are frequently found much more worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves; listening to the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in front of the temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel dresses of the performers who thronged the stages in the intervals of the entertainments; and in this manner, occasionally gazing and occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came in front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of the Thames.

It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, on which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, with strange three-cornered hats on their heads; most of them were mutilated; this had a wooden leg—this wanted an arm; some had but one eye; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the singular-looking individuals who moved before it, I guessed where I was. “I am at ———,”179 said I; “these individuals are battered tars of Old England, and this edifice, once the favourite abode of Glorious Elizabeth, is the refuge which a grateful country has allotted to them. Here they can rest their weary bodies; at their ease talk over the actions in which they have been injured; and, with the tear of enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how they have trod the deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others whose names stand emblazoned in the naval annals of their country.”

Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill, which rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among the trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the top of the hill, I was presently stopped by a lofty wall, along which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through and found myself on an extensive green plain, on one side bounded in part by the wall of the park, and on the others, in the distance, by extensive ranges of houses; to the southeast was a lofty eminence, partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited an animated scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below; there were multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows; there was also horse-racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun shining brightly overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a little time, feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the tents, and laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise in the tent. “Who will stand me?” said a voice with a slight tendency to lisp. “Will you, my lord?” “Yes,” said another voice. Then there was a sound as of a piece of money banging on a table. “Lost! lost! lost!” cried several voices; and then the banging down of the money, and the “lost! lost! lost!” were frequently repeated; at last the second voice exclaimed: “I will try no more; you have cheated me.” “Never cheated anyone in my life, my lord—all fair—all chance. Them that finds, wins—them that can’t find, loses. Anyone else try? Who’ll try? Will you, my lord?” and then it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry of “Lost! lost!”—then again the sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard “Won! won!” but the predominant cry was “Lost! lost!” At last there was a considerable hubbub, and the words “Cheat!” “Rogue!” and “You filched away the pea!” were used freely by more voices than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied: “Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad when folks wins; but, as those here don’t appear to be civil, nor to wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; so, good day, gentlemen.”

LIII

Presently a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a rather singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was exceedingly small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few yards from the entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to decide on the direction which he should take; presently, his eye glancing on me as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared for a moment inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and all. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, and, coming up to the place where I was, the long legs of the table projecting before him, he cried: “Glad to see you here, my lord.”

“Thank you,” said I, “it’s a fine day.”

“Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that finds, wins—them that don’t find, loses.”

“Play at what?” said I.

“Only at the thimble and pea, my lord.”

“I never heard of such a game.”

“Didn’t you? Well, I’ll soon teach you,” said he, placing the table down. “All you have to do is to put a sovereign down on my table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my thimbles. If you find it—and it is easy enough to find it—I give you a sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins.”

“And them that don’t find, loses,” said I; “no, I don’t wish to play.”

“Why not, my lord?”

“Why, in the first place, I have no money.”

“Oh, you have no money; that of course alters the case. If you have no money, you can’t play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing after my customers,” said he, glancing over the plain.

“Good day,” said I.

“Good day,” said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he added: “Out of employ?”

“Yes,” said I, “out of employ.”

The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground.

At length he said: “May I speak a word or two to you, my lord?”

“As many as you please,” said I.

“Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on the grass, if you please, my lord.”

“Why do you call me my lord?” said I, as I arose and followed him.

“We of the thimble always calls our customers lords,” said the man; “but I won’t call you such a foolish name any more; come along.”

The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a dry pit, when looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid his table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the side of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. “So you are in want of employ,” said he, after I had sat down beside him.

“Yes,” said I, “I am very much in want of employ.”

“I think I can find you some.”

“What kind?” said I.

“Why,” said the man, “I think you would do to be my bonnet.”

“Bonnet!” said I, “what is that?”

“Don’t you know? However, no wonder, as you had never heard of the thimble-and-pea game, but I will tell you. We of the game are very much exposed; folks when they have lost their money, as those who play with us mostly do, sometimes uses rough language, calls us cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats over our eyes; and what’s more, with a kick under our table, cause the top deals to fly off; this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers: so we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know nothing about us; for example, when the customer says, ‘I’m cheated,’ the bonnet must say, ‘No, you a’n’t, it is all right’; or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square, and say, ‘I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won’t see him ill-used’; and so, when they kicks at the table, the bonnet must say, ‘I won’t see the table ill-used, such a nice table, too; besides, I want to play myself;’ and then I would say to the bonnet, ‘Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins’; and then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win.”

“In a word,” said I, “the bonnet means the man who covers you, even as the real bonnet covers the head.”

“Just so,” said the man, “I see you are awake, and would soon make a first-rate bonnet.”

“Bonnet,” said I, musingly; “bonnet; it is metaphorical.”

“Is it?” said the man.

“Yes,” said I, “like the cant words—”

“Bonnet is cant,” said the man; “we of the thimble, as well as all clyfakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being understood by everyone. Besides covering his principal, a bonnet must have his eyes about him, for the trade of the pea, though a strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful; so it is the duty of the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, to say, the gorgio’s welling.”

“That is not cant,” said I, “that is the language of the Rommany Chals.”

“Do you know those people?” said the man.

“Perfectly,” said I, “and their language too.”

“I wish I did,” said the man, “I would give ten pounds and more to know the language of the Rommany Chals. There’s some of it in the language of the pea and thimble; how it came there I don’t know, but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is difficult. You’ll make a capital bonnet; shall we close?”

“What would the wages be?” I demanded.

“Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I could afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week.”

“Is it possible?” said I.

“Good wages, a’n’t they?” said the man.

“First rate,” said I; “bonneting is more profitable than reviewing.”

“Anan?” said the man.

“Or translating; I don’t think the Armenian would have paid me at that rate for translating his Esop.”

“Who is he?” said the man.

“Esop?”

“No, I know what that is, Esop’s cant for a hunchback; but t’other?”

“You should know,” said I.

“Never saw the man in all my life.”

“Yes, you have,” said I, “and felt him too; don’t you remember the individual from whom you took the pocketbook?”

“Oh, that was he; well, the less said about that matter the better; I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a much better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not carry off that pocketbook; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the trade, in which, had I remained, I might have been lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I determined to leave it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, not having a penny in the world.”

“And wisely resolved,” said I, “it was a bad and dangerous trade; I wonder you should ever have embraced it.”

“It is all very well talking,” said the man, “but there is a reason for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military officer,”—and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat the man’s story, it was a poor one, a vile one; at last he observed: “So that affair which you know of determined me to leave the filching trade, and take up with a more honest and safe one; so at last I thought of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, especially to pay for lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew little about it.”

“Well,” said I, “how did you get over that difficulty?”

“Why,” said the man, “I thought I should never have got over it. What funds could I raise? I had nothing to sell; the few clothes I had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always appear decent, or nobody would come near us. I was at my wits’ end; at last I got over my difficulty in the strangest way in the world.”

“What was that?”

“By an old thing which I had picked up some time before—a book.”

“A book?” said I.

“Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship’s pocket one day as you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought it was a pocketbook at first, full of bank notes, perhaps,” continued he, laughing. “It was well for me, however, that it was not, for I should have soon spent the notes; as it was, I had flung the old thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it home. When I was so hard up, however, after the affair with that friend of yours, I took it up one day, and thought I might make something by it to support myself a day with. Chance or something else led me into a grand shop; there was a man there who seemed to be the master, talking to a jolly, portly old gentleman, who seemed to be a country squire. Well, I went up to the first, and offered it for sale; he took the book, opened it at the titlepage, and then all of a sudden his eyes glistened, and he showed it to the fat, jolly gentleman, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say ‘How singular!’ and then the two talked together in a speech I didn’t understand—I rather thought it was French, at any rate it wasn’t cant; and presently the first asked me what I would take for the book. Now I am not altogether a fool nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a little confidence; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and said: ‘I will have five guineas for that book, there a’n’t such another in the whole world.’ ‘Nonsense,’ said the first man, ‘there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I’ll not take it, for I don’t like to be cheated, so give me my book again’; and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman’s hand. ‘Stop,’ said the younger man, ‘are you sure that you won’t take less?’ ‘Not a farthing,’ said I; which was not altogether true, but I said so. ‘Well,’ said the fat gentleman, ‘I will give you what you ask;’ and sure enough he presently gave me the money; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had got the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow, said: ‘May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money for that ’ere dirty book? When I came into the shop, I should have been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you wanted it, and asked five guineas.’ Then they looked at one another, and smiled, and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the first man, looking at me, said: ‘Friend, you have been a little too sharp for us; however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend here has long been in quest of this particular book; there are plenty of editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth five shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first edition is worth its weight in gold.’ ”

“So, after all, they outwitted you,” I observed.

“Clearly,” said the man; “I might have got double the price, had I known the value; but I don’t care, much good may it do them, it has done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest, respectable trade, in which there’s little danger and plenty of profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged sooner or later.”

“But,” said I, “you ought to remember that the thing was not yours; you took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple-woman to exchange it for a Bible.”

“Well,” said the man, “did she ever get her Bible?”

“Yes,” said I, “she got her Bible.”

“Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or something else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, which you say yourself are capital wages.”

“I find no fault with the wages,” said I, “but I don’t like the employ.”

“Not like bonneting,” said the man; “ah, I see, you would like to be principal; well, a time may come—those long white fingers of yours would just serve for the business.”

“Is it a difficult one?” I demanded.

“Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful—natural talent, and constant practice; but I’ll show you a point or two connected with the game;” and, placing his table between his knees as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. He moved the thimble and pellet about, now placing it to all appearance under one, and now under another; “Under which is it now?” he said at last. “Under that,” said I, pointing to the lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of triangle. “No,” said he, “it is not, but lift it up;” and, when I lifted up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. “It was under none of them,” said he, “it was pressed by my little finger against my palm;” and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me if the game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the affirmative, he said: “I am glad you like it, come along and let us win some money.”

Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was moving away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me what I was staying for. “Merely for my own pleasure,” said I, “I like sitting here very well.” “Then you won’t close?” said the man. “By no means,” I replied, “your proposal does not suit me.” “You may be principal in time,” said the man. “That makes no difference,” said I; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. “That a’n’t cant,” said the man; “no, nor gypsy either. Well, if you won’t close, another will, I can’t lose any more time,” and forthwith he departed.

And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green. Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing, with the table before him, and many people about him. “Them who finds, wins, and them who can’t find, loses,” he cried. Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccessful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. “Never cheated anybody in all my life,” he cried; and, observing me at hand, “didn’t I play fair, my lord?” he inquired. But I made no answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and the eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked on for some time, I was moving away; just then I perceived a short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a great hurry; whereupon with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed:—

Shoon thimble-engro;
Avella gorgio.

The man who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no sooner heard the last word of the distich, than he turned an alarmed look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he cried to the people about him, “Make way!” and with a motion of his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swiftness which the short, pursy constable could by no means rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch as I turned away in another direction.

LIV

And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a small tent. “Here he comes,” said one of them, as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and sang:—

Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree—
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.

It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. “Sit down, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “and take a cup of good ale.”

I sat down. “Your health, gentlemen,” said I, as I took the cup which Mr. Petulengro handed to me.

“Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a draught.

“Your health in Rommany, brother,” said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup came next.

“The Rommany Rye,” said a third.

“The Gypsy gentleman,” exclaimed a fourth, drinking.

And then they all sang in chorus:—

Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree—
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.

“And now, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “seeing that you have drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what about?”

“I have been in the Big City,” said I, “writing lils.”

“How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?” said Mr. Petulengro.

“Eighteen pence,” said I; “all I have in the world.”

“I have been in the Big City, too,” said Mr. Petulengro; “but I have not written lils—I have fought in the ring—I have fifty pounds in my pocket—I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us.”

“I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,” said the tall, handsome, black man; “indeed, I would wish for nothing better.”

“Why so?” said Mr. Petulengro.

“Because they have so much to say for themselves,” said the black man, “even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is their own fault if people a’n’t talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you, Jasper, were—”

“The best man in England of my inches. That’s true, Tawno—however, here’s our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us.”

“Not he,” said the other, with a sigh; “he’ll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis—my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that ‘there is nothing like blowing one’s own horn,’ which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one’s own lil.”

After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. “Only eighteen pence in the world, brother!” said he, as we walked together.

“Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?”

“Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife’s looking-glass—I did not look as you do, brother.”

“I believe your sole motive for inquiring,” said I, “was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds.”

“What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?” said Mr. Petulengro. “It is not everyone can read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?”

“I am not going to ask you to lend me any.”

“Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully earnt money, got by fighting in the ring—I will lend you that, brother.”

“You are very kind,” said I; “but I will not take it.”

“Then the half of it?”

“Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to the Great City.”

“And what will you do in the Boro Foros?”

“I know not,” said I.

“Earn money?”

“If I can.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Starve!”

“You look ill brother,” said Mr. Petulengro.

“I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take to the woods and fields.”

“You may do that, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “whether you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna.”

“What hill is that?” I demanded.

And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. “We shall stay on t’other side of the hill a fortnight,” he continued; “and as you are fond of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dook gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago.”

“Who was he?” I demanded.

“Jemmy Abershaw,” said Mr. Petulengro; “one of those whom we call Boro-drom-engroes, and the gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna.”

At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents’ roof, and only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the individual and what he said—stigmatising my conversation as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City.

I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London; for not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that in the event of my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand—“A Novel or Tale is much wanted,” was what was written.

LV

“I must do something,” said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me.

Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I was to do. “I have no idea what I am to do,” said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, “unless—and here I took a considerable draught—I write a tale or a novel—That bookseller,” I continued, speaking to myself, “is certainly much in need of a tale or novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window.”

“I will do it,” said I, as I struck my hand against the table; “I will do it.” Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? “Yes, yes,” said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, “I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything.”

But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteen pence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so, or something to that effect, months before?

It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel.

But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess Something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of someone. Good—but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant materials out of which to write the man’s life. It is probable, indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then—Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; someone like—like Colonel B——.180 By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B—— of Londonderry, in Ireland?

A truly singular man was this same Colonel B—— of Londonderry, in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partisan soldier, a bravo—who, assisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond, at Tyburn; and whose strange eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets.

Of his life I had inserted an account in the Newgate Lives and Trials; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. “I am afraid,” said I, “any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other.” I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B——, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell.

This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great Traveller.

I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow.

So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind’s eye so plentifully that I knew not how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved.

LVI

Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still, perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost hopeless—the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me—I must make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell.

It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish—I wanted mechanical skill; but I persevered, and before evening I had written ten pages. I partook of some bread and water; and, before I went to bed that night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell.

The next day I resumed my task—I found my power of writing considerably increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper—my brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, written down; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history, than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty fresh pages to my Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell.

The third day arose—it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell.

On the fourth day the sun shone brightly—I arose, and, having breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double—a tempter now seemed to be at work within me.

“You had better leave off now for a short space,” said the tempter, “and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left—if you go on at this rate, you will go mad—go out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is done.” I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of Joseph Sell.

From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me. It will be too late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant—hungry talent too—a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours? I may as well fling down my pen—I am writing to no purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me said: “And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?” Why, to take it up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at all—and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than before, from about six o’clock in the evening until I could hardly see, when I rested for awhile, when the tempter within me again said, or appeared to say: “All you have been writing is stuff, it will never do—a drug—a mere drug;” and methought these last words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. “A thing merely to be sneezed at,” a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to hear a sternutation—as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion.

But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had anticipated. About twelve o’clock at night I had got over the task of revision. “Tomorrow, for the bookseller,” said I, as my head sank on the pillow. “Oh me!”

LVII

On arriving at the bookseller’s shop, I cast a nervous look at the window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed ladylike female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. “What is your business, young man?” said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. “I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house,” said I. “My husband is not within at present,” she replied; “what is your business?” “I have merely brought something to show him,” said I, “but I will call again.” “If you are the young gentleman who has been here before,” said the lady, “with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are,” she added, smiling, “for I have seen you through the glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is,” she added with another smile, “if you bring us nothing else.” “I have not brought you poems and ballads now,” said I, “but something widely different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will suit; and here it is,” I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. “Well,” said the bookseller’s wife, “you may leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it me. Are you afraid to entrust it to me?” she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. “Excuse me,” said I, “but it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read.” “On that point I can reassure you,” said the good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. “I give you my word that it shall be read; come again tomorrow morning at eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you.”

I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the purchase of milk.

At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the bookseller was in his shop. “Ah,” said he, as soon as I entered, “I am glad to see you.” There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller’s tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. “So,” said he, after a pause, “you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press.” “But,” said I, “we have not yet agreed upon terms.” “Terms, terms,” said the bookseller; “ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold.” “That will not do,” said I; “I intend shortly to leave London: I must have something at once.” “Ah, I see,” said the bookseller, “in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially young ones. Well, I don’t care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one, after all. Let me see, will five—hem”—he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear: “Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble.” “Well,” said I at last, “I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered.” “Five-and-twenty guineas!” said the bookseller; “are you—what was I going to say—I never meant to offer half as much—I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas—I mean pounds; I will, however, make it up guineas.” “That will not do,” said I; “but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry it to someone else.” The bookseller looked blank. “Dear me,” said he, “I should never have supposed that you would have made any objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former occasion.” “Well,” said I, “if you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five pounds.” “God forbid that I should make any such bargain,” said the bookseller; “I would publish neither on any account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds.” “No,” said I, “ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript.” “Stay,” said the bookseller, “my wife is in the next room, I will go and consult her.” Thereupon he went into his backroom, where I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes he returned. “Young gentleman,” said he, “perhaps you will take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter.”

That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller’s wife complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be troubled with the correction of the work.

Before I departed I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light heart to my lodgings.

Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you.

LVIII

I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller’s wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence.

But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid the people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym—of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled Newgate Lives and Trials, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town.

But how one’s sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time! At present, I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads.

As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in readiness to start.

Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said. “Tell the poor thin lad,” she added, “to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I.”

Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the southwest. When I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had entered the city by the northeast. As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to home.

Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curbstone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him.

“Holloa, friend,” said Francis Ardry, “whither bound?”

“I do not know,” said I; “all I can say is, that I am about to leave London.”

“And the means?” said Francis Ardry.

“I have them,” said I, with a cheerful smile.

“Qui est celui-ci?” demanded the small female impatiently.

“C’est—mon ami le plus intime; so you were about to leave London without telling me a word,” said Francis Ardry somewhat angrily.

“I intended to have written to you,” said I: “what a splendid mare that is!”

“Is she not?” said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty; “she cost a hundred guineas.”

“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” demanded his companion.

“Il dit que le cheval est bien beau.”

“Allons, mon ami, il est tard,” said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head; “allons!”

“Encore un moment,” said Francis Ardry; “and when shall I see you again?”

“I scarcely know,” I replied: “I never saw a more splendid turnout.”

“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” said the lady again.

“Il dit que tout l’équipage est en assez bon goût.”

“Allons, c’est un ours,” said the lady; “le cheval même en a peur,” added she, as the mare reared up on high.

“Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?” said Francis Ardry reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought the mare to order.

Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. “How beautiful!” said I, looking the lady full in the face.

“Comment?” said the lady inquiringly.

“Il dit que vous êtes belle comme un ange,” said Francis Ardry emphatically.

“Mais à la bonne heure! arrêtez, mon ami,” said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; “je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui; arrêtez, il est délicieux. Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis?” said she passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. “Bonjour, Monsieur, bonjour,” said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour.

LIX

In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation.

I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city. I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing, it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful—Good! But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes!

My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses—there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped. “Want to get up?” sounded a voice in the true coachman-like tone—half-querulous, half-authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance. “Come, we can’t be staying here all night,” said the voice, more sharply than before. “I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like,” thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman. “No, no,” said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably cut greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. “No, no, keep behind—the box a’n’t for the like of you,” said he, as he drove off; “the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least.” I made no answer. “D—— that off-hand leader,” said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. “These seem to be fine horses,” said I. The coachman made no answer. “Nearly thoroughbred,” I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. “Come, young fellow, none of your chaff. Don’t you think, because you ride on my mail, I’m going to talk to you about ’orses. I talk to nobody about ’orses except lords.” “Well,” said I, “I have been called a lord in my time.” “It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then,” said the coachman, bending back, and half-turning his face round with a broad leer. “You have hit the mark wonderfully,” said I. “You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools.” “We a’n’t, a’n’t we?” said the coachman. “There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I’ll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going?—to—? I think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt; them that has no money can’t ride on my mail.”

Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard—“All right, Jem; got fare to ———,”181 and forthwith whipped on his horses, especially the off-hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before—the horses flew.

A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself—hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. “D—— this near-hand wheeler,” said he, “the brute has got a corn.” “Whipping him won’t cure him of his corn,” said I. “Who told you to speak?” said the driver, with an oath; “mind your own business; ’tisn’t from the like of you I am to learn to drive ’orses.” Presently I fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice—“Got to ———, young man; get down if you please.” I opened my eyes—there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below me stood the guard. “Do you mean to get down,” said he, “or will you keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up.” Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. “All right, John,” said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was left alone.

LX

After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. “What stream is this, I wonder?” said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below.

Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. “To the right or the left?” said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself—it was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did—cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone.

The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!

And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and taking up my stick and bundle, wandered around the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least, and then entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there in deep meditation I sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side.

And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browzing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side.

“Early here, sir,” said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; “a traveller, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said I, “I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?”

“They are, sir; that is, they are my master’s. A strange place this, sir,” said he, looking at the stones; “ever here before?”

“Never in body, frequently in mind.”

“Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder—all the people of the plain talk of them.”

“What do the people of the plain say of them?”

“Why, they say—How did they ever come here?”

“Do they not suppose them to have been brought?”

“Who should have brought them?”

“I have read that they were brought by many thousand men.”

“Where from?”

“Ireland.”

“How did they bring them?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what did they bring them for?”

“To form a temple, perhaps.”

“What is that?”

“A place to worship God in.”

“A strange place to worship God in.”

“Why?”

“It has no roof.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Where?” said the man looking up.

“What do you see above you?”

“The sky.”

“Well?”

“Well!”

“Have you anything to say?”

“How did these stones come here?”

“Are there other stones like these on the plains?” said I.

“None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs.”

“What are they?”

“Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the tops of hills.”

“Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?”

“They do not.”

“Why?”

“They were raised by hands.”

“And these stones?”

“How did they ever come here?”

“I wonder whether they are here?” said I.

“These stones?”

“Yes.”

“So sure as the world,” said the man; “and, as the world, they will stand as long.”

“I wonder whether there is a world.”

“What do you mean?”

“An earth and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I never heard it doubted before.”

“It is impossible there should be a world.”

“It a’n’t possible there shouldn’t be a world.”

“Just so.” At this moment a fine ewe attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. “I suppose you would not care to have some milk,” said the man.

“Why do you suppose so?”

“Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben’t is not worth having.”

“You could not have argued better,” said I; “that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk, you may do as you please.”

“Be still, Nanny,” said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. “Here is milk of the plains, master,” said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.

“Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of,” said I, after I had drank some of the milk; “are there any near where we are?”

“Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away,” said the shepherd, pointing to the southeast. “It’s a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world.”

“I must go to it,” said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; “yonder, you say.”

“Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between.”

“What river?”

“The Avon.”

“Avon is British,” said I.

“Yes,” said the man, “we are all British here.”

“No, we are not,” said I.

“What are we then?”

“English.”

“A’n’t they one?”

“No.”

“Who were the British?”

“The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones.”

“Where are they now?”

“Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another.”

“Yes, they did,” said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone.

“And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!—Here is sixpence.”

“I won’t have it,” said the man.

“Why not?”

“You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them.”

“I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here!”

“How did they ever come here!” said the shepherd.

LXI

Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place, where the water ran dark and still.

Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind.

After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world.

After I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire.182

LXII

And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could—inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers—enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters—receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire.

As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. “She is dead,” said one. “No, she is not,” said another. “I am afraid she is,” said a third. “Life is very uncertain,” said a fourth. “It is Mrs. ———” said a fifth; “let us carry her to her own house.” Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the northwest, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge were to be seen; two or three hours’ walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day.

And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried: “Am I right for London, master?”

He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age; he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye.

“Yes,” said I, in reply to his question; “this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?”

“From ———,”183 said the man, naming a well-known seaport.

“Is this the direct road to London from that place?” I demanded.

“No,” said the man; “but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was entrusted with; amongst others to ———, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.”

“You have as much right to sit down here as I have,” said I, “the road is free for everyone; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company.”

“Why, as for being honest, master,” said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, “I haven’t much to say—many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.”

“What is that?” said I.

“That honesty is the best policy, master.”

“You appear to be a sailor,” said I, looking at his dress.

“I was not bred a sailor,” said the man, “though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part—and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage.”

“From America?” said I.

“Farther than that,” said the man.

“Have you any objection to tell me?” said I.

“From New South Wales,” said the man, looking me full in the face.

“Dear me,” said I.

“Why do you say ‘Dear me’?” said the man.

“It is a very long way off,” said I.

“Was that your reason for saying so?” said the man.

“Not exactly,” said I.

“No,” said the man, with something of a bitter smile; “it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts.”

“Well,” said I, “what then—you are no convict.”

“How do you know?”

“You do not look like one.”

“Thank you, master,” said the man cheerfully; “and, to a certain extent, you are right—bygones are bygones—I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth—a convict I have been—a convict at Sydney Cove.”

“And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?”

“As to serving out my sentence,” replied the man, “I can’t say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy—I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life.”

“And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.”

“There you are mistaken,” said the man. “Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother—a poor old woman whose son I am—has brought me back.”

“You have a mother, then?” said I. “Does she reside in London?”

“She used to live in London,” said the man; “but I am afraid she is long since dead.”

“How did she support herself?” said I.

“Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.”

“Did you ever write to her,” said I, “or cause others to write to her?”

“I wrote to her myself,” said the man, “about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went—my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear! what I would give only to know that she is alive.”

“Life is very uncertain,” said I.

“That is true,” said the man, with a sigh.

“We are here one moment, and gone the next,” I continued. “As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time.”

“Who knows, indeed,” said the man. “Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God’s will be done.”

“However,” said I, “I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive.”

“You wouldn’t?” said the man, looking at me wistfully.

“I should not wonder at all,” said I; “indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to five pence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to five pence—”

“Is very considerable odds,” said the man, rubbing his hands; “sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds.”

“After all,” said I, “it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?”

“I scarcely know,” said the man; “I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left—it is a better country for a man—that is a free man—to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother—if I could only find my mother!”

“Farewell,” said I, rising. “Go your way, and God go with you—I will go mine.” “I have but one thing to ask you,” said the man. “What is that?” I inquired. “That you would drink with me before we part—you have done me so much good.” “How should we drink?” said I; “we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink.” “But there is a village below,” said the man; “do let us drink before we part.” “I have been through that village already,” said I, “and I do not like turning back.” “Ah,” said the man sorrowfully, “you will not drink with me because I told you I was ———”

“You are quite mistaken,” said I, “I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change, that I may drink with you.” So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine.

After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the northwest. I continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o’clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn. Within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord-looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, “House!” said I, “house! Can I have dinner, house?”

LXIII

“Young gentleman,” said the huge, fat landlord, “you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner,” he continued, rubbing his hands, “as you will not see every day in these times.”

“I am hot and dusty,” said I, “and should wish to cool my hands and face.”

“Jenny!” said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, “show the gentleman into number seven that he may wash his hands and face.”

“By no means,” said I, “I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this.”

“Jenny!” said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, “go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you.”

Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy-white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen.

And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, “Pump, Jenny,” and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands.

And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny: “Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life.”

Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor.

And after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, “Hold, Jenny!” and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said: “Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life.”

Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the long passage, and showed me into a neat, sanded parlour on the ground floor.

I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the tablecloth. “Shall I spread the table for one, sir,” said she, “or do you expect anybody to dine with you?”

“I can’t say that I expect anybody,” said I, laughing inwardly to myself; “however, if you please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for him.”

So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door. Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No, a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle height dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in thought.

“The weather is very warm, sir,” said I.

“Very,” said the stranger184 laconically, looking at me for the first time.

“Would you like to see the newspaper?” said I, taking up one which lay on the window seat.

“I never read newspapers,” said the stranger, “nor, indeed—” Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he left unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the farther end of the room, before which he placed himself with his back towards me. There he remained motionless for some time; at length, raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantelpiece with his finger, advanced towards the chair which he had left, and again seated himself.

“Have you come far?” said he, suddenly looking towards me, and speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish to enter into conversation. “You do not seem to be of this place.”

“I come from some distance,” said I; “indeed, I am walking for exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. I believe that by exercise people would escape much mental misery.”

Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his hand, with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the glasses; after a moment or two he touched the glass with his finger as if inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he withdrew his hand and looked towards the window.

“Are you from these parts?” said I at last, with apparent carelessness.

“From this vicinity,” replied the stranger. “You think, then, that it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of the body.”

“I, at least, am walking in that hope,” said I.

“I wish you may be successful,” said the stranger; and here he touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him.

Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, supporting with some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty round mass of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables; so high was the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it was not until he had placed it upon the table that he appeared to observe the stranger; he almost started, and quite out of breath exclaimed: “God bless me, your honour; is your honour the acquaintance that the young gentleman was expecting?”

“Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance?” said the stranger.

There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters, thought I to myself; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown. “Sir,” said I, “when I told Jenny that she might lay the tablecloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping in he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely jocular, being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no one. Fortune, however, it would seem, has been unexpectedly kind to me; I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in this room I have had the honour of making your acquaintance; and in the strength of that hope I humbly entreat you to honour me with your company to dinner, provided you have not already dined.”

The stranger laughed outright.

“Sir,” I continued, “the round of beef is a noble one, and seems exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right when he said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every day. A round of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, is seldom seen smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. Allow me, sir,” said I, observing that the stranger was about to speak, “allow me another remark. I think I saw you just now touch the fork, I venture to hail it as an omen that you will presently seize it and apply it to its proper purpose, and its companion the knife also.”

The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence.

“Do, sir,” here put in the landlord; “do, sir, accept the young gentleman’s invitation. Your honour has of late been looking poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentleman, and a clever young gentleman; and I think it will do your honour good to have a dinner’s chat with the young gentleman.”

“It is not my dinner hour,” said the stranger; “I dine considerably later; taking anything now would only discompose me; I shall, however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentleman; reach me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has satisfied his appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together.”

The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing, retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. The stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. We continued thus a considerable time—the one reading and the other dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the stranger, I saw his brow contract; he gave a slight stamp with his foot, and flung the newspaper to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up, first moving his forefinger along the floor, seemingly slightly scratching it with his nail.

“Do you hope, sir,” said I, “by that ceremony with the finger to preserve yourself from the evil chance?”

The stranger started; then, after looking at me for some time in silence, he said: “Is it possible that you—?”

“Ay, ay,” said I, helping myself to some more of the round, “I have touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil chance and the good. Can’t say, though, that I ever trusted much in the ceremony.”

The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep thought; nothing further passed between us until I had concluded the dinner, when I said to him: “I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine.”

The stranger rose; “No, my young friend,” said he, smiling, “that would scarce be fair. It is my turn now—pray do me the favour to go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor roof can offer; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some particular discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this place. As for wine, I can give you some much better than you can get here; the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an innkeeper, after all. I am going out for a moment, and will send him in, so that you may settle your account; I trust you will not refuse me, I only live about two miles from here.”

I looked in the face of the stranger—it was a fine intelligent face, with a cast of melancholy in it. “Sir,” said I, “I would go with you though you lived four miles instead of two.”

“Who is that gentleman?” said I to the landlord, after I had settled his bill; “I am going home with him.”

“I wish I were going too,” said the fat landlord, laying his hand upon his stomach. “Young gentleman, I shall be a loser by his honour’s taking you away; but, after all, the truth is the truth—there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, either for learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate you.”

LXIV

I found the stranger awaiting me at the door of the inn. “Like yourself, I am fond of walking,” said he, “and when any little business calls me to this place I generally come on foot.”

We were soon out of the town, and in a very beautiful country. After proceeding some distance on the high road, we turned off, and were presently in one of those mazes of lanes for which England is famous; the stranger at first seemed inclined to be taciturn; a few observations, however, which I made, appeared to rouse him, and he soon exhibited not only considerable powers of conversation, but stores of information which surprised me. So pleased did I become with my new acquaintance, that I soon ceased to pay the slightest attention either to place or distance. At length the stranger was silent, and I perceived that we had arrived at a handsome iron gate and a lodge; the stranger having rung a bell, the gate was opened by an old man, and we proceeded along a gravel path, which in about five minutes brought us to a large brick house, built something in the old French style, having a spacious lawn before it, and immediately in front a pond in which were golden fish, and in the middle a stone swan discharging quantities of water from its bill. We ascended a spacious flight of steps to the door, which was at once flung open, and two servants with powdered hair, and in livery of blue plush, came out and stood one on either side as we passed the threshold. We entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking me by the hand, welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and then gave orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me to an apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in my toilette. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no objection to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to a spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress required. When everything had been completed to my perfect satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to the library, where dinner would be speedily served.

In the library I found a table laid for two; my host was not there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilette as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring eyes; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and bindings; there was a globe or two, a couch, and an easy chair. Statues and busts there were none, and only one painting, a portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. Over the mantelpiece, the features staringly like, but so ridiculously exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human being, daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, hung a half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity—my sturdy host of the town.

I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself as I best could, when my friend entered; he seemed to have resumed his taciturnity—scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner was served, when he said, smiling: “I suppose it would be merely a compliment to ask you to partake?”

“I don’t know,” said I, seating myself; “your first course consists of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to be companionable.”

The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it from the circumstance of having already dined; the stranger also, though without my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer; he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally unsuccessful.

And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and I remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the encomiums of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that my entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to tie his tongue—but no! I endeavoured to tempt him by various topics, and talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the heavenly sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard was a very large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according to Olaus, stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and which I affirmed was a yew—but no, nothing that I said could induce my entertainer to relax his taciturnity.

It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable; “I must presently be going,” I at last exclaimed.

At these words he gave a sudden start; “Going,” said he, “are you not my guest, and an honoured one?”

“You know best,” said I; “but I was apprehensive I was an intruder; to several of my questions you have returned no answer.”

“Ten thousand pardons!” he exclaimed, seizing me by the hand; “but you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you about—there is one thing in particular—”

“If it be the evergreen tree at Upsal,” said I, interrupting him, “I hold it to have been a yew—what else? The evergreens of the south, as the old bishop observes, will not grow in the north, and a pine was unfitted for such a locality, being a vulgar tree. What else could it have been but the yew—the sacred yew which our ancestors were in the habit of planting in their churchyards? Moreover, I affirm it to have been the yew for the honour of the tree; for I love the yew, and had I home and land, I would have one growing before my front windows.”

“You would do right; the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but it is not about the yew.”

“The star Jupiter, perhaps?”

“Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons; an observation which escaped you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me.”

“But I really must take my departure,” said I; “the dark hour is at hand.”

And as I uttered these last words, the stranger touched rapidly something which lay near him, I forget what it was. It was the first action of the kind which I had observed on his part since we sat down to table.

“You allude to the evil chance,” said I; “but it is getting both dark and late.”

“I believe we are going to have a storm,” said my friend, “but I really hope that you will give me your company for a day or two; I have, as I said before, much to talk to you about.”

“Well,” said I, “I shall be most happy to be your guest for this night; I am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to travel unknown paths by night—dear me, what a flash of lightning!”

It had become very dark; suddenly a blaze of sheet-lightning illumed the room. By the momentary light I distinctly saw my host touch another object upon the table.

“Will you allow me to ask you a question or two?” said he at last.

“As many as you please,” said I; “but shall we not have lights?”

“Not unless you particularly wish it,” said my entertainer; “I rather like the dark, and though a storm is evidently at hand, neither thunder nor lightning have any terrors for me. It is other things I quake at—I should rather say ideas. Now, permit me to ask you—”

And then my entertainer asked me various questions, to all of which I answered unreservedly; he was then silent for some time, at last he exclaimed: “I should wish to tell you the history of my life; though not an adventurous one, I think it contains some things which will interest you.”

Without waiting for my reply he began. Amidst darkness and gloom, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning, the stranger related to me, as we sat at the table in the library, his truly touching history.

“Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not be amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great-grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who, when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds, and a splendid business; the son, however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass the remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this he managed to accomplish; he disposed of his business, purchased a beautiful and extensive estate for four score thousand pounds, built upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of welcoming you today, married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, who brought him a fortune of five thousand pounds, became a magistrate, and only wanted a son and heir to make him completely happy; this blessing, it is true, was for a long time denied him; it came, however, at last, as is usual, when least expected. His lady was brought to bed of my father, and then who so happy a man as my grandsire; he gave away two thousand pounds in charities, and in the joy of his heart made a speech at the next quarter sessions; the rest of his life was spent in ease, tranquillity and rural dignity; he died of apoplexy on the day that my father came of age; perhaps it would be difficult to mention a man who in all respects was so fortunate as my grandfather; his death was sudden, it is true, but I am not one of those who pray to be delivered from a sudden death.

“I should not call my father a fortunate man; it is true that he had the advantage of a first-rate education; that he made the grand tour with a private tutor, as was the fashion at that time; that he came to a splendid fortune on the very day that he came of age; that for many years he tasted all the diversions of the capital; that, at last determined to settle, he married the sister of a baronet, an amiable and accomplished lady, with a large fortune; that he had the best stud of hunters in the county, on which, during the season, he followed the fox gallantly; had he been a fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was frequently known to do; ten months after his marriage his horse fell upon him, and so injured him, that he expired in a few days in great agony. My grandfather was, indeed, a fortunate man; when he died he was followed to the grave by the tears of the poor—my father was not.

“Two remarkable circumstances are connected with my birth—I am a posthumous child, and came into the world some weeks before the usual time, the shock which my mother experienced at my father’s death having brought on the pangs of premature labour; both my mother’s life and my own were at first despaired of; we both, however, survived the crisis. My mother loved me with the most passionate fondness, and I was brought up in this house under her own eye—I was never sent to school.

“I have already told you that mine is not a tale of adventure; my life has not been one of action, but of wild imaginings and strange sensations; I was born with excessive sensibility, and that has been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man.

“No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible for a being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or even enjoy peace and tranquillity; most of our pleasures and pains are the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is great, the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagination raised up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up one of distress and gloom; these two antagonistic ideas instantly commence a struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, I may say invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should be a happy man?

“It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period that I can remember; the first playthings that were given me caused me for a few minutes excessive pleasure; they were pretty and glittering; presently, however, I became anxious and perplexed, I wished to know their history, how they were made, and what of—were the materials precious; I was not satisfied with their outward appearance. In less than an hour I had broken the playthings in an attempt to discover what they were made of.

“When I was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who was also my godfather, sent me a pair of Norway hawks, with directions for managing them; he was a great fowler. Oh, how rejoiced was I with the present which had been made me, my joy lasted for at least five minutes; I would let them breed, I would have a house of hawks; yes, that I would—but—and here came the unpleasant idea—suppose they were to fly away, how very annoying! Ah, but, said hope, there’s little fear of that; feed them well and they will never fly away, or if they do they will come back, my uncle says so; so sunshine triumphed for a little time. Then the strangest of all doubts came into my head; I doubted the legality of my tenure of these hawks; how did I come by them? why, my uncle gave them to me, but how did they come into his possession? what right had he to them? after all, they might not be his to give—I passed a sleepless night. The next morning I found that the man who brought the hawks had not departed. ‘How came my uncle by these hawks?’ I anxiously inquired. ‘They were sent to him from Norway, master, with another pair.’ ‘And who sent them?’ ‘That I don’t know, master, but I suppose his honour can tell you.’ I was even thinking of scrawling a letter to my uncle to make inquiry on this point, but shame restrained me, and I likewise reflected that it would be impossible for him to give my mind entire satisfaction; it is true he could tell who sent him the hawks, but how was he to know how the hawks came into the possession of those who sent them to him, and by what right they possessed them or the parents of the hawks. In a word, I wanted a clear valid title, as lawyers would say, to my hawks, and I believe no title would have satisfied me that did not extend up to the time of the first hawk, that is, prior to Adam; and, could I have obtained such a title, I make no doubt that, young as I was, I should have suspected that it was full of flaws.

“I was now disgusted with the hawks, and no wonder, seeing all the disquietude they had caused me; I soon totally neglected the poor birds, and they would have starved had not some of the servants taken compassion upon them and fed them. My uncle, soon hearing of my neglect, was angry, and took the birds away; he was a very good-natured man, however, and soon sent me a fine pony; at first I was charmed with the pony, soon, however the same kind of thoughts arose which had disgusted me on a former occasion. How did my uncle become possessed of the pony? This question I asked him the first time I saw him. Oh, he had bought it of a gypsy, that I might learn to ride upon it. A gypsy; I had heard that gypsies were great thieves, and I instantly began to fear that the gypsy had stolen the pony, and it is probable that for this apprehension I had better grounds than for many others. I instantly ceased to set any value upon the pony, but for that reason, perhaps, I turned it to some account; I mounted it, and rode it about, which I don’t think I should have done had I looked upon it as a secure possession. Had I looked upon my title as secure, I should have prized it so much that I should scarcely have mounted it for fear of injuring the animal; but now, caring not a straw for it, I rode it most unmercifully, and soon became a capital rider. This was very selfish in me, and I tell the fact with shame. I was punished, however, as I deserved; the pony had a spirit of its own, and, moreover, it had belonged to gypsies; once, as I was riding it furiously over the lawn, applying both whip and spur, it suddenly lifted up its heels, and flung me at least five yards over its head. I received some desperate contusions, and was taken up for dead; it was many months before I perfectly recovered.

“But it is time for me to come to the touching part of my story. There was one thing that I loved better than the choicest gift which could be bestowed upon me, better than life itself—my mother; at length she became unwell, and the thought that I might possibly lose her now rushed into my mind for the first time; it was terrible, and caused me unspeakable misery, I may say horror. My mother became worse, and I was not allowed to enter her apartment, lest by my frantic exclamations of grief I might aggravate her disorder. I rested neither day nor night, but roamed about the house like one distracted. Suddenly I found myself doing that which even at the time struck me as being highly singular; I found myself touching particular objects that were near me, and to which my fingers seemed to be attracted by an irresistible impulse. It was now the table or the chair that I was compelled to touch; now the bell-rope; now the handle of the door; now I would touch the wall, and the next moment stooping down, I would place the point of my finger upon the floor: and so I continued to do day after day; frequently I would struggle to resist the impulse, but invariably in vain. I have even rushed away from the object, but I was sure to return, the impulse was too strong to be resisted: I quickly hurried back, compelled by the feeling within me to touch the object. Now, I need not tell you that what impelled me to these actions was the desire to prevent my mother’s death; whenever I touched any particular object, it was with the view of baffling the evil chance, as you would call it—in this instance my mother’s death.

“A favourable crisis occurred in my mother’s complaint, and she recovered; this crisis took place about six o’clock in the morning; almost simultaneously with it there happened to myself a rather remarkable circumstance connected with the nervous feeling which was rioting in my system. I was lying in bed in a kind of uneasy doze, the only kind of rest which my anxiety, on account of my mother, permitted me at this time to take, when all at once I sprang up as if electrified, the mysterious impulse was upon me, and it urged me to go without delay, and climb a stately elm behind the house, and touch the topmost branch; otherwise—you know the rest—the evil chance would prevail. Accustomed for some time as I had been, under this impulse, to perform extravagant actions, I confess to you that the difficulty and peril of such a feat startled me; I reasoned against the feeling, and strove more strenuously than I had ever done before; I even made a solemn vow not to give way to the temptation, but I believe nothing less than chains, and those strong ones, could have restrained me. The demoniac influence, for I can call it nothing else, at length prevailed; it compelled me to rise, to dress myself, to descend the stairs, to unbolt the door, and to go forth; it drove me to the foot of the tree, and it compelled me to climb the trunk; this was a tremendous task, and I only accomplished it after repeated falls and trials. When I had got amongst the branches, I rested for a time, and then set about accomplishing the remainder of the ascent; this for some time was not so difficult, for I was now amongst the branches; as I approached the top, however, the difficulty became greater, and likewise the danger; but I was a light boy, and almost as nimble as a squirrel, and, moreover, the nervous feeling was within me, impelling me upward. It was only by means of a spring, however, that I was enabled to touch the top of the tree; I sprang, touched the top of the tree, and fell a distance of at least twenty feet, amongst the branches; had I fallen to the bottom I must have been killed, but I fell into the middle of the tree, and presently found myself astride upon one of the boughs; scratched and bruised all over, I reached the ground, and regained my chamber unobserved; I flung myself on my bed quite exhausted; presently they came to tell me that my mother was better—they found me in the state which I have described, and in a fever besides. The favourable crisis must have occurred just about the time that I performed the magic touch; it certainly was a curious coincidence, yet I was not weak enough, even though a child, to suppose that I had baffled the evil chance by my daring feat.

“Indeed, all the time that I was performing these strange feats, I knew them to be highly absurd, yet the impulse to perform them was irresistible—a mysterious dread hanging over me till I had given way to it; even at that early period I frequently used to reason within myself as to what could be the cause of my propensity to touch, but of course I could come to no satisfactory conclusion respecting it; being heartily ashamed of the practice, I never spoke of it to anyone, and was at all times highly solicitous that no one should observe my weakness.”

LXV

After a short pause my host resumed his narration. “Though I was never sent to school, my education was not neglected on that account; I had tutors in various branches of knowledge, under whom I made a tolerable progress; by the time I was eighteen I was able to read most of the Greek and Latin authors with facility; I was likewise, to a certain degree, a mathematician.

“I cannot say that I took much pleasure in my studies; my chief aim in endeavouring to accomplish my tasks was to give pleasure to my beloved parent, who watched my progress with anxiety truly maternal. My life at this period may be summed up in a few words; I pursued my studies, roamed about the woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast my fly in a trout stream, and sometimes, but not often, rode a hunting with my uncle.

“A considerable part of my time was devoted to my mother, conversing with her and reading to her; youthful companions I had none, and as to my mother, she lived in the greatest retirement, devoting herself to the superintendence of my education, and the practice of acts of charity; nothing could be more innocent than this mode of life, and some people say that in innocence there is happiness, yet I can’t say that I was happy. A continual dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my mother’s death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had been considerably shaken by her last illness; this I knew, and this I saw—for the eyes of fear are marvellously keen. Well, things went on in this way till I had come of age; my tutors were then dismissed, and my uncle the baronet took me in hand, telling my mother that it was high time for him to exert his authority; that I must see something of the world, for that, if I remained much longer with her, I should be ruined. ‘You must consign him to me,’ said he, ‘and I will introduce him to the world.’ My mother sighed and consented; so my uncle the baronet introduced me to the world, took me to horse races and to London, and endeavoured to make a man of me according to his idea of the term, and in part succeeded. I became moderately dissipated—I say moderately, for dissipation had but little zest for me.

“In this manner four years passed over. It happened that I was in London in the height of the season with my uncle, at his house; one morning he summoned me into the parlour, he was standing before the fire, and looked very serious. ‘I have had a letter,’ said he; ‘your mother is very ill.’ I staggered, and touched the nearest object to me; nothing was said for two or three minutes, and then my uncle put his lips to my ear and whispered something. I fell down senseless. My mother was ———. I remember nothing for a long time—for two years I was out of my mind; at the end of this time I recovered, or partly so. My uncle the baronet was very kind to me; he advised me to travel, he offered to go with me. I told him he was very kind, but I would rather go by myself. So I went abroad, and saw, amongst other things, Rome and the Pyramids. By frequent change of scene my mind became not happy, but tolerably tranquil. I continued abroad some years, when, becoming tired of travelling, I came home, found my uncle the baronet alive, hearty, and unmarried, as he still is. He received me very kindly, took me to Newmarket, and said that he hoped by this time I was become quite a man of the world; by his advice I took a house in town, in which I lived during the season. In summer I strolled from one watering-place to another; and, in order to pass the time, I became very dissipated.

“At last I became as tired of dissipation as I had previously been of travelling, and I determined to retire to the country, and live on my paternal estate; this resolution I was not slow in putting into effect; I sold my house in town, repaired and refurnished my country house, and for at least ten years, lived a regular country life; I gave dinner parties, prosecuted poachers, was charitable to the poor, and now and then went into my library; during this time I was seldom or never visited by the magic impulse, the reason being, that there was nothing in the wide world for which I cared sufficiently to move a finger to preserve it. When the ten years, however, were nearly ended, I started out of bed one morning in a fit of horror, exclaiming, ‘Mercy, mercy! what will become of me? I am afraid I shall go mad. I have lived thirty-five years and upwards without doing anything; shall I pass through life in this manner? Horror!’ And then in rapid succession I touched three different objects.

“I dressed myself and went down, determining to set about something; but what was I to do?—there was the difficulty. I ate no breakfast, but walked about the room in a state of distraction; at last I thought that the easiest way to do something was to get into Parliament, there would be no difficulty in that. I had plenty of money, and could buy a seat: but what was I to do in Parliament? Speak, of course—but could I speak? ‘I’ll try at once,’ said I, and forthwith I rushed into the largest dining-room, and, locking the door, I commenced speaking; ‘Mr. Speaker,’ said I, and then I went on speaking for about ten minutes as I best could, and then I left off, for I was talking nonsense. No, I was not formed for Parliament; I could do nothing there. What—what was I to do?

“Many, many times I thought this question over, but was unable to solve it; a fear now stole over me that I was unfit for anything in the world, save the lazy life of vegetation which I had for many years been leading; yet, if that were the case, thought I, why the craving within me to distinguish myself? Surely it does not occur fortuitously, but is intended to rouse and call into exercise certain latent powers that I possess? and then with infinite eagerness I set about attempting to discover these latent powers. I tried an infinity of pursuits, botany and geology amongst the rest, but in vain; I was fitted for none of them. I became very sorrowful and despondent, and at one time I had almost resolved to plunge again into the whirlpool of dissipation; it was a dreadful resource, it was true, but what better could I do?

“But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the world. One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time past shown a wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a considerable hurry. ‘I am come to beg an important favour of you,’ said he; ‘one of the county memberships is vacant—I intend to become a candidate; what I want immediately is a spirited address to the electors. I have been endeavouring to frame one all the morning, but in vain; I have, therefore, recourse to you as a person of infinite genius; pray, my dear friend, concoct me one by the morning.’ ‘What you require of me,’ I replied, ‘is impossible; I have not the gift of words; did I possess it I would stand for the county myself, but I can’t speak. Only the other day I attempted to make a speech, but left off suddenly, utterly ashamed, although I was quite alone, of the nonsense I was uttering.’ ‘It is not a speech that I want,’ said my friend, ‘I can talk for three hours without hesitating, but I want an address to circulate through the county, and I find myself utterly incompetent to put one together; do oblige me by writing one for me, I know you can; and, if at any time you want a person to speak for you, you may command me not for three but for six hours. Good morning; tomorrow I will breakfast with you.’ In the morning he came again. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what success?’ ‘Very poor,’ said I; ‘but judge for yourself;’ and I put into his hand a manuscript of several pages. My friend read it through with considerable attention. ‘I congratulate you,’ said he, ‘and likewise myself; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you; the address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather say it is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are; but it will do—I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my election.’ And in truth he did win his election; and it was not only his own but the general opinion that he owed it to the address.

“But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, at last discovered what had so long eluded my search—what I was able to do. I, who had neither the nerve nor the command of speech necessary to constitute the orator—who had not the power of patient research required by those who would investigate the secrets of nature, had, nevertheless, a ready pen and teeming imagination. This discovery decided my fate—from that moment I became an author.”

LXVI

“An author,” said I, addressing my host; “is it possible that I am under the roof of an author?”

“Yes,” said my host, sighing, “my name is so-and-so, and I am the author of so-and-so; it is more than probable that you have heard both of my name and works. I will not detain you much longer with my history; the night is advancing, and the storm appears to be upon the increase. My life since the period of my becoming an author may be summed briefly as an almost uninterrupted series of doubts, anxieties and trepidations. I see clearly that it is not good to love anything immoderately in this world, but it has been my misfortune to love immoderately everything on which I have set my heart. This is not good, I repeat—but where is the remedy? The ancients were always in the habit of saying, ‘Practise moderation,’ but the ancients appear to have considered only one portion of the subject. It is very possible to practice moderation in some things, in drink and the like—to restrain the appetites—but can a man restrain the affections of his mind, and tell them, so far you shall go, and no farther? Alas, no! for the mind is a subtle principle, and cannot be confined. The winds may be imprisoned; Homer says that Odysseus carried certain winds in his ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer never speaks of confining the affections. It were but right that those who exhort us against inordinate affections, and setting our hearts too much upon the world and its vanities, would tell us how to avoid doing so.

“I need scarcely tell you, that no sooner did I become an author, than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It became my idol, and, as a necessary consequence, it has proved a source of misery and disquietude to me, instead of pleasure and blessing. I had trouble enough in writing my first work, and I was not long in discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring and spirited address to a set of county electors, and another widely different to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression upon the great world. I felt, however, that I was in my proper sphere, and by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded in evolving from the depths of my agitated breast a work which, though it did not exactly please me, I thought would serve to make an experiment upon the public; so I laid it before the public, and the reception which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations. The public were delighted with it, but what were my feelings? Anything, alas! but those of delight. No sooner did the public express its satisfaction at the result of my endeavours, than my perverse imagination began to conceive a thousand chimerical doubts; forthwith I sat down to analyse it; and my worst enemy, and all people have their enemies, especially authors—my worst enemy could not have discovered or sought to discover a tenth part of the faults which I, the author and creator of the unfortunate production, found or sought to find in it. It has been said that love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object—common love does, perhaps—the love of a father to his child, or that of a lover to his mistress, but not the inordinate love of an author to his works, at least not the love which one like myself bears to his works: to be brief, I discovered a thousand faults in my work, which neither public nor critics discovered. However, I was beginning to get over this misery, and to forgive my work all its imperfections, when—and I shake when I mention it—the same kind of idea which perplexed me with regard to the hawks and the gypsy pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith commenced touching the objects around me, in order to baffle the evil chance, as you call it; it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the legality of my claim to the thoughts, expressions and situations contained in the book; that is, to all that constituted the book. How did I get them? How did they come into my mind? Did I invent them? Did they originate with myself? Are they my own, or are they some other body’s? You see into what difficulty I had got; I won’t trouble you by relating all that I endured at that time, but will merely say that after eating my own heart, as the Italians say, and touching every object that came in my way for six months, I at length flung my book, I mean the copy of it which I possessed, into the fire, and began another.

“But it was all in vain; I laboured at this other, finished it, and gave it to the world; and no sooner had I done so, than the same thought was busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from my work. How did I get all the matter which composed it? Out of my own mind, unquestionably; but how did it come there—was it the indigenous growth of the mind? And then I would sit down and ponder over the various scenes and adventures in my book, endeavouring to ascertain how I came originally to devise them, and by dint of reflecting I remembered that to a single word in conversation, or some simple accident in a street, or on a road, I was indebted for some of the happiest portions of my work; they were but tiny seeds, it is true, which in the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees, but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been produced, and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these compositions which charmed the world—for they did charm the world—was due to myself. Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain sweat. ‘How hard!’ I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, ‘how hard! I am like Virgil’s sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves.’ But, not to tire you, it fared with my second work as it did with my first; I flung it aside and, in order to forget it, I began a third, on which I am now occupied; but the difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of my mind; my fastidiousness being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to be legitimately my own. But there is one circumstance to which I cannot help alluding here, as it serves to show what miseries this love of originality must needs bring upon an author. I am constantly discovering that, however original I may wish to be, I am continually producing the same things which other people say or write. Whenever, after producing something which gives me perfect satisfaction, and which has cost me perhaps days and nights of brooding, I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure to find in it something more or less resembling some part of what I have been just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which then comes over me; ’tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the chance which, by discovering my latent powers, induced me to adopt a profession of such anxiety and misery.

“For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, owing to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar to what I myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress without having almost instant reason to repent. Today, when I took up the newspaper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an agricultural dinner, the very same ideas, and almost the same expressions which I had put into the mouth of an imaginary personage of mine, on a widely different occasion; you saw how I dashed the newspaper down—you saw how I touched the floor; the touch was to baffle the evil chance, to prevent the critics detecting any similarity between the speech of the Duke of Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner, and the speech of my personage. My sensibility on the subject of my writings is so great, that sometimes a chance word is sufficient to unman me, I apply it to them in a superstitious sense; for example, when you said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on, I applied it to my works—it appeared to bode them evil fortune; you saw how I touched, it was to baffle the evil chance; but I do not confine myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me. To baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly incomprehensible; I have been known, when riding in company with other people, to leave the direct road, and make a long circuit by a miry lane to the place to which we were going. I have also been seen attempting to ride across a morass, where I had no business whatever, and in which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths, and was only extricated by the help of a multitude of hands. I have, of course, frequently been asked the reason for such conduct, to which I have invariably returned no answer, for I scorn duplicity; whereupon people have looked mysteriously, and sometimes put their fingers to their foreheads. ‘And yet it can’t be,’ I once heard an old gentleman say; ‘don’t we know what he is capable of?’ and the old man was right; I merely did these things to avoid the evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me; and this evil chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only things at present which render life valuable to me. If I touch various objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books getting into disrepute; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expressions, thoughts or situations in any work which I am writing from resembling the thoughts, expressions and situations of other authors, for my great wish, as I told you before, is to be original.

“I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the secrets of my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken so unreservedly as I have done, had I not discovered in you a kindred spirit. I have long wished for an opportunity of discoursing on the point which forms the peculiar feature of my history with a being who could understand me; and truly it was a lucky chance which brought you to these parts; you who seem to be acquainted with all things strange and singular, and who are as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that relates to the star Jupiter, or the mysterious tree at Upsal.”

Such was the story which my host related to me in the library, amidst the darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning. Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded.

“It is a singular story,” said I, at last, “though I confess that I was prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” said my host.

“Did you never speak in public?” said I.

“Never.”

“And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room, commencing with Mr. Speaker, no one was present?”

“None in the world, I double-locked the door; what do you mean?”

“An idea came into my head—dear me, how the rain is pouring—but, with respect to your present troubles and anxieties, would it not be wise, seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and anxiety, to give it up altogether?”

“Were you an author yourself,” replied my host, “you would not talk in this manner; once an author, ever an author—besides, what could I do? return to my former state of vegetation? no, much as I endure, I do not wish that; besides, every now and then my reason tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly without foundation; that whatever I write is the legitimate growth of my own mind, and that it is the height of folly to afflict myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts and those of other writers, such resemblance being inevitable from the fact of our common human origin. In short—”

“I understand you,” said I; “notwithstanding your troubles and anxieties you find life very tolerable; has your originality ever been called in question?”

“On the contrary, everyone declares that originality constitutes the most remarkable feature of my writings; the man has some faults, they say, but want of originality is certainly not one of them. He is quite different from others; a certain newspaper, it is true, the ———185 I think, once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of authors which it mentioned; it happened, however, that I had never even read one syllable of the writings of either, and of one of them had never even heard the name; so much for the discrimination of the ———. By the by, what a rascally newspaper that is!”

“A very rascally newspaper,” said I.

LXVII

During the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed by strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was my host; my head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts and imaginations, out of which I was endeavouring to frame a book. And now the book was finished and given to the world, and the world shouted; and all eyes were turned upon me, and I shrunk from the eyes of the world. And, when I got into retired places, I touched various objects in order to baffle the evil chance. In short, during the whole night, I was acting over the story which I had heard before I went to bed.

At about eight o’clock I awoke. The storm had long since passed away, and the morning was bright and shining; my couch was so soft and luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some time, my eyes wandering about the magnificent room to which fortune had conducted me in so singular a manner; at last I heaved a sigh; I was thinking of my own homeless condition, and imagining where I should find myself on the following morning. Unwilling, however, to indulge in melancholy thoughts, I sprang out of bed and proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst dressing, I felt an irresistible inclination to touch the bedpost.

I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, however, as I left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible, thought I, that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten influence should have possessed me again? but I will not give way to it; so I hurried downstairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination which I occasionally felt to touch the rail of the bannister. I was presently upon the gravel walk before the house: it was indeed a glorious morning. I stood for some time observing the golden fish disporting in the waters of the pond, and then strolled about amongst the noble trees of the park; the beauty and freshness of the morning—for the air had been considerably cooled by the late storm—soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas which had previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a stroll of about half an hour, I returned towards the house in high spirits. It is true that once I felt very much inclined to go and touch the leaves of a flowery shrub which I saw at some distance, and had even moved two or three paces towards it; but, bethinking myself, I manfully resisted the temptation. “Begone!” I exclaimed, “ye sorceries, in which I formerly trusted—begone forever vagaries which I had almost forgotten; good luck is not to be obtained, or bad averted, by magic touches; besides, two wizards in one parish would be too much, in all conscience.”

I returned to the house, and entered the library; breakfast was laid on the table, and my friend was standing before the portrait which I have already said hung above the mantelpiece; so intently was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him and spoke, when he turned round, and shook me by the hand.

“What can possibly have induced you to hang that portrait up in your library? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears to me a wretched daub.”

“Daub as you call it,” said my friend, smiling, “I would not part with it for the best piece of Raphael. For many a happy thought I am indebted to that picture—it is my principal source of inspiration; when my imagination flags, as of course it occasionally does, I stare upon those features, and forthwith strange ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow into my mind; these I round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations, and bring forth as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am occasionally tormented by the thought that, by doing this, I am committing plagiarism; though in that case, all thoughts must be plagiarisms, all that we think being the result of what we hear, see or feel. What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source or other; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features of my landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. My works, as you are aware, are of a seriocomic character. My neighbours are of opinion that I am a great reader, and so I am, but only of those features—my real library is that picture.”

“But how did you obtain it?”

“Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neighbourhood, and my jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented to sit for his portrait; she highly admired the picture, but she soon died, and then my fat friend, who is of an affectionate disposition, said he could not bear the sight of it, as it put him in mind of his poor wife. I purchased it of him for five pounds—I would not take five thousand for it; when you called that picture a daub, you did not see all the poetry of it.”

We sat down to breakfast; my entertainer appeared to be in much better spirits than on the preceding day; I did not observe him touch once; ere breakfast was over a servant entered—“The Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir,” said he.

A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my host. “What does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming here?” said he, half to himself; “let him come in,” said he to the servant.

The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, introducing the Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Platitude, having what is vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling into the room; he was about thirty years of age, and about five feet three inches high; his face was of the colour of pepper, and nearly as rugged as a nutmeg grater; his hair was black; with his eyes he squinted, and grinned with his lips, which were very much apart, disclosing two very irregular rows of teeth; he was dressed in the true Levitical fashion, in a suit of spotless black, and a neckerchief of spotless white.

The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my entertainer, who received him politely but with evident coldness; nothing daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude took a seat by the table, and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, winked, grinned and consented.

In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is generally called absence; my mind takes flight and returns to former scenes, or presses forward into the future. One of these fits of absence came over me at this time—I looked at the Reverend Mr. Platitude for a moment, heard a word or two that proceeded from his mouth, and saying to myself, “You are no man for me,” fell into a fit of musing—into the same train of thought as in the morning, no very pleasant one—I was thinking of the future.

I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should have continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the voice of Mr. Platitude raised to a very high key. “Yes, my dear sir,” said he, “it is but too true; I have it on good authority—a gone church—a lost church—a ruined church—a demolished church is the Church of England. Toleration to Dissenters! oh, monstrous!”

“I suppose,” said my host, “that the repeal of the Test Acts will be merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists?”

“Of the Catholics,” said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. “Ahem. There was a time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when I was as much opposed to the emancipation of the Catholics as it was possible for anyone to be; but I was prejudiced, my dear sir, labouring under a cloud of most unfortunate prejudice; but I thank my Maker I am so no longer. I have travelled, as you are aware. It is only by travelling that one can rub off prejudices; I think you will agree with me there. I am speaking to a traveller. I left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The Catholics are at least our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven that I am no longer an enemy to Catholic emancipation.”

“And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?”

“Dissenters, my dear sir; I hope you would not class such a set as the Dissenters with Catholics?”

“Perhaps it would be unjust,” said my host, “though to which of the two parties is another thing; but permit me to ask you a question: Does it not smack somewhat of paradox to talk of Catholics, whilst you admit there are Dissenters? If there are Dissenters, how should there be Catholics?”

“It is not my fault that there are Dissenters,” said the Reverend Mr. Platitude; “if I had my will I would neither admit there were any, nor permit any to be.”

“Of course you would admit there were such as long as they existed; but how would you get rid of them?”

“I would have the Church exert its authority.”

“What do you mean by exerting its authority?”

“I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain.”

“What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the founder of the religion which you profess said about the sword, ‘He who striketh with it—’ I think those who have called themselves the Church have had enough of the sword. Two can play with the sword, Mr. Platitude. The Church of Rome tried the sword with the Lutherans: how did it fare with the Church of Rome? The Church of England tried the sword, Mr. Platitude, with the Puritans: how did it fare with Laud and Charles?”

“Oh, as for the Church of England,” said Mr. Platitude, “I have little to say. Thank God I left all my Church of England prejudices in Italy. Had the Church of England known its true interests, it would long ago have sought a reconciliation with its illustrious mother. If the Church of England had not been in some degree a schismatic church, it would not have fared so ill at the time of which you are speaking; the rest of the Church would have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always been the bane of the Church.”

Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past; methought I was in a small, comfortable room wainscoted with oak; I was seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which were wine and fruit; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a plain suit of brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat high forehead; he had a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly, without saying a word; at length, after drawing at the pipe for some time rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and emitting an accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone: “As I was telling you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug.”

When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was quitting the apartment.

“Who is that person?” said I to my entertainer, as the door closed behind him.

“Who is he?” said my host; “why, the Rev. Mr. Platitude.”

“Does he reside in this neighbourhood?”

“He holds a living about three miles from here; his history, as far as I am acquainted with it, is as follows: His father was a respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest course; I believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a gentleman; I have known many gentlemanly youths go to college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr. Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he return one; he went to college an ass, and returned a prig; to his original folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. He told his father that he had adopted high principles, and was determined to discountenance everything low and mean; advised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him a living. The old man retired from business, purchased his son a living, and shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his fortune. The first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did after his father’s decease, was to send his mother and sister into Wales to live upon a small annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse to anything low and that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing to shine in the pulpit, he now preached high sermons, as he called them, interspersed with scraps of learning. His sermons did not, however, procure him much popularity; on the contrary, his church soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of his flock going over to certain dissenting preachers, who had shortly before made their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Platitude was filled with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most unmeasured terms. Coming in contact with some of the preachers at a public meeting, he was rash enough to enter into argument with them. Poor Platitude! he had better have been quiet, he appeared like a child, a very infant in their grasp; he attempted to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to his dismay, that his opponents knew more Greek and Latin than himself. These illiterate boors, as he had supposed them, caught him at once in a false concord, and Mr. Platitude had to slink home overwhelmed with shame. To avenge himself he applied to the ecclesiastical court, but was told that the Dissenters could not be put down by the present ecclesiastical law. He found the Church of England, to use his own expression, a poor, powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to improve his consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful young lady in the neighbourhood; the damsel measured him from head to foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and refused him. Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place, determined to travel; he went to Italy; how he passed his time there he knows best, to other people it is a matter of little importance. At the end of two years he returned with a real or assumed contempt for everything English, and especially for the Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is supported. He forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his Church of England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil hour for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my acquaintance, and from that time I have been pestered, as I was this morning, at least once a week. I seldom enter into any discussion with him, but fix my eyes on the portrait over the mantelpiece, and endeavour to conjure up some comic idea or situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour about Church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal wedlock; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of being, whose acquaintance he says he made in Italy. I believe he is some sharking priest, who has come over to proselytize and plunder. This being has some powers of conversation and some learning, but carries the countenance of an arch villain; Platitude is evidently his tool.”

“Of what religion are you?” said I to my host.

“That of the Vicar of Wakefield—good, quiet, Church of England which would live and let live, practises charity, and rails at no one; where the priest is the husband of one wife, takes care of his family and his parish—such is the religion for me, though I confess I have hitherto thought too little of religious matters. When, however, I have completed this plaguy work on which I am engaged, I hope to be able to devote more attention to them.”

After some further conversation, the subjects being, if I remember right, college education, priggism, church authority, tomfoolery, and the like, I rose and said to my host, “I must now leave you.”

“Whither are you going?”

“I do not know.”

“Stay here, then—you shall be welcome as many days, months, and years as you please to stay.”

“Do you think I would hang upon another man? No, not if he were Emperor of all the Chinas. I will now make my preparations, and then bid you farewell.”

I retired to my apartment and collected the handful of things which I carried with me on my travels.

“I will walk a little way with you,” said my friend on my return.

He walked with me to the park gate; neither of us said anything by the way. When we had come upon the road, I said: “Farewell now; I will not permit you to give yourself any further trouble on my account. Receive my best thanks for your kindness; before we part, however, I should wish to ask you a question. Do you think you shall ever grow tired of authorship?”

“I have my fears,” said my friend, advancing his hand to one of the iron bars of the gate.

“Don’t touch,” said I, “it is a bad habit. I have but one word to add: should you ever grow tired of authorship follow your first idea of getting into Parliament; you have words enough at command; perhaps you want manner and method; but, in that case, you must apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of a master of elocution.”

“That would never do!” said my host; “I know myself too well to think of applying for assistance to anyone. Were I to become a parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original one, even if not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take in any speech I might make, however original as to thought, provided the gestures I employed and the very modulation of my voice were not my own? Take lessons, indeed! why, the fellow who taught me, the professor, might be standing in the gallery whilst I spoke; and, at the best parts of my speech, might say to himself: ‘That gesture is mine—that modulation is mine.’ I could not bear the thought of such a thing.”

“Farewell,” said I, “and may you prosper. I have nothing more to say.”

I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round suddenly; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of the gate.

“He has been touching,” said I, as I proceeded on my way; “I wonder what was the evil chance he wished to baffle.”

LXVIII

After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade of which stood a little pony and cart, which seemed to contain various articles. I was going past, when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, “Good beer sold here;” upon which, feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and taste the beverage.

I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy-looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron—a rather pretty-looking woman, but sunburnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next to him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed.

“House!” said I; “House!” and then as nobody appeared, I cried again as loud as I could, “House! do you hear me, House!”

“What’s your pleasure, young man?” said an elderly woman, who now made her appearance from a side apartment.

“To taste your ale,” said I.

“How much?” said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the empty mug upon the table.

“The largest measure-full in your house,” said I, putting back her hand gently. “This is not the season for half-pint mugs.”

“As you will, young man,” said the landlady, and presently brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and which foamed and frothed withal.

“Will this pay for it?” said I, putting down sixpence.

“I have to return you a penny,” said the landlady, putting her hand into her pocket.

“I want no change,” said I, flourishing my hand with an air.

“As you please, young gentleman,” said the landlady, and then making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment.

“Here is your health, sir,” said I to the grimy-looking man, as I raised the pitcher to my lips.

The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a draught of the ale, which I found excellent; “won’t you drink?” said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker.

The man again lifted his eyes, looked at me, and then at the pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was about to shake his head in sign of refusal, but no, he looked once more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher down before me upon the table.

“You had better mend your draught,” said I to the tinker; “it is a sad heart that never rejoices.”

“That’s true,” said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a larger quantity than before.

“Pass it to your wife,” said I.

The poor woman took the pitcher from the man’s hand; before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True mother’s heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug, I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her gown before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health.

In about five minutes none of the family looked half so disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse.

Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim: “The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it.” Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance—given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware—but they wanted not water; what should I have given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What should I have given them? Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money? Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale—I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea—and that a foolish one—a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required—country? There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug.

“Well,” said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, “I little thought when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade.”

Myself.—Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much difference, ’tis true, between a tinker and a smith.

Tinker.—You are a whitesmith, then?

Myself.—Not I, I’d scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black’s the colour; I am a brother of the horseshoe. Success to the hammer and tongs.

Tinker.—Well, I shouldn’t have thought you were a blacksmith by your hands.

Myself.—I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I have not worked for many a day.

Tinker.—Where did you serve first?

Myself.—In Ireland.

Tinker.—That’s a good way off, isn’t it?

Myself.—Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of salt water that lies behind them, there’s Ireland.

Tinker.—It’s a fine thing to be a scholar.

Myself.—Not half so fine as to be a tinker.

Tinker.—How you talk!

Myself.—Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one’s own master? Now, a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster, for example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don’t; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copybooks, “Evil communication corrupts good manners,” or “You cannot touch pitch without defilement,” or to spell out of Abedariums,186 or to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog’s life as that with your own—the happiest under heaven—true Eden life, as the Germans would say—pitching your tent under the pleasant hedgerow, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow—making ten holes—hey, what’s this? what’s the man crying for?

Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar.

Myself.—What’s the matter with you; what are you all crying about?

Tinker (uncovering his face).—Lord, why to hear you talk; isn’t that enough to make anybody cry—even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, ’tis life in the garden of Eden—the tinker’s; I see so now that I’m about to give it up.

Myself.—Give it up! you must not think of such a thing.

Tinker.—No, I can’t bear to think of it, and yet I must; what’s to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads.

Myself.—Who has driven you off the roads?

Tinker.—Who! the Flaming Tinman.187

Myself.—Who is he?

Tinker.—The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he wouldn’t have served me as he has done—I’ll tell you all about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and my mother too; and I worked with them as long as they lived, as a dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach myself with on their account; and when my father died I took up the business, and went his beat, and supported my mother for the little time she lived; and when she died I married this young woman, who was not born upon the roads, but was a small tradesman’s daughter, at Glo’ster. She had a kindness for me, and, notwithstanding her friends were against the match, she married the poor tinker, and came to live with him upon the roads. Well, young man, for six or seven years I was the happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you described just now—respected by everybody in this beat; when in an evil hour comes this Black Jack, this flaming tinman, into these parts, driven as they say out of Yorkshire—for no good, you may be sure. Now, there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you doubtless know; mine was a good one, but it would not support the flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported twenty it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who’ll brook no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and offers to fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, I can fight a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was not going to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so I told him; whereupon he knocks me down, and would have done me further mischief had not some men been nigh and prevented him; so he threatened to cut my throat, and went his way. Well, I did not like such usage at all, and was woundily frightened, and tried to keep as much out of his way as possible, going anywhere but where I thought I was likely to meet him; and sure enough for several months I contrived to keep out of his way. At last somebody told me he was gone back to Yorkshire, whereupon I was glad at heart, and ventured to show myself, going here and there as I did before. Well, young man, it was yesterday that I and mine set ourselves down in a lane about five miles from here, and lighted our fire, and had our dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend three kettles and a frying pan which the people in the neighbourhood had given me to mend—for, as I told you before, I have a good connection, owing to my honesty. Well, as I sat there hard at work, happy as the day’s long, and thinking of anything but what was to happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this king of the tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife, that they call Grey Moll, by his side—for the villain has got a wife, and a maid servant too; the last I never saw, but they that has, says that she is as big as a house, and young, and well to look at, which can’t be all said of Moll, who, though she’s big enough in all conscience, is neither young nor handsome. Well, no sooner does he see me and mine, than giving the reins to Grey Moll, he springs out of his cart, and comes straight at me; not a word did he say, but on he comes straight at me like a wild bull. I am a quiet man, young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would be of no use, so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the roads, and able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in upon me, and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young man, it was like a fly fighting with an elephant—one of those big beasts the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the fellow, he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into the hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and my poor wife saw it. Now, my poor wife, though she is as gentle as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn’t bred upon the roads, can scratch a little, so when she saw me at my last shifts, she flew at the villain—she couldn’t bear to see her partner murdered—and she scratched the villain’s face. Lord bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than springing out of the cart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping and screeching to encourage her blade—Grey Moll, I say (my flesh creeps when I think of it—for I am a kind husband, and love my poor wife)—

Myself.—Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man says in the play.

Tinker.—That’s true, young man; here’s to you—where was I? Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything—everything to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll’s claws. “Hold!” I shouted. “Hold, both of you—Jack, Moll. Hold, both of you, for God’s sake, and I’ll do what you will: give up trade and business, connection, bread, and everything, never more travel the roads, and go down on my knees to you in the bargain.” Well, this had some effect: Moll let go my wife, and the Blazing Tinman stopped for a moment; it was only for a moment, however, that he left off—all of a sudden he hit me a blow which sent me against a tree; and what did the villain then? why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring—what do you think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out?

Myself.—I really don’t know—something horrible, I suppose.

Tinker.—Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible—“a Bible, a Bible!” roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away—a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read—it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half-distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. “Swear,” said he, “swear you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I’ll—” and then the hardhearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was—to—to—I can’t go on—

Myself.—Take another draught—stout liquor—

Tinker.—I can’t, young man, my heart’s too full, and what’s more, the pitcher is empty.

Myself.—And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads?

Tinker.—You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain.

Myself.—Gypsy! Is he a gypsy?

Tinker.—Not exactly; what they call a half and half. His father was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads.

Myself.—Is he of the Smiths—the Petulengres?

Tinker.—I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name—Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a ——— at any rate he’s a bad one, as I know to my cost.

Myself.—And what are you going to do?

Tinker.—Do! you may well ask that; I don’t know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can’t determine on what’s to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he’d cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree.

Myself.—And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart?

Tinker.—Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath’s sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer.

Myself.—But why don’t you sell your horse and cart?

Tinker.—Sell them? And who would buy them, unless someone who wished to set up in my line; but there’s no beat, and what’s the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat?

Myself.—I’m half-inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat too.

Tinker.—You! How came you to think of such a thing?

Myself.—Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and work there now? I don’t like the thoughts of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can’t be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don’t like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester?

Tinker.—A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don’t think they would with those hands of yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature, you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time. I don’t know how to advise you. As for selling you my stock, I’d see you farther first, for your own sake.

Myself.—Why?

Tinker.—Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you were to meet him?

Myself.—Pooh, don’t be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out.

Here the tinker’s wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low, soft tone: “I really don’t see, John, why you shouldn’t sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn’t lay the blame on you; but I don’t think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need.”

“I’ll hear of no such thing,” said the tinker; “I have drunk at the young man’s expense, and though he says he’s quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he’s a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan’t have your will, though; I won’t be the young man’s destruction—If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker—but he never can; he says he can hit, but it’s no use hitting the tinker;—crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two; just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names—I don’t wish to send you to your mischief—you say you know hard words and names, let us see. Only on one condition I’ll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it’s gone, isn’t mine—sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what’s my name; if you can’t, may I—”

Myself.—Don’t swear, it’s a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable. Your name is Slingsby—Jack Slingsby. There, don’t stare, there’s nothing in my telling you your name: I’ve been in these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago,188 when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post-chaise at the door of an inn, and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can’t, I wish I could. So there’s nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed, there’s nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the bottom. Now, what am I to give you for the things?

I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart, and pony—purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a wagoner’s frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart.

“God bless you, young man,” said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand, “you are the best friend I’ve had for many a day: I have but one thing to tell you: ‘Don’t cross that fellow’s path if you can help it; and stay—should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and he’ll fly like the wind.’ ”

LXIX

It was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure from the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my little cart; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was probably not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly; so far from having to hasten him forward by the particular application which the tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to repress his eagerness, being, though an excellent pedestrian, not unfrequently left behind. The country through which I passed was beautiful and interesting, but solitary: few habitations appeared. As it was quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I went, the whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to decide upon the matter; it was not long before he left the high road, being probably no friend to public places. I followed him I knew not whither, but, from subsequent observation, have reason to suppose that our course was in a northwest direction. At length night came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which was succeeded by a drizzling rain.

I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road’s side; but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse at which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry to have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I had determined to live quite independent, but I had never before passed a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at the idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more prepared for the step, so I determined for one night—only for one night longer—to sleep like a Christian; but human determinations are not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity is frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic hostelry, but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes; the country in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house of any kind was to be seen—at least I saw none—though it is true houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs; but the sound appeared to come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the ground beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a night in which even a tramper by profession would feel more comfortable in being housed than abroad. I followed in the rear of the cart, the pony still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till methought I heard other hoofs than those of my own nag; I listened for a moment, and distinctly heard the sound of hoofs approaching at a great rate, and evidently from the quarter towards which I and my little caravan were moving. We were in a dark lane—so dark that it was impossible for me to see my own hand. Apprehensive that some accident might occur, I ran forward, and, seizing the pony by the bridle, drew him as near as I could to the hedge. On came the hoofs—trot, trot, trot; and evidently more than those of one horse; their speed as they advanced appeared to slacken—it was only, however, for a moment. I heard a voice cry, “Push on, this is a desperate robbing place, never mind the dark;” and the hoofs came on quicker than before. “Stop!” said I, at the top of my voice; “stop! or—” Before I could finish what I was about to say there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse stretched upon the road. “Lord have mercy upon us! what’s the matter?” exclaimed a voice. “Spare my life,” cried another voice, apparently from the ground; “only spare my life, and take all I have.” “Where are you, Master Wise?” cried the other voice. “Help! here, Master Bat,” cried the voice from the ground, “help me up or I shall be murdered.” “Why, what’s the matter?” said Bat. “Someone has knocked me down, and is robbing me,” said the voice from the ground. “Help! murder!” cried Bat; and, regardless of the entreaties of the man on the ground that he would stay and help him up, he urged his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he could. I remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans and exclamations uttered by the person on the ground; at length I said, “Holloa! are you hurt?” “Spare my life, and take all I have!” said the voice from the ground. “Have they not done robbing you yet?” said I; “when they have finished let me know, and I will come and help you.” “Who is that?” said the voice; “pray come and help me, and do me no mischief.” “You were saying that someone was robbing you,” said I; “don’t think I shall come till he is gone away.” “Then you ben’t he?” said the voice. “Ar’n’t you robbed?” said I. “Can’t say I be,” said the voice; “not yet at any rate; but who are you? I don’t know you.” “A traveller whom you and your partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost frightened me out of my senses.” “Frightened!” said the voice, in a louder tone; “frightened! oh!” and thereupon I heard somebody getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the individual proceeded to attend to his horse, and with a little difficulty raised him upon his legs also. “Ar’n’t you hurt?” said I. “Hurt!” said the voice; “not I; don’t think it, whatever the horse may be. I tell you what, my fellow, I thought you were a robber, and now I find you are not; I have a good mind—” “To do what?” “To serve you out; ar’n’t you ashamed—?” “At what?” said I; “not to have robbed you? Shall I set about it now?” “Ha, ha!” said the man, dropping the bullying tone which he had assumed; “you are joking—robbing! who talks of robbing? I wonder how my horse’s knees are; not much hurt, I think—only mired.” The man, whoever he was, then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little, said, “Good night, friend; where are you?” “Here I am,” said I, “just behind you.” “You are, are you? Take that.” I know not what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the spur the animal kicked out violently; one of his heels struck me on the shoulder, but luckily missed my face; I fell back with the violence of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great rate. Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and then, continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him.

“What a difference!” said I, getting up; “last night I was fêted in the hall of a rich genius, and tonight I am knocked down and mired in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise’s horse—I wonder who gave him that name? And yet he was wise enough to wreak his revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep out of his way. Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little consequence.”

I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I might as well make use of it; I therefore got into the cart, and, taking the reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, whereupon the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace as if he had not already come many a long mile. I lay half-reclining in the cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the animal to go just where he pleased, often wondering where he would conduct me. At length I felt drowsy, and my head sank upon my breast; I soon aroused myself, but it was only to doze again; this occurred several times. Opening my eyes after a doze somewhat longer than the others, I found that the drizzling rain had ceased, a corner of the moon was apparent in the heavens, casting a faint light; I looked around for a moment or two, but my eyes and brain were heavy with slumber, and I could scarcely distinguish where we were. I had a kind of dim consciousness that we were traversing an uninclosed country—perhaps a heath; I thought, however, that I saw certain large black objects looming in the distance, which I had a confused idea might be woods or plantations; the pony still moved at his usual pace. I did not find the jolting of the cart at all disagreeable; on the contrary, it had quite a somniferous effect upon me. Again my eyes closed; I opened them once more, but with less perception in them than before, looked forward, and, muttering something about woodlands, I placed myself in an easier posture than I had hitherto done, and fairly fell asleep.

How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I believe for a considerable time; I was suddenly awakened by the ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of the heaven was studded with stars; I found myself amidst a maze of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through which was a path or driftway with grass growing on either side, upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I conjectured that this place had been one of the haunts of his former master, and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened in that opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from its burnt and blackened appearance, seemed to have been frequently used as a fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an excellent spot for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite right to trust myself to the guidance of the pony. Unharnessing the animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will on the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a place to which he was so much attached; I then pitched the little tent close beside the ash tree to which I have alluded, and conveyed two or three articles into it, and instantly felt that I had commenced housekeeping for the first time in my life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very sorry affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their toy houses; of this I was the more sensible from feeling very cold and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain, and sleeping in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze I could find, I placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain chips and a billet which I found in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. Having then struck a spark in a tinderbox and lighted a match, I set fire to the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze; I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the direction of a particular star; I, however, could not find the star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance of the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and went to sleep.

I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel; I awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, not because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as they had probably been for hours without my hearing them. I got up and left my tent; the morning was yet more bright than that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about, endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance, or rather the pony, had brought me; following the driftway for some time, amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, through which it appeared to lead; I tracked it a few hundred yards, but seeing nothing but trees, and the way being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on my steps, and, pursuing the path in another direction, came to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless the one I had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my little encampment, and on the way beheld a small footpath on the left winding through the bushes, which had before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent and cart, I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had procured the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular account of the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but now become my own by right of lawful purchase.

Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was possessed of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a blanket to cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new; then there was a frying-pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food which required cooking, and the second for heating any water which I might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot and two or three cups; of the first I should rather say I found the remains, it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came into my possession, which would have precluded the possibility of my asking anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit me, even supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in trade; this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing pan and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin, with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of considerable dilapidation—if I may use the term; of these first Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I might have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the outlay which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity of block tin, sheet tin, and solder. “This Slingsby,” said I, “is certainly a very honest man, he has sold me more than my money’s worth; I believe, however, there is something more in the cart.” Thereupon I rumaged the farther end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of that kind which are used in forges, and two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and the other small.

The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, as no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had given me reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occupation of a smith; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them? I sat down upon the shaft, and pondered the question deliberately in my mind; at length I concluded that he had come by them by one of those numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, of which I, being a young hand upon the roads, must have a very imperfect conception; honestly, of course—for I scouted the idea that Slingsby would have stolen this blacksmith’s gear—for I had the highest opinion of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at the present day, which is upwards of twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, during the whole of which period I have neither seen the poor fellow, nor received any intelligence of him.

LXX

I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, took some refreshment, and afterwards a walk.

This time I turned up the small footpath, of which I have already spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel, elder and sweet briar; after following its windings for somewhat better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced the want of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as I was in a place to all appearance occasionally frequented by wandering people, who I was aware never take up their quarters in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious draught of the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its channel through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably continued much longer had not the thought that I had left my property unprotected compelled me to rise and return to my encampment.

Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star of the system to which we belong: of all stars, the one which has the most interest for me—the star Jupiter.

Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly, I never look at thee without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own little star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun—life in Jupiter is life beneath moons—four moons—no single moon is able to illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter, on which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale moonbeams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much, has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge, distant star.

Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were.

One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was singing; the words were—but no, I thought again I was probably mistaken—and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished.

I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to:—

The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.189

A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle.

“All alone here, brother?” said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones.

I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.

A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold: in her hand she held a bulrush.

“All alone here, brother?” said the girl, as I looked up; “all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?”

“Why do you call me brother?” said I; “I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!”

“Don’t be afraid, brother, you are no Roman—Roman indeed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn’t know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother.”

“Then you don’t like me?”

“Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?”

“What’s the use of talking to me in that unchristian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?”

“Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.”

“Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn’t it well mended?”

“Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it’s only fit to be played at football with.”

“I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble.”

“I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white.”

“ ’Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature.”

“I am young, brother; my hair is black—that’s nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white—that’s not nature.”

“I can’t help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see grey hair on the young?”

“Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad.”

“Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to oblige me, pretty sister.”

“Hey, brother, you don’t speak as you did—you don’t speak like a gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister.”

“As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister.”

“I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face—there—do you speak Rommany?”

“Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?”

“What is Rommany? our language, to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don’t speak Rommany?”

“You say it.”

“I don’t say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?”

“Do you mean thieves’ slang—cant? no, I don’t speak cant, I don’t like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl, sitting down on the ground, “I was almost thinking—well, never mind, you don’t know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi.”

“I thought you said it was badly mended?”

“Yes, yes, brother, but—”

“I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?”

“Yes, yes, brother, but—”

“What will you give for it?”

“Brother, I am the poor person’s child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi.”

“Poor person’s child; how came you by that necklace?”

“Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?”

“Not for sixpence; isn’t the kettle nicely mended?”

“I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?”

“You like me then?”

“I don’t dislike you—I dislike no one; there’s only one, and him I don’t dislike, him I hate.”

“Who is he?”

“I scarcely know, I never saw him, but ’tis no affair of yours, you don’t speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?”

“You may have it, but not for sixpence, I’ll give it to you.”

“Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.”

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing—

The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.

“Goodbye, brother, I must be going.”

“Goodbye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?”

“Wicked song, hey, brother! you don’t understand the song!”

“Ha, ha! gypsy daughter,” said I, starting up and clapping my hands, “I don’t understand Rommany, don’t I? You shall see; here’s the answer to your gillie—190

“The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Love Luripen
And dukkeripen,
And hokkeripen,
And every pen
But Lachipen
And tatchipen.”

The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some time after I had concluded the song, standing motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face. “Grey, tall, and talks Rommany,” said she to herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen before—an expression which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. “Ha, ha, brother,” said she, “well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn’t it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person’s child so by screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the poor person’s child will come and see you again; you are not going away today, I hope, or tomorrow, pretty brother, grey-hair’d brother—you are not going away tomorrow, I hope?”

“Nor the next day,” said I, “only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; goodbye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister.”

“Goodbye, tall brother,” said the girl, as she departed, singing:—

The Rommany chi, etc.

“There’s something about that girl that I don’t understand,” said I to myself; “something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?”

Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, but saw nothing. “Some bird,” said I; “an owl, perhaps;” and once more I fell into meditation; my mind wandered from one thing to another—musing now on the structure of the Roman tongue—now on the rise and fall of the Persian power—and now on the powers vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half-covered with grey hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it had disappeared.

LXXI

The next day at an early hour I harnessed my little pony, and, putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts.

“If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,” said an ancient crone; “you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I’m not afraid to trust you—not I. Don’t hurry yourself, young man; if you don’t come back for a fortnight I shan’t have the worse opinion of you.”

I returned to my quarters at evening, tired but rejoiced at heart; I had work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left behind—those which I had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to sleep.

Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber. I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, “Danger! danger! danger!” Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her.

“Ha!” said I, “was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?”

“Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be. I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog’s name is not danger, but stranger; what danger should there be, brother?”

“What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have got in your hand?”

“Something for you,” said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie a white napkin; “a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor person’s child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said: ‘Hir mi devlis, it won’t do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.’ ”

“But there are two cakes.”

“Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for you—but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother—which shall I have, brother?”

In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a pound.

“Which shall I have, brother?” said the gypsy girl.

“Whichever you please.”

“No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say.”

“Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.”

“Yes, brother, yes,” said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. “Pretty brother, grey-haired brother—here, brother,” said she, “here is your cake, this other is mine.”

“Are you sure,” said I, taking the cake, “that this is the one I chose?”

“Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there’s no difference; however—shall I eat?”

“Yes, sister, eat.”

“See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired brother.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Not hungry! well, what then—what has being hungry to do with the matter? It is my grandbebee’s cake which was sent because you were kind to the poor person’s child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the gorgios speak of.”

“The children in the wood had nothing to eat.”

“Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother.”

“See, sister, I do,” and I ate a piece of the cake.

“Well, brother, how do you like it?” said the girl, looking fixedly at me.

“It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it; I don’t think I shall eat any more.”

“Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person’s cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine.”

“That’s a pretty little dog.”

“Is it not, brother? that’s my juggal, my little sister, as I call her.”

“Come here, Juggal,” said I to the animal.

“What do you want with my juggal?” said the girl.

“Only to give her a piece of cake,” said I, offering the dog a piece which I had just broken off.

“What do you mean?” said the girl, snatching the dog away; “my grandbebee’s cake is not for dogs.”

“Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.”

“You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor person’s child. I shall go to my house.”

“Keep still, and don’t be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all.”

“Isn’t it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence! brother, no offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee’s cake, but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee’s cake and I will go.”

“I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.”

“One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother.”

“I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if you must go, good day to you.”

The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said: “Well, brother, well, do as you please; I merely wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor person’s child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to have seen you eat it all; goodbye, brother, I daresay when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don’t I daresay you have eaten enough to—to—show your love for us. After all, it was a poor person’s cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired brother. Come, juggal.”

I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast. I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. “I must shake off these feelings,” said I, “and get upon my legs.” I walked rapidly up and down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with like results; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the matter with me, thought I; but I suppose I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet; qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible: the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon.

I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. “He does not move, bebee,” said a voice which I knew. “I should not wonder if it has done for him already; however, strike again with your ran;” and then there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone: “Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?” I remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice continued: “What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no answer? Perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his stockings?” Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. “Ho, ho, sir!” said she, “here you are. Come here, Leonora,” said she to the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; “here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on your ham, child, at the door; I shall do the same. There—you have seen me before, sir, have you not?”

“The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you.”

“I have known him of old, Leonora,” said Mrs. Herne; “and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer.”

“It’s a way he has, bebee, I suppose?”

“Yes, child, it’s a way he has.”

“Take off your bonnet, bebee; perhaps he cannot see your face.”

“I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet—there—and shake out my hair—there—you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face—”

“No answer, bebee.”

“Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled.”

“How came they so, bebee?”

“All along of this gorgio, child.”

“The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee.”

“Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.”

“How old are you, bebee?”

“Sixty-five years, child—an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one—a considerable age—when she died, yet she had not one grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles—an inconsiderable number.”

“She had no griefs, bebee?”

“Plenty, child, but not like mine.”

“Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?”

“No, child; my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and without much preamble, says to me and mine, ‘This is my pal, a’n’t he a beauty? fall down and worship him.’ ‘Hold,’ said I, ‘I for one will never consent to such foolishness.’ ”

“That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same.”

“I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own daughter says to me: ‘I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament.’ ‘Don’t,’ says I; says she, ‘I should like for once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman.’ ”

“Very foolish of her, bebee.”

“Wasn’t it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, ‘foolish manners is catching, all this comes of that there gorgio.’ Answers the child Leonora, ‘Take comfort, bebee, I hate the gorgios as much as you do.’ ”

“And I say so again, bebee, as much or more.”

“Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me the child, ‘I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee.’ ”

“I did so, bebee; go on.”

“ ‘How shall I know him, bebee?’ says the child. ‘Young and grey, tall, and speaks Romanly.’ Runs to me the child, and says, ‘I’ve found him, bebee.’ ‘Where, child?’ says I. ‘Come with me, bebee,’ says the child. ‘That’s he,’ says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge.”

“Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.”

“You have taken drows, sir,” said Mrs. Herne; “do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.”

And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang—

The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl,
Tomorrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
The farmer’s steed.

“Do you hear that, sir?” said Mrs. Herne; “the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.”

“He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; ’twas by that I found him out, as I told you.”

“Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!”

“And what if he doesn’t, bebee; isn’t he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman! indeed, why call him gentleman? If he ever was one he’s broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal.”

“That’s his way, child, today a tinker, tomorrow something else; and as for being drabbed, I don’t know what to say about it.”

“Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha, look at the gentleman’s motions.”

“He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by the drow of gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That’s yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats to you.”

“Hey, bebee!” cried the girl; “what is this? what do you mean? you have blessed the gorgio!”

“Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I’m mad; well, I can’t help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe’s me; he’ll get up yet.”

“Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he’s drabbed, spite of dukkerin.”

“Don’t say so, child; he’s sick, ’tis true, but don’t laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone.”

“He’ll soon be gone, bebee; let’s leave him. He’s as good as gone; look there, he’s dead.”

“No, he’s not, he’ll get up—I feel it; can’t we hasten him?”

“Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my dog.”

The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark and tear up the ground.

“At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!”

The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but retreated.

“The dog won’t fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and scared him. He’ll get up.”

“Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?”

“The dook tells me so, and, what’s more, I had a dream. I thought I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd shouted, ‘There he comes!’ and I looked, and lo! it was the tinker; before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in Ely’s big church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them say, ‘There he mounts!’ and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw, not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air.”

“You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and poke him in the eye.”

“That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion—must you? You must steal its language, and, what was never done before, write it down Christianly—must you? Take that—and that;” and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the tent.

“That’s right, bebee, you struck his face; now, once more, and let it be in the eye. Stay, what’s that? get up, bebee.”

“What’s the matter, child?”

“Someone is coming, come away.”

“Let me make sure of him, child; he’ll be up yet.” And thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. “I will thrust out his eye,” said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim.

“Here’s a pretty affair, bebee,” screamed the girl.

“He’ll get up yet,” said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas.

“Get up!—get up yourself; where are you? where is your—Here, there, bebee, here’s the door; there, make haste, they are coming.”

“He’ll get up yet,” said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath; “the dook tells me so.”

“Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be grabbed—both of us.”

“One more blow, I know where his head lies.”

“You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow—gorgio avella.”

And thereupon the females hurried away.

A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue.

“Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?”191 said a masculine voice.

“Yn wirionedd—I do not know what it can be,” said the female voice, in the same tongue.

“Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?”

“Something moves beneath it; and what was that—a groan?”

“Shall I get down?”

“Of course, Peter, someone may want your help.”

“Then I will get down, though I do not like this place, it is frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now, I am down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a face!”

A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance, dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds of the tent and was bending over me. “Can you speak, my lad?” said he in English, “what is the matter with you? If you could but tell me, I could perhaps help you—” “What is it that you say? I can’t hear you. I will kneel down;” and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear close to my mouth. “Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!” then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on—“Gwenwyn! Gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw.192 The oil! Winifred, the oil!”

LXXII

The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said, that with the blessing of God, he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were? “for I like it not,” he continued, “as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here.” I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth—we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds, that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farmhouse.

Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me: “This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances.” After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak.

Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed, yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. “I am glad to see thee moving about, young man,” said she, in a soft, placid tone; “I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?—Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?” I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said: “Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?” “Very little,” I replied, “but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long.” The woman was silent for some moments, and then said: “I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself—they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow.”

Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree: “Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night.” “True,” said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English: “We hoped to have heard you speak tonight, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup—tomorrow, with God’s will, we shall hear you.” “And tonight, also, with God’s will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither.” “They will be hither presently,” said Mary, “for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome.” And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which, he said: “Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you.” A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart.

The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse, the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed: “I shall soon be back, Peter, I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company;” and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. “Set it down, Jessy,” said the mistress to the girl, “and then betake thyself to thy rest; I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends.” The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, “Ay, truly, we were both forgetful;” and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said: “Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?” “I cannot eat,” I replied, “but I think I could drink a little milk;” whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying: “ ‘Croesaw.’ That,” added he with a smile, “is Welsh for welcome.”

The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. “Mary,” said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, “every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?” “The two eldest understand a few words,” said the woman, “but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. ‘Who,’ I have heard him say, ‘would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?’ ” “I for one,” said the preacher, somewhat hastily; “not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced.” “You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person,” said the woman; “as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings.” “That’s no bad observation,” said the preacher, “and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account.” “They jog on very well now,” said the woman; “but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester.”193 “Ha, ha!” said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; “he told you that, did he?” “Yes,” said Mary; “once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and English, and the Welsh beat the English and hanged the mayor.” “Your husband is a clever man,” said Peter, “and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No? then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was ———. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That—was a very fine, noble—God forgive me, what was I about to say!—a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here—let us change the subject.”

They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart.

“Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant,” said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night.

“I am afraid he is,” said Winifred; “yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn.”

LXXIII

I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. “Good morning,” said Peter, “how dost thou feel?” “Much better,” said I, “than I could have expected.” “I am glad of it,” said Peter. “Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast,” pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill, bearing the tray upon her head.

“What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?” said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. “Do,” said I, “as I do other days, what I can.” “And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?” said Peter. “Why not?” said I; “what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday.” “Art thou aware,” said the wife interposing, “what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?” “No,” said I, “I did not know that it was Sunday.” “And how did that happen?” said Winifred with a sigh. “To tell you the truth,” said I, “I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time.” “And yet of what infinite importance is time,” said Winifred. “Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?” “I do not think,” said I, “that I am so near my end as I was yesterday.” “Yes thou art,” said the woman; “thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?” “Cast into the earth, perhaps,” said I. “I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man.” “Who is Mr. Petulengro?” said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. “Master of the horseshoe,” said I, “and, according to his own account, king of Egypt.” “I understand,” said Peter, “head of some family of wandering Egyptians—they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?—but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ———. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family.” “Who was he?” said I. “John Bunyan,” replied Peter, reverently, “and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile.” “No,” said I, “I will not go and hear.” “Wherefore?” said Peter. “I belong to the church,” said I, “and not to the congregations.” “Oh! the pride of that church,” said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, “exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members.” “Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,” said Peter, again addressing me; “there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill.” “No,” said I, “I do not mean to go to church.” “May I ask thee wherefore?” said Peter. “Because,” said I, “I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and the tinkling of the waters.”

“Then thou intendest to remain here?” said Peter, looking fixedly at me. “If I do not intrude,” said I; “but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody—perhaps you wish me to go?” “On the contrary,” said Peter, “I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question: Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?” “No,” said I; “had I known there had been poison in the cake, I certainly should not have taken it.” “And who gave it thee?” said Peter. “An enemy of mine,” I replied. “Who is thy enemy?” “An Egyptian sorceress and poisonmonger.” “Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee—of what did she complain?” “That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.” “I do not understand thee—is she young?” “About sixty-five.”

Here Winifred interposed. “Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man,” said she; “I trust thou dost bear no malice against her.” “No,” said I, “I bear no malice against her.” “Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?” “By no means,” said I; “I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject.” “In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?” “Both now and forever,” said I. “Truly,” said Winifred, “the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much: I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us.” “My exhortation!” said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; “thou forgettest what I am—I—I—but I am forgetting myself; the Lord’s will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting.”

Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday’s best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet, sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding, that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me.

And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D——, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England’s grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady’s sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother—a quiet, sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honeybee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.

And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.

For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.

Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne’s drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.

But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.

Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farmhouse; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.

“Good day,” said I, “pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.”

“Good day,” said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book.

“That’s a nice book you are reading,” said I.

The girl looked at me with surprise. “How do you know what book it is?” said she.

“How do I know—never mind; but a nice book it is—no love, no fortune-telling in it.”

The girl looked at me half offended. “Fortune-telling!” said she, “I should think not. But you know nothing about it;” and she bent her head once more over the book.

“I tell you what, young person,” said I, “I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?”

“I never wager,” said the girl.

“Shall I tell you the name of it,” said I, “O daughter of the dairy?”

The girl half started. “I should never have thought,” said she, half timidly, “that you could have guessed it.”

“I did not guess it,” said I, “I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it.”

“Why so?” said the girl.

“Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the Dairyman’s Daughter?”

“Where do you come from?” said the girl.

“Out of the water,” said I. “Don’t start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?”

“No,” said the girl, heaving a sigh; “I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea;” and here she sighed again.

“The sea is a wide gulf,” said I, “and frequently separates hearts.”

The girl sobbed.

“Why are you alone here?” said I.

“I take my turn with the rest,” said the girl, “to keep at home on Sunday.”

“And you are—” said I.

“The master’s niece!” said the girl. “How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?”

“Who are those you call my friends?” said I.

“Peter and his wife.”

“And who are they?” said I.

“Do you not know?” said the girl; “you came with them.”

“They found me ill by the way,” said I; “and they relieved me: I know nothing about them.”

“I thought you knew everything,” said the girl.

“There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?”

“Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?”

“Never,” said I.

“Well,” said the girl, “this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.”

“And what is their reason for doing so?” said I; “would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?”

“I know not their reasons,” said the girl, “but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind—”

“Thank you,” said I, “I will now depart.”

“Hem!” said the girl, “I was wishing—”

“What? to ask me a question?”

“Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling.”

“Do you wish me to tell your fortune?”

“By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know—”

“When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know—this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would, if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the Dairyman’s Daughter when you have nothing better to do.”

It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest.

About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent—all was silent—but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim: “Pechod Ysprydd Glan—O pechod Ysprydd Glan!” and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said—she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated—“Pechod Ysprydd Glan—O pechod Ysprydd Glan!” I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired.

Now, “pechod Ysprydd Glan,” interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost.

LXXIV

Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and the latter passed many hours in the farmhouse. Towards evening, without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my two friends were seated beneath the oak; they had just completed their frugal supper. “We waited for thee some time,” said Winifred, “but finding that thou didst not come, we began without thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee.” “I will sit down,” said I, “but I require no supper, for I have eaten where I have been.” Nothing more particular occurred at the time. Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. “I will not share your breakfast,” said I. “Wherefore not?” said Winifred anxiously. “Because,” said I, “it is not proper that I be beholden to you for meat and drink.” “But we are beholden to other people,” said Winifred. “Yes,” said I, “but you preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which considerably alters the matter; not that I would receive anything from them, if I preached to them six times a day.” “Thou art not fond of receiving favours, then, young man,” said Winifred. “I am not,” said I. “And of conferring favours?” “Nothing affords me greater pleasure,” said I, “than to confer favours.” “What a disposition!” said Winifred, holding up her hands; “and this is pride, genuine pride—that feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is pride! never before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride!”

“But how wilt thou live, friend?” said Peter; “dost thou not intend to eat?” “When I went out last night,” said I, “I laid in a provision.” “Thou hast laid in a provision!” said Peter, “pray let us see it. Really, friend,” said he, after I had produced it, “thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough to last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, here is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let us partake of some of thy fare.” “I should be very happy if you would,” said I. “Doubt not but we shall,” said Peter; “Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense—we will dine at thine.”

On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak. We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon became more cheerful, fluent and entertaining. I spoke but little, but I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark, “What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it?”

“Fairies!” said Peter, “fairies! how came you, young man, to know anything about the fair family?”

“I am an Englishman,” said I, “and of course know something about fairies; England was once a famous place for them.”

“Was once, I grant you,” said Peter, “but is so no longer. I have travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before; the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair family, and many believe in them.”

“And do you believe in them?” said I.

“I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing irrational in the supposition.”

“Do you believe in devils, then?”

“Do I believe in devils, young man!” said Peter, and his frame was shaken as if by convulsions. “If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at the present moment?”

“You know best,” said I; “but I don’t believe that fairies are devils, and I don’t wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they are devils?”

“Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the Bardd Cwsg.”194

“The Bardd Cwsg,” said I; “what kind of book is that? I have never heard of that book before.”

“Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it before! By the by, can you read?”

“Very tolerably,” said I; “so there are fairies in this book. What do you call it—the Bardd Cwsg?”

“Yes, the Bardd Cwsg. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you ever been in Wales?”

“Never,” said I.

“Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don’t understand Welsh; but we were talking of the Bardd Cwsg—yes, there are fairies in the Bardd Cwsg—the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, was carried away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till he was rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who subsequently showed him many wonderful things.”

“I beg your pardon,” said I, “but what were those wonderful things?”

“I see, young man,” said Peter, smiling, “that you are not without curiosity; but I can easily pardon anyone for being curious about the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel showed him the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. On another occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting torment.”

“But this was all in his sleep,” said I, “was it not?”

“Yes,” said Peter, “in his sleep; and on that account the book is called Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg, or, Visions of the Sleeping Bard.”

“I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep,” said I. “I prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions at all—they are probably of his own invention.”

“They are substantially true, young man,” said Peter; “like the dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own country, in the language in which they are written. Many a guilty conscience has the Bardd Cwsg aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of [the deep] Unknown. Were it not for the Bardd Cwsg perhaps I might not be here.”

“I would sooner hear your own tale,” said I, “than all the visions of the Bardd Cwsg.”

Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. “What is the matter?” said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the posture I have described. He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former occasion, “Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict thee?” Peter removed his hands from his face. “The old pain, the old pain,” said he; “I was talking with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred—my sin: O pechod Ysprydd Glan! O pechod Ysprydd Glan!” and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears trickled down Winifred’s face; I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband. I arose from my seat; “I am the cause of all this,” said I, “by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way.” I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. “Go not,” said he, “you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the case, it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own iniquity;” he then paused, and appeared to be considering: at length he said, “Many things which thou hast seen and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not tonight; I am too much shaken.”

Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale—the tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Glan.

LXXV

“I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers.

“My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and his neighbours.

“One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious matters. ‘It is a hard matter to get to heaven,’ said my father. ‘Exceedingly so,’ said the other. ‘However, I don’t despond, none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.’

“ ‘Ah!’ said my father, ‘thank God I never committed that—how awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost! I can scarcely think of it without my hair standing on end;’ and then my father and his friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their discourse.

“I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it—a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined not to commit it, and having said my prayers, I fell asleep.

“When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, ‘Commit it’; and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone.

“After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired it. My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost.

“But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight; I felt very tired, and was presently asleep.

“Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is justified; He had no hand in my destruction, but, on the contrary, He did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery, and having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror—words not to be repeated—and in this manner I committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.

“When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep.

“I awoke several times during the night, each time with the dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but presently I fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying? I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.

“I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, again beaten by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master’s face, and thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, as you suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?

“Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone, monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet to learn the horror of my condition.

“Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales.

“Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said: ‘God bless you, my children; I am going from you, but take comfort, I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven.’

“As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of me. Meet my father in heaven—how could I ever hope to meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them! They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me—they had never committed the unpardonable sin.

“In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of the school.

“I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that, though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost: I had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!—and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years, at the end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the months and the days, nay, even the hours which yet intervened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured.

“There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterable grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself—to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror-struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away.

“The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars, he advised me to go home—which I was glad to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office which I had undertaken.

“So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth, and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then, springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long time—prayed to God.

“A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure.

“At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a good, very good young man. At times the recollection of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure.

“One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a moment, I said, ‘I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a creature as myself.’ I went to church, and was as usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the Scriptures: all I knew of them was from the Liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I had begun. My father’s Bible was upon the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the following—

“ ‘He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven, either in this world or the next.’ ”

Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and, after a short pause, continued his narration.

LXXVI

“Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality. I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams.

“Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about; I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave. But nothing seemed to affect my constitution, probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befell me; my life was a dream—a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable, hale old man, who had hold of me. ‘Let me go!’ said I fiercely. ‘I will not let thee go,’ said the old man, and now, instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. ‘In whose name dost them detain me?’ said I, scarcely knowing what I said. ‘In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea, and has said to the sea, so far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.’ ‘Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?’ said I. ‘He has,’ said the old man, ‘but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go,’ he continued, as I again struggled; ‘if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says in his Wrestlings of Jacob; and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou;’ and, indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. ‘Who art thou?’ he said at last. ‘A miserable man,’ I replied. ‘What makes thee miserable?’ said the old man. ‘A hideous crime,’ I replied. ‘I can find no rest; like Cain, I wander here and there.’ The old man turned pale. ‘Hast thou taken another’s life?’ said he; ‘if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I have never taken another’s life.’ ‘What then, another’s goods? If so, restore them sevenfold if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able.’ ‘I have taken no one’s goods,’ said I. ‘Of what art thou guilty, then?’ said he. ‘Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?’ ‘Alas, no,’ said I; ‘I am neither of these; would that I were no worse!’

“Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said: ‘Young man, I have a great desire to know your name.’ ‘What matters it to you what is my name?’ said I; ‘you know nothing of me.’ ‘Perhaps you are mistaken,’ said the old man, looking kindly at me; ‘but at all events tell me your name.’ I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, ‘I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence! I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son.’

“He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said ‘Amen.’

“And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man, the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man. Both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was.

“I stayed several days in the good man’s house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day, my friend said: ‘I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me.’ I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,’ etc., etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind.

“The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood-shedding alone. ‘Therefore, my friends,’ said he, in conclusion, ‘despair not—however guilty you may be, despair not—however desperate your condition may seem,’ said he, fixing his eyes upon me, ‘despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.’

“This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that anyone might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save everyone but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost—perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, ‘Oh, yes, everyone is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible—begone!’ Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own church; there were many such in it, he said.

“I stayed several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate.

“At last my friend said to me: ‘It is now time thou shouldst return to thy mother and thy brother.’ So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said: ‘I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir—left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days.’ And I answered: ‘I will, if so please the Lord’; and I said to myself, ‘God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord’s favour.’

“And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother’s house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him.

“There was one thing connected with my new abode, which gave me considerable uneasiness—the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now, I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said: ‘Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists.’ ‘The Methodists,’ said I; ‘are there any in these parts?’ ‘There is a chapel,’ said he, ‘only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.’ Now, it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him: ‘May I go with you next Sunday?’ ‘Why not?’ said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists.

“I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time.

“I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest, plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. ‘Very fervent,’ said I. ‘And do you read the Scriptures often?’ said he. ‘No,’ said I. ‘Why not?’ said he. ‘Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation.’ They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer.

“As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world.

“But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind’s eye, decked with quiet graces—hang not down your head, Winifred—and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not—selfishness, however, prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period—suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession—we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend, and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer.

“One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said: ‘This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.’ And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy, taking pleasure in everything around me—in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour—oh, God—God! I came to the fatal passage.

“Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans—for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife! ‘What is the matter, husband, dear husband?’ she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night—it was a midwinter night—over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now.

“I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said—what do you think my wife said, young man?”

“It is impossible for me to guess,” said I.

“ ‘Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless.’ ”

LXXVII

“And so I still say,” said Winifred, sobbing. “Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late.”

“Rest!” said Peter; “there is no rest for the wicked!”

“We are all wicked,” said Winifred; “but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed.”

“Then you will still maintain,” said Peter, “that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?”

“I will,” said Winifred; “you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?”

“Have I not read my own condemnation?” said Peter. “Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? ‘He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.’ ”

“You never committed it,” said Winifred.

“But the words! the words! the words!” said Peter.

“The words are true words,” said Winifred, sobbing; “but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master.”

“And what sayest thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?” said Peter. “Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore?195 Thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?”

“No,” said Winifred, “not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage.”

“Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?” said Peter, with a groan. “Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin.”

“Thou hast not committed it,” said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. “Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways.”

“I see thou wouldst comfort me,” said Peter, “as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion.”

“I have not yet heard the whole of your history,” said I.

“My story is nearly told,” said Peter; “a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair, when one day Winifred said to me: ‘I see thou wilt be lost if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.’ ‘And what can I do in the wide world?’ said I, despondingly. ‘Much,’ replied Winifred, ‘if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God.’ Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I—I—outcast Peter, became the preacher, Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!”

“I am thinking of London Bridge,” said I.

“Of London Bridge!” said Peter and his wife.

“Yes,” said I, “of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, ‘Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O! if men could but look into each other’s hearts, what blackness would they find there!’ ”196

“That’s true,” said Peter. “What is the name of the book?”

“The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders.”

“Some popish saint, I suppose,” said Peter.

“As much of a saint, I dare say,” said I, “as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone, monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them?”

“How!” said Peter, “dost thou think that they had divined my secret?”

“Not they,” said I; “they were, I dare say, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?”

“Dost thou then imagine,” said Peter, “the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?”

“As you have described it,” said I, “of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it.”

“Truly,” said Winifred, “the young man talks wisely.”

Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said: “Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?”

“I am neither Papist nor Methodist,” said I, “but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years—but I am sleepy, and must go to rest.”

“God bless thee, young man,” said Winifred.

LXXVIII

Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I occasionally heard the word Pechod proceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts.

“I wish that man were happy,” said I to myself, “were it only for his wife’s sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own.”

The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably.

“Your husband seems much better,” said I, at evening fall, to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone.

“He does,” said Winifred; “and that on the day of the week when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for tomorrow is the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful.”

“To whom do you allude,” said I, “and to what words?”

“To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last night, after you had heard my poor husband’s history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction—the only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children, has tranquillised him; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone.”

Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and myself breakfasted together, again the good family of the house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. “Wilt thou not come?” said Peter, looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion. “Wilt thou not come?” said Winifred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding Sabbath, and I was again left alone.

The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the sky, the trees and the water. At last I strolled up to the house and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed heavily away.

At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking: “Such a sermon,” said she, “it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day—he was always a powerful preacher; but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it.” “What was the subject?” said I, interrupting her. “Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence and Goodness of God.”

LXXIX

On the morrow I said to my friends: “I am about to depart; farewell!” “Depart!” said Peter and his wife simultaneously, “whither wouldst thou go?” “I can’t stay here all my days,” I replied. “Of course not,” said Peter, “but we had no idea of losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee.” “You mean I am under infinite obligations to you,” said I. “Did you not save my life?” “Perhaps so, under God,” said Peter; “and what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, tomorrow we go into Wales; go with us.” “I have no wish to go into Wales,” said I. “Why not?” said Peter with animation. “Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says—a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig lead.”

“I daresay it is a very fine country,” said I, “but I have no wish to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another direction, to say nothing of my trade.” “Thou dost right to say nothing of thy trade,” said Peter, smiling, “for thou seemest to care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into Wales.” “I cannot promise to go with you into Wales,” said I; “but, as you depart tomorrow, I will stay with you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way.” “Do,” said Peter. “I have many people to see today, and so has Winifred; but we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end.”

In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing me in the following manner:—

“I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit, that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from the body, to heaven or hell: to the halls of eternal bliss, where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell; indeed, I like not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by the by was a Churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only a Churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago—I wish many like him flourished now—speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns, called the Welshman’s Candle, observes:—

“ ‘The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope nor possibility of escaping over them.’

“But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above.”

And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above, explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there.

And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began to address me. “I do not think,” said she, “from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?—to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form, and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe—the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to ———.”

And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded I took her hand and said, “I thank you,” and that was all.

On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival.

And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often came up to me, and, holding out her hand, said: “Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest.” Then, after looking around her, she said: “It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!”

So after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said: “It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop, by means of a less qualification.”

“Very probably,” said Peter; “more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do! as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his Candle for Welshmen:—

“ ‘It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help, but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest.’ ”

“The Church of England is a fine church,” said I; “I would not advise anyone to speak ill of the Church of England before me.”

“I have nothing to say against the church,” said Peter; “all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church.”

“It is too proud for that,” said Winifred.

“You are much more of a Methodist,” said I, “than your husband. But tell me,” said I, addressing myself to Peter, “do you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries.”

“Oh, the pride of that church!” said Winifred half to herself; “wandering sectaries!”

“We differ in no points of doctrine,” said Peter; “we believe all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the roadside, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker,” he added, smiling; “it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do.”

Nothing further passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said: “You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?”

“Many,” said Peter, “it has been my lot to meet with, but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry, about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred, being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I had finished afternoon’s worship—the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet, retired place; suddenly a voice said to me: ‘Good evening, Pastor’; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of matters with much fluency, till at last he mentioned my preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he said that I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers. ‘How can that be,’ said I, ‘even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?’

“The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he almost instantly observed that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation were to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and I told him firmly, that if he wished me to forsake my present profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that church, but I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself, ‘Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!’ A few days after, when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding, that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, ‘The Roman Pontiff.’ ‘If it be he,’ said I, ‘I can have nothing to do with him; I will serve no one who is an enemy of Christ.’ Thereupon he drew near to me and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that if He ever did, He was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and speaking more horribly than before. I made him no answer, whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the morning of that day. ‘Who are you?’ said he fiercely. ‘This man’s wife,’ said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. ‘Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain.’ He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed; at length recovering himself, he departed, muttering ‘Wife! Wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.’ ”

LXXX

We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, “If you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close upon the border.”

“Which is the border?” said I.

“Yon small brook,” said Peter, “into which the man on horseback, who is coming towards us, is now entering.”

“I see it,” said I, “and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as if to water his steed.”

We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. “Well,” said Peter, “will you go into Wales?”

“What should I do in Wales?” I demanded.

“Do!” said Peter, smiling, “learn Welsh.”

I stopped my little pony. “Then I need not go into Wales; I already know Welsh.”

“Know Welsh!” said Peter, staring at me.

“Know Welsh!” said Winifred, stopping her cart.

“How and when did you learn it?” said Peter.

“From books, in my boyhood.”

“Read Welsh!” said Peter, “is it possible?”

“Read Welsh!” said Winifred, “is it possible?”

“Well, I hope you will come with us,” said Peter.

“Come with us, young man,” said Winifred; “let me, on the other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales.”

“Thank you both,” said I, “but I will not come.”

“Wherefore?” exclaimed both simultaneously.

“Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth.197 I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim—‘Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales.’ ”

“How!” said Peter; “hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?”

“With notes critical, historical and explanatory.”

“Come with us, friend,” said Peter. “I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting.”

“Come with us, young man,” said Winifred, “even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome.”

“I will not go with you,” said I. “Dost thou see that man in the ford?”

“Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him.”

“I shall turn back with him. God bless you!”

“Go back with him not,” said Peter, “he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes—turn not with that man.”

“Go not back with him,” said Winifred. “If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us.”

“I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, Mr. Petulengro.”

“Kosko Divvus, Pal,” said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; “are you turning back?”

I turned back with Mr. Petulengro.

Peter came running after me: “One moment, young man, who and what are you?”

“I must answer in the words of Taliesin,” said I; “none can say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh,198 least of all myself. God bless you both!”

“Take this,” said Peter; and he thrust his Welsh Bible199 into my hand.

LXXXI

So I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some time in silence; at last we fell into discourse. “You have been in Wales, Mr. Petulengro?”

“Ay, truly, brother.”

“What have you been doing there?”

“Assisting at a funeral.”

“At whose funeral?”

“Mrs. Hearne’s, brother.”

“Is she dead, then?”

“As a nail, brother.”

“How did she die?”

“By hanging, brother.”

“I am lost in astonishment,” said I; whereupon Mr. Petulengro, lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and adjusting himself sideways in the saddle, replied with great deliberation:—

“Two days ago, I happened to be at a fair not very far from here; I was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of forty miles off, when who should come up but a chap that I knew, a relation, or rather, a connection of mine—one of those Hearnes. ‘Ar’n’t you going to the funeral?’ said he; and then, brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed between I and you; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot to do. ‘Who hanged her?’ said I; and then the man told me that she had done it herself—been her own hinjiri; and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, but there was no time for that; they were too far off, and the dead was to be buried early the next morning, so I went with the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to their encampment, and there I found the Hearnes, and the dead body—the last laid out on a mattress, in a tent, dressed Romaneskoenaes, in a red cloak and big bonnet of black beaver. I must say for the Hearnes that they took the matter very coolly: some were eating, others drinking, and some were talking about their small affairs; there was one, however, who did not take the matter so coolly, but took on enough for the whole family, sitting beside the dead woman, tearing her hair, and refusing to take either meat or drink; it was the child Leonora. I arrived at nightfall, and the burying was not to take place till the morning, which I was rather sorry for, as I am not very fond of them Hearnes, who are not very fond of anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I had married into the family; one of them, however, came up and offered to fight me for five shillings; had it not been for them, I should have come back as empty as I went—he didn’t stand up five minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath a tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean; I slept little, and had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was among.

“Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, brother. When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going. Before mounting my gry, however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself, a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose, rather ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last, that if I wanted to know all about the matter, none could tell me better than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her nowhere. At last the same man told me that he shouldn’t wonder if I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the child, Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said, how came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it. It was a long time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth, and spoke, and these were the words she said: ‘It was all along of your pal’; and then she told me all about the matter. How Mrs. Hearne could not abide you, which I knew before, and that she had sworn your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don’t wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody. Well, brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Hearne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass. I don’t know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and a dean; and then she added, that it was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey. Well, brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent, where Mrs. Hearne and she were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am.”

“And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro; but this is sad news which you tell me about Mrs. Hearne.”

“Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a good thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil’s tinder about with her, as the man said.”

“I am sorry for her,” said I; “more especially as I am the cause of her death—though the innocent one.”

“She could not bide you, brother, that’s certain; but that is no reason”—said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the saddle—“that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take away your essence of life, and, when disappointed, to hang herself upon a tree: if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have flown at you, and scratched your face; or, if she did not judge herself your match, she might have put down five shillings for a turn-up between you and someone she thought could beat you—myself, for example, and so the matter might have ended comfortably; but she was always too fond of covert ways, drows and brimstones. This is not the first poisoning affair she has been engaged in.”

“You allude to drabbing bawlor.”

“Bah!” said Mr. Petulengro; “there’s no harm in that. No, no! she has cast drows in her time for other guess things than bawlor; both Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and died. Did you never hear of the poisoned plum pudding?”

“Never.”

“Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years ago, a few months after she had quitted us—she had gone first among her own people, as she called them; but there was another small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were taken and lodged in—Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, ‘If she does, I am nashkado.’ Mrs. Hearne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said: ‘But I suppose you know what to do?’ ‘I do not,’ said he. ‘Then hir mi devlis,’ said she, ‘you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion.’ Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don’t know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition—she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble, she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt—for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal man put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in—Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and—”

“Ate of it,” said I, “just like my case?”

“Quite different, brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of giving way to her appetite as you might have done, she put it before the rest whom she was going to impeach—perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself—and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said: ‘It was my death was sought for; I know the man, and I’ll be revenged,’ and then the Poknees spoke to her and said, ‘Where can we find him?’ and she said, ‘I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a man.’ ”

“Well,” said I, “and what did the Poknees do?”

“Do, brother, sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother; and, in order that he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, being much shaded by trees; so the plastramengro placed himself in the dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night, dreary, though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behind a tree till he was tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some hours; and when he awoke, the moon had risen, and was shining bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, and that I had let the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the contrary; just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall, big fellow, the very man he was in quest of: the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate to with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horseback, ‘You are my prisoner,’ said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow.”

“I am entirely of your opinion,” said I; “but what happened then?”

“Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at nighttime, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind, which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff, and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping by doing so, either to break away from him, or fling him down; but it would not do—the plastramengro held on like a bulldog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two—the chal and the runner—as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it; everyone has heard of it; everyone has heard of the fight between the Bow street engro and the Rommany chal.”

“I never heard of it till now.”

“All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two—all these engroes are strong fellows—and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people—he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro’s legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult, was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it; so that in a little time the chal was three parts naked; and as for holding him by the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher’s handkerchief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever the chal could, he could not free himself; and when the engro saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt; ‘It’s of no use,’ said he; ‘you had better give in; hold out your hands for the darbies, or I will throttle you.’ ”

“And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal?” said I.

“I sat still on my horse, brother.”

“You?” said I. “Were you the man?”

“I was he, brother.”

“And why did you not help your comrade?”

“I have fought in the ring, brother.”

“And what had fighting in the ring to do with fighting in the lane?”

“You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t’other side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to back me, and he had all his brother pals about him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn’t have done had they put one finger on his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. Now, brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone; so you see, brother—”

“That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro; I see that clearly; and now, pray proceed with your narration; it is both moral and entertaining.”

But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither did he proceed upon his way; he had stopped his horse, and his eyes were intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some lofty trees, on the left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough spot, and seemed to invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to rest from the fatigues of the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said: “I say, brother, that would be a nice place for a tuzzle!”

“I daresay it would,” said I, “if two people were inclined to fight.”

“The ground is smooth,” said Mr. Petulengro; “without holes or ruts, and the trees cast much shade. I don’t think, brother, that we could find a better place,” said Mr. Petulengro, springing from his horse.

“But you and I don’t want to fight!”

“Speak for yourself, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro. “However, I will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Hearne’s death, innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, I shouldn’t like it to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother-in-law’s death—that’s to say, unless he gave me satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tuzzle, he gives me satisfaction; and if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you can’t do, it makes no difference at all, he gives me satisfaction; and he who says to the contrary, knows nothing of gypsy law, and is a dinelo into the bargain.”

“But we have no gloves!”

“Gloves!” said Mr. Petulengro contemptuously, “gloves! I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Hearne’s death, I wish to see what you can do with your morleys; so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you.”

LXXXII

And when I heard Mr. Petulengro talk in this manner, which I had never heard him do before, and which I can only account for by his being fasting and ill-tempered, I had of course no other alternative than to accept his challenge, so I put myself into a posture which I deemed the best both for offence and defence, and the tuzzle commenced; and when it had endured for about half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said: “Brother, there is much blood on your face, you had better wipe it off;” and when I had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. Petulengro said: “I think enough has been done, brother, in the affair of the old woman; I have, moreover, tried what you are able to do, and find you as I thought, less apt with the naked morleys than the stuffed gloves; nay, brother, put your hands down; I’m satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be reasonably expected for an old woman, who carried so much brimstone about her as Mrs. Hearne.”

So the struggle ended, and we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways upon his horse as before, and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself; I told him that I did not know; whereupon with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his wife’s sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me.

I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Hearne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. “A pretty life I should lead with those two,” said I, “when they came to know it.” “Pooh,” said Mr. Petulengro, “they will never know it. I shan’t blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulders.” “Unlike the woman in the sign,” said I, “whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro; as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she’ll talk—but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades.” “What trades?” said Mr. Petulengro. “Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro.” “Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horseshoes,” said Mr. Petulengro. “I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware. I don’t believe—come, brother, don’t be angry, it’s quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor anyone else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning and let us be going; I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want.”

“And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?” I demanded. “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother.”

And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. “I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay, stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful—such a place as the Chong Gav. I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany.”

Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a crossroad. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said: “Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good, if not, Chal Devlehi.” But I again refused Mr. Petulengro’s invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned.200 It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. “I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro,” said I.

LXXXIII

It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones, placed in some quaint, quiet spot—a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition—and superstition is the soul of poetry—is connected with these crossroads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness; the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, half in shadow, and half-illumed by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse’s rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture before me—in itself a picture of romance—whatever of the wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own eyes in connection with forges.

I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr,201 or Velint, who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords, so keen, indeed, that if placed in a running stream, they would fairly divide an object, however slight, which was borne against them by the water, and who eventually married a king’s daughter, by whom he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse at the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader.

I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with Grecian mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snowballs had been suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform.

I am in the dingle making a horseshoe. Having no other horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps if I had sought all England, I should scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. “You belonged to a tinker before,” said I, addressing the animal, “but now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it shan’t be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate, it shan’t be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and better fed, than you were with your last master.”

I am in the dingle making a petul; and I must here observe, that whilst I am making a horseshoe, the reader need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horseshoe—Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me, prala, snatch the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, or two shillings a day, brother; and when I have beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudamengro, which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word for bellows, and whilst thus employed I sing a gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now I am somewhat at fault; I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, or someone else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro baro, or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and lo, and behold, it has assumed something the outline of a petul.

I am not going to enter into further details with respect to the process—it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages; my forge was a rude one, my tools might have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since—but stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance—iron perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstance are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined to make a horseshoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle—ay, in spite of dukkerin. At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and refashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith in Cheshire.

But I had not yet shod my little gry; this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, I applied each petul hot, glowing hot to the pindro. Oh, how the hoofs hissed; and, oh, the pleasant, pungent odour which diffused itself through the dingle, an odour good for an ailing spirit.

I shod the little horse bravely—merely pricked him once, slightly, with a cafi, for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro; then dismissed him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the muchtar, I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me.

LXXXIV

Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength, and without hope. Several causes, perhaps, cooperated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the work, the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and everyone is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and lassitude—want of nourishment might likewise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes, and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and eftes swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Hearne’s cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow have never entirely disappeared—even at the present time they display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced—there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle—the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade—I cast my eyes up; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle, but lower down all was gloom and twilight, yet, when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down, so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects before me, the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle; and now I found my right hand grasping convulsively the three forefingers of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long.

Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too certain; the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. I had thought that it had forsaken me; that it would never visit me again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and, lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. What should I do?—resist, of course; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself: it was part of myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with that horror upon me! and then I flung myself on the ground, gnawed the earth and swallowed it; and then I looked round; it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted to escape; at the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that place its lair; my little horse, my only companion and friend in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west, behind me; the fields were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle; in another minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been; in a little time it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do?—it was of no use fighting against the horror, that I saw; the more I fought against it, the stronger it became. What should I do: say my prayers? Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, “Our Father;” but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress cries; the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do: run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would consider me a maniac, if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not a maniac, for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was upon me—the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness and this screaming horror? So I thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord’s Prayer; but it was of no use; praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish; and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I, therefore, went deeper into the dingle; I sat down with my back against a thorn bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them I pressed harder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer; the power of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? so I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? O what a mercy! but it could not be—and yet I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, and said, “Our Father.” I said no more, I was too agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst.

After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as before; I put my hand to his mouth, he licked my hand. I flung myself down by him and put my arms round his neck; the creature whinned, and appeared to sympathise with me; what a comfort to have anyone, even a dumb brute, to sympathise with me at such a moment! I clung to my little horse as if for safety and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm; presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night—not a star was to be seen—but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay down, and again went to sleep.

I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day; the sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank from the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding my late struggle and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal I went to the pit and filled a can with water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered what I should next do; it was necessary to do something, or my life in this solitude would be insupportable. What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horseshoe? but I wanted nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me; well, why not read the Bible? I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what else I could well do on the present occasion; so I determined to read the Bible; it was in Welsh—at any rate it might amuse me; so I took the Bible out of the sack in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. I opened it at that part where the history of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference; but after some time my attention was riveted, and no wonder; I had come to the visitations of Saul—those dark moments of his when he did and said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. Oh, how I sympathised with Saul, the tall, dark man! I had read his life before, but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that I was like him, but I now sympathised with Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the dark hour came frequently on Saul.

Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations, a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet; they were what I had felt on the preceding day—they were the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone: the sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the earth; the dingle was again in deep shade; I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into my tent.

I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight—it was pitch dark, and there was much fear upon me.

LXXXV

Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle. I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which I had brought with me to that solitude.

“What shall I now do?” said I to myself; “shall I continue here, or decamp? This is a sad, lonely spot; perhaps I had better quit it; but whither should I go? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please; but I can’t remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don’t see why I should not write a little sometimes; I have pens and an inkhorn, and for a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn’t wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but first of all I must think of supplying myself with food.”

I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go to the nearest town with my little horse and cart, and procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had no doubt, however, that by using ordinary diligence I should be back before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, just as they were. “I need not be apprehensive on their account,” said I to myself; “nobody will come here to meddle with them; the great recommendation of this place is its perfect solitude; I daresay that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry and be off to the town.”

At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me: for by this time he had become so accustomed to me, that he would obey my call for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. “Now,” said I to him, “we are going to the town to buy bread for myself, and oats for you. I am in a hurry to be back; therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol?”

Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear.

So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I removed two or three things from out it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise.

I stood stock still supporting the shaft of the little cart in my hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground; but I could hear nothing. The noise which I thought I had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude: the note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was—there I heard it again, a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed from the entrance of the dingle. “Here are folks at hand,” said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground, “is it possible that they can be coming here?”

My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected, and I may say unwelcome, visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent, that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches.

“Why don’t you move forward?” said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female, “you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;” and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart.

“Why don’t you move forward, Jack?” said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path.

The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on his haunches.

“What’s the matter?” said the voice which I had last heard.

“Get back with you, Belle, Moll,” said the man, still staring at me, “here’s something not over-canny or comfortable.”

“What is it?” said the same voice; “let me pass, Moll, and I’ll soon clear the way,” and I heard a kind of rushing down the path.

“You need not be afraid,” said I, addressing myself to the man, “I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself—come here to seek for shelter—you need not be afraid; I am a Roman chabo by matriculation—one of the right sort, and no mistake. Good day to ye, brother; I bid ye welcome.”

The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering as he passed me, “afraid. Hm!”

I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock-coat, corduroys, and highlows; on his black head was a kind of red nightcap; round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief—I did not like the look of the man at all.

“Afraid,” growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; “that was the word, I think.”

But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice, and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression. She was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl.

“What’s the matter, Jack?” said the latter, looking at the man.

“Only afraid, that’s all,” said the man, still proceeding with his work.

“Afraid at what—at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost. I would engage to thrash him with one hand.”

“You might beat me with no hands at all,” said I, “fair damsel, only by looking at me; I never saw such a face and figure, both regal. Why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway;202 she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes:—

‘On Dovrefeld in Norway,
Were once together seen,
The twelve heroic brothers
Of Ingeborg the queen.’ ”

“None of your chaffing, young fellow,” said the tall girl, “or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it.”

“Well, perhaps I was a peg too high,” said I; “I ask your pardon—here’s something a bit lower:203—

‘As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus
I met on the drom miro Rommany chi—’ ”

“None of your Rommany chies, young fellow,” said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before and clenching her fist, “you had better be civil, I am none of your chies; and though I keep company with gypsies, or, to speak more proper, half and halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford.”

“I have no doubt,” said I, “that it was a great house judging from your size, I shouldn’t wonder if you were born in a church.”

“Stay, Belle,” said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, “my turn is first;” then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said, with a look of deep malignity, “Afraid was the word, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” said I, “but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast, you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear.”

The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not; ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl started forward, crying, “He’s chaffing, let me at him;” and, before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground.

“Enough,” said I, putting my hand to my cheek; “you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face; now be pacified, and tell me fairly the grounds of this quarrel.”

“Grounds!” said the fellow; “didn’t you say I was afraid? and if you hadn’t, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?”

“Is it your ground?” said I.

“A pretty question,” said the fellow; “as if all the world didn’t know that. Do you know who I am?”

“I guess I do,” said I; “unless I am much mistaken, you are he whom folks call the ‘Flaming Tinman.’ To tell you the truth, I’m glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. There’s no harm done—there’s room enough here for all of us—we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when we are a little better acquainted, I’ll tell you my history.”

“Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” said the fellow.

“I don’t think he’s chaffing now,” said the girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; “the young man speaks civil enough.”

“Civil,” said the fellow with an oath; “but that’s just like you; with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear all I may have to say to my two morts.”

“Two morts!” said the girl, kindling up, “where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever someone else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo, for t’other an’t your name, the same thing I told the young man here: be civil, or you will rue it.”

The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. “What’s this?” said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. “Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby.”

“It’s his no longer; I bought it and paid for it.”

“It’s mine now,” said the fellow; “I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat; ay, and beat the master too.”

“I am not Slingsby.”

“All’s one for that.”

“You don’t say you will beat me?”

“Afraid was the word.”

“I’m sick and feeble.”

“Hold up your fists.”

“Won’t the horse satisfy you?”

“Horse nor bellows either.”

“No mercy, then.”

“Here’s at you.”

“Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you’ve got it. I thought so,” shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp blow in the eye. “I thought he was chaffing at you all along.”

“Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do—go in,” said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; “go in apopli; you’ll smash ten like he.”

The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in, bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose.

“You’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way,” said the girl, looking at me doubtfully.

And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman disengaging himself of his frock-coat, and, dashing off his red nightcap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another, he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow’s strength appeared to be tremendous.

“Pay him off now,” said the vulgar woman. The Flaming Tinman made no reply, but planting his knee on my breast, seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his neck with a grasp nearly as powerful as that with which he pressed my throat.

“Do you call that fair play?” said she.

“Hands off, Belle,” said the other woman; “do you call it fair play to interfere? hands off, or I’ll be down upon you myself.”

But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the handkerchief that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly:—

“Finish t’other business first, and then I’m your woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly—no foul play when I’m by—I’ll be the boy’s second, and Moll can pick you up when he happens to knock you down.”

The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury; but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knockdown blows myself. “I can never stand this,” said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle, “I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard,” and I spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Sure enough you’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the way you fight—it’s of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman with your left hand; why don’t you use your right?”

“Because I’m not handy with it,” said I; and then getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs.

“Now, will you use Long Melford?” said Belle, picking me up.

“I don’t know what you mean by Long Melford,” said I, gasping for breath.

“Why, this long right of yours,” said Belle, feeling my right arm—“if you do, I shouldn’t wonder if you yet stand a chance.”

And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second’s knee as well as my weakness would permit me; on he came, striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted, and it so happened that the blow which I struck the tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow.

“Hurrah for Long Melford!” I heard Belle exclaim; “there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness all the world over.”

At these words I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. “He is dead,” said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to raise him up; “he is dead; the best man in all the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy.” Alarmed at these words, I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation. “He’s not dead,” said I, “only stunned; if he were let blood, he would recover presently.” I produced a penknife which I had in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed: “I’ll tear the eyes out of your head, if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, and murder him outright, now he’s asleep? you have had enough of his blood already.” “You are mad,” said I, “I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won’t let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it in his face, you know where the pit is.”

“A pretty manoeuvre,” said the woman; “leave my husband in the hands of you and that limmer, who has never been true to us; I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came back.” “Do you go,” said I, to the tall girl, “take the can and fetch some water from the pit.” “You had better go yourself,” said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form of the tinker; “you had better go yourself, if you think water will do him good.” I had by this time somewhat recovered my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. “It was all owing to you, you limmer,” said the vulgar woman to the other; “had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy.”

“I’m for fair play and Long Melford,” said the other. “If your old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, he might, for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me; and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul’s destruction.” “Hold your tongue, or I’ll—;” I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs of animation; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl who was walking slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman’s face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating his words, said: “No, it won’t do; you are right there, and now hear what I have to say—let bygones be bygones, and let us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just now.” The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the dingle turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the ascent; she then stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said: “You are not going, are you?” Receiving no answer, she continued: “I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly—however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I bear no malice. I’m sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you, only tell me?” The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone: “Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you—stay with the bit of a mullo whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley you before he comes to be—Have you with us, indeed! after what’s past, no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla go-cart and live here with your chabo.” She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears.

“They were bad people,” said she, “and I did not like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world.”

LXXXVI

In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone.

The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle.

“This tea is very good,” said I, “but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly.”

“How else should you feel,” said the girl, “after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder at is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound.”

“That’s a great deal for a person in your station to pay.”

“In my station! I’d have you to know, young man—however, I haven’t the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum for one to pay who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can’t help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies—what some folks call vapours, making me weep and cry.”

“Dear me,” said I, “I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!”

“My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I shan’t take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn’t taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn’t be now taking tea with me.”

“It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we’ll let that pass. So that man’s name is Bosville; what’s your own?”

“Isopel Berners.”

“How did you get that name?”

“I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions! will you have another cup of tea?”

“I was just going to ask for another.”

“Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother.”

“Your mother’s name, then, was Isopel?”

“Isopel Berners.”

“But had you never a father?”

“Yes, I had a father,” said the girl, sighing, “but I don’t bear his name.”

“Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother’s name?”

“If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and whether my father’s or mother’s, I am not ashamed of it.”

“It is a noble name.”

“There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the county were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun.”

“What do you mean by the great house?”

“The workhouse.”

“Is it possible that you were born there?”

“Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy’s crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river—at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not someone been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents—and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet, pretty creature, I’m told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house.”

“And how did they receive you in the great house?”

“Not very kindly, young man—on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate, the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for—”

“Knocking your mistress down?”

“No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me, so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days, I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me; I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said: ‘Cheer up, my dear, if you like you shall go with me, and wait upon me.’ Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. ‘Let me get down,’ said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried, which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company’s sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one’s own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows, for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maidservant; I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy, don’t you, young man?”

“Yes,” said I, “they are very nice things. I feel very strangely.”

“How do you feel, young man?”

“Very much afraid.”

“Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don’t be afraid of him. He won’t come back, and if he did, he shouldn’t touch you in this state. I’d fight him for you, but he won’t come back, so you needn’t be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of the Flaming Tinman.”

“What, then, are you afraid of?”

“The evil one.”

“The evil one,” said the girl, “where is he?”

“Coming upon me.”

“Never heed,” said the girl, “I’ll stand by you.”

LXXXVII

The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices.

I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried: “Want anything, young fellow?”

“Bring me a jug of ale,” said I, “if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head.”

“Don’t be saucy, young fellow,” said the landlord, for such he was, “don’t be saucy, or—” Whatever he intended to say, he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still.

This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. “What do you mean by staring at my hand so?” said I, withdrawing it from the table.

“No offence, young man, no offence,” said the landlord, in a quite altered tone; “but the sight of your hand—,” then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an undertone: “But mum’s the word for the present, I will go and fetch the ale.”

In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. “Here’s your health,” said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured: “All’s right, I glory in you; but mum’s the word.” Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room.

What can the silly, impertinent fellow mean, thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep, but who cares, anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and bending down I laid my head on the table on my folded hands.

And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me—it revived and strengthened me. I felt a new man.

I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed: “So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King.”

That man must be a Radical, thought I.

LXXXVIII

The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice: he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. “Who would live in such a country as England?” he shouted.

“There is no country like America,” said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance, “there is no country like America,” said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth; “I think I shall”—and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other—“go to America one of these days myself.”

“Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all,” said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. “If there was but a little more work to be got, I should have nothing to say against her. I hope, however—”

“You hope, who cares what you hope?” interrupted the first, in a savage tone; “you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dog’s wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action? a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and ‘their ——— wives and daughters,’ as William Cobbett says, in his Register.”

“Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms,” said another.

The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout.204 I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat, which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon.

“You are quite right,” said the first, alluding to what this last had said, “the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by ——— the King, I’ll toss up my hat again, and ——— the Church of England too.”

“And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?” said I.

These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed.

“What are you laughing at, you fool?” said the radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him, “hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you,” said he, looking at me, “to come here, and speak against the great American nation.”

“I speak against the great American nation?” said I, “I rather paid them a compliment.”

“By supposing they would put me in the stocks. Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing—stocks, indeed!—there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks? why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and the Church.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if you go to America, you will say of the President and country what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back to England.”

The radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. “I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance.”

“Kicking up a disturbance,” said I, “is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing.”

The man in black partially raised his head and gave me another peculiar glance.

“Well, if you ar’n’t sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you shan’t bully me. I say down with the aristocracy, the beggarly aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that?”

“Nothing,” said I.

“Nothing!” repeated the radical.

“No,” said I, “down with them as soon as you can.”

“As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?”

“No,” said I.

“You won’t?”

“No,” said I; “though from what I have seen of them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves.”

“You won’t fight for them,” said the radical, triumphantly; “I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord,” said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, “some more ale—he won’t fight for his friends.”

“A white feather,” said his companion.

“He! he!” tittered the man in black.

“Landlord, landlord,” shouted the radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. “Who called?” said the landlord, coming in at last. “Fill this jug again,” said the other, “and be quick about it.” “Does anyone else want anything?” said the landlord. “Yes,” said the man in black; “you may bring me another glass of gin and water.” “Cold?” said the landlord. “Yes,” said the man in black, “with a lump of sugar in it.”

“Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it,” said I, and struck the table with my fist.

“Take some?” said the landlord, inquiringly.

“No,” said I, “only something came into my head.”

“He’s mad,” said the man in black.

“Not he,” said the radical. “He’s only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won’t do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don’t you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business.”

The landlord looked at the radical and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with the beer before the radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out.

“Here is your health, sir,” said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the man in black, “I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Everyone who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his Register.”

The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. “With respect to the steeples,” said he, “I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad church, a persecuting church.”

“Whom does it persecute?” said I.

The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, “the Catholics.”

“And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?” said I.

“Never,” said the man in black.

“Did you ever read Fox’s Book of Martyrs?” said I.

“He! he!” tittered the man in black, “there is not a word of truth in Fox’s Book of Martyrs.”

“Ten times more than in the Flos Sanctorum,” said I.

The man in black looked at me, but made no answer.

“And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, ‘whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,’ or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?”

The man in black made no answer.

“Go to,” said I, “it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can’t do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome—”

“Hollo!” said the radical, interfering, “What are you saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope! I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish, as it’s called, because I conceives the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won’t hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don’t look fierce. You won’t fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance—I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?”

“Oh dear me, yes,” said I, getting up and stepping forward. “I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope—the enemy of all peace and quiet. To refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope—so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well.”

“An Orangeman,” said the man in black.

“Not a Platitude,” said I.

The man in black gave a slight start.

“Amongst that family,” said I, “no doubt something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great.”

The man in black sat quite still.

“Especially amongst those who have wives,” I added.

The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water.

“However,” said I, “we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution.”

The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, let the spoon fall.

“But what has this to do with the main question?” said I: “I am waiting here to fight against the Pope.”

“Come, Hunter,” said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “get up, and fight for the Pope.”

“I don’t care for the young fellow,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.

“I know you don’t,” said the other, “so get up, and serve him out.”

“I could serve out three like him,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.

“So much the better for you,” said the other, “the present work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at once.”

The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir.

“Who shows the white feather now?” said the simple-looking man.

“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.

“Who told you to interfere?” said the radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; “say another word, and I’ll ———. And you!” said he, addressing himself to the man in black, “a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I’ll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it.”

“Then you won’t fight?” said I.

“Not for the Pope,” said the radical; “I’ll see the Pope ———.”

“Dear me!” said I, “not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I’ll give you another chance—you were abusing the Church of England just now. I’ll fight for it—will you fight against it?”

“Come, Hunter,” said the other, “get up, and fight against the Church of England.”

“I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the church belongs to this fellow in black; so let him carry it on. However,” he continued suddenly, “I won’t slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn’t fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.”

Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. “There shall be no fighting here,” said he, “no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool,” said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, “do you know whom you are going to tackle with? this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers’ Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar’n’t it all true, young man? Ar’n’t you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers’ Dingle?” “I never beat Flaming Bosville,” said I, “he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn’t be here at the present moment.” “Here! here!” said the landlord, “now that’s just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton, in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England; yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I’ll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen—because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”

“I have no wish to fight the young man,” said Hunter; “more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed—but he won’t, I know; for I see he’s a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute; so I have no wish to fight; however, there is one thing I’ll do,” said he, uplifting his fist, “I’ll fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you—”

“Come, doctor,” said the landlord, “or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I’ll second you, only you must back yourself. I’ll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing.”

“Oh! I have no wish to fight,” said the man in black hastily; “fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody’s pardon.”

“Landlord,” said I, “what have I to pay?”

“Nothing at all,” said the landlord; “glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You’ll come again, I dare say; shall always be glad to see you. I won’t take it,” said he, as I put sixpence on the table; “I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you shall,” said I; “but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman,” said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; “he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see—”

“Bravo!” said the landlord, “that’s just the conduct I like.”

“Bravo!” said Hunter. “I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here.”

“If I have given offence to anybody,” said the man in black, “I repeat that I ask pardon—more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I—not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here,” bowing to Hunter; “but I happen to know something of the Catholics—several excellent friends of mine are Catholics—and of a surety the Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely extended religion, though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it—amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians—”

“The Armenians,” said I; “oh dear me, the Armenians—”

“Have you anything to say about those people, sir?” said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth.

“I have nothing further to say,” said I, “than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome.”

“There’s half a crown broke,” said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. “You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”

LXXXIX

The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. “I am glad you are returned,” said she, as soon as she perceived me; “I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?”

“Yes,” said I; “I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind—I am much beholden to you.”

“I knew it would do you good,” said Belle; “I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say: ‘Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.’ ”

“He was no advocate for tea, then?” said I.

“He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, ‘Everything in its season.’ Shall we take ours now—I have waited for you.”

“I have no objection,” said I; “I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale—‘Everything in its season,’ as the surgeon said.”

Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said: “What did you see and hear at the public-house?”

“Really,” said I, “you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?”

“It matters very little to me,” said Belle; “I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation—you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips—at least I think so.”

“One only feels uncomfortable,” said I, “in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house.”

“Really, young man,” said Belle, “you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been—some young—?” and here Belle stopped.

“No,” said I, “there was no young person—if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy savage radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the radical against me, and afterwards with me against the radical. There, you know my company, and what took place.”

“Was there no one else?” said Belle.

“You are mighty curious,” said I. “No, none else, except a poor, simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away.”

Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought—“America?” said she, musingly—“America?”

“What of America?” said I.

“I have heard that it is a mighty country.”

“I dare say it is,” said I; “I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen.”

“I heard nothing about that,” said Belle; “what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither.”

“Well,” said I, “the radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds.”

“I shall go by myself,” said Belle, “unless—unless that should happen which is not likely—I am not fond of radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers.”

“Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?”

“I don’t wish to say you are,” said Belle; “but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly.”

“What should I have to say against America? I never was there.”

“Many people speak against America who never were there.”

“Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America.”

“If you liked America you would speak in its praise.”

“By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it.”

“I can’t speak with you,” said Belle; “but I see you dislike the country.”

“The country!”

“Well, the people—don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Why do you dislike them?”

“Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time.”

“And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?”

“Yes,” said I, “that is my reason for disliking them.”

“Will you take another cup of tea?” said Belle.

I took another cup; we were again silent. “It is rather uncomfortable,” said I, at last, “for people to sit together without having anything to say.”

“Were you thinking of your company?” said Belle.

“What company?” said I.

“The present company.”

“The present company! oh, ah!—I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian.”

“What is Armenian?”

“Did you ever hear of Ararat?”

“Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible.”

“Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you.”

“To prevent—”

“Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish anyone else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian.”

“Would not the language of the roads do as well?” said Belle.

“In some places it would,” said I, “but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves’ slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth.”

“I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it,” said Belle; “in the meantime, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?”

“If no roadster is nigh, you may,” said I, “and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian.”

“I suppose you mean no harm,” said Belle.

“Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin.”

“Stop till I have removed the tea-things,” said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment.

“I am ready,” said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, “to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it.”

“Belle,” said I, “I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language205 is called Haik.”

“I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,” said Belle.

“Why hang upon it?”

“Because the old woman in the great house used to call so the chimney-hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake.”

“Good!” said I, “you will make an apt scholar; but, mind, that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals.”

“What are numerals?” said Belle.

“Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There, have you heard them?”—“Yes.” “Well, try and repeat them.”

“I only remember number one,” said Belle, “and that because it is me.”

“I will repeat them again,” said I, “and pay greater attention. Now, try again.”

“Me, jergo, earache.”

“I neither said jergo nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar.”

Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path, which led from the bottom of the hollow where we were seated, to the plain above. “Gorgio shunella,” she said, at length, in a low voice.

“Pure Rommany,” said I; “where?” I added in a whisper.

“Dovey odoi,” said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path.

“I will soon see who it is,” said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on anyone I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house.

XC

The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed: “Buona Sera,206 I hope I don’t intrude.”

“You have as much right here,” said I, “as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation.”

“I was not listening,” said the man, “I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine.”

“I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good,” said I.

“I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation,” said the man in black, looking around; “moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable.”

“And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?” said I.

“Per far visita à sua signoria, ecco il motivo.207”

“Why do you speak to me in that gibberish?” said I; “do you think I understand it?”

“It is not Armenian,” said the man in black; “but it might serve in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court—when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor.”

And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner.

“I see,” said I, “that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening.”

“Not at all,” said the man in black; “I heard from the steep bank above that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it.”

“And how did you know that I was here?” I demanded.

“The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you.”

“Well,” said I, “since you are come, you are welcome, please to step this way.”

Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, “Lovely virgin,” said he, stretching out his hand, “allow me to salute your fingers.”

“I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,” said Belle.

“I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,” said the man in black, “I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers.”

“I never permit anything of the kind,” said Belle; “I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private.”

“Do you take me for a listener, then?” said the man in black.

“Ay, indeed I do,” said Belle; “the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neither admit them, nor believe them;” and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool.

“Come, Belle,” said I, “I have bidden the gentleman welcome; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly.”

“That’s not English doctrine,” said the man in black.

“I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality,” said I.

“They do so,” said the man in black; “they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does, he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to anyone who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman’s house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master’s feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage.”

“You are too general,” said I, “in your strictures; Lord ———,208 the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linen-draper’s feelings of hospitality; whereupon, the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship’s head; what do you think of that?”

“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.

“Well,” said I, “I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him, when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?”

“Oh! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England, I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake.”

“Well,” said I, “we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.”

The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: “Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me.”

“Will you permit me to ask,” said the man in black—“the weather is very warm,” said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat.

I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown; his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large—a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund.

“A bad countenance,” said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face.

“Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?” said the man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice. “How,” said I, “do you understand the language of the roads?”

“As little as I do Armenian,” said the man in black; “but I understand look and tone.”

“So do I, perhaps,” retorted Belle; “and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.”

“For shame,” said I; “have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question,” said I, addressing myself to the man, “with respect to your visit.”

“Will you permit me to ask who you are?”

“Do you see the place where I live?” said I.

“I do,” said the man in black, looking around.

“Do you know the name of this place?”

“I was told it was Mumpers,’ or Gypsies’ Dingle,” said the man in black.

“Good,” said I; “and this forge and tent, what do they look like?”

“Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.”

“Good,” said I; “they belong to me.”

“Are you, then, a Gypsy?” said the man in black.

“What else should I be?”

“But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.”

“Do you know how Gypsies live?” said I.

“By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.”

“Well,” said I, “there’s my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.”

“But how did you come by your knowledge?”

“Oh,” said I, “if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.”

“Why scarlet?” said the man in black. “Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet.”

“Gypsies never blush,” said I; “but Gypsies’ cloaks are scarlet.”

“I should almost take you for a Gypsy,” said the man in black, “but for—”

“For what?” said I.

“But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,” said the man in black, with a titter.

“And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?” said I.

“Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,” said the man in black; “they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness; and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers—and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.”209

“What do you take me for?” said I.

“Why,” said the man in black, “I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist.”

“And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?” said I.

“Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven,” said the man in black; “they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject—even though the subject were philology—is a thing of which I have no idea.”

“But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?”

“I believe I did,” said the man in black.

“And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?”

“I believe I did,” said the man in black.

“And would anyone but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?”

“I should think not,” said the man in black.

“Well, then, don’t you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?”

“I really don’t know,” said the man in black.

“What’s the matter with you?” said I.

“Merely puzzled,” said the man in black.

“Puzzled?”

“Yes.”

“Really puzzled?”

“Yes.”

“Remain so.”

“Well,” said the man in black, rising, “puzzled or not, I will no longer tresspass upon your and this young lady’s retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.”

“No apology is necessary,” said I; “will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea.”

“Tea!” said the man in black—“he! he! I don’t drink tea; I don’t like it—if, indeed, you had,” and here he stopped.

“There’s nothing like gin and water, is there?” said I, “but I am sorry to say I have none.”

“Gin and water,” said the man in black, “how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?”

“Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?”

“You did,” said the man in black, “and I remember, that when I called for some, you repeated my words—permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?”

“It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar,” said I.

“And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?”

“Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,” said I.

“With all your knowledge,” said the man in black, “you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you.”

“Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves,” said I; “but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly.”

“Have I your permission to come again?” said the man in black.

“Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me.”

“I will visit you again,” said the man in black—“till then, addio.”210

“Belle,” said I, after the man in black had departed, “we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense.”

“You offered him some tea,” said Belle, “which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.”

“Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?”

“I think I do,” said Belle, “but—”

“I will have no ‘buts.’ Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible, you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find.”

XCI

Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up 100 Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads, at least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing, and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God’s favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart that same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle’s conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine—how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle.

XCII

Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house, to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger, and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning “the ring,” indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. “I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring,” said he once, “which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally—one more rally, and then—but there’s a time for all things—youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one—let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I’m content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome—comes off next Wednesday at ———, have ventured ten five-pound notes—shouldn’t say ventured either—run no risk at all, because why? I know my birds.” About ten days after this harangue, I called again at about three o’clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up; “Ah,” said he, “I am glad you are come, I was just thinking about you.” “Thank you,” said I; “it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at—I hope you brought it all safe home.” “Safe home,” said the landlord; “I brought myself safe home, and that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out.” “I am sorry for that,” said I; “but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again—how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble.” “Pea and thimble,” said the landlord, “not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble.” “Dear me,” said I; “I thought that you knew your birds.” “Well, so I did,” said the landlord; “I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done.” “Well,” said I, “don’t be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you—your reputation; make the most of that, give up cockfighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood.”

The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. “Confound my reputation!” said he. “No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won’t pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it a’n’t backed by some of it, it a’n’t a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come and look at me, and worship me, but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn’t have called me a fool a fortnight ago; ’twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that? the man that beat Tom of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn’t heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man’s pocket is low, do you see, his heart a’n’t much higher; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me.”

“If you mean,” said I, “to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say—” “You are right there,” said the landlord; “much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf—your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a ’cessor as you, and as for your lending me money, don’t think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, and knows what fighting a cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place, and as people can’t come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn’t drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you.” “You really must excuse me,” said I, “I have no wish to figure as a pugilist, besides there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, ‘Youth will be served.’ ” “Oh, I didn’t mean to fight,” said the landlord; “I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see, the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with.”

“The young woman I keep company with,” said I; “pray what do you mean?”

“We will go into the bar, and have something,” said the landlord, getting up. “My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly.” Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself farther. “What I wants is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out—for the thing should be close to my house—all the brewer’s stock of liquids, both good and bad.” “But,” said I, “you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?” “Confound the respectability of my house,” said the landlord, “will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won’t keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting—what a deal we may make by the betting—and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about, I don’t manage to make a hundred, call me horse.” “But, suppose,” said I, “the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?” “We must first make all right,” said the landlord, “as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn’t come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend you and the young woman should fight cross.” “What do you mean by cross?” said I. “Come, come,” said the landlord, “don’t attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is. That won’t do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing.” “Then,” said I, “you would not have us fight fair.” “By no means,” said the landlord, “because why? I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has.” “But,” said I, “you said the other day, that you liked the fair thing.” “That was by way of gammon,” said the landlord; “just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?”

“It is a very ingenious one,” said I.

“A’n’t it,” said the landlord. “The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool, but if they don’t call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman.”

“I am going,” said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale.

“Do you think she’ll have any objection?” said the landlord.

“To do what?” said I.

“Why, to fight cross.”

“Yes, I do,” said I.

“But you will do your best to persuade her?”

“No, I will not,” said I.

“Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?”

“No,” said I, “I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all.”

“And how’s my brewer to be paid?” said the landlord.

“I really don’t know,” said I.

“I’ll change my religion,” said the landlord.

XCIII

One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a teacup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good.

“This is one of the good things of life,” he added, after a short pause.

“What are the others?” I demanded.

“There is Malvoisia sack,” said the man in black, “and partridge, and beccafico.”

“And what do you say to high mass?” said I.

“High mass!” said the man in black; “however,” he continued, after a pause, “I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too, but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon.”

“You speak à la Margutte?” said I.

“Margutte!” said the man in black, musingly, “Margutte?”

“You have read Pulci,211 I suppose?” said I.

“Yes, yes,” said the man in black, laughing; “I remember.”

“He might be rendered into English,” said I, “something in this style:—

“To which Margutte answered with a sneer,
I like the blue no better than the black,
My faith consists alone in savoury cheer,
In roasted capons, and in potent sack;
But above all, in famous gin and clear,
Which often lays the Briton on his back,
With lump of sugar, and with lympth from well,
I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.”

“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron.”

“A clever man,” said I.

“Who?” said the man in black.

“Mezzofante di Bologna.”

“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “now I know that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that—”

“Why,” said I, “does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?”

“Oh, yes,” said the man in black; “and five-and-twenty added to them; but—he! he! he! it was principally from him who is certainly the greatest of philologists that I formed my opinion of the sect.”

“You ought to speak of him with more respect,” said I; “I have heard say that he has done good service to your see.”

“Oh, yes,” said the man in black; “he has done good service to our see, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he! Of course you know Napoleon’s estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals, he observed: ‘Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu’un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu d’esprit.’ ”

“You are ungrateful to him,” said I; “well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice.”

“True,” said the man in black; “when he is dead and gone we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library.”

“Of wood?” said I.

“He was the son of a carpenter, you know,” said the man in black; “the figure will be of wood, for no other reason, I assure you; he! he!”

“You should place another statue on the right.”

“Perhaps we shall,” said the man in black; “but we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the other countries, inhabited by the faithful, worthy to sit parallel in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered these regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy to bear him company, one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you know, ‘There is more joy,’ etc.”

“Wood?” said I.

“I hope not,” said the man in black; “no, if I be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend bronze.”

And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another.

XCIV

“So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman See?” said I, after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it.

“Hope,” said the man in black; “how can we fail? Is not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?”

“Its prerogative?”

“Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of England are about to grant Papists emancipation and to remove the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game in England.”

On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled.

On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary’s bosom—conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more.

On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short, by saying, that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly.

After musing a little while I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would, reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land; a cry of “tolerance,” which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to “Hold their nonsense,” and cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer.

I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain in statu quo; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those in place; “and so,” he added, “by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for.”

On my telling the man in black that I believed that even among the high dignitaries of the English Church there were many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said: “He was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas by their present conduct, they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who would never continue long attached to a church, the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. I speak advisedly,” said he, in continuation, “there is one Platitude.”

“And I hope there is only one,” said I; “you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?”

“You know him?” said the man in black; “nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know that unless a church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude—”

“Stop,” said I; “you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life.”

“Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing from saying it in the dingle,” said the man in black; “had the Church of England been a persecuting church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe, that instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.”

“He tried that game,” said I, “and the parish said, ‘Pooh, pooh,’ and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters.”

“Very true,” said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, “but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged tooth or two? Why, but because the authority of the Church of England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly ashamed of his church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority.”

“It may have vigour and authority,” said I, “in foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged to sue for grace in formâ pauperis.”

“Very true,” said the man in black, “but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. ‘What a fine church,’ they’ll say; ‘with what authority it speaks—no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles.’ What a contrast to the sleepy English Church! they’ll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then—and then—” and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water.

“What then?” said I.

“What then?” said the man in black, “why, she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses—he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork’s tragedy is drawing nigh;” and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner.

“And this is the church which, according to your assertion in the public-house, never persecutes?”

“I have already given you an answer,” said the man in black, “with respect to the matter of the public-house; it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation stone of our church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-house what he had previously professed in the valley?”

“And do you think,” said I, “that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?”

“Let them become Papists,” said the man in black; “only let the majority become Papists, and you will see.”

“They will never become so,” said I; “the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity.”

“The good sense of the people of England?” said the man in black, filling himself another glass.

“Yes,” said I; “the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes.”

“And of what description of people are the upper class?” said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water.

“Very fine people,” said I, “monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be.”

“He! he!” said the man in black; “only those think them so who don’t know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches, unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors, do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?”

“I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?”

“Their chief characteristic,” said the man in black, “is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long run. Everything that’s lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, ‘low,’ is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake.”

“Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?”

“Most certainly I do,” said the man in black. “The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed—all of whom were Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake’s hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. O Cavaliere Gualtiero, avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede!”212

“If he has,” said I, “he has done it unwittingly; I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion.”

“Only in theory,” said the man in black. “Trust any of the clan MacSycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions in formâ pauperis; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, if the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium he did not say: ‘By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill-scrapit tongues ca’ it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty’s example in adopting it.’ ”

“I doubt not,” said I, “that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before royalty in England thinks about adopting popery.”

“We can wait,” said the man in black; “in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them.”

“But not Walters,” said I.

“Our work has been already tolerably well done by one,” said the man in black; “but if we wanted literature we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles chose, and they always do our bidding, to admit the canaille to their tables, their kitchen tables. As for literature in general,” said he, “the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lick-spittles.”

“For example, Dante,” said I.

“Yes,” said the man in black. “A dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the poveri frati;213 all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick-spittles. And then in Spain, ’tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lick-spittles; the Principe Constante of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the Mary Stuart of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger’s daughter; she has been lately thinking of adding ‘a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula’ to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! but then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote; then there was some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No; all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all—”

“Come,” said I, “mind what you are about to say of English literary men.”

“Why should I mind?” said the man in black, “there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lick-spittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he! he! and above all at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!”

“You will, of course, except the editors of the ——— from your censure of the last class?” said I.

“Them!” said the man in black; “why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, by raising the cry of liberalism, and by putting themselves at the head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don’t wish to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs,” he continued, “for they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the ——— will stand by them; they will prove themselves as expert lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don’t think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria.”

“Well,” said I, “I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping—they are not altogether the foolish people which you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne.”

“There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny,” said the man in black, “especially amongst the preachers, clever withal—two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous, than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels, no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic-looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found; and look at the manner in which they educate their children, I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters, ‘the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred.’ So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they read Rokeby, and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty the ‘Cavalier’—

‘Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?’

he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those hotbeds of pride and folly—colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything ‘low,’ and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the church, as you call it, and the church is going over to Rome.”

“I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all,” said I; “some of the Dissenters’ children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome.”

“In the high road for it, I assure you,” said the man in black, “part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose, their prerogative, and when a church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others.”

“Well,” said I, “if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes; I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character, but pray let me hear your opinion of them.”

“As for the lower classes,” said the man in black, “I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion? why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Muhammad, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests.”

“Has your church any followers amongst them?” said I.

“Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions,” said the man in black, “our church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are—for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cockfight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world.”

“And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow’s head?” said I.

“Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs,” said the man in black; “I think he might make a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one’s religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob, who sacked and burnt Priestley’s house at Birmingham towards the end of the last century.”

“A disgraceful affair,” said I.

“What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?” said the man in black. “I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that; we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing.”

“I suppose,” said I, “that your church would have acted very differently in its place.”

“It has always done so,” said the man in black, coolly sipping. “Our church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us.”

“Horseflesh and bitter ale!” I replied.

“Yes,” said the man in black; “horseflesh and bitter ale, the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!” continued the man in black, “what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend, the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley!”

“Then you don’t deny that we have had a Priestley,” said I, “and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?”

“Lick-spittles,” said the man in black; “yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old sort; you have had him, and perhaps may have another.”

“Perhaps we may,” said I. “But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?”

“I have mixed with all classes,” said the man in black, “and with the lower not less than the upper and middle, they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle, no, not ———. It is true, there was one fellow whom I once met,214 who ———, but it is a long story, and the affair happened abroad.”

“I ought to know something of the English people,” he continued, after a moment’s pause; “I have been many years amongst them labouring in the cause of the church.”

“Your see must have had great confidence in your powers, when it selected you to labour for it in these parts?” said I.

“They chose me,” said the man in black, “principally because being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my see, that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English; a country where they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person, where as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled, in other words, of tippling.”

“Your see appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English,” said I.

“Not altogether an unjust one,” said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth.

“Well,” said I, “it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing.”

“Why, as to the kindness of my see,” said the man in black, “I have not much to say; my see has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my see has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account—money!”

“The founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money,” said I.

“What have we to do with what the founder of the Christian religion cared for?” said the man in black; “how could our temples be built, and our priests supported without money? but you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own church, if the Church of England be your own church, as I suppose it is, from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy Bishops, and your corpulent Rectors; do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money? Go to! you might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility.”

“Well,” said I, “whatever their faults may be, you can’t say that they go to Rome for money.”

The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself.

“I see your glass is again empty,” said I; “perhaps you will replenish it.”

The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments, which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he had laid aside, then, looking at me, who was still lying on the ground, he said: “I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening after that last observation of yours—it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow this night after having said an ave and a pater—go to Rome for money!” He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand as if bidding farewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps.

“Go to Rome for money,” I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, “he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!”

XCV

Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather lazily. On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes, which I had produced, and catching them as they fell, some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain.

“Why have you been absent so long?” said I to Belle, “it must be long past four by the day.”

“I have been almost killed by the heat,” said Belle; “I was never out in a more sultry day—the poor donkey, too, could scarcely move along.”

“He shall have fresh shoes,” said I, continuing my exercise; “here they are, quite ready; tomorrow I will tack them on.”

“And why are you playing with them in that manner?” said Belle.

“Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show that I can do something besides making them; it is not everyone who, after having made a set of horseshoes, can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall.”

“One has now fallen on your chin,” said Belle.

“And another on my cheek,” said I, getting up; “it is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood.”

Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after having flung the donkey’s shoes into my tent, I put some fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress—no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; she had just added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle.

“I am fond of sitting by a wood fire,” said Belle, “when abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?”

“It is ash,” said I, “green ash. Somewhat less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a mighty-aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it—ash, green ash.”

“That makes good the old rhyme,” said Belle, “which I have heard sung by the old woman in the great house:—

‘Ash, when green,
Is fire for a queen.’ ”

“And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone,” said I, “than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle.”

“I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man,” said Belle.

“And why not entirely?” said I.

Belle made no reply.

“Shall I tell you?” I demanded. “You had no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you queen of something better than the dingle—Queen of China. Come, let us have tea.”

“Something less would content me,” said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal.

So we took tea together, Belle and I. “How delicious tea is after a hot summer’s day, and a long walk,” said she.

“I dare say it is most refreshing then,” said I; “but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter’s night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth.”

Belle sighed. “Where does tea come from?” she presently demanded.

“From China,” said I; “I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it put me in mind of tea.”

“What kind of country is China?”

“I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover one-ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of the population of the world.”

“And do they talk as we do?”

“Oh no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it.”

“Are the French so very clever, then?” said Belle.

“They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is—by the by, what is the Armenian word for tea?”

“That’s your affair, not mine,” said Belle; “it seems hard that the master should ask the scholar.”

“Well,” said I, “whatever the word may be in Armenian, it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian!”

“What’s a declension?”

“The way of declining a noun.”

“Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. Is that a declension?”

“You should never play on words; to do so is low vulgar, smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining an Armenian noun.”

“I have done so already,” said Belle.

“If you go on in this way,” said I, “I shall decline taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?”

“I don’t like the language,” said Belle. “If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?”

“I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman is clever enough to speak it—to say nothing of teaching; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!”

“Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar,” said Belle; “so, if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard of till you mentioned it to me; though of the two, I really think Welsh sounds best.”

“The Armenian noun,” said I, “which I propose for your declension this night, is ——— which signifieth Master.”215

“I neither like the word nor the sound,” said Belle.

“I can’t help that,” said I; “it is the word I choose; Master, with all its variations, being the first noun, the sound of which I would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin—

“A master … Of a master, etc. Repeat—”

“I am not much used to say the word,” said Belle. “But, to oblige you, I will decline it as you wish;” and thereupon Belle declined master in Armenian.

“You have declined the noun very well,” said I; “that is in the singular number; we will now go to the plural.”

“What is the plural?” said Belle.

“That which implies more than one, for example, masters; you shall now go through masters in Armenian.”

“Never,” said Belle, “never; it is bad to have one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English.”

“You do not understand,” said I; “I merely want you to decline masters in Armenian.”

“I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor with master either; I was wrong to—What sound is that?”

“I did not hear it, but I daresay it is thunder; in Armenian—”

“Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it is thunder?”

“Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand.”

“And why did you not tell me so?”

“You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter.”

“My dislike is not pretended,” said Belle; “I hate the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time enough to interrupt it without being anticipated—there is another peal—I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to resist the storm, and I think you had better bestir yourself.”

Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention; in about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool.

“How dark the place is become since I left you,” said she; “just as if night were just at hand.”

“Look up at the sky,” said I, “and you will not wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the branches; and see how their tops are bending—it brings dust on its wings—I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?”

“We shall have plenty anon,” said Belle; “do you hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished.”

“It is not probable that we shall want it,” said I, “but we had better seek shelter; let us go into my tent.”

“Go in,” said Belle, “but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my own.”

“You are right,” said I, “to be afraid of me; I have taught you to decline master in Armenian.”

“You almost tempt me,” said Belle, “to make you decline mistress in English.”

“To make matters short,” said I, “I decline a mistress.”

“What do you mean?” said Belle angrily.

“I have merely done what you wished me,” said I, “and in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English there are no declensions.”

“The rain is increasing,” said Belle.

“It is so,” said I; “I shall go to my tent; you may come, if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you.”

“Nor I of you,” said Belle; “so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is—”

We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with vehemence. “I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow,” said I to Belle. “There is no fear of that,” said Belle: “the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!”

“And what a peal,” said I; “that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai216—the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?”

“No,” said Belle, “I rather like to hear it.”

“You are right,” said I; “I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There is nothing like it; Koul Adonai behadar; the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayerbook version hath it.”

“There is something awful in it,” said Belle; “and then the lightning, the whole dingle is now in a blaze.”

“ ‘The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes.’ As you say, there is something awful in thunder.”

“There are all kinds of noises above us,” said Belle; “surely I heard the crashing of a tree?”

“ ‘The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,’ ” said I, “but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner:—

‘Astonied now I stand at strains,
As of ten thousand clanking chains;
And once, methought, that overthrown,
The welkin’s oaks came whelming down;
Upon my head up starts my hair:
Why hunt abroad the hounds of air?
What cursed hag is screeching high,
Whilst crash goes all her crockery?’

You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” said Belle, “especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; surely that was the crash of a tree?”

“Ah!” said I, “there falls the cedar tree—I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short.”

“What a pity,” said Belle, “that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember.”

“I don’t think so,” said I; “after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym’s poetry, he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode:—

‘My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,
For parting my dear pearl and me.’ ”

“You and I shall part; that is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead.”

“Yes,” said I, “there he lies just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Goethe:—

‘Mist shrouds the night, and rack;
Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack!
Wildly the owls are flitting,
Hark to the pillars splitting
Of palaces verdant ever,
The branches quiver and sever,
The mighty stems are creaking,
The poor roots breaking and shrieking,
In wild mixt ruin down dashing,
O’er one another they’re crashing;
Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary,
Whirlwinds hurry and worry.
Hear’st not, sister—’ ”

“Hark!” said Belle, “hark!”

“ ‘Hear’st not, sister, a chorus
Of voices—?’ ”

“No,” said Belle, “but I hear a voice.”

XCVI

I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a shout, indistinct it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid, from some part of the field above the dingle. “I will soon see what’s the matter,” said I to Belle, starting up. “I will go, too,” said the girl. “Stay where you are,” said I; “if I need you, I will call;” and, without waiting for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. “Lord have mercy upon us,” I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fireballs, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards from the fireball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. “Help me,” said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh; but, before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axletree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion, or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming: “See to the horses, I will look after the man.” She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall; but presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came limping to me, holding his hand to his right thigh. “The first thing that must now be done,” said I, “is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake to do so?” “I think I can,” said the man, looking at me somewhat stupidly. “I will help,” said Belle, and without loss of time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. “Now,” said I to the man, “what is next to be done?” “I don’t know,” said he; “indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall.” “I think,” said I, “that the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below.” “And what’s to become of my chaise?” said the postillion, looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. “Let us leave the chaise for the present,” said I; “we can be of no use to it.” “I don’t like to leave my chaise lying on the ground in this weather,” said the man; “I love my chaise, and him whom it belongs to.” “You are quite right to be fond of yourself,” said I, “on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible.” “I was not talking of myself,” said the man, “but my master, to whom the chaise belongs.” “I thought you called the chaise yours,” said I. “That’s my way of speaking,” said the man; “but the chaise is my master’s, and a better master does not live. Don’t you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?” “And what is to become of the horses?” said I. “I love my horses well enough,” said the man; “but they will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise.” “But we three can,” said Belle; “at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles which will assist us.” “You had better go to the tent,” said I, “you will be wet through.” “I care not for a little wetting,” said Belle; “moreover, I have more gowns than one—see you after the horses.” Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the copse or plantation, on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground.

We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with success—the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels.

“We may leave it here in safety,” said I, “for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise.” “I don’t think either the wheel or the axle is hurt,” said the postillion, who had been handling both; “it is only the linchpin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linchpin! though, perhaps, it fell out a mile away.” “Very likely,” said I; “but never mind the linchpin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can’t stay here any longer, I am going to my place below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us.” “I am ready,” said the man; and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh.

As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. “Why do you stop?” said I. “I don’t wish to offend you,” said the man; “but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don’t mean me any harm—you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here.” “We wished to get you out of the rain,” said I, “and ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?” “You may think I have money,” said the man, “and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to—” “Would it not?” said I; “thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are the horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing.” “Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands,” said the man, putting himself in a posture of defence; “but I’ll show no craven heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I’ll try to pay you in your own coin. I’m rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on both of you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier.”

“Let me hear no more of this nonsense,” said Belle; “if you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise—we only seek to do you a kindness.”

“Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats,” said the man. “You brought it on yourself,” said Belle; “you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would I.” “Well,” said the man, “I was wrong—here’s my hand to both of you,” shaking us by the hands; “I’ll go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange, lonesome place, though I ought not much to mind strange, lonesome places, having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any harm—come, let us move on, for ’tis a shame to keep you two in the rain.”

So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, while I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated: “What do you now propose to do?” said I. “I scarcely know,” said the man; “I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help.” “How far are you from your home?” I demanded. “Upwards of thirty miles,” said the man; “my master keeps an inn on the great north road, and from thence I started early this morning with a family which I conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road to the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how I am to get there tonight I scarcely know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fireball have rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way.”

“The best thing you can do,” said I, “is to pass the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable—in the morning we will see to your wheel.” “Well,” said the man, “I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to the horses.” Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. “The trees drip very much upon them,” said the man, “and it will not do for them to remain here all night; they will be better out on the field picking the grass, but first of all they must have a good feed of corn;” thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn; into them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. “Here we will leave them for a time,” said the man; “when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their forelegs, and let them pick about.”

XCVII

It might be about ten o’clock at night. Belle, the postillion, and myself, sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for the night in the field above, to regale themselves on what grass they could find. The rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright in the firmament, up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasionally looked from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated; yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postillion smoking his pipe, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside his greatcoat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my wagoner’s slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also divested myself.

The newcomer was a well-made fellow of about thirty, with an open and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. After we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the postillion, who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed: “I little thought, when I got up in the morning, that I should spend the night in such agreeable company, and after such a fright.”

“Well,” said I, “I am glad that your opinion of us has improved; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather a suspicious light.”

“And no wonder,” said the man, “seeing the place you were taking me to. I was not a little, but very much afraid of ye both; and so I continued for some time, though, not to show a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied; but I see I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers; but now—”

“Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers,” said I; “and what are we but people of that stamp?”

“Oh,” said the postillion, “if you wish to be thought such, I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after your kindness to me, but—”

“But!” said I; “what do you mean by but? I would have you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith: look at these donkey-shoes, I finished them this day.”

The postillion took the shoes and examined them. “So you made these shoes?” he cried at last.

“To be sure I did; do you doubt it?”

“Not in the least,” said the man.

“Ah! ah!” said I, “I thought I should bring you back to your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, a tramper, a wandering blacksmith.”

“Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be,” said the postillion laughing.

“Then how do you account for my making those shoes?”

“By your not being a blacksmith,” said the postillion; “no blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes today? a real blacksmith would have flung off three or four sets of donkey shoes in one morning, but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and they do you credit, but why? because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your shoes may do for this young gentlewoman’s animal, but I shouldn’t like to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed.”

“Then,” said I, “for what do you take me?”

“Why, for some runaway young gentleman,” said the postillion. “No offence, I hope?”

“None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you suppose I have run away?”

“Why, from college,” said the man: “no offence?”

“None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?”

“A love affair, I’ll be sworn,” said the postillion. “You had become acquainted with this young gentlewoman, so she and you—”

“Mind how you get on, friend,” said Belle, in a deep serious tone.

“Pray proceed,” said I; “I dare say you mean no offence.”

“None in the world,” said the postillion; “all I was going to say was that you agreed to run away together, you from college, and she from boarding-school. Well, there’s nothing to be ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day by young folks in high life.”

“Are you offended?” said I to Belle.

Belle made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees buried her face in her hands.

“So we ran away together?” said I.

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “to Gretna Green, though I can’t say that I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair.”

“And from Gretna Green we came here?”

“I’ll be bound you did,” said the man, “till you could arrange matters at home.”

“And the horseshoes?” said I.

“The donkey-shoes, you mean,” answered the postillion; “why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade.”

“And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?”

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “till the old people are pacified and they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till called for, beginning with, ‘Dear children,’ and enclosing you each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won’t get much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their power; but the second, if you don’t get a cool thousand, may I catch cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two illustrious houses, and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, who have, bless their prudent hearts! kept rather aloof from you till then, for fear you should want anything from them—I say, all the carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you.”

“Really,” said I, “you are getting on swimmingly.”

“Oh,” said the postillion, “I was not a gentleman’s servant nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I see them.”

“And what do you say to all this?” I demanded of Belle.

“Stop a moment,” interposed the postillion, “I have one more word to say: and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood—to say nothing of the time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old people—I shouldn’t wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to the days when you lived in the damp, dripping dingle, had no better equipage than a pony or donkey cart, and saw no better company than a tramper or Gypsy, except once, when a poor postillion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal fire.”

“Pray,” said I, “did you ever take lessons in elocution?”

“Not directly,” said the postillion; “but my old master who was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended to be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked up a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently endeavouring to teach my governors as a thing indispensably necessary in all oratory, a graceful pere—pere—peregrination.”

“Peroration, perhaps?”

“Just so,” said the postillion; “and now I am sure I am not mistaken about you; you have taken lessons yourself, at first hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, I make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to get you back. Has your governor much borough interest?”

“I ask you once more,” said I, addressing myself to Belle, “what do you think of the history which this good man has made for us?”

“What should I think of it,” said Belle, still keeping her face buried in her hands, “but that it is mere nonsense?”

“Nonsense!” said the postillion.

“Yes,” said the girl, “and you know it.”

“May my leg always ache, if I do,” said the postillion, patting his leg with his hand; “will you persuade me that this young man has never been at college?”

“I have never been at college, but—”

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion; “but—”

“I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of a celebrated one in Ireland.”

“Well, then, it comes to the same thing,” said the postillion; “or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college—and your governor?”

“My governor, as you call him,” said I, “is dead.”

“And his borough interest?”

“My father had no borough interest,” said I; “had he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died as he did, honourably poor.”

“No, no,” said the postillion; “if he had had borough interest, he wouldn’t have been poor, nor honourable, though perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with you.”

“I was never at boarding-school,” said Belle, “unless you call—”

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “boarding-school is vulgar, I know: I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, or by some other much finer name—you were in something much greater than a boarding-school.”

“There you are right,” said Belle, lifting up her head and looking the postillion full in the face by the light of the charcoal fire; “for I was bred in the workhouse.”

“Wooh!” said the postillion.

“It is true that I am of good—”

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “let us hear—”

“Of good blood,” continued Belle; “my name is Berners, Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, with respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the young man.”

“There you are mistaken,” said I; “by my father’s side I am of Cornish blood, and by my mother’s of brave French Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my father—and to be descended well on the father’s side is the principal thing—it is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish blood, as the proverb says—”

“I don’t care what the proverb says,” said Belle; “I say my blood is the best—my name is Berners, Isopel Berners—it was my mother’s name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, whatever that may be; and though you say that the descent on the father’s side is the principal thing—and I know why you say so,” she added with some excitement—“I say that descent on the mother’s side is of most account, because the mother—”

“Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling,” said the postillion.

“We do not come from Gretna Green,” said Belle.

“Ah, I had forgot,” said the postillion, “none but great people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from church, and already quarrelling about family, just like two great people.”

“We have never been to church,” said Belle, “and, to prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, of course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a workhouse: journeying on my occasions with certain companions, I came to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the young man, who had settled down here, as he had a right to do, if he pleased; and not being able to drive him out, they went away after quarrelling with me, too, for not choosing to side with them; so I stayed here along with the young man, there being room for us both, and the place being as free to me as to him.”

“And, in order that you may be no longer puzzled with respect to myself,” said I, “I will give you a brief outline of my history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to advance myself to wealth and reputation in the big city; but failing in the attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, and determined to retire from it. After wandering about for some time, and meeting with various adventures, in one of which I contrived to obtain a pony, cart and certain tools, used by smiths and tinkers, I came to this place, where I amused myself with making horseshoes, or rather pony-shoes, having acquired the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of smith—not him of Gretna Green—whom I knew in my childhood. And here I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and solitary, till one fine morning the premises were visited by this young gentlewoman and her companions. She did herself anything but justice when she said that her companions quarrelled with her because she would not side with them against me; they quarrelled with her, because she came most heroically to my assistance as I was on the point of being murdered; and she forgot to tell you, that after they had abandoned her she stood by me in the dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when unspeakable dread, to which I am occasionally subject, took possession of my mind. She says she is nothing to me, even as I am nothing to her. I am of course nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. I entertain the highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced that I might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic and devoted.”

“And for my part,” said Belle, with a sob, “a more quiet, agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have; it is true he has strange ways, and frequently puts words into my mouth very difficult to utter; but—but—” and here she buried her face once more in her hands.

“Well,” said the postillion, “I have been mistaken about you; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich folks, it seems, but you are not common people, and that I could have sworn. What I call a shame is, that some people I have known are not in your place and you in theirs—you with their estates and borough interest, they in this dingle with these carts and animals; but there is no help for these things. Were I the great Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters better; but being a simple postillion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I can’t be expected to do much.”

“Who is Mumbo Jumbo?” said I.

“Ah!” said the postillion, “I see there may be a thing or two I know better than yourself. Mumbo Jumbo is a god of the black coast, to which people go for ivory and gold.”

“Were you ever there?” I demanded.

“No,” said the postillion, “but I heard plenty of Mumbo Jumbo when I was a boy.”

“I wish you would tell us something about yourself. I believe that your own real history would prove quite as entertaining, if not more, than that which you imagined about us.”

“I am rather tired,” said the postillion, “and my leg is rather troublesome. I should be glad to try to sleep upon one of your blankets. However, as you wish to hear something about me, I shall be happy to oblige you; but your fire is rather low, and this place is chilly.”

Thereupon I arose, and put fresh charcoal on the pan; then taking it outside the tent, with a kind of fan which I had fashioned, I fanned the coals into a red glow, and continued doing so until the greater part of the noxious gas, which the coals are in the habit of exhaling, was exhausted. I then brought it into the tent and reseated myself, scattering over the coals a small portion of sugar. “No bad smell,” said the postillion; “but upon the whole I think I like the smell of tobacco better; and with your permission I will once more light my pipe.”

Thereupon he relighted his pipe; and after taking two or three whiffs, began in the following manner.

XCVIII

“I am a poor postillion, as you see; yet, as I have seen a thing or two, and heard a thing or two of what is going on in the world, perhaps what I have to tell you connected with myself may not prove altogether uninteresting. Now, my friends, this manner of opening a story is what the man who taught rhetoric would call a hex—hex—”

“Exordium,” said I.

“Just so,” said the postillion; “I treated you to a per—per—peroration some time ago, so that I have contrived to put the cart before the horse, as the Irish orators frequently do in the honourable House, in whose speeches, especially those who have taken lessons in rhetoric, the per—per—what’s the word?—frequently goes before the exordium.

“I was born in the neighbouring county; my father was land-steward to a squire of about a thousand a year. My father had two sons, of whom I am the youngest by some years. My elder brother was of a spirited, roving disposition, and for fear that he should turn out what is generally termed ungain, my father determined to send him to sea: so once upon a time, when my brother was about fifteen, he took him to the great seaport of the county, where he apprenticed him to a captain of one of the ships which trade to the high Barbary coast. Fine ships they were, I have heard say, more than thirty in number, and all belonging to a wonderful great gentleman, who had once been a parish boy, but had contrived to make an immense fortune by trading to that coast for gold dust, ivory and other strange articles; and for doing so, I mean for making a fortune, had been made a knight baronet. So my brother went to the high Barbary shore, on board the fine vessel, and in about a year returned and came to visit us; he repeated the voyage several times, always coming to see his parents on his return. Strange stories he used to tell us of what he had been witness to on the high Barbary coast, both off shore and on. He said that the fine vessel in which he sailed was nothing better than a painted hell; that the captain was a veritable fiend, whose grand delight was in tormenting his men, especially when they were sick, as they frequently were, there being always fever on the high Barbary coast; and that though the captain was occasionally sick himself, his being so made no difference, or rather it did make a difference, though for the worse, he being when sick always more inveterate and malignant than at other times. He said that once, when he himself was sick, his captain had pitched his face all over, which exploit was much applauded by the other high Barbary captains; all of whom, from what my brother said, appeared to be of much the same disposition as my brother’s captain, taking wonderful delight in tormenting the crews, and doing all manner of terrible things. My brother frequently said that nothing whatever prevented him from running away from his ship, and never returning, but the hope he entertained of one day being captain himself, and able to torment people in his turn, which he solemnly vowed he would do, as a kind of compensation for what he himself had undergone. And if things were going on in a strange way off the high Barbary shore amongst those who came there to trade, they were going on in a way yet stranger with the people who lived upon it.

“Oh, the strange ways of the black men who lived on that shore, of which my brother used to tell us at home; selling their sons, daughters and servants for slaves, and the prisoners taken in battle, to the Spanish captains, to be carried to Havannah, and when there, sold at a profit, the idea of which, my brother said, went to the hearts of our own captains, who used to say what a hard thing it was that freeborn Englishmen could not have a hand in the traffic, seeing that it was forbidden by the laws of their country; talking fondly of the good old times when their forefathers used to carry slaves to Jamaica and Barbados, realising immense profit, besides the pleasure of hearing their shrieks on the voyage; and then the superstitions of the blacks, which my brother used to talk of; their sharks’ teeth, their wisps of fowls’ feathers, their half-baked pots, full of burnt bones, of which they used to make what they called fetish; and bow down to, and ask favours of, and then, perhaps, abuse and strike, provided the senseless rubbish did not give them what they asked for; and then, above all, Mumbo Jumbo, the grand fetish master, who lived somewhere in the woods, and who used to come out every now and then with his fetish companions; a monstrous figure, all wound round with leaves and branches, so as to be quite indistinguishable, and, seating himself on the high seat in the villages, receive homage from the people, and also gifts and offerings, the most valuable of which were pretty damsels, and then betake himself back again, with his followers into the woods. Oh, the tales that my brother used to tell us of the high Barbary shore! Poor fellow! what became of him I can’t say; the last time he came back from a voyage, he told us that his captain, as soon as he had brought his vessel to port, and settled with his owner, drowned himself off the quay in a fit of the horrors, which it seems high Barbary captains, after a certain number of years, are much subject to. After staying about a month with us, he went to sea again, with another captain; and bad as the old one had been, it appears the new one was worse, for, unable to bear his treatment, my brother left his ship off the high Barbary shore, and ran away up the country. Some of his comrades, whom we afterwards saw, said that there were various reports about him on the shore; one that he had taken on with Mumbo Jumbo, and was serving him in his house in the woods, in the capacity of swashbuckler, or life-guardsman; another, that he was gone in quest of a mighty city in the heart of the negro country; another, that in swimming a stream he had been devoured by an alligator. Now, these two last reports were bad enough; the idea of their flesh and blood being bit asunder by a ravenous fish, was sad enough to my poor parents; and not very comfortable was the thought of his sweltering over the hot sands in quest of the negro city; but the idea of their son, their eldest child, serving Mumbo Jumbo as swashbuckler, was worst of all, and caused my poor parents to shed many a scalding tear.

“I stayed at home with my parents until I was about eighteen, assisting my father in various ways. I then went to live at the squire’s, partly as groom, partly as footman. After living in the country some time, I attended the family in a trip of six weeks, which they made to London. Whilst there, happening to have some words with an old ill-tempered coachman, who had been for a great many years in the family, my master advised me to leave, offering to recommend me to a family of his acquaintance who were in need of a footman. I was glad to accept his offer, and in a few days went to my new place. My new master was one of the great gentry, a baronet in Parliament, and possessed of an estate of about twenty thousand a year; his family consisted of his lady, a son, a fine young man, just coming of age, and two very sweet, amiable daughters. I liked this place much better than my first, there was so much more pleasant noise and bustle—so much more grand company—and so many more opportunities of improving myself. Oh, how I liked to see the grand coaches drive up to the door, with the grand company; and though, amidst that company, there were some who did not look very grand, there were others, and not a few, who did. Some of the ladies quite captivated me; there was the Marchioness of ——— in particular. This young lady puts me much in mind of her; it is true, the Marchioness, as I saw her then, was about fifteen years older than this young gentlewoman is now, and not so tall by some inches, but she had the very same hair, and much the same neck and shoulders—no offence, I hope? And then some of the young gentlemen, with their cool, haughty, care-for-nothing looks, struck me as being very fine fellows. There was one in particular, whom I frequently used to stare at, not altogether unlike someone I have seen hereabouts—he had a slight cast in his eye, and but I won’t enter into every particular. And then the footmen! Oh, how those footmen helped to improve me with their conversation. Many of them could converse much more glibly than their masters, and appeared to have much better taste. At any rate, they seldom approved of what their masters did. I remember being once with one in the gallery of the playhouse, when something of Shakespeare’s was being performed; someone in the first tier of boxes was applauding very loudly. ‘That’s my fool of a governor,’ said he; ‘he is weak enough to like Shakespeare—I don’t—he’s so confoundedly low, but he won’t last long—going down. Shakespeare culminated’—I think that was the word—‘culminated some time ago.’

“And then the professor of elocution, of whom my governors used to take lessons, and of which lessons I had my share, by listening behind the door; but for that professor of elocution I should not be able to round my periods—an expression of his—in the manner I do.

“After I had been three years at this place my mistress died. Her death, however, made no great alteration in my way of living, the family spending their winters in London, and their summers at their old seat in S—— as before. At last, the young ladies, who had not yet got husbands, which was strange enough, seeing, as I told you before, they were very amiable, proposed to our governor a travelling expedition abroad. The old baronet consented, though young master was much against it, saying, they would all be much better at home. As the girls persisted, however, he at last withdrew his opposition, and even promised to follow them, as soon as his parliamentary duties would permit, for he was just got into Parliament; and, like most other young members, thought that nothing could be done in the House without him. So the old gentleman and the two young ladies set off, taking me with them, and a couple of ladies’ maids to wait upon them. First of all, we went to Paris, where we continued three months, the old baronet and the ladies going to see the various sights of the city and the neighbourhood, and I attending them. They soon got tired of sightseeing, and of Paris too; and so did I. However, they still continued there, in order, I believe, that the young ladies might lay in a store of French finery. I should have passed my idle time at Paris, of which I had plenty after the sightseeing was over, very unpleasantly, but for Black Jack. Eh! did you never hear of Black Jack? Ah! if you had ever been an English servant in Paris, you would have known Black Jack; not an English gentleman’s servant who has been at Paris for this last ten years but knows Black Jack and his ordinary. A strange fellow he was—of what country no one could exactly say—for as for judging from speech, that was impossible, Jack speaking all languages equally ill. Some said he came direct from Satan’s kitchen, and that when he gives up keeping ordinary, he will return there again, though the generally received opinion at Paris was, that he was at one time butler to King Pharaoh, and that, after lying asleep for four thousand years in a place called the Kattycombs, he was awaked by the sound of Nelson’s canon, at the battle of the Nile; and going to the shore took on with the admiral, and became, in course of time, ship steward; and that after Nelson’s death, he was captured by the French, on board one of whose vessels he served in a somewhat similar capacity till the peace, when he came to Paris, and set up an ordinary for servants, sticking the name of Katcomb over the door, in allusion to the place where he had his long sleep. But, whatever his origin was, Jack kept his own counsel, and appeared to care nothing for what people said about him, or called him. Yes, I forgot, there was one name he would not be called, and that was Portuguese. I once saw Black Jack knock down a coachman, six foot high, who called him black-faced Portuguese. ‘Any name but dat, you shab,’ said Black Jack, who was a little round fellow, of about five feet two; ‘I would not stand to be called Portuguese by Nelson himself.’ Jack was rather fond of talking about Nelson, and hearing people talking about him, so that it is not improbable that he may have sailed with him; and with respect to his having been King Pharaoh’s butler, all I have to say is, I am not disposed to give the downright lie to the report. Jack was always ready to do a kind turn to a poor servant out of place, and has often been known to assist such as were in prison, which charitable disposition he perhaps acquired from having lost a good place himself, having seen the inside of a prison, and known the want of a meal’s victuals, all which trials King Pharaoh’s butler underwent, so he may have been that butler; at any rate, I have known positive conclusions come to, on no better premises, if indeed as good. As for the story of his coming direct from Satan’s kitchen, I place no confidence in it at all, as Black Jack had nothing of Satan about him, but blackness, on which account he was called Black Jack. Nor am I disposed to give credit to a report that his hatred of the Portuguese arose from some ill treatment which he had once experienced when on shore, at Lisbon, from certain gentlewomen of the place, but rather conclude that it arose from an opinion he entertained that the Portuguese never paid their debts, one of the ambassadors of that nation, whose house he had served, having left Paris several thousand francs in his debt. This is all that I have to say about Black Jack, without whose funny jokes, and good ordinary, I should have passed my time in Paris in a very disconsolate manner.

“After we had been at Paris between two and three months, we left it in the direction of Italy, which country the family had a great desire to see. After travelling a great many days in a thing which, though called a diligence, did not exhibit much diligence, we came to a great big town, seated around a nasty saltwater basin, connected by a narrow passage with the sea. Here we were to embark; and so we did as soon as possible, glad enough to get away; at least I was, and so I make no doubt were the rest; for such a place for bad smells I never was in. It seems all the drains and sewers of the place run into that same salt basin, voiding into it all their impurities, which, not being able to escape into the sea in any considerable quantity, owing to the narrowness of the entrance, there accumulate, filling the whole atmosphere with these same outrageous scents, on which account the town is a famous lodging-house of the plague. The ship in which we embarked was bound for a place in Italy called Naples, where we were to stay some time. The voyage was rather a lazy one, the ship not being moved by steam; for at the time of which I am speaking, some five years ago, steamships were not so plentiful as now. There were only two passengers in the grand cabin, where my governor and his daughters were, an Italian lady and a priest. Of the lady I have not much to say; she appeared to be a quiet respectable person enough, and after our arrival at Naples, I neither saw nor heard anything more of her; but of the priest I shall have a good deal to say in the sequel (that, by the by, is a word I learnt from the professor of rhetoric), and it would have been well for our family had they never met him.

“On the third day of the voyage the priest came to me, who was rather unwell with seasickness, which he, of course, felt nothing of, that kind of people being never affected like others. He was a finish-looking man of about forty-five, but had something strange in his eyes, which I have since thought denoted that all was not right in a certain place called the heart. After a few words of condolence, in a broken kind of English, he asked me various questions about our family; and I, won by his seeming kindness, told him all I knew about them, of which communicativeness I afterwards very much repented. As soon as he had got out of me all he desired, he left me; and I observed that during the rest of the voyage he was wonderfully attentive to our governor, and yet more to the young ladies. Both, however, kept him rather at a distance; the young ladies were reserved, and once or twice I heard our governor cursing him between his teeth for a sharking priest. The priest, however, was not disconcerted, and continued his attentions, which in a little time produced an effect, so that, by the time we landed at Naples, our great folks had conceived a kind of liking for the man, and when they took their leave invited him to visit them, which he promised to do. We hired a grand house or palace at Naples; it belonged to a poor kind of prince, who was glad enough to let it to our governor, and also his servants and carriages; and glad enough were the poor servants, for they got from us what they never got from the prince—plenty of meat and money—and glad enough, I make no doubt, were the horses for the provender we gave them; and I daresay the coaches were not sorry to be cleaned and furbished up. Well, we went out and came in; going to see the sights, and returning. Amongst other things we saw was the burning mountain, and the tomb of a certain sorcerer called Virgilio, who made witch rhymes, by which he could raise the dead. Plenty of people came to see us, both English and Italians, and amongst the rest the priest. He did not come amongst the first, but allowed us to settle and become a little quiet before he showed himself; and after a day or two he paid us another visit, then another, till at last his visits were daily.

“I did not like that Jack Priest; so I kept my eye upon all his motions. Lord! how that Jack Priest did curry favour with our governor and the two young ladies; and he curried, and curried, till he had got himself into favour with the governor, and more especially with the two young ladies, of whom their father was dotingly fond. At last the ladies took lessons in Italian of the priest, a language in which he was said to be a grand proficient, and of which they had hitherto known but very little; and from that time his influence over them, and consequently over the old governor, increased, till the tables were turned, and he no longer curried favour with them, but they with him; yes, as true as my leg aches, the young ladies curried, and the old governor curried favour with that same priest; when he was with them, they seemed almost to hang on his lips, that is, the young ladies; and as for the old governor, he never contradicted him, and when the fellow was absent, which, by the by was not often, it was ‘Father so-and-so said this, and Father so-and-so said that; Father so-and-so thinks we should do so-and-so, or that we should not do so-and-so.’ I at first thought that he must have given them something, some philtre or the like; but one of the English maidservants, who had a kind of respect for me, and who saw much more behind the scenes than I did, informed me that he was continually instilling strange notions into their heads, striving, by every possible method, to make them despise the religion of their own land, and take up that of the foreign country in which they were. And sure enough, in a little time, the girls had altogether left off going to an English chapel, and were continually visiting places of Italian worship. The old governor, it is true, still went to his church, but he appeared to be hesitating between two opinions; and once when he was at dinner he said to two or three English friends, that since he had become better acquainted with it, he had conceived a much more favourable opinion of the Catholic religion than he had previously entertained. In a word, the priest ruled the house, and everything was done according to his will and pleasure; by degrees he persuaded the young ladies to drop their English acquaintances, whose place he supplied with Italians, chiefly females. My poor old governor would not have had a person to speak to, for he never could learn the language, but for two or three Englishmen who used to come occasionally and take a bottle with him, in a summerhouse, whose company he could not be persuaded to resign, notwithstanding the entreaties of his daughters, instigated by the priest, whose grand endeavour seemed to be to render the minds of all three foolish, for his own ends. And if he was busy above stairs with the governor, there was another busy below with us poor English servants, a kind of subordinate priest, a low Italian; as he could speak no language but his own, he was continually jabbering to us in that, and by hearing him the maids and myself contrived to pick up a good deal of the language, so that we understood most that was said, and could speak it very fairly; and the themes of his jabber were the beauty and virtues of one whom he called Holy Mary, and the power and grandeur of one whom he called the Holy Father; and he told us that we should shortly have an opportunity of seeing the Holy Father, who could do anything he liked with Holy Mary: in the meantime we had plenty of opportunities of seeing Holy Mary, for in every church, chapel and convent to which we were taken, there was an image of Holy Mary, who, if the images were dressed at all in her fashion, must have been very fond of short petticoats and tinsel, and who, if those said figures at all resembled her in face, could scarcely have been half as handsome as either of my two fellow-servants, not to speak of the young ladies.

“Now it happened that one of the female servants was much taken with what she saw and heard, and gave herself up entirely to the will of the subordinate, who had quite as much dominion over her as his superior had over the ladies; the other maid, however, the one who had a kind of respect for me, was not so easily besotted; she used to laugh at what she saw, and at what the fellow told her, and from her I learnt that amongst other things intended by these priestly confederates was robbery; she said that the poor old governor had already been persuaded by his daughters to put more than a thousand pounds into the superior priest’s hands for purposes of charity and religion, as was said, and that the subordinate one had already inveigled her fellow-servant out of every penny which she had saved from her wages, and had endeavoured likewise to obtain what money she herself had, but in vain. With respect to myself, the fellow shortly after made an attempt towards obtaining a hundred crowns, of which, by some means, he knew me to be in possession, telling me what a meritorious thing it was to give one’s superfluities for the purposes of religion. ‘That is true,’ said I, ‘and if, after my return to my native country, I find I have anything which I don’t want myself, I will employ it in helping to build a Methodist chapel.’

“By the time that the three months were expired for which we had hired the palace of the needy Prince, the old governor began to talk of returning to England, at least of leaving Italy. I believe he had become frightened at the calls which were continually being made upon him for money; for after all, you know, if there is a sensitive part of a man’s wearing apparel, it is his breeches pocket; but the young ladies could not think of leaving dear Italy and the dear priest; and then they had seen nothing of the country, they had only seen Naples; before leaving dear Italia they must see more of the country and the cities; above all, they must see a place which they called the Eternal City, or by some similar nonsensical name; and they persisted so that the poor governor permitted them, as usual, to have their way; and it was decided what route they should take, that is, the priest was kind enough to decide for them; and was also kind enough to promise to go with them part of the route, as far as a place where there was a wonderful figure of Holy Mary, which the priest said it was highly necessary for them to see before visiting the Eternal City; so we left Naples in hired carriages, driven by fellows they call veturini, cheating, drunken dogs, I remember they were. Besides our own family there was the priest and his subordinate, and a couple of hired lackeys. We were several days upon the journey, travelling through a very wild country, which the ladies pretended to be delighted with, and which the governor cursed on account of the badness of the roads; and when we came to any particularly wild spot we used to stop, in order to enjoy the scenery, as the ladies said; and then we would spread a horse-cloth on the ground, and eat bread and cheese, and drink wine of the country; and some of the holes and corners in which we bivouacked, as the ladies called it, were something like this place where we are now, so that when I came down here it put me in mind of them. At last we arrived at the place where was the holy image.

“We went to the house or chapel in which the holy image was kept, a frightful, ugly black figure of Holy Mary, dressed in her usual way; and after we had stared at the figure, and some of our party had bowed down to it, we were shown a great many things which were called holy relics, which consisted of thumbnails and fore-nails and toenails, and hair and teeth, and a feather or two, a mighty thighbone, but whether of a man or a camel, I can’t say; all of which things I was told, if properly touched and handled, had mighty power to cure all kinds of disorders; and as we went from the holy house, we saw a man in a state of great excitement; he was foaming at the mouth, and cursing the holy image and all its household, because, after he had worshipped it and made offerings to it, and besought it to assist him in a game of chance which he was about to play, it had left him in the lurch, allowing him to lose all his money; and when I thought of all the rubbish I had seen, and the purposes which it was applied to, in conjunction with the rage of the losing gamester at the deaf and dumb image, I could not help comparing the whole with what my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitious practices of the blacks on the high Barbary shore, and their occasional rage and fury at the things they worshipped; and I said to myself, if all this here doesn’t smell of fetish may I smell fetid.

“At this place the priest left us, returning to Naples with his subordinate, on some particular business, I suppose. It was, however, agreed that he should visit us at the Holy City. We did not go direct to the Holy City, but bent our course to two or three other cities which the family were desirous of seeing, but as nothing occurred to us in these places of any particular interest, I shall take the liberty of passing them by in silence. At length we arrived at the Eternal City; an immense city it was, looking as if it had stood for a long time, and would stand for a long time still; compared with it, London would look like a mere assemblage of bee-skeps; however, give me the bee-skeps with their merry hum and bustle, and life and honey, rather than that huge town, which looked like a sepulchre, where there was no life, no busy hum, no bees, but a scanty, sallow population, intermixed with black priests, white priests, grey priests; and though I don’t say there was no honey in the place, for I believe there was, I am ready to take my Bible oath that it was not made there, and that the priests kept it all for themselves.”

XCIX

“The day after our arrival,” continued the postillion, “I was sent, under the guidance of a lackey of the place, with a letter, which the priest, when he left, had given us for a friend of his in the Eternal City. We went to a large house, and on ringing, were admitted by a porter into a cloister, where I saw some ill-looking, shabby young fellows walking about, who spoke English to one another. To one of these the porter delivered the letter, and the young fellow going away, presently returned and told me to follow him; he led me into a large room, where, behind a table, on which were various papers, and a thing, which they call in that country a crucifix, sat a man in a kind of priestly dress. The lad having opened the door for me, shut it behind me, and went away. The man behind the table was so engaged in reading the letter which I had brought, that at first he took no notice of me; he had red hair, a kind of half-English countenance, and was seemingly about five-and-thirty. After a little time he laid the letter down, appeared to consider a moment, and then opened his mouth with a strange laugh, not a loud laugh, for I heard nothing but a kind of hissing deep down the throat; all of a sudden, however, perceiving me, he gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, he inquired in English concerning the health of the family, and where we lived; on my delivering him a card, he bade me inform my master and the ladies that in the course of the day he would do himself the honour of waiting upon them. He then arose and opened the door for me to depart; the man was perfectly civil and courteous, but I did not like that strange laugh of his, after having read the letter. He was as good as his word, and that same day paid us a visit. It was now arranged that we should pass the winter in Rome, to my great annoyance, for I wished to return to my native land, being heartily tired of everything connected with Italy. I was not, however, without hope that our young master would shortly arrive, when I trusted that matters, as far as the family were concerned, would be put on a better footing. In a few days our new acquaintance, who, it seems, was a mongrel Englishman, had procured a house for our accommodation; it was large enough, but not near so pleasant as that we had at Naples, which was light and airy, with a large garden. This was a dark, gloomy structure in a narrow street, with a frowning church beside it; it was not far from the place where our new friend lived, and its being so was probably the reason why he selected it. It was furnished partly with articles which we bought, and partly with those which we hired. We lived something in the same way as at Naples; but though I did not much like Naples, I yet liked it better than this place, which was so gloomy. Our new acquaintance made himself as agreeable as he could, conducting the ladies to churches and convents, and frequently passing the afternoon drinking with the governor, who was fond of a glass of brandy and water and a cigar, as the new acquaintance also was—no, I remember, he was fond of gin and water, and did not smoke. I don’t think he had so much influence over the young ladies as the other priest, which was, perhaps, owing to his not being so good-looking; but I am sure he had more influence with the governor, owing, doubtless, to his bearing him company in drinking mixed liquors, which the other priest did not do.

“He was a strange fellow, that same new acquaintance of ours, and unlike all the priests I saw in that country, and I saw plenty of various nations—they were always upon their guard, and had their features and voice modulated; but this man was subject to fits of absence, during which he would frequently mutter to himself; then, though he was perfectly civil to everybody, as far as words went, I observed that he entertained a thorough contempt for most people, especially for those whom he was making dupes. I have observed him whilst drinking with our governor, when the old man’s head was turned, look at him with an air which seemed to say, ‘What a thundering old fool you are!’ and at our young ladies, when their backs were turned, with a glance which said distinctly enough, ‘You precious pair of ninnyhammers’; and then his laugh—he had two kinds of laughs—one which you could hear, and another which you could only see. I have seen him laugh at our governor and the young ladies, when their heads were turned away, but I heard no sound. My mother had a sandy cat, which sometimes used to open its mouth wide with a mew which nobody could hear, and the silent laugh of that red-haired priest used to put me wonderfully in mind of the silent mew of my mother’s sandy-red cat. And then the other laugh, which you could hear; what a strange laugh that was, never loud, yes, I have heard it tolerably loud. He once passed near me, after having taken leave of a silly English fellow—a limping parson of the name of Platitude, who they said was thinking of turning Papist, and was much in his company; I was standing behind the pillar of a piazza, and as he passed he was laughing heartily. Oh, he was a strange fellow, that same red-haired acquaintance of ours!

“After we had been at Rome about six weeks, our old friend the priest of Naples arrived, but without his subordinate, for whose services he now perhaps thought that he had no occasion. I believe he found matters in our family wearing almost as favourable an aspect as he could desire: with what he had previously taught them and shown them at Naples and elsewhere, and with what the red-haired confederate had taught them and shown them at Rome, the poor young ladies had become quite handmaids of superstition, so that they, especially the youngest, were prepared to bow down to anything, and kiss anything however vile and ugly, provided a priest commanded them; and as for the old governor, what with the influence which his daughters exerted, and what with the ascendancy which the red-haired man had obtained over him, he dared not say his purse, far less his soul, was his own. Only think of an Englishman not being master of his own purse. My acquaintance, the lady’s maid, assured me, that to her certain knowledge, he had disbursed to the red-haired man, for purposes of charity, as it was said, at least one thousand pounds during the five weeks we had been at Rome. She also told me that things would shortly be brought to a conclusion, and so indeed they were, though in a different manner from what she and I and some other people imagined; that there was to be a grand festival, and a mass, at which we were to be present, after which the family were to be presented to the Holy Father, for so those two priestly sharks had managed it; and then—she said she was certain that the two ladies, and perhaps the old governor, would forsake the religion of their native land, taking up with that of these foreign regions, for so my fellow-servant expressed it, and that perhaps attempts might be made to induce us poor English servants to take up with the foreign religion, that is, herself and me, for as for our fellow-servant, the other maid, she wanted no inducing, being disposed body and soul to go over to it. Whereupon, I swore with an oath that nothing should induce me to take up with the foreign religion; and the poor maid, my fellow-servant, bursting into tears, said that for her part she would sooner die than have anything to do with it; thereupon we shook hands and agreed to stand by and countenance one another: and moreover, provided our governors were fools enough to go over to the religion of these here foreigners, we would not wait to be asked to do the like, but leave them at once, and make the best of our way home, even if we were forced to beg on the road.

“At last the day of the grand festival came, and we were all to go to the big church to hear the mass. Now it happened that for some time past I had been much afflicted with melancholy, especially when I got up of a morning, produced by the strange manner in which I saw things going on in our family; and to dispel it in some degree, I had been in the habit of taking a dram before breakfast. On the morning in question, feeling particularly low-spirited when I thought of the foolish step our governor would probably take before evening, I took two drams before breakfast; and after breakfast, feeling my melancholy still continuing, I took another, which produced a slight effect upon my head, though I am convinced nobody observed it.

“Away we drove to the big church; it was a dark, misty day, I remember, and very cold, so that if anybody had noticed my being slightly in liquor, I could have excused myself by saying that I had merely taken a glass to fortify my constitution against the weather; and of one thing I am certain, which is, that such an excuse would have stood me in stead with our governor, who looked, I thought, as if he had taken one too; but I may be mistaken, and why should I notice him, seeing that he took no notice of me: so away we drove to the big church, to which all the population of the place appeared to be moving.

“On arriving there we dismounted, and the two priests who were with us led the family in, whilst I followed at a little distance, but quickly lost them amidst the throng of people. I made my way, however, though in what direction I knew not, except it was one in which everybody seemed striving, and by dint of elbowing and pushing, I at last got to a place which looked like the aisle of a cathedral, where the people stood in two rows, a space between being kept open by certain strangely-dressed men who moved up and down with rods in their hands; all were looking to the upper end of this place or aisle; and at the upper end, separated from the people by palings like those of an altar, sat in magnificent-looking stalls, on the right and the left, various wonderful-looking individuals in scarlet dresses. At the farther end was what appeared to be an altar, on the left hand was a pulpit, and on the right a stall higher than any of the rest, where was a figure whom I could scarcely see.

“I can’t pretend to describe what I saw exactly, for my head, which was at first rather flurried, had become more so from the efforts which I had made to get through the crowd; also from certain singing which proceeded from I know not where, and above all from the bursts of an organ which were occasionally so loud that I thought the roof, which was painted with wondrous colours, would come toppling down on those below. So there stood I, a poor English servant, in that outlandish place, in the midst of that foreign crowd, looking at that outlandish sight, hearing those outlandish sounds, and occasionally glancing at our party, which, by this time, I distinguished at the opposite side to where I stood, but much nearer the place where the red figures sat. Yes, there stood our poor governor, and the sweet young ladies, and I thought they never looked so handsome before, and close by them were the sharking priests, and not far from them was that idiotical parson Platitude, winking and grinning, and occasionally lifting up his hands as if in ecstasy at what he saw and heard, so that he drew upon himself the notice of the congregation.

“And now an individual mounted the pulpit, and began to preach in a language which I did not understand, but which I believe to be Latin, addressing himself seemingly to the figure in the stall; and when he had ceased, there was more singing, more organ playing, and then two men in robes brought forth two things which they held up; and then the people bowed their heads, and our poor governor bowed his head, and the sweet young ladies bowed their heads, and the sharking priests, whilst the idiotical parson Platitude tried to fling himself down; and then there were various evolutions withinside the pale, and the scarlet figures got up and sat down, and this kind of thing continued for some time; at length the figure which I had seen in the principal stall came forth and advanced towards the people; an awful figure he was, a huge old man with a sugar-loaf hat, with a sulphur-coloured dress, and holding a crook in his hand like that of a shepherd; and as he advanced the people fell on their knees, our poor old governor amongst them; the sweet young ladies, the sharking priests, the idiotical parson Platitude all fell on their knees, and somebody or other tried to pull me on my knees, but by this time I had become outrageous; all that my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitions of the high Barbary shore rushed into my mind, and I thought they were acting them over here; above all, the idea that the sweet young ladies, to say nothing of my poor old governor, were, after the conclusion of all this mummery, going to deliver themselves up body and soul into the power of that horrid-looking old man, maddened me, and, rushing forward into the open space, I confronted the horrible-looking old figure with the sugar-loaf hat, the sulphur-coloured garments, and shepherd’s crook, and shaking my fist at his nose, I bellowed out in English:—

“ ‘I don’t care for you, old Mumbo Jumbo, though you have fetish!’

“I can scarcely tell you what occurred for some time. I have a dim recollection that hands were laid upon me, and that I struck out violently left and right. On coming to myself, I was seated on a stone bench in a large room, something like a guarde room, in the custody of certain fellows dressed like Merry Andrews; they were bluff, good-looking, wholesome fellows, very different from the sallow Italians; they were looking at me attentively, and occasionally talking to each other in a language which sounded very like the cracking of walnuts in the mouth, very different from cooing Italian. At last one of them asked me in Italian what had ailed me, to which I replied, in an incoherent manner, something about Mumbo Jumbo; whereupon the fellow, one of the bluffest of the lot, a jovial, rosy-faced rascal, lifted up his right hand, placing it in such a manner that the lips were between the forefinger and thumb, then lifting up his right foot and drawing back his head, he sucked in his breath with a hissing sound, as if to imitate one drinking a hearty draught, and then slapped me on the shoulder, saying something which sounded like goot wine, goot companion, whereupon they all laughed, exclaiming, ya, ya, goot companion. And now hurried into the room our poor old governor, with the red-haired priest; the first asked what could have induced me to behave in such a manner in such a place, to which I replied that I was not going to bow down to Mumbo Jumbo, whatever other people might do. Whereupon my master said he believed I was mad, and the priest said he believed I was drunk; to which I answered that I was neither so mad nor drunk but I could distinguish how the wind lay. Whereupon they left me, and in a little time I was told by the bluff-looking Merry Andrews I was at liberty to depart. I believe the priest, in order to please my governor, interceded for me in high quarters.

“But one good resulted from this affair; there was no presentation of our family to the Holy Father, for old Mumbo was so frightened by my outrageous looks that he was laid up for a week, as I was afterwards informed.

“I went home, and had scarcely been there half an hour when I was sent for by the governor, who again referred to the scene in church, said that he could not tolerate such scandalous behaviour and that unless I promised to be more circumspect in future, he should be compelled to discharge me. I said that if he was scandalised at my behaviour in the church, I was more scandalised at all I saw going on in the family, which was governed by two rascally priests, who, not content with plundering him, appeared bent on hurrying the souls of us all to destruction; and that with respect to discharging me, he could do so that moment, as I wished to go. I believe his own reason told him that I was right, for he made no direct answer; but, after looking on the ground for some time, he told me to leave him. As he did not tell me to leave the house, I went to my room intending to lie down for an hour or two; but scarcely was I there when the door opened, and in came the red-haired priest. He showed himself, as he always did, perfectly civil, asked me how I was, took a chair and sat down. After a hem or two he entered into a long conversation on the excellence of what he called the Catholic religion; told me that he hoped I would not set myself against the light, and likewise against my interest; for that the family were about to embrace the Catholic religion, and would make it worth my while to follow their example. I told him that the family might do what they pleased, but that I would never forsake the religion of my country for any consideration whatever; that I was nothing but a poor servant, but I was not to be bought by base gold. ‘I admire your honourable feelings,’ said he; ‘you shall have no gold; and as I see you are a fellow of spirit, and do not like being a servant, for which I commend you, I can promise you something better. I have a good deal of influence in this place, and if you will not set your face against the light, but embrace the Catholic religion, I will undertake to make your fortune. You remember those fine fellows today who took you into custody, they are the guards of his Holiness. I have no doubt that I have interest enough to procure your enrolment amongst them.’ ‘What,’ said I, ‘become swash buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here! May I ———’—and here I swore—‘if I do. The mere possibility of one of their children being swashbuckler to Mumbo Jumbo on the high Barbary shore has always been a source of heartbreaking to my poor parents. What, then, would they not undergo if they knew for certain that their other child was swashbuckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here?’ Thereupon he asked me, even as you did some time ago, what I meant by Mumbo Jumbo? And I told him all I had heard about the Mumbo Jumbo of the high Barbary shore; telling him that I had no doubt that the old fellow up here was his brother, or nearly related to him. The man with the red hair listened with the greatest attention to all I said, and when I had concluded, he got up, nodded to me, and moved to the door; ere he reached the door I saw his shoulders shaking, and as he closed it behind him I heard him distinctly laughing, to the tune of—he! he! he!

“But now matters began to mend. That same evening my young master unexpectedly arrived. I believe he soon perceived that something extraordinary had been going on in the family. He was for some time closeted with the governor, with whom, I believe, he had a dispute; for my fellow-servant, the ladies’ maid, informed me that she heard high words.

“Rather late at night the young gentleman sent for me into his room, and asked me various questions with respect to what had been going on, and my behaviour in the church, of which he had heard something. I told him all I knew with respect to the intrigues of the two priests in the family, and gave him a circumstantial account of all that had occurred in the church, adding that, under similar circumstances, I was ready to play the same part over again. Instead of blaming me, he commended my behaviour, told me I was a fine fellow, and said he hoped that if he wanted my assistance, I would stand by him: this I promised to do. Before I left him, he entreated me to inform him the very next time I saw the priests entering the house.

“The next morning, as I was in the courtyard, where I had placed myself to watch, I saw the two enter and make their way up a private stair to the young ladies’ apartment; they were attended by a man dressed something like a priest, who bore a large box; I instantly ran to relate what I had seen to my young master. I found him shaving. ‘I will just finish what I am about,’ said he, ‘and then wait upon these gentlemen.’ He finished what he was about with great deliberation, then taking a horsewhip, and bidding me follow him, he proceeded at once to the door of his sisters’ apartment: finding it fastened, he burst it open at once with his foot and entered, followed by myself. There we beheld the two unfortunate young ladies down on their knees before a large female doll, dressed up, as usual, in rags and tinsel; the two priests were standing near, one on either side, with their hands uplifted, whilst the fellow who brought the trumpery stood a little way down the private stair, the door of which stood open; without a moment’s hesitation, my young master rushed forward, gave the image a cut or two with his horsewhip, then flying at the priests, he gave them a sound flogging, kicked them down the private stair, and spurned the man, box and image after them; then locking the door, he gave his sisters a fine sermon, in which he represented to them their folly in worshipping a silly wooden graven image, which, though it had eyes, could see not; though it had ears, could hear not; though it had hands, could not help itself; and though it had feet, could not move about unless it were carried. Oh, it was a fine sermon that my young master preached, and sorry I am that the Father of the Fetish, old Mumbo, did not hear it. The elder sister looked ashamed, but the youngest, who was very weak, did nothing but wring her hands, weep and bewail the injury which had been done to the dear image. The young man, however, without paying much regard to either of them went to his father, with whom he had a long conversation, which terminated in the old governor giving orders for preparations to be made for the family’s leaving Rome and returning to England. I believe that the old governor was glad of his son’s arrival, and rejoiced at the idea of getting away from Italy, where he had been so plundered and imposed upon. The priests, however, made another attempt upon the poor young ladies. By the connivance of the female servant who was in their interest, they found their way once more into their apartment, bringing with them the fetish image, whose body they partly stripped, exhibiting upon it certain sanguine marks which they had daubed upon it with red paint, but which they said were the result of the lashes which it had received from the horsewhip. The youngest girl believed all they said, and kissed and embraced the dear image; but the eldest, whose eyes had been opened by her brother, to whom she was much attached, behaved with proper dignity; for, going to the door, she called the female servant who had a respect for me, and in her presence reproached the two deceivers for their various impudent cheats, and especially for this their last attempt at imposition; adding, that if they did not forthwith withdraw and rid her sister and herself of their presence, she would send word by her maid to her brother, who would presently take effectual means to expel them. They took the hint and departed, and we saw no more of them.

“At the end of three days we departed from Rome, but the maid whom the priests had cajoled remained behind, and it is probable that the youngest of our ladies would have done the same thing if she could have had her own will, for she was continually raving about her image, and saying, she should wish to live with it in a convent; but we watched the poor thing, and got her on board ship. Oh, glad was I to leave that fetish country, and old Mumbo behind me!”

C

“We arrived in England, and went to our country seat, but the peace and tranquillity of the family had been marred, and I no longer found my place the pleasant one which it had formerly been; there was nothing but gloom in the house, for the youngest daughter exhibited signs of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept under confinement. The next season I attended my master, his son and eldest daughter to London, as I had previously done. There I left them, for hearing that a young baronet, an acquaintance of the family, wanted a servant, I applied for the place, with the consent of my masters, both of whom gave me a strong recommendation, and being approved of, I went to live with him.

“My new master was what is called a sporting character, very fond of the turf, upon which he was not very fortunate. He was frequently very much in want of money, and my wages were anything but regularly paid; nevertheless, I liked him very much, for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually consulting me as to his affairs. At length he was brought nearly to his last shifts, by backing the favourite at the Derby, which favourite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars—I mean, between us—as to what was to be done. He wished to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver and I guard. He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-rate whip, and I dare say I should have made a first-rate guard; but to start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he should go into the Church; but to go into the Church—at any rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our aim—it is necessary for a man to possess some education; and my master, although he had been at the best school in England, that is, the most expensive, and also at College, was almost totally illiterate, so we let the Church scheme follow that of the coach. At last, bethinking me that he was tolerably glib at the tongue, as most people are who are addicted to the turf, also a great master of slang, remembering also that he had a crabbed old uncle, who had some borough interest, I proposed that he should get into the House, promising in one fortnight to qualify him to make a figure in it, by certain lessons which I would give him. He consented; and during the next fortnight I did little else than give him lessons in elocution, following to a tittle the method of the great professor, which I had picked up listening behind the door. At the end of that period, we paid a visit to his relation, an old gouty Tory, who, at first, received us very coolly. My master, however, by flattering a predilection of his for Billy Pitt, soon won his affections so much that he promised to bring him into Parliament, and in less than a month was as good as his word. My master, partly by his own qualifications, and partly by the assistance which he had derived, and still occasionally derived, from me, cut a wonderful figure in the House, and was speedily considered one of the most promising speakers; he was always a good hand at promising. He is at present, I believe, a Cabinet minister.

“But as he got up in the world, he began to look down on me. I believe he was ashamed of the obligation under which he lay to me; and at last, requiring no further hints as to oratory from a poor servant like me, he took an opportunity of quarrelling with me and discharging me. However, as he had still some grace, he recommended me to a gentleman with whom, since he had attached himself to politics, he had formed an acquaintance, the editor of a grand Tory Review. I lost caste terribly amongst the servants for entering the service of a person connected with a profession so mean as literature; and it was proposed at the Servants’ Club, in Park Lane, to eject me from that society. The proposition, however, was not carried into effect, and I was permitted to show myself among them, though few condescended to take much notice of me. My master was one of the best men in the world, but also one of the most sensitive. On his veracity being impugned by the editor of a newspaper, he called him out, and shot him through the arm. Though servants are seldom admirers of their masters, I was a great admirer of mine, and eager to follow his example. The day after the encounter, on my veracity being impugned by the servant of Lord C—— in something I said in praise of my master I determined to call him out, so I went into another room and wrote a challenge. But whom should I send it by? Several servants to whom I applied refused to be the bearers of it; they said I had lost caste, and they could not think of going out with me. At length the servant of the Duke of B—— consented to take it; but he made me to understand that, though he went out with me, he did so merely because he despised the Whiggish principles of Lord C——’s servant, and that if I thought he intended to associate with me, I should be mistaken. Politics, I must tell you, at that time ran as high amongst the servants as the gentlemen, the servants, however, being almost invariably opposed to the politics of their respective masters, though both parties agreed in one point, the scouting of everything low and literary, though I think, of the two, the liberal or reform party were the most inveterate. So he took my challenge, which was accepted; we went out, Lord C——’s servant being seconded by a reformado footman from the Palace. We fired three times without effect; but this affair lost me my place, my master on hearing it forthwith discharged me; he was, as I have said before, very sensitive, and he said this duel of mine was a parody of his own. Being, however, one of the best men in the world, on his discharging me he made me a donation of twenty pounds.

“And it was well that he made me this present, for without it I should have been penniless, having contracted rather expensive habits during the time that I lived with the young baronet. I now determined to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for years. I found them in good health, and, after staying with them for two months, I returned again in the direction of town, walking in order to see the country. On the second day of my journey, not being used to such fatigue, I fell ill at a great inn on the north road, and there I continued for some weeks till I recovered, but by that time my money was entirely spent. By living at the inn I had contracted an acquaintance with the master and the people, and become accustomed to inn life. As I thought that I might find some difficulty in procuring any desirable situation in London, owing to my late connection with literature, I determined to remain where I was, provided my services would be accepted. I offered them to the master, who, finding I knew something of horses, engaged me as a postillion. I have remained there since. You have now heard my story.

“Stay, you shan’t say that I told my tale without a per—peroration. What shall it be? Oh, I remember something which will serve for one. As I was driving my chaise some weeks ago, on my return from L——, I saw standing at the gate of an avenue, which led up to an old mansion, a figure which I thought I recognised. I looked at it attentively, and the figure, as I passed, looked at me; whether it remembered me I do not know, but I recognised the face it showed me full well.

“If it was not the identical face of the red-haired priest whom I had seen at Rome, may I catch cold!

“Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket—young lady, good night.”

The Editor’s Postscript

Lavengro and The Romany Rye (properly Romanó Ráï) were terms applied to George Borrow in his youth by the Norfolk Gypsy, Ambrose Smith, better known in these volumes as Jasper Petulengro. The names signify respectively “Philologist” and “the Gypsy Gentleman.” The two works thus entitled constitute a more or less exact autobiography of the writer of them, from the date of his birth to the end of August, 1825. The author himself confesses in his Preface that “the time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century.”

Lavengro was written at Oulton, in Suffolk, slowly and at intervals, between the years 1842 and 1851. The MSS. exist in three varieties: 1. The primitive draft of a portion, found scattered through sundry notebooks and on isolated scraps of paper, as described in the letter to Dawson Turner (Life, I, p. 394) 2. The definitive autograph text in one thick quarto volume. 3. The transcript for the printers, made by Mrs. Borrow, in one large folio volume, interlarded with the author’s additions and corrections.

The text of the present edition reproduces with fidelity the first issue of 1851. Occasionally a verbal alteration, introduced by the author himself into his second edition of 1872, has been adopted in this, whenever it seemed to improve the reading. In general, however, that reprint was in many respects a defective one. Not only words, but even whole sentences, which had escaped the printers, remained undetected by the editor, and, as a consequence, were lost to later impressions, based, as they all have been, on that issue. We should have preferred to alter, quietly and without remark, certain errors in the text, as we did in the documents published in the Life; but save in a single instance, we have left such inaccuracies intact, reserving all corrections for the place where we might be supposed to exercise a free hand.217

The insertion, with brackets of course, of the promised inedited episodes, caused in two cases some embarrassment. In removing them from the final form of his MS., Mr. Borrow closed up the gap with a few fitting lines which concealed the withdrawal. These words had to be suppressed on the restoration of the passages.

The insertions will be met with as follows:—

- The Poet Parkinson, pp. 119–25.

- The Wake of Freya, pp. 128–33.

- Cromwell’s Statue and the Dairyman’s Daughter, pp. 196–98.

- Portobello or the Irish Patriot, pp. 231–39.

- Thomas d’Éterville, in the Notes, pp. 558–59.

Thus we have made a full statement as regards the text of the present reprint. Anyone who takes up this edition will discover no visible name, or preface, or introduction, save only those of George Borrow, from the title to the close. The book is, therefore, “all Borrow,” and we have sought to render the helping hand as inconspicuous as possible. Should, however, the prejudiced stumble at the Notes, we can say in the language of the fairy smith of Loughmore: is agad an t-leigheas, you have the remedy in your own power.

Speaking of the Notes, they have been drawn up on the unimpeachable testimony of contemporaneous record. Especially have we sought the works which Mr. Borrow was accustomed to read in his younger days, and at times with curious results. [ … ] What is not here explained can be easily looked up in our Life, Writings, and Correspondence of George Borrow, London, 1899, which of itself furnishes a sufficient and unalterable exhibition of the facts concerning the man and his work.

W. I. Knapp.

High St., Oxford,
November, 1899.

Part
II

The Romany Rye

Advertisement (1857)

It having been frequently stated in print that the book called Lavengro was got up expressly against the popish agitation in the years 1850–51, the author takes this opportunity of saying that the principal part of that book was written in the year ’43, that the whole of it was completed before the termination of the year ’46, and that it was in the hands of the publisher in the year ’48.218 And here he cannot forbear observing, that it was the duty of that publisher to have rebutted a statement which he knew to be a calumny; and also to have set the public right on another point dealt with in the Appendix to the present work, more especially as he was the proprietor of a Review enjoying, however undeservedly, a certain sale and reputation.

But take your own part, boy!
For if you don’t, no one will take it for you.

With respect to Lavengro, the author feels that he has no reason to be ashamed of it. In writing that book he did his duty, by pointing out to his country-people the nonsense which, to the greater part of them, is as the breath of their nostrils, and which, if indulged in, as it probably will be, to the same extent as hitherto, will, within a very few years, bring the land which he most loves beneath a foreign yoke—he does not here allude to the yoke of Rome.

Instead of being ashamed, has he not rather cause to be proud of a book which has had the honour of being rancorously abused and execrated by the very people of whom the country has least reason to be proud?219

“One day Cogia Efendy went to a bridal festival. The masters of the feast, observing his old and coarse apparel, paid him no consideration whatever. The Cogia saw that he had no chance of notice; so going out, he hurried to his house, and, putting on a splendid pelisse, returned to the place of festival. No sooner did he enter the door than the masters advanced to meet him, and saying, ‘Welcome, Cogia Efendy,’ with all imaginable honour and reverence, placed him at the head of the table, and said, ‘Please to eat, Lord Cogia.’ Forthwith the Cogia, taking hold of one of the furs of his pelisse, said, ‘Welcome my pelisse; please to eat, my lord.’ The masters looking at the Cogia with great surprise, said, ‘What are you about?’ Whereupon the Cogia replied, ‘As it is quite evident that all the honour paid, is paid to my pelisse, I think it ought to have some food too.’ ”

—Pleasantries of the Cogia Nasr Eddin Efendi

I

I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and axletree. The latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linchpin, which I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linchpin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a model.

I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge. With a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I laid it on the anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up, and retreated towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her direction alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linchpin no easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linchpin which I thought would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the postillion never showed his face. His nonappearance at first alarmed me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest sleep. “He must surely be descended from one of the seven sleepers,” said I, as I turned away, and resumed my work. My work finished, I took a little oil, leather and sand, and polished the pin as well as I could; then, summoning Belle, we both went to the chaise, where, with her assistance, I put on the wheel. The linchpin which I had made fitted its place very well, and having replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise for some time with my heart full of that satisfaction which results from the consciousness of having achieved a great action; then, after looking at Belle in the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, which did not come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, followed by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast; and I taking the kettle went and filled it at the spring. Having hung it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was still sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a start, and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. “I had quite forgot,” said he, as he got up, “where I was, and all that happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole affair, thunderstorm, thunderbolt, frightened horses, and all your kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses; I hope we shall be able to repair the damage.” “The damage is already quite repaired,” said I, “as you will see, if you come to the field above.” “You don’t say so,” said the postillion, coming out of the tent; “well, I am mightily beholden to you. Good morning, young gentlewoman,” said he, addressing Belle, who, having finished her preparations was seated near the fire. “Good morning, young man,” said Belle, “I suppose you would be glad of some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the kettle does not boil.” “Come and look at your chaise,” said I; “but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been making did not awake you; for three-quarters of an hour at least I was hammering close at your ear.” “I heard you all the time,” said the postillion, “but your hammering made me sleep all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning sleep. There’s a forge close by the room where I sleep when I’m at home, at my inn; for we have all kinds of conveniences at my inn—forge, carpenter’s shop, and wheelwright’s—so that when I heard you hammering I thought, no doubt, that it was the old noise, and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn.” We now ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his chaise. He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and gave a loud laugh. “Is it not well done?” said I. “It will do till I get home,” he replied. “And that is all you have to say?” I demanded. “And that’s a good deal,” said he, “considering who made it. But don’t be offended,” he added, “I shall prize it all the more for its being made by a gentleman, and no blacksmith; and so will my governor, when I show it to him. I shan’t let it remain where it is, but will keep it, as a remembrance of you, as long as I live.” He then again rubbed his hands with great glee, and said: “I will now go and see after my horses, and then to breakfast, partner, if you please.” Suddenly, however, looking at his hands, he said, “Before sitting down to breakfast I am in the habit of washing my hands and face; I suppose you could not furnish me with a little soap and water.” “As much water as you please,” said I, “but if you want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentlewoman for some.” “By no means,” said the postillion, “water will do at a pinch.” “Follow me,” said I, and leading him to the pond of the frogs and newts, I said, “this is my ewer; you are welcome to part of it—the water is so soft that it is scarcely necessary to add soap to it;” then lying down on the bank, I plunged my head into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, and afterwards wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin of the pond. “Bravo,” said the postillion, “I see you know how to make a shift:” he then followed my example, declared he never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, said, “he would go and look after his horses.”

We then went to look after the horses, which we found not much the worse for having spent the night in the open air. My companion again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, leaving the animals to discuss their corn, returned with me to the dingle, where we found the kettle boiling. We sat down, and Belle made tea, and did the honours of the meal. The postillion was in high spirits, ate heartily, and, to Belle’s evident satisfaction, declared that he had never drank better tea in his life, or indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said that he must now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for him to return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him farewell. The postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advancing close up to her—for what purpose I cannot say—whereupon Belle, withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which caused the postillion to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly sheepish look. Recovering himself, however, he made a low bow, and proceeded up the path. I attended him, and helped to harness his horses and put them to the vehicle; he then shook me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip mounted to his seat; ere he drove away he thus addressed me: “If ever I forget your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash my buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before you, and no expense to either, for I will give both of you the best of characters to the governor, who is the very best fellow upon all the road. As for your linchpin, I trust it will serve till I get home, when I will take it out and keep it in remembrance of you all the days of my life:” then giving the horses a jerk with his reins, he cracked his whip and drove off.

I returned to the dingle, Belle had removed the breakfast things, and was busy in her own encampment. Nothing occurred, worthy of being related, for two hours, at the end of which time Belle departed on a short expedition, and I again found myself alone in the dingle.

II

In the evening I received another visit from the man in black.220 I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting in the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to employ myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagreeable to me. I produced the Hollands and glass from my tent, where Isopel Berners had requested me to deposit them, and also some lump sugar, then taking the gotch I fetched water from the spring, and, sitting down, begged the man in black to help himself; he was not slow in complying with my desire, and prepared for himself a glass of Hollands and water with a lump of sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with evident satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of “Go to Rome for money,” when he last left the dingle, took the liberty, after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, whereupon, with a he! he! he! he replied: “Your idea was not quite so original as I supposed. After leaving you the other night, I remembered having read of an Emperor of Germany who conceived the idea of applying to Rome for money, and actually put it into practice.

“Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family of the Barbarini,221 nicknamed the Mosche, or Flies, from the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. The Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to defend the Church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of Sweden, who was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity to the Pope for a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his relations, whose cellars were at that time full of the money of the Church, which they had been plundering for years, refused to lend him a scudo; whereupon a pasquinade picture was stuck up at Rome, representing the Church lying on a bed, gashed with dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were sucking her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with a miserable face, requesting a little money towards carrying on the war against the heretics, to which the poor Church was made to say: ‘How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see that the flies have sucked me to the very bones?’ Which story,” said he, “shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was not quite so original as I imagined the other night, though utterly preposterous.

“This affair,” said he, “occurred in what were called the days of nepotism. Certain popes, who wished to make themselves in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded themselves with their nephews and the rest of their family, who sucked the Church and Christendom as much as they could, none doing so more effectually than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at whose death, according to the book called the Nipotismo di Roma,222 there were in the Barbarini family two hundred and twenty-seven governments, abbeys and high dignities, and so much hard cash in their possession, that three score and ten mules were scarcely sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina.” He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better whilst the popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas before and after that period it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, by the cardinals and all their relations instead of by the Pope and his nephews only.

Then, after drinking rather copiously of his Hollands, he said that it was certainly no bad idea of the popes to surround themselves with nephews, on whom they bestowed great Church dignities, as by so doing they were tolerably safe from poison, whereas a pope, if abandoned to the cardinals, might at any time be made away with by them, provided they thought that he lived too long, or that he seemed disposed to do anything which they disliked; adding, that Ganganelli223 would never have been poisoned provided he had had nephews about him to take care of his life, and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a bustling stirring brother’s wife like Donna Olympia. He then with a he! he! he! asked me if I had ever read the book called the Nipotismo di Roma, and on my replying in the negative, he told me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate to me anecdotes out of the Nipotismo di Roma, about the successor of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna Olympia, showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, and kept the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures plundered Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope, until Christendom, becoming enraged, insisted that he should put her away, which he did for a time, putting a nephew—one Camillo Astalli—in her place, in which, however, he did not continue long; for the Pope conceiving a pique against him, banished him from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took care of his food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died.

I said that I only wondered that between pope and cardinals the whole system of Rome had not long fallen to the ground, and was told, in reply, that its not having fallen was the strongest proof of its vital power, and the absolute necessity for the existence of the system. That the system, notwithstanding its occasional disorders, went on. Popes and cardinals might prey upon its bowels, and sell its interests, but the system survived. The cutting off of this or that member was not able to cause Rome any vital loss; for, as soon as she lost a member, the loss was supplied by her own inherent vitality; though her popes had been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by popes; and though priests occasionally poisoned popes, cardinals, and each other, after all that had been, and might be, she had still, and would ever have, her priests, cardinals and pope.

Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, I determined to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from him all I could with respect to the papal system, and told him that he would particularly oblige me by telling me who the Pope of Rome was; and received for answer, that he was an old man elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair, who, immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, and asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not always preserve himself from poison, even when fenced round by nephews, or protected by a bustling woman, he, after taking a long sip of Hollands and water, told me that I must not expect too much from omnipotence; for example, that as it would be unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate the past—for instance, the Seven Years’ War, or the French Revolution—though anyone who believed in Him would acknowledge Him to be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. Then, after looking at me for a moment steadfastly, and taking another sip, he told me that popes had frequently done impossibilities; for example, Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew; for, not liking particularly any of his real nephews, he had created the said Camillo Astalli his nephew; asking me, with a he! he! “What but omnipotence could make a young man nephew to a person to whom he was not in the slightest degree related?” On my observing that of course no one believed that the young fellow was really the Pope’s nephew, though the Pope might have adopted him as such, the man in black replied, “that the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli had hitherto never become a point of faith; let, however, the present Pope, or any other Pope, proclaim that it is necessary to believe in the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether the faithful would not believe in it. Who can doubt that,” he added, “seeing that they believe in the reality of the five propositions of Jansenius? The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, induced a pope to declare that such and such damnable opinions, which they called five propositions, were to be found in a book written by Jansen, though, in reality, no such propositions were to be found there; whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a point of faith to the faithful. Do you then think,” he demanded, “that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five propositions of Jansenius?” “Surely, then,” said I, “the faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons!” Whereupon the man in black exclaimed: “What! a Protestant, and an infringer of the rights of faith! Here’s a fellow who would feel himself insulted if anyone were to ask him how he could believe in the miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow the five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called upon, to swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli.”

I was about to speak, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Belle. After unharnessing her donkey, and adjusting her person a little, she came and sat down by us. In the meantime I had helped my companion to some more Hollands and water, and had plunged with him into yet deeper discourse.

III

Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the truth with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he should be delighted to give me all the information in his power; that he had come to the dingle, not so much for the sake of the good cheer which I was in the habit of giving him, as in the hope of inducing me to enlist under the banners of Rome, and to fight in her cause; and that he had no doubt that, by speaking out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning me over.

He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless ages had proved the necessity of religion; the necessity, he would admit, was only for simpletons; but as nine-tenths of the dwellers upon this earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible people to run counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was their wisest course to encourage them in it, always provided that, by so doing, sensible people could derive advantage; that the truly sensible people of this world were the priests, who, without caring a straw for religion for its own sake, made use of it as a cord by which to draw the simpletons after them; that there were many religions in this world, all of which had been turned to excellent account by the priesthood; but that the one the best adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, which, he said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated to endure. On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish religion was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt that the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour, he said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between me and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and the old Indian system were, in reality, one and the same.

“You told me that you intended to be frank,” said I; “but, however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild.”

“We priests of Rome,” said the man in black, “even those amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about Church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. Those of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home from distant missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things relating to our dear mother; for example, our first missionaries to the East were not slow in discovering and telling to their brethren that our religion and the great Indian one were identical, no more difference between them than between Ram and Rome. Priests, convents, beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, all the same, not forgetting anchorites and vermin, he! he! The Pope they found under the title of the grand lama, a sucking child surrounded by an immense number of priests. Our good brethren, some two hundred years ago, had a hearty laugh, which their successors have often reechoed; they said that helpless suckling and its priests put them so much in mind of their own old man, surrounded by his cardinals, he! he! Old age is second childhood.”

“Did they find Christ?” said I.

“They found him too,” said the man in black, “that is, they saw his image; he is considered in India as a pure kind of being, and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the background, even as he is here.”

“All this is very mysterious to me,” said I.

“Very likely,” said the man in black; “but of this I am tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern Rome had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion from the East.”

“But how?” I demanded.

“It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of nations,” said the man in black. “A brother of the Propaganda, a very learned man, once told me—I do not mean Mezzofanti,224 who has not five ideas—this brother once told me that all we of the Old World, from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, and were originally of the same language, and—”

“All of one religion,” I put in.

“All of one religion,” said the man in black; “and now follow different modifications of the same religion.”

“We Christians are not image-worshippers,” said I.

“You heretics are not, you mean,” said the man in black; “but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though others may rise up after you; the true religion is image-worship; people may strive against it, but they will only work themselves to an oil; how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoclast, what was his name, Leon the Isaurian?225 Did not his image-breaking cost him Italy, the fairest province of his empire, and did not ten fresh images start up at home for everyone which he demolished? Oh! you little know the craving which the soul sometimes feels after a good bodily image.”

“I have indeed no conception of it,” said I; “I have an abhorrence of idolatry—the idea of bowing before a graven figure!”

“The idea, indeed!” said Belle, who had now joined us.

“Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare?” said the man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle.

“I don’t remember that I ever did,” said I; “but even suppose I did?”

“Suppose you did,” said the man in black; “shame on you, Mr. Hater of Idolatry; why, the very supposition brings you to the ground; you must make figures of Shakespeare, must you? then why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio,226 or of a greater personage still! I know what you are going to say,” he cried, interrupting me, as I was about to speak, “You don’t make his image in order to pay it divine honours, but only to look at it, and think of Shakespeare; but this looking at a thing in order to think of a person is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespeare’s works are not sufficient for you; no more are the Bible or the legend of Saint Anthony or Saint Ignacio for us, that is for those of us who believe in them; I tell you Zingaro, that no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image.”

“Do you think,” said I, “that Shakespeare’s works would not exist without his image?”

“I believe,” said the man in black, “that Shakespeare’s image is looked at more than his works, and will be looked at, and perhaps adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that they have not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of them.”

“But I can’t imagine,” said I, “how you will put aside the authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of the practice; what higher authority can you have than that of Moses?”

“The practice of the great majority of the human race,” said the man in black, “and the recurrence to image-worship where image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is considered by the Church as no better than a heretic, and though, for particular reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, the adoption was merely a sham one, as it never paid the slightest attention to them? No, no, the Church was never led by Moses, nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine it has equally nullified—I allude to Krishna in his second avatar; the Church, it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives him the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to the French Protestant Jean Anthoine Guérin, who had asked him whether it was easier for Christ to have been mistaken in His Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his decrees?”

“I never heard their names before,” said I.

“The answer was pat,” said the man in black, “though he who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. ‘Christ might err as a man,’ said he, ‘but the Pope can never err, being God.’ The whole story is related in the Nipotismo.”

“I wonder you should ever have troubled yourself with Christ at all,” said I.

“What was to be done?” said the man in black; “the power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power of a mighty wind; it was said to have come from Judea, and from Judea it probably came when it first began to agitate minds in these parts; but it seems to have been known in the remote East, more or less, for thousands of years previously. It filled people’s minds with madness; it was followed by books which were never much regarded, as they contained little of insanity; but the name! what fury that breathed into people! the books were about peace and gentleness, but the name was the most horrible of war-cries—those who wished to uphold old names at first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were feeble, and they had no good war-cry; what was Mars as a war-cry compared with the name of … ? It was said that they persecuted terribly, but who said so? The Christians. The Christians could have given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and eventually did so. None but Christians have ever been good persecutors; well, the old religion succumbed, Christianity prevailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail over the gentle.”

“I thought,” said I, “you stated a little time ago that the Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?”

“In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and love of persecution which it inspired,” said the man in black. “A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely maddened people’s minds, and the people would call themselves his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong to Krishna, and they did belong to Krishna; that is in name, but in nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to him, or put them in practice?”

“Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to practise what they enjoin as much as possible.”

“But you reject his image,” said the man in black; “better reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest, whom they call—”

“Mumbo Jumbo,” said I; “I know all about him already.”

“How came you to know anything about him?” said the man in black, with a look of some surprise.

“Some of us poor Protestant tinkers,” said I, “though we live in dingles, are also acquainted with a thing or two.”

“I really believe you are,” said the man in black, staring at me; “but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met at Rome.”

“It would be quite unnecessary,” said I; “I would much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image.”

“Spoken like a true heretic,” said the man in black; “one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily image!”

“I believe you occasionally quote his words?” said I.

“He! he!” said the man in black; “occasionally.”

“For example,” said I, “upon this rock I will found my Church.”

“He! he!” said the man in black; “you must really become one of us.”

“Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock to Rome?”

“None whatever,” said the man in black; “faith can remove mountains, to say nothing of rocks—ho! ho!”

“But I cannot imagine,” said I, “what advantage you could derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the Saviour talks about eating His body.”

“I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about the matter at all,” said the man in black; “but when you talk about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, Mr. Tinker; when He whom you call the Saviour gave His followers the sop, and bade them eat it, telling them it was His body, He delicately alluded to what it was incumbent upon them to do after His death, namely, to eat His body.”

“You do not mean to say that He intended they should actually eat His body?”

“Then you suppose ignorantly,” said the man in black; “eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, practised by the heirs and legatees of people who left property; and this custom is alluded to in the text.”

“But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs,” said I, “except to destroy them?”

“More than you suppose,” said the man in black. “We priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much better what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and their theologians, not forgetting their Tinkers; though I confess some of the latter have occasionally surprised us—for example, Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded with allusions to heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan sorcery. Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you, who pretend to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen.”

I made no answer.

“We of Rome,” said the man in black, “know two or three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant; for example, there are those amongst us—those, too, who do not pretend to be philologists—who know what Amen is, and moreover, how we got it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of ancient Rome; and they got the word from their ancestors of the East, the priests of Buddha and Brahma.”

“And what is the meaning of the word?” I demanded.

“Amen,” said the man in black, “is a modification of the old Hindu formula, Omani batsikhom,227 by the almost ceaseless repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the rest or state of forgetfulness of Buddha or Brahma; a foolish practice you will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are continually sticking Amen to the end of your prayers, little knowing when you do so, that you are consigning yourselves to the repose of Buddha! Oh, what hearty laughs our missionaries have had when comparing the eternally-sounding Eastern gibberish of Omani batsikhom, Omani batsikhom, and the Ave Maria and Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees.”

“I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of your superstitious devotees,” said I; “I dare say that they use them nonsensically enough, but in putting Amen to the end of a prayer, we merely intend to express, ‘So let it be.’ ”

“It means nothing of the kind,” said the man in black; “and the Hindus might just as well put your national oath at the end of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it remembered by dim tradition without being understood. How strange if, after the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindus should damn themselves to the blindness so dear to their present masters, even as their masters at present consign themselves to the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindus; but my glass has been empty for a considerable time; perhaps, Bellissima Biondina,”228 said he, addressing Belle, “you will deign to replenish it?”

“I shall do no such thing,” said Belle, “you have drunk quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the truth, I wish you would leave us alone.”

“Shame on you, Belle,” said I, “consider the obligations of hospitality.”

“I am sick of that word,” said Belle, “you are so frequently misusing it; were this place not Mumpers’ Dingle, and consequently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him out of it.”

“Pray be quiet, Belle,” said I. “You had better help yourself,” said I, addressing myself to the man in black, “the lady is angry with you.”

“I am sorry for it,” said the man in black; “if she is angry with me, I am not so with her, and shall be always proud to wait upon her; in the meantime, I will wait upon myself.”

IV

The man in black having helped himself to some more of his favourite beverage, and tasted it, I thus addressed him: “The evening is getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady,” pointing to Belle, “is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to take cosily and comfortably with me in the dingle: the place, it is true, is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless as we are located here by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must take the liberty of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone, as soon as you have said what you have to say, and have finished the glass of refreshment at present in your hand. I think you said some time ago that one of your motives for coming hither was to induce me to enlist under the banner of Rome. I wish to know whether that was really the case?”

“Decidedly so,” said the man in black; “I come here principally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which I have no doubt you could do us excellent service.”

“Would you enlist my companion as well?” I demanded.

“We should be only too proud to have her among us, whether she comes with you or alone,” said the man in black, with a polite bow to Belle.

“Before we give you an answer,” I replied, “I would fain know more about you; perhaps you will declare your name?”

“That I will never do,” said the man in black; “no one in England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even in a dingle; as for the rest, Sono un Prete Cattolico Appostolico229—that is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means a great deal.”

“We will now proceed to business,” said I. “You must be aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested people.”

“And with considerable justice,” said the man in black, drinking. “Well, you are a person of acute perception, and I will presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but to the world; but should you enlist with us, I could find you an occupation not only agreeable, but one in which your talents would have free scope. I would introduce you in the various grand houses here in England, to which I have myself admission, as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who by dint of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. I tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, nay, a God of you; they are fools enough for anything. There is one person in particular with whom I should wish to make you acquainted, in the hope that you would be able to help me to perform good service to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, of some learning, residing in an old hall, near the great western seaport, and is one of the very few amongst the English Catholics possessing a grain of sense. I think you could help us to govern him, for he is not unfrequently disposed to be restive, asks us strange questions—occasionally threatens us with his crutch; and behaves so that we are often afraid that we shall lose him, or, rather, his property, which he has bequeathed to us, and which is enormous. I am sure that you could help us to deal with him; sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, and perhaps occasionally with your fists.”

“And in what manner would you provide for my companion?” said I.

“We would place her at once,” said the man in black, “in the house of two highly respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing a year’s probation, during which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion—to say nothing of her height—being a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but after her death she might become a glorified saint—he! he! Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria Theresa—glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of drinking to your health,” and the man in black drank.

“Well, Belle,” said I, “what have you to say to the gentleman’s proposal?”

“That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his mouth.”

“You have heard the lady’s answer,” said I.

“I have,” said the man in black, “and shall not press the matter. I can’t help, however, repeating that she would make a capital lady abbess; she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth—he! he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns’ heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan, should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat,” said he, observing that Belle had started up; “I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, and to cooperate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, connubio stabili, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already.”

“Hold your mumping gibberish,” said Belle, “and leave the dingle this moment, for though ’tis free to everyone, you have no right to insult me in it.”

“Pray be pacified,” said I to Belle, getting up, and placing myself between her and the man in black; “he will presently leave, take my word for it—there, sit down again,” said I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in black: “I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible.”

“I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first,” said he.

“Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish.”

“Wicked,” said the man in black, “have they not—he! he!—the furtherance of religion in view?”

“A religion,” said I, “in which you yourself do not believe, and which you contemn.”

“Whether I believe in it or not,” said the man in black, “it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in these regions, but it is springing up again owing to circumstances. Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the Liberals laud up our system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a baronet who presided over the first Radical meeting ever held in England—he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the hope of mortifying his own Church—but he is now—ho! ho!—a real Catholic devotee—quite afraid of my threats; I make him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be found amongst the Radicals, and perhaps as many lords—fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something they have done—it incontestably flourishes best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra,230 stick a cigar in their mouth, and say, c—jo. Others would pass for Germans; he! he! the idea of anyone wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us more service than anything else in these regions—I mean amidst the middle classes—has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. There’s a trumpery bit of a half-papist sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of—ho! ho! ho!—Scottish Cavaliers!!! I heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about ‘Bonnie Dundee,’ and:—

“ ‘Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can,
And saddle my horse, and call up my man.’

There’s stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty. It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, ‘Come, fill up my cup!’ more especially if he’s drinking at another person’s expense—all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but ‘Saddle his horse!!!’—for what purpose, I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride?”

“Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins,”231 said I, “otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said the man in black; “you know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thoroughgoing Papist—and who more thoroughgoing than myself?—cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country.”

“One thing,” said I, “connected with you, I cannot understand; you call yourself a thoroughgoing Papist, yet are continually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it.”

“Rome is a very sensible old body,” said the man in black, “and little cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her puta232 all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders. Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing her, and calling her puta in the marketplace, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally calling her puta in the dingle.”

“But,” said I, “suppose someone were to tell the world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle?”

“He would have the fate of Cassandra,” said the man in black; “no one would believe him—yes, the priests would: but they would make no sign of belief. They believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers233—that is, those who have read it; but they make no sign.”

“A pretty system,” said I, “which extinguishes love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but mischief.”

“The system,” said the man in black, “is a grand one, with unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, and you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst Protestantism is supine. A pretty Church, indeed, the Protestant! Why, it can’t even work a miracle.”

“Can your Church work miracles?” I demanded.

“That was the very question,” said the man in black, “which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. ‘We don’t pretend to work miracles; do you?’ ‘Oh! dear me, yes,’ said Austin; ‘we find no difficulty in the matter. We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you, I will give sight to the blind. Here is this blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false Church;’ and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian. So we manage matters! A pretty Church, that old British Church, which could not work miracles—quite as helpless as the modern one. The fools! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?—and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?”

“It’s a pity,” said I, “that the British clergy at that interview with Austin did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him.”

“Clearly,” said the man in black; “that’s what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource.” Here he took a sip at his glass.

“But they did not believe in the miracle?” said I.

“And what did their not believing avail them?” said the man in black, “Austin remained master of the field, and they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin’s opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! I wonder it has not been painted!—he! he!”

“I suppose your Church still performs miracles occasionally!” said I.

“It does,” said the man in black. “The Rev. ——— has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of the people possessed—he! he! Oh! there is so much energy in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine.”

“You must not imagine,” said I, “that all Protestants are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate God’s Word. I remember only a few months ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, the object of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors.”234

The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. “I know the people to whom you allude,” said he; “indeed, unknown to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom who have caused our Church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly and their vanity, they are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the most untiring perseverance, and in spite of diverse minatory declarations of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledgehammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again.”

“Well, then,” said I, “you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools?”

“It is but too true,” said the man in black; “and if the rest of your Church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream—I beg their pardons—warble about Scotland’s Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papas’ zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished. Old Rome will win, so you had better join her.”

And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass.

“Never,” said I, “will I become the slave of Rome.”

“She will allow you latitude,” said the man in black; “do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her puta at a decent time and place, her popes occasionally call her puta. A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out puta three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was—”

“Alexander the Sixth,235 I dare say,” said I; “the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the popish system ever had—so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.”

“I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope,” said the man in black; “it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the Church by that name, and other popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it, if you belong to her.”

“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging to her, or asking her permission.”

“She will allow you to treat her as such, if you belong to her,” said the man in black; “there is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue—the son of a cardinal—I mean his nephew—once—Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go.”

“I have read all about that in Keysler’s Travels,” said I; “do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose.”

“She is fond of lucre,” said the man in black; “but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite,” and he took out a very handsome gold repeater.

“Are you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?”

“Not before the eyes of one like you,” said the man in black.

“It is getting late,” said I; “I care not for perquisites.”

“So you will not join us?” said the man in black.

“You have had my answer,” said I.

“If I belong to Rome,” said the man in black, “why should not you?”

“I may be a poor tinker,” said I, “but I may never have undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable of the fox who had lost his tail?”

The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, he said: “Well, we can do without you, we are sure of winning.”

“It is not the part of wise people,” said I, “to make sure of the battle before it is fought: there’s the landlord of the public-house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the cocks lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt.”

“People very different from the landlord,” said the man in black, “both in intellect and station, think we shall surely win; there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our success.”

“Well,” said I, “I will set the landlord aside, and will adduce one who was in every point a very different person from the landlord, both in understanding and station; he was very fond of laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. His last and darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding that by his calculations he had persuaded himself that there was no possibility of its failing—the person that I allude to was old Fraser—”

“Who?” said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his glass fall.

“Old Fraser of Lovat,” said I; “the prince of all conspirators and machinators; he made sure of placing the Pretender on the throne of these realms. ‘I can bring into the field so many men,’ said he; ‘my son-in-law, Cluny, so many, and likewise my cousin, and my good friend;’ then speaking of those on whom the Government reckoned for support, he would say: ‘So-and-so are lukewarm, this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us, the clergy are anything but hostile to us, and as for the soldiers and sailors, half are disaffected to King George, and the rest cowards.’ Yet when things came to a trial, this person whom he had calculated upon to join the Pretender did not stir from his home, another joined the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards turned out heroes, and those whom he thought heroes ran away like lusty fellows at Culloden; in a word, he found himself utterly mistaken, and in nothing more than in himself; he thought he was a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old fox; he got up a hollow tree, didn’t he, just like a fox?

L’opere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe.”236

The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, and at length answered in rather a faltering voice: “I was not prepared for this; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of things which I should never have expected any person of your appearance to be acquainted with, but that you should be aware of my name is a circumstance utterly incomprehensible to me. I had imagined that no person in England was acquainted with it; indeed, I don’t see how any person should be, I have revealed it to no one, not being particularly proud of it. Yes, I acknowledge that my name is Fraser, and that I am of the blood of that family or clan, of which the rector of our college once said, that he was firmly of opinion that every individual member was either rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, oimè,237 Fraser blood. My parents, at an early age, took me to ———,238 where they shortly died, not, however, before they had placed me in the service of a cardinal, with whom I continued some years, and who, when he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, in the left-hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of Sir John D——; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost whatever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. Let me not, however, forget two points, I am a Fraser, it is true, but not a Flannagan; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, but not of Ireland; I was bred up at the English house, and there is at ———239 a house for the education of bogtrotters; I was not bred up at that; beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet lower; whatever my blood may be, it is at least not Irish; whatever my education may have been, I was not bred at the Irish seminary—on those accounts I am thankful—yes, per Dio!240 I am thankful. After some years at college—but why should I tell you my history? you know it already perfectly well, probably much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest, labouring in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old,241 save and except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are changed. As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome—I must; no hay remedio,242 as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to further her holy plans—he! he!—but I confess I begin to doubt of their being successful here—you put me out; old Fraser of Lovat! I have heard my father talk of him; he had a gold-headed cane, with which he once knocked my grandfather down—he was an astute one, but, as you say, mistaken, particularly in himself. I have read his life by Arbuthnot, it is in the library of our college. Farewell! I shall come no more to this dingle—to come would be of no utility; I shall go and labour elsewhere, though—how you came to know my name, is a fact quite inexplicable—farewell! to you both.”

He then arose, and without further salutation departed from the dingle, in which I never saw him again. “How, in the name of wonder, came you to know that man’s name?” said Belle, after he had been gone some time.

“I, Belle? I knew nothing of the fellow’s name, I assure you.”

“But you mentioned his name.”

“If I did, it was merely casually, by way of illustration. I was saying how frequently cunning people were mistaken in their calculations, and I adduced the case of old Fraser of Lovat, as one in point; I brought forward his name, because I was well acquainted with his history, from having compiled and inserted it in a wonderful work,243 which I edited some months ago, entitled Newgate Lives and Trials, but without the slightest idea that it was the name of him who was sitting with us; he, however, thought that I was aware of his name. Belle! Belle! for a long time I doubted the truth of Scripture, owing to certain conceited discourses which I had heard from certain conceited individuals, but now I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful texts there are in Scripture, Belle! ‘The wicked trembleth where—where—’ ”

“ ‘They were afraid where no fear was; thou hast put them to confusion, because God hath despised them,’ ” said Belle; “I have frequently read it before the clergyman in the great house of Long Melford. But if you did not know the man’s name, why let him go away supposing that you did?”

“Oh, if he was fool enough to make such a mistake, I was not going to undeceive him—no, no! Let the enemies of old England make the most of all their blunders and mistakes, they will have no help from me; but enough of the fellow, Belle; let us now have tea, and after that—”

“No Armenian,” said Belle; “but I want to ask a question: pray are all people of that man’s name either rogues or fools?”

“It is impossible for me to say, Belle, this person being the only one of the name I have ever personally known. I suppose there are good and bad, clever and foolish, amongst them, as amongst all large bodies of people; however, after the tribe had been governed for upwards of thirty years by such a person as old Fraser, it were no wonder if the greater part had become either rogues or fools: he was a ruthless tyrant, Belle, over his own people, and by his cruelty and rapaciousness must either have stunned them into an apathy approaching to idiocy, or made them artful knaves in their own defence. The qualities of parents are generally transmitted to their descendants—the progeny of trained pointers are almost sure to point, even without being taught: if, therefore, all Frasers are either rogues or fools, as this person seems to insinuate, it is little to be wondered at, their parents or grandparents having been in the training-school of old Fraser! But enough of the old tyrant and his slaves. Belle, prepare tea this moment, or dread my anger. I have not a gold-headed cane like old Fraser of Lovat, but I have, what some people would dread much more, an Armenian rune-stick.”

V

On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I heard the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming: “Sleepest thou, or wakest thou?” “I was never more awake in my life,” said I, going out. “What is the matter?” “He of the horseshoe,” said she, “Jasper, of whom I have heard you talk, is above there on the field with all his people; I went about a quarter of an hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them arriving.” “It is well,” said I; “have you any objection to asking him and his wife to breakfast?” “You can do as you please,” said she; “I have cups enough, and have no objection to their company.” “We are the first occupiers of the ground,” said I, “and, being so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our best to practise the duties of hospitality.” “How fond you are of using that word,” said Belle; “if you wish to invite the man and his wife, do so, without more ado; remember, however, that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the whole company.” Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently found myself outside the dingle. It was as usual a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon. A rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle. About five yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and which is called in the Romanian language “Kekauviskoe saster.” With the sharp end of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in the earth, at about twenty inches distant from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted no less than the timbers of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro, and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about.

“Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove the sharp end of the bar into the ground; “here we are and plenty of us—Bute dosta Romany chals.”

“I am glad to see you all,” said I, “and particularly you, madam,” said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; “and you also, madam,” taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno.

“Good day to you, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you look, as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners.”

“It is not all gold that glitters,” said Mrs. Chikno. “However, good-morrow to you, young rye.”

“I do not see Tawno,” said I, looking around; “where is he?”

“Where, indeed!” said Mrs. Chikno; “I don’t know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer.”

“He will be here anon,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he has merely ridden down a byroad to show a farmer a two-year-old colt; she heard me give him directions, but she can’t be satisfied.”

“I can’t, indeed,” said Mrs. Chikno.

“And why not, sister?”

“Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I said before, you countenances him.”

“Well,” said I, “I know nothing of your private concerns; I am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro’s company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam,” said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno.

“Is that young female your wife, young man?” said Mrs. Chikno.

“My wife?” said I.

“Yes, young man; your wife, your lawful certificated wife?”

“No,” said I; “she is not my wife.”

“Then I will not visit with her,” said Mrs. Chikno; “I countenance nothing in the roving line.”

“What do you mean by the roving line?” I demanded.

“What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies live together in dingles, without being certificated, I call such behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband’s outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance.”

“It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being suspected of doing wrong,” said I.

“So it is,” said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing; “and, to tell you the truth, I am altogether surprised at the illiberality of my sister’s remarks. I have often heard say, that is in good company—and I have kept good company in my time—that suspicion is king’s evidence of a narrow and uncultivated mind; on which account I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a lord; but ask him whether I am suspicious of him, and whether I seeks to keep him close tied to my apron-string; he will tell you nothing of the kind; but that, on the contrary, I always allows him an agreeable latitude, permitting him to go where he pleases, and to converse with anyone to whose manner of speaking he may take a fancy. But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, and therefore—”

“Mek lis,” said Mrs. Chikno, “pray drop all that, sister; I believe I have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company with you, I believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated line.”

“In whatever line it was,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “the offer was a good one. The young duke—for he was not only a lord, but a duke too—offered to keep me a fine carriage, and to make me his second wife; for it is true that he had another who was old and stout, though mighty rich, and highly good-natured; so much so, indeed, that the young lord assured me that she would have no manner of objection to the arrangement; more especially if I would consent to live in the same house with her, being fond of young and cheerful society. So you see—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Chikno, “I see what I before thought, that it was altogether in the uncertificated line.”

“Mek lis,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “I use your own word, madam, which is Romany: for my own part, I am not fond of using Romany words, unless I can hope to pass them off for French, which I cannot in the present company. I heartily wish that there was no such language, and do my best to keep it away from my children, lest the frequent use of it should altogether confirm them in low and vulgar habits. I have four children, madam, but—”

“I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check me for having none,” said Mrs. Chikno bursting into tears; “if I have no children, sister, it is no fault of mine, it is—but why do I call you sister?” said she angrily; “you are no sister of mine, you are a grasni, a regular mare—a pretty sister, indeed, ashamed of your own language. I remember well that by your high-flying notions you drove your own mother—”

“We will drop it,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “I do not wish to raise my voice, and to make myself ridiculous. Young gentleman,” said she, “pray present my compliments to Miss Isopel Berners, and inform her that I am very sorry that I cannot accept her polite invitation. I am just arrived, and have some slight domestic matters to see to—amongst others, to wash my children’s faces; but that in the course of the forenoon, when I have attended to what I have to do, and have dressed myself, I hope to do myself the honour of paying her a regular visit; you will tell her that, with my compliments. With respect to my husband, he can answer for himself, as I, not being of a jealous disposition, never interferes with his matters.”

“And tell Miss Berners,” said Mr. Petulengro, “that I shall be happy to wait upon her in company with my wife as soon as we are regularly settled: at present I have much on my hands, having not only to pitch my own tent, but this here jealous woman’s, whose husband is absent on my business.”

Thereupon I returned to the dingle, and, without saying anything about Mrs. Chikno’s observations, communicated to Isopel the messages of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro; Isopel made no other reply than by replacing in her coffer two additional cups and saucers, which, in expectation of company, she had placed upon the board. The kettle was by this time boiling. We sat down, and, as we breakfasted, I gave Isopel Berners another lesson in the Armenian language.

VI

About midday Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro came to the dingle to pay the promised visit. Belle, at the time of their arrival, was in her tent, but I was at the fireplace, engaged in hammering part of the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off from one of the wheels of my vehicle. On perceiving them I forthwith went to receive them. Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, with a somewhat smartly cut sporting-coat, the buttons of which were half-crowns, and a waistcoat scarlet and black, the buttons of which were spaded half-guineas; his breeches were of a stuff half-velveteen, half-corduroy, the cords exceedingly broad. He had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the bottom, and upon his feet were highlows. Under his left arm was a long black whalebone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense silver knob. Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat of the kind which the Spaniards call calañés,244 so much in favour with the bravos of Seville and Madrid. Now, when I have added that Mr. Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I think I have described his array. Mrs. Petulengro—I beg pardon for not having spoken of her first—was also arrayed very much in the Roman fashion. Her hair, which was exceedingly black and lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head. In her ears were rings, with long drops of gold. Round her neck was a string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat tarnished, however, and apparently of considerable antiquity. “Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “here we are, come to see you—wizard and witch, witch and wizard:—

‘There’s a chovahanee, and a chovahano,
The nav se len is Petulengro.’ ”245

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you make me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties. We are come a visiting now, and everything low should be left behind.”

“True,” said Mr. Petulengro; “why bring what’s low to the dingle, which is low enough already?”

“What, are you a catcher at words?” said I. “I thought that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers and village witty bodies.”

“All fools,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “catch at words, and very naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility of rational conversation. Catching at words confined to pothouse farmers, and village witty bodies! No, not to Jasper Petulengro. Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call newspaper editors, and if you don’t go out and eat grass, as a dog does when he is sick, I am no female woman. The young lord whose hand I refused when I took up with wise Jasper, once brought two of them to my mother’s tan, when hankering after my company; they did nothing but carp at each other’s words, and a pretty hand they made of it. Ill-favoured dogs they were; and their attempts at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances.”

“Well,” said I, “madam, we will drop all catchings and carpings for the present. Pray take your seat on this stool, whilst I go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival.”

Thereupon I went to Belle’s habitation, and informed her that Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro had paid us a visit of ceremony, and were awaiting her at the fireplace. “Pray go and tell them that I am busy,” said Belle, who was engaged with her needle. “I do not feel disposed to take part in any such nonsense.” “I shall do no such thing,” said I; “and I insist upon your coming forthwith, and showing proper courtesy to your visitors. If you do not, their feelings will be hurt, and you are aware that I cannot bear that people’s feelings should be outraged. Come this moment, or—” “Or what?” said Belle, half smiling. “I was about to say something in Armenian,” said I. “Well,” said Belle, laying down her work, “I will come.” “Stay,” said I, “your hair is hanging about your ears, and your dress is in disorder; you had better stay a minute or two to prepare yourself to appear before your visitors, who have come in their very best attire.” “No,” said Belle, “I will make no alteration in my appearance; you told me to come this moment, and you shall be obeyed.” So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we drew nigh, Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from the stool and made a profound courtesy. Belle who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very handsome—but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark—as dark as could be. Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with unmixed admiration; so did her husband. “Well,” said the latter, “one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come down!”

“Tawno Chikno,” said Mrs. Petulengro, flaring up; “a pretty fellow he to stand up in front of this gentlewoman, a pity he didn’t come, quotha? not at all, the fellow is a sneak, afraid of his wife. He stand up against this rawnie! why, the look she has given me would knock the fellow down.”

“It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist,” said Mr. Petulengro; “that is, if the look comes from a woman: not that I am disposed to doubt that this female gentlewoman is able to knock him down either one way or the other. I have heard of her often enough, and have seen her once or twice, though not so near as now. Well, ma’am, my wife and I are come to pay our respects to you; we are both glad to find that you have left off keeping company with Flaming Bosville,246 and have taken up with my pal; he is not very handsome, but a better—”

“I take up with your pal, as you call him! you had better mind what you say,” said Isopel Berners; “I take up with nobody.”

“I merely mean taking up your quarters with him,” said Mr. Petulengro; “and I was only about to say a better fellow-lodger you cannot have, or a more instructive, especially if you have a desire to be inoculated with tongues, as he calls them. I wonder whether you and he have had any tongue-work already.”

“Have you and your wife anything particular to say? If you have nothing but this kind of conversation I must leave you, as I am going to make a journey this afternoon, and should be getting ready.”

“You must excuse my husband, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “he is not overburdened with understanding, and has said but one word of sense since he has been here, which was that we came to pay our respects to you. We have dressed ourselves in our best Roman way, in order to do honour to you; perhaps you do not like it; if so, I am sorry. I have no French clothes, madam; if I had any, madam, I would have come in them, in order to do you more honour.”

“I like to see you much better as you are,” said Belle; “people should keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty.”

“I am glad you are pleased to think it so, madam; it has been admired in the great city; it created what they call a sensation, and some of the great ladies, the court ladies, imitated it, else I should not appear in it so often as I am accustomed; for I am not very fond of what is Roman, having an imagination that what is Roman is ungenteel; in fact, I once heard the wife of a rich citizen say that gypsies were vulgar creatures. I should have taken her saying very much to heart, but for her improper pronunciation; she could not pronounce her words, madam, which we gypsies, as they call us, usually can, so I thought she was no very high purchase. You are very beautiful, madam, though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain see how your hair would look in our poor gypsy fashion; pray allow me, madam?” and she took Belle by the hand.

“I really can do no such thing,” said Belle, withdrawing her hand; “I thank you for coming to see me, but—”

“Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro. “I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for people with dark hair and complexions, madam.”

“Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?” said Mr. Petulengro; “that same lord was fair enough all about him.”

“People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam,” said she, again taking Belle by the hand, “do oblige me by allowing me to plait your hair a little?”

“I have really a good mind to be angry with you,” said Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance.

“Do allow her to arrange your hair,” said I; “she means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too, for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion.”

“You hear what the young rye says?” said Mrs. Petulengro. “I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think small beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you will oblige him. My sister Ursula would be very willing to oblige him in many things, but he will not ask her for anything, except for such a favour as a word, which is a poor favour after all. I don’t mean for her word; perhaps he will some day ask you for your word. If so—”

“Why, here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, catching at a word yourself,” said Mr. Petulengro.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro. “Don’t interrupt me in my discourse; if I caught at a word now, I am not in the habit of doing so. I am no conceited body; no newspaper Neddy; no pothouse witty person. I was about to say, madam, that if the young rye asks you at any time for your word, you will do as you deem convenient; but I am sure you will oblige him by allowing me to braid your hair.”

“I shall not do it to oblige him,” said Belle; “the young rye, as you call him, is nothing to me.”

“Well, then, to oblige me,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “do allow me to become your poor tire-woman.”

“It is great nonsense,” said Belle, reddening; “however, as you came to see me, and ask the matter as a particular favour to yourself—”

“Thank you, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, leading Belle to the stool; “please to sit down here. Thank you; your hair is very beautiful, madam,” she continued, as she proceeded to braid Belle’s hair; “so is your countenance. Should you ever go to the great city, among the grand folks, you would make a sensation, madam. I have made one myself, who am dark; the chi she is kauley, which last word signifies black, which I am not, though rather dark. There’s no colour like white, madam; it’s so lasting, so genteel. Gentility will carry the day, madam, even with the young rye. He will ask words of the black lass, but beg the word of the fair.”

In the meantime Mr. Petulengro and myself entered into conversation. “Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?” said I. “Have you heard anything of the great religious movements?”

“Plenty,” said Mr. Petulengro; “all the religious people, more especially the Evangelicals—those that go about distributing tracts—are very angry about the fight between Gentleman Cooper and White-headed Bob,247 which they say ought not to have been permitted to take place; and then they are trying all they can to prevent the fight between the lion and the dogs, which they say is a disgrace to a Christian country. Now I can’t say that I have any quarrel with the religious party and the Evangelicals; they are always civil to me and mine, and frequently give us tracts, as they call them, which neither I nor mine can read; but I cannot say that I approve of any movements, religious or not, which have in aim to put down all life and manly sport in this here country.”

“Anything else?” said I.

“People are becoming vastly sharp,” said Mr. Petulengro; “and I am told that all the old-fashioned good-tempered constables are going to be set aside, and a paid body of men to be established, who are not to permit a tramper or vagabond on the roads of England; and talking of roads, puts me in mind of a strange story I heard two nights ago, whilst drinking some beer at a public-house, in company with my cousin Sylvester. I had asked Tawno to go, but his wife would not let him. Just opposite me, smoking their pipes, were a couple of men, something like engineers, and they were talking of a wonderful invention which was to make a wonderful alteration in England; inasmuch as it would set aside all the old roads, which in a little time would be ploughed up, and sowed with corn, and cause all England to be laid down with iron roads, on which people would go thundering along in vehicles, pushed forward by fire and smoke. Now, brother, when I heard this, I did not feel very comfortable; for I thought to myself, what a queer place such a road would be to pitch one’s tent upon, and how impossible it would be for one’s cattle to find a bite of grass upon it; and I thought likewise of the danger to which one’s family would be exposed of being run over and severely scorched by these same flying fiery vehicles; so I made bold to say, that I hoped such an invention would never be countenanced, because it was likely to do a great deal of harm. Whereupon, one of the men, giving me a glance, said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, that for his part, he sincerely hoped that it would take effect; and if it did no other good than stopping the rambles of gypsies, and other like scamps, it ought to be encouraged. Well, brother, feeling myself insulted, I put my hand into my pocket, in order to pull out money, intending to challenge him to fight for a five-shilling stake, but merely found sixpence, having left all my other money at the tent; which sixpence was just sufficient to pay for the beer which Sylvester and myself were drinking, of whom I couldn’t hope to borrow anything—‘poor as Sylvester’ being a byword amongst us. So, not being able to back myself, I held my peace, and let the gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning up his nose at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying what a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the shoeing of England with iron. And after he had said this, and much more of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and his companion got up and walked away; and presently I and Sylvester got up and walked to our camp; and there I lay down in my tent by the side of my wife, where I had an ugly dream of having camped upon an iron road; my tent being overturned by a flying vehicle; my wife’s leg injured; and all my affairs put into great confusion.”

“Now, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before.” Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro’s hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine—that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie,248 the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory.

Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said: “You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?” “Quite so, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass.” “I have looked in one already,” said Belle, “and the glass does not flatter.” “You mean the face of the young rye,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you, that you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, you will wear your hair in this way.” “And who is to braid it in this way?” said Belle, smiling. “I, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be persuaded to join us. Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so too.” “The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him,” said Belle; “we have stayed some time together, but our paths will soon be apart. Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey.” “And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “if you do, everybody will be in love with you.” “No,” said Belle; “hitherto I have allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own way. Come, come,” said she, observing that the gypsy was about to speak, “we have had enough of nonsense; whenever I leave this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own fashion.” “Come, wife,” said Mr. Petulengro, “we will no longer intrude upon the rye and rawnie; there is such a thing as being troublesome.” Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife took their leave, with many salutations. “Then you are going?” said I, when Belle and I were left alone. “Yes,” said Belle; “I am going on a journey; my affairs compel me.” “But you will return again?” said I. “Yes,” said Belle, “I shall return once more.” “Once more,” said I; “what do you mean by once more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will you abandon me in this place?” “You were alone here,” said Belle, “before I came, and, I suppose, found it agreeable, or you would not have stayed in it.” “Yes,” said I, “that was before I knew you; but having lived with you here, I should be very loth to live here without you.” “Indeed,” said Belle; “I did not know that I was of so much consequence to you. Well, the day is wearing away—I must go and harness Traveller to the cart.” “I will do that,” said I, “or anything else you may wish me. Go and prepare yourself; I will see after Traveller and the cart.” Belle departed to her tent, and I set about performing the task I had undertaken. In about half an hour Belle again made her appearance—she was dressed neatly and plainly. Her hair was no longer in the Roman fashion, in which Pakomovna had plaited it, but was secured by a comb; she held a bonnet in her hand. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” I demanded. “There are two or three bundles by my tent, which you can put into the cart,” said Belle. I put the bundles into the cart, and then led Traveller and the cart up the winding path to the mouth of the dingle, near which was Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. Belle followed. At the top, I delivered the reins into her hands; we looked at each other steadfastly for some time. Belle then departed, and I returned to the dingle, where, seating myself on my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour in thought.

VII

On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany chals of Mr. Petulengro’s party.249 Throughout the forenoon the Romany chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh which they cooked was swine’s flesh. About two o’clock, the chals and chies, dividing themselves into various parties, sat down and partook of the fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. I dined that day with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, and Sylvester and his two children. Sylvester, it will be as well to say, was a widower, and had consequently no one to cook his victuals for him, supposing he had any, which was not always the case, Sylvester’s affairs being seldom in a prosperous state. He was noted for his bad success in trafficking, notwithstanding the many hints which he received from Jasper, under whose protection he had placed himself, even as Tawno Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard on a former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the Romany tribe.

All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, feeling rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I did not, like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus,250 who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle. During the dinner a horn filled with ale passed frequently around; I drank of it more than once, and felt inspirited by the draughts. The repast concluded, Sylvester and his children departed to their tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno and myself, getting up, went and lay down under a shady hedge, where Mr. Petulengro, lighting his pipe, began to smoke, and where Tawno presently fell asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, when I heard the sound of music and song. Piramus was playing on the fiddle, whilst Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing in tones sharp enough, but of great power, a gipsy song:251—

Poisoning the Porker

By Mrs. Chikno

To mande shoon ye Romany chals
Who besh in the pus about the yag,
I’ll pen how we drab the baulo,
I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.

We jaws to the drab-engro ker,
Trin hors-worth there of drab we lels,
And when to the swety back we wels
We pens we’ll drab the baulo,
We’ll have a drab at the baulo.

And then we kairs the drab opré,
And then we jaws to the farming ker,
To mang a beti habben,
A beti poggado habben.

A rinkeno baulo there we dick,
And then we pens in Romano jib:
“Wust lis odoi opré ye chick,
And the baulo he will lel lis,
The baulo he will lel lis.”

Coliko, coliko saulo we
Apopli to the farming ker
Will wel and mang him mullo,
Will wel and mang his truppo.

And so we kairs, and so we kairs;
The baulo in the rarde mers;
We mang him on the saulo,
And rig to the tan the baulo.

And then we toves the wendror well
Till sore the wendror iuziou se,
Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis,
Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.

And then his truppo well we hatch,
Kin levinor at the kitchema,
And have a kosko habben,
A kosko Romano habben.

The boshom engro kils, he kils,
The tawnie juva gils, she gils
A puro Romano gillie,
Now shoon the Romano gillie.

Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger days, for a lady’s album:—

Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw about the fire, and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell how we poison the porker.

We go to the house of the poisonmonger,252 where we buy three pennies’ worth of bane, and when we return to our people, we say we will poison the porker; we will try and poison the porker.

We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house of the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals.

We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, “Fling the bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, the porker soon will find it.”

Early on the morrow, we will return to the farmhouse, and beg the dead porker, the body of the dead porker.

And so we do, even so we do; the porker dieth during the night; on the morrow we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker.

And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly clean, till there’s no bane within it, not a poison grain within it.

And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the alehouse, and have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet.

The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings, she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty.

Song of the Broken Chastity

By Ursula

Penn’d the Romany chi ké laki dye,
“Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!”
“And coin kerdo tute cambri,
Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?”
“O miry dye a boro rye,
A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye,
Sos kistur pré a pellengo grye,
’Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri.”
“Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny,
Tu chal from miry tan abri;
Had a Romany chal kair’d tute cambri,
Then I had penn’d ke tute chie,
But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny
With gorgikie rat to be cambri.”

“There’s some kernel in those songs, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, when the songs and music were over.

“Yes,” said I; “they are certainly very remarkable songs. [I translated both long ago for a lady’s album.”

“A lady’s what, brother?”

“A lil in which she kept bits of song and poetry to show occasionally to young ladies.”

“You had no right to do that, brother; you had no right to let the ladies into the secrets of people who took you up when you were little better than half a fool. But what did the lady say to them?”

“As I have done just now, that they were remarkable songs, strongly expressive of the manners and peculiarities of a remarkable people.”

“Brother, she was a gentlewoman, and I forgive you.”]

“I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor lately.”

“And suppose we have, brother, what then?”

“Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the wickedness of it.”

“Necessity has no law, brother.”

“That is true,” said I; “I have always said so, but you are not necessitous, and should not drab baulor.”

“And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?”

“Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet, Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally thought you might have lately been engaged in such a thing.”

“Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common sense. It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner of pork, and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor; I will now tell you that we have not been doing so. What have you to say to that?”

“That I am very glad of it.”

“Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found that it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can hardly be expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at present, we have money and credit; but necessity has no law. Our forefathers occasionally drabbed baulor; some of our people may still do such a thing, but only from compulsion.”

“I see,” said I; “and at your merry meetings you sing songs upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias, their villainous actions; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any nation be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry of Scotland, the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the villainous deeds of the Scotch nation; cow-stealing, for example, which is very little better than drabbing baulor; whilst the softer part is mostly about the slips of its females among the broom, so that no upholder of Scotch poetry could censure Ursula’s song253 as indelicate, even if he understood it. What do you think, Jasper?”

“I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you utter a word of common sense; you were talking of the Scotch, brother; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with Romany?”

“A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper! Oh dear, but you joke, the thing could never be.”

“Yes, and at Piramus’s fiddle; what do you think of a Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle?”

“A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle! nonsense, Jasper.”

“Do you know what I most dislike, brother?”

“I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper.”

“It is not the constable; it’s a beggar on horseback, brother.”

“What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?”

“Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were making merry, the girls were dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he has given his own name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and from which I have been told that one of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, has taken several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great many grand people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great house, and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of Rome, and seemed much pleased; and when the girls had left off dancing, and Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their fortunes told; so I bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune when she pleases better than anyone else, tell them a fortune, and she, being in a good mind, told them a fortune which pleased them very much. So, after they had heard their fortunes, one of them asked if any of our women could sing; and I told them several could, more particularly Leviathan—you know Leviathan, she is not here now, but some miles distant; she is our best singer, Ursula coming next. So the lady said she should like to hear Leviathan sing, whereupon Leviathan sang the Gudlo pesham, and Piramus played the tune of the same name, which as you know, means the honeycomb, the song and the tune being well entitled to the name, being wonderfully sweet. Well, everybody present seemed mighty well pleased with the song and music, with the exception of one person, a carroty-haired Scotch body; how he came there I don’t know, but there he was; and, coming forward, he began in Scotch as broad as a barn-door to find fault with the music and the song, saying, that he had never heard viler stuff than either. Well, brother, out of consideration for the civil gentry with whom the fellow had come, I held my peace for a long time, and in order to get the subject changed, I said to Mikailia in Romany, you have told the ladies their fortunes, now tell the gentlemen theirs, quick, quick—pen lende dukkerin. Well, brother, the Scotchman, I suppose, thinking I was speaking ill of him, fell into a greater passion than before, and catching hold of the word dukkerin—‘Dukkerin,’ said he, ‘what’s dukkerin?’ ‘Dukkerin,’ said I, ‘is fortune, a man or woman’s destiny; don’t you like the word?’ ‘Word! d’ye ca’ that a word? a bonnie word,’ said he. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell us what it is in Scotch,’ said I, ‘in order that we may improve our language by a Scotch word; a pal of mine has told me that we have taken a great many words from foreign lingos.’ ‘Why, then, if that be the case, fellow, I will tell you; it is e’en “spaeing,” ’ said he very seriously. ‘Well, then,’ said I, ‘I’ll keep my own word, which is much the prettiest—spaeing! spaeing! why, I should be ashamed to make use of the word, it sounds so much like a certain other word;’ and then I made a face as if I were unwell. ‘Perhaps it’s Scotch also for that?’ ‘What do ye mean by speaking in that guise to a gentleman?’ said he, ‘you insolent vagabond, without a name or a country.’ ‘There you are mistaken,’ said I; ‘my country is Egypt, but we ’Gyptians, like you Scotch, are rather fond of travelling; and as for name—my name is Jasper Petulengro, perhaps you have a better; what is it?’ ‘Sandy Macraw.’ At that, brother, the gentlemen burst into a roar of laughter, and all the ladies tittered.”

“You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper.”

“Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first; I am the civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody, who lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, forsooth! why, L——d A’mighty, what’s Scotch? He doesn’t like our songs; what are his own? I understand them as little as he mine; I have heard one or two of them, and pretty rubbish they seemed. But the best of the joke is, the fellow’s finding fault with Piramus’s fiddle—a chap from the land of bagpipes finding fault with Piramus’s fiddle! Why, I’ll back that fiddle against all the bagpipes in Scotland, and Piramus against all the bagpipers; for though Piramus weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman of twenty.”

“Scotchmen are never so fat as that,” said I, “unless, indeed, they have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, Jasper, what remarkable names your people have!”

“And what pretty names, brother; there’s my own for example, Jasper; then there’s Ambrose and Sylvester;254 then there’s Culvato, which signifies Claude; then there’s Piramus—that’s a nice name, brother.”

“Then there’s your wife’s name, Pakomovna; then there’s Ursula and Morella.”

“Then, brother, there’s Ercilla.”

“Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; then Leviathan.”

“The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a ship, so don’t make a wonder out of her. But there’s Sanpriel255 and Synfye.”256

“Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda and Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?”

“Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?”

“She knows best, Jasper. I hope—”

“Come, no hoping! She got it from her grandmother, who died at the age of 103, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard. She got it from her mother, who also died very old, and who could give no other account of it than that it had been in the family time out of mind.”

“Whence could they have got it?”

“Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A gentleman, who had travelled much, once told me that he had seen the sister of it about the neck of an Indian queen.”

“Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your own, for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester;257 perhaps you got them from the Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a name as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance? Then some of them appear to be Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna. I don’t know much of Slavonian; but—”

“What is Slavonian, brother?”

“The family name of certain nations, the principal of which is the Russian, and from which the word slave is originally derived. You have heard of the Russians, Jasper?”

“Yes, brother, and seen some. I saw their crallis at the time of the peace; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian.”

“By the by, Jasper, I’m half-inclined to think that crallis is a Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called Voltaire’s Life of Charles.258 How you should have come by such names and words is to me incomprehensible.”

“You seem posed, brother.”

“I really know very little about you, Jasper.”

“Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about ourselves; and you know nothing, save what we have told you; and we have now and then told you things about us which are not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you, brother. You will say that was wrong; perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here in a day or two, when we will go to church, where possibly we shall hear a sermon on the disastrous consequences of lying.”

VIII

When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. I could hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, “Come to church, come to church,” as clearly as it was possible for church-bells to say.259 I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. “Well, Jasper,” said I, “are you ready to go to church? for if you are, I am ready to accompany you.” “I am not ready, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off; so it is of no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are your people.” Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter Williams, had given me.

At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and efts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile by footpaths through meadows and cornfields; we crossed various stiles; at last passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the churchyard the bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the church. As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round, and with a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved. The part of the church which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable old men—probably the neighbouring poor—and on the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears as we entered:—

Every eye shall now behold Him,
Robed in dreadful majesty;
Those who set at nought and sold Him,
Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,
Deeply wailing,
Shall the true Messiah see.

Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear as we passed many a voice whispering: “Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!” I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons and daughters, opened a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton dressed in long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower end of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door, laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed the door—in a moment more the music ceased. I took up a prayerbook, on which was engraved an earl’s coronet. The clergyman uttered, “I will arise, and go to my father.” England’s sublime liturgy had commenced.

Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted to the religion of my country! I had not been in such a place I cannot tell for how long—certainly not for years; and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D——. I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woke up; but no! alas, no! I had not been asleep—at least not in the old church; if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep—ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep—how circumstances had altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in the old church! I was in a pew, it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings, of what I had learnt and unlearnt; nevertheless, the general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of yore. There was difference enough, it is true, but still there was a similarity—at least I thought so—the church, the clergyman and the clerk, differing in many respects from those of pretty D——, put me strangely in mind of them; and then the words!—by the by, was it not the magic of the words which brought the dear enchanting past so powerfully before the mind of Lavengro? for the words were the same sonorous words of high import which had first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church of pretty D——.

The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions behaved in a most unexceptionable manner, sitting down and rising up when other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands prayerbooks which they found in the pew, into which they stared intently, though I observed that, with the exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, as is the usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to attention, as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to their race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty, with greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy cast: the tones of his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat of melancholy in them. The text which he gave out was the following one: “In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole world, and lost his own soul?”

And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather surprised and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I compared it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the high-church rector in the old church of pretty D——, and I thought to myself it was very different, and being very different I did not like it, and I thought to myself how scandalised the people of D—— would have been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how indignant the high-church clerk would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of D—— and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it did; why, the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above the old city, preached in the same manner—at least he preached extempore; ay, and something like the present clergyman; for the Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, felt rather offended with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However, long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded.

Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked of the inestimable value of a man’s soul, which he said endured forever, whilst his body, as everyone knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible period of time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, who, for the sake of gaining the whole world—a thing, he said, which provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time, during which his perishable body existed—should lose his soul, that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer indescribable misery time without end.

There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very particular manner; he said: “That there were some people who gained something in return for their souls; if they did not get the whole world, they got a part of it—lands, wealth, honour, or renown; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of a man’s soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight or suffer tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost their souls, and got nothing for them—neither lands, wealth, renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised by everybody. My friends,” he added, “if the man is a fool who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool he must be who barters his soul for nothing.”

The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered around the whole congregation; and when he had concluded them, the eyes of the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and myself.

IX

The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the encampment by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro and his wife, however, returned their laughs and jokes with interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing: Tawno, like most handsome fellows, having very little to say for himself at any time; and myself, though not handsome, not being particularly skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for a considerable time, making all kinds of observations about gypsies; but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno walked together, even as they had come; whilst Mr. Petulengro and myself followed at a little distance.

“That was a very fine preacher we heard,” said I to Mr. Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields.

“Very fine indeed, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he is talked of far and wide for his sermons; folks say that there is scarcely another like him in the whole of England.”

“He looks rather melancholy, Jasper.”

“He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit before he lost his wife; since then, the whole country has rung with the preaching of the clergyman of M—— as they call him. Those two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with the female childer, are his daughters.”

“You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever hear him preach before?”

“Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and his daughters too, and given us tracts; for he is one of the people they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot read.”

“You should learn to read, Jasper.”

“We have no time, brother.”

“Are you not frequently idle?”

“Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we are engaged in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn.”

“You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be all the better for knowing how to read.”

“In what way, brother?”

“Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn your duty towards your fellow-creatures.”

“We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads.”

“Yet you frequently break the laws.”

“So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, brother.”

“Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as, by so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves: and your chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher say: ‘In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole world?’ ”

“We have not much of the world, brother.”

“Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes of the whole congregation were turned towards our pew when the preacher said: ‘There are some people who lose their souls, and get nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable’? Now was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?”

“We are not miserable, brother.”

“Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of ground of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you not spoken ill of by everybody? What’s a gypsy?”

“What’s the bird noising yonder, brother?”

“The bird! oh, that’s the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo to do with the matter?”

“We’ll see, brother; what’s the cuckoo?”

“What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper.”

“Isn’t it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?”

“I believe it is, Jasper.”

“Nobody knows whence it comes, brother.”

“I believe not, Jasper.”

“Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?”

“So they say, Jasper.”

“With every person’s bad word, brother?”

“Yes, Jasper; every person is mocking it.”

“Tolerably merry, brother?”

“Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper.”

“Of no use at all, brother?”

“None whatever, Jasper.”

“You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?”

“Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees and fields; no, I can’t say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo.”

“Well, brother, what’s a Romany chal?”

“You must answer that question yourself, Jasper.”

“A roguish, chaffing fellow; a’n’t he, brother?”

“Ay, ay, Jasper.”

“Of no use at all, brother?”

“Just so Jasper; I see—”

“Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?”

“I see what you are after, Jasper.”

“You would like to get rid of us, wouldn’t you?”

“Why no; not exactly.”

“We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time; are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin and dukkerin, don’t help to make them pleasant?”

“I see what you are at, Jasper.”

“You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn’t you?”

“Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish.”

“And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches; hey, brother?”

“Can’t say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal figures. I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you.”

“Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother; frequently, as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again.”

“Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!”

“And why not cuckoos, brother?”

“You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?”

“And how should a man?”

“Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.”

“How do you know it?”

“We know very well.”

“Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily oath?”

“Why, I think I might, Jasper!”

“Did you ever see the soul, brother?”

“No, I never saw it.”

“Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. ‘Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the donkey’s foal?’ Oh, there’s no one for cross-questioning like Counsellor P——. Our people when they are in a hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can you get over the ‘upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you have a soul?’ ”

“Well, we will take no oaths on the subject; but you yourself believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in dukkerin; now what is dukkerin but the soul science?”

“When did I say that I believed in it?”

“Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche to the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder and flame of heaven.”

“I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother.”

“Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode every night on horseback down the wooded hill.”

“I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!”

“I wish I had not, Jasper; but I can’t help it, it is my misfortune.”

“Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you have a long memory looks very vulgar; and that you can’t give a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as possible—more especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don’t deny that I may have said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw’s dook, which you say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, or say I believe, don’t be certain that I shall believe the next, or say I do.”

“Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on quoting a piece of a song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth, and there’s an end of him.”

“I did, did I? Lor’, what a memory you have, brother. But you are not sure that I hold that opinion now.”

“Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion.”

“However, brother, don’t be sure I do not, however shocking such an opinion may be to you.”

“What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper.”

“We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than yours before now.”

“You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct race.”

“I say, brother!”

“Yes, Jasper.”

“What do you think of our women?”

“They have certainly very singular names, Jasper.”

“Names! Lavengro! However, brother, if you had been as fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours.”

“What do you mean, Jasper?”

“A’n’t they rum animals?”

“They have tongues of their own, Jasper.”

“Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?”

“Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne’s. I have always been very civil to them, so—”

“They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret is in them.”

“They seem rather flighty, Jasper.”

“Ay, ay, brother!”

“Rather fond of loose discourse!”

“Rather so, brother.”

“Can you always trust them, Jasper?”

“We never watch them, brother.”

“They can always trust you?”

“Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get on very well together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous—though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his.”

“Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?”

“My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother?”

“But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper.”

“Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign of the gammon.”

“Gammon of bacon, I suppose.”

“Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means—”

“I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda.”260

“Lor’, brother! how learned in lils you are!”

“Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, Jasper; for example—in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, ‘Your mother is up,’ there’s a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas,261 Jasper.”

“Lor’, brother! how book-learned you be.”

“Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust your wife with the duke?”

“I think I could, brother, or even with yourself.”

“Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own songs say so—the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon.”

“That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals.”

“Well! but there’s your sister-in-law, Ursula herself, Jasper.”

“Ursula herself, brother?”

“You were talking of my having her, Jasper.”

“Well, brother, why didn’t you have her?”

“Would she have had me?”

“Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so remarkably well.”

“Poor thing! she looks very innocent!”

“Remarkably so, brother! however, though not born on the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters.”

“I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with that song.”

“You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two in connection with that song.”

X

I took tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. “I am sorry that man has lost his wife,” thought I; “for I am sure he will never get another. What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman disposed to unite her lot with his!”

After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long she would stay away. At length, becoming tired and listless, I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible at the place where I had left off. “What better could I do,” methought, “on a Sunday evening?” I was then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thorn bush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was in her Sunday’s best.

“Good evening, Ursula,” said I; “I little thought to have the pleasure of seeing you here.”

“Nor would you, brother,” said Ursula, “had not Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to me under a hedge; so, hearing that, I watched your motions and came here and sat down.”

“I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible, Ursula, but—”

“Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe lil; you can speak to me under a hedge some other time.”

“I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, reading godly books in dingles at eve is rather sombre work. Yes, I think I will sit down with you;” and I sat down by her side.

“Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have you to say to me?”

“Why, I hardly know, Ursula.”

“Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know what to say to them.”

“Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in you?”

“Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate.”

“You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula.”

“A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, such as shawls, gold watches and chains in the shops, behind the big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. Many’s the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the gull’s bath to the foreign country.”

“Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?”

“Of course, brother, very great temptations; don’t you think them so?”

“Can’t say I do, Ursula.”

“Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you would call a temptation?”

“Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula.”

“The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother; but I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broadcloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and—what do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals.”

“I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led by such trifles.”

“Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany chals, and more disposed to respect those who have them.”

“Then money and fine clothes would induce you to anything, Ursula?”

“Ay, ay, brother, anything.”

“To chore, Ursula?”

“Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring.”

“To hokkawar?”

“Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother.”

“In fact, to break the law in everything?”

“Who knows, brother, who knows? As I said before, gold and fine clothes are great temptations.”

“Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so depraved.”

“Indeed, brother.”

“To think that I am seated by one who is willing to—to—”

“Go on, brother.”

“To play the thief!”

“Go on, brother.”

“The liar.”

“Go on, brother.”

“The—the—”

“Go on, brother.”

“The—the lubbeny.”

“The what, brother?” said Ursula, starting from her seat.

“Why, the lubbeny; don’t you—”

“I tell you what, brother,” said Ursula, looking somewhat pale, and speaking very low, “if I had only something in my hand, I would do you a mischief.”

“Why, what is the matter, Ursula?” said I; “how have I offended you?”

“How have you offended me? Why, didn’t you insinivate just now that I was ready to play the—the—”

“Go on, Ursula.”

“The—the—I’ll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand.”

“If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about—to talk to you about.”

“Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar.”

“Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?”

“I don’t much care being called a thief and a liar,” said Ursula; “a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very honest woman, but—”

“Well, Ursula.”

“I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! I’ll do you a mischief. By my God I will!”

“Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue—a perfect Lucretia; but—”

“My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day.”

“Lucretia! how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom; how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don’t understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don’t barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula; for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?”

“Well, brother,” said Ursula, “as you say you mean no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, and say the coolest things.”

And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side.

“Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, and show yourself in all kinds of places?”

“In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much about, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings.”

“And do not people often address you in a very free manner?”

“Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers.”

“Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents of value, such as—”

“Silk handkerchiefs, shawls and trinkets; very frequently, brother.”

“And what do you do, Ursula?”

“I takes what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can.”

“Well, but don’t people expect something for their presents? I don’t mean dukkerin, dancing and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, Ursula?”

“Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?”

“The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?”

“Very frequently, brother.”

“And do you ever grant it?”

“Never, brother.”

“How do you avoid it?”

“I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows me, I tries to baffle them by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store.”

“But if your terrible language has no effect?”

“Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails.”

“And are they always sufficient?”

“I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient.”

“But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?”

“We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the gypsy father makes no difference; and what’s more, sees none.”

“Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference.”

“What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world.”

“But your fathers, brothers and uncles give you credit, I suppose, Ursula.”

“Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers and cokos gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house where my batu or coko—perhaps both—are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and my coko goes on fiddling just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens.”

“They know they can trust you, Ursula?”

“Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust myself.”

“So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?”

“Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you.”

“But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula.”

“Amongst gorgios, very so, brother.”

“Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one’s character even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that is not, were to meet you on the racecourse the next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militiamen, how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?”

“By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him.”

“Your action at law, Ursula?”

“Yes, brother, I should give a whistle, whereupon all one’s cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave their fiddling, dukkerin and horse-dealing, and come flocking about me. ‘What’s the matter, Ursula?’ says my coko. ‘Nothing at all,’ I replies, ‘save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the ——— with him.’ ‘Oho, he does, Ursula,’ says my coko, ‘try your action of law against him, my lamb,’ and he puts something privily into my hands; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: ‘You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?’ ‘Yes,’ said the local officer, ‘I says you did,’ looking down all the time. ‘You are a liar,’ says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand.”

“And this is your action at law, Ursula?”

“Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law.”

“And would your breaking the fellow’s head quite clear you of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, and whatnot?”

“They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they would know that I would never condescend to be over-intimate with a gorgio; the breaking the head would be merely intended to justify Ursula in the eyes of the gorgios.”

“And would it clear you in their eyes?”

“Would it not, brother? When they saw the blood running down from the fellow’s cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, they would be quite satisfied; why, the fellow would not be able to show his face at fair or merrymaking for a year and three-quarters.”

“Did you ever try it, Ursula?”

“Can’t say I ever did, brother, but it would do.”

“And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?”

“Why, ’tis advised by gypsy liri, brother. It’s part of our way of settling difficulties amongst ourselves; for example, if a young Roman were to say the thing which is not respecting Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting of the people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow amongst them; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula’s hand, who would then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, ‘Did I play the ——— with you?’ and were he to say ‘Yes,’ she would crack his head before the eyes of all.”

“Well,” said I, “Ursula, I was bred an apprentice to gorgio law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I conscientiously can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing an action for defamation is much less tedious, and far more satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. I wish you now to clear up a certain point which is rather mysterious to me. You say that for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with a gorgio is quite out of the question, yet only the other day I heard you singing a song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri by a grand gorgious gentleman.”

“A sad let down,” said Ursula.

“Well,” said I, “sad or not, there’s the song that speaks of the thing, which you give me to understand is not.”

“Well, if the thing ever was,” said Ursula, “it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, not true.”

“Then why do you sing the song?”

“I’ll tell you, brother, we sings the song now and then to be a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the way of acquaintance with the gorgios; and a warning it is; you see how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent by her mother, with all kind of disgrace and bad language; but you don’t know that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos and pals in an uninhabited place; the song doesn’t say it, but the story says it, for there is a story about it, though, as I said before, it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn’t true.”

“But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos and pals bury the girl alive?”

“I can’t say what they would do,” said Ursula; “I suppose they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any rate, she would be driven from the tan, and avoided by all her family and relations as a gorgio’s acquaintance; so that, perhaps, at last, she would be glad if they would bury her alive.”

“Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on the part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form an improper acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that the batus and cokos could hardly object to the chi’s entering into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.”

Ursula was silent.

“Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula.”

“Well, brother, suppose it be?”

“I don’t see why a Romany chi should object to enter into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.”

“You don’t, brother, don’t you?”

“No,” said I; “and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and then occur between gorgios and Romany chies, the result of which is the mixed breed, called half and half, which is at present travelling about England, and to which the Flaming Tinman belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne.”262

“As for the half and halfs,” said Ursula, “they are a bad set; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo Herne.”

“All that you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are half and halfs.”

“The more’s the pity, brother.”

“Pity, or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?”

“How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break up of a Roman family, brother—the father of a small family dies, and, perhaps, the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers and basketmakers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so—I hate to talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half and halfs.”

“Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by hard necessity would have anything to do with a gorgio?”

“We are not overfond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basketmakers, and folks that live in caravans.”

“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio who is not a basketmaker, a fine, handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house—”

“We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a house in my life.”

“But would not plenty of money induce you?”

“I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them.”

“Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house; and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him?”

“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?”

“Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.”

“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?”

“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.”

“Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?”

“Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?”

“Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself.”

“Myself! Ursula; I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as Meridiana in—”

“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, with a toss of her head.

“Why, in old Pulci’s—”263

“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true, brother. Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio, and a basketmaker.”

“I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called Morgante Maggiore, speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of—”

“Old Carus Borzlam,” said Ursula; “but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?”

“The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wished to obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter, Meridiana, fell in love.”

“I see,” said Ursula, “that it must have been altogether a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name of the curo-mengro, who lost the fight near the chong gav, the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take up with Tom Oliver.”

“I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter of Caradoro, fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion and became a Christian, and finally ingravidata,264 or cambri, by him:—

’E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia,
Che dette à Carlo-man poi gran vittoria’;265

which means—”

“I don’t want to know what it means,” said Ursula; “no good, I’m sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles’s wain’s pal was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no great catch, brother; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I think myself better to look at than she, though I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn—”

“I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt that you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of Oliver. What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is this, that though I have a great regard for you, and highly admire you, it is only in a brotherly way, and—”

“And you had nothing better to say to me,” said Ursula, “when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you liked me in a brotherly way! well, I declare—”

“You seem disappointed, Ursula.”

“Disappointed, brother! not I.”

“You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you in a brotherly way; I wished to have a conversation with you beneath a hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you some information respecting the song which you sung the other day, and the conduct of Roman females, which has always struck me as being highly unaccountable; so, if you thought anything else—”

“What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, brother? Bah! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a picker-up of old rags.”

“Don’t be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; you are very handsome and very clever; indeed, with your beauty and cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been married.”

“You do, do you, brother?”

“Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not much past the prime of youth, so—”

“Not much past the prime of youth! Don’t be uncivil, brother, I was only twenty-two last month.”

“Don’t be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, or, I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than twenty-six in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise you to accept the first offer that’s made to you.”

“Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted the first offer that was made me five years ago.”

“You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?”

“Quite possible, brother, I assure you.”

“And how came I to know nothing about it?”

“How comes it that you don’t know many thousand things about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all their affairs?”

“Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!”

“You seem disappointed, brother.”

“Disappointed! Oh! no, not at all; but Jasper, only a few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband.”

“And you believed him? I’ll tell you, brother, for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than Jasper Petulengro.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married—who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?”

“Gorgio, or Romany chal! Do you think I would ever condescend to a gorgio! It was a Camomescro, brother, a Lovell, a distant relation of my own.”

“And where is he? and what became of him! Have you any family?”

“Don’t think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house.”

“Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? I have never seen him: I wish to congratulate him too. You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or the Despina of Ricciardetto. Ricciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written by one Fortiguerra,266 about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the beloved of Ricciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no doubt you are quite as handsome as she.”

“Brother,” said Ursula—but the reply of Ursula I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter discussed is a sufficient apology.

XI

“Brother,” said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her feet, “I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken person than yourself can’t be found. I have a great regard for you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in the way of words or conversation. Mine is not a very happy story, but as you wish to hear it, it is quite at your service. Launcelot Lovell made me an offer, as you call it, and we were married in Roman fashion; that is, we gave each other our right hands, and promised to be true to each other. We lived together two years, travelling sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our relations; I bore him two children, both of which were stillborn, partly, I believe, from the fatigue I underwent in running about the country telling dukkerin when I was not exactly in a state to do so, and partly from the kicks and blows which my husband Launcelot was in the habit of giving me every night, provided I came home with less than five shillings, which it is sometimes impossible to make in the country, provided no fair or merrymaking is going on. At the end of two years my husband, Launcelot, whistled a horse from a farmer’s field, and sold it for forty pounds; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried and condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two days before he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, and in the presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of gingerbread, in which there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron. I then took on wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in a seeming fit, and was carried out of the prison. That same night my husband sawed his irons off, cut through the bars of his window, and dropping down a height of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath where I was camped alone. We were just getting things ready to be off, when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners after my husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his escape had been discovered within a quarter of an hour after he had got away. My husband, without bidding me farewell, set off at full speed, and they after him, but they could not take him, and so they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened me, and had me before the poknees, who shook his head at me, and threatened me in order to make me discover where my husband was, but I said I did not know, which was true enough; not that I would have told him if I had. So at last the poknees and the runners, not being able to make anything out of me, were obliged to let me go, and I went in search of my husband. I wandered about with my cart for several days in the direction in which I saw him run off, with my eyes bent on the ground, but could see no marks of him; at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw my husband’s patteran.”

“You saw your husband’s patteran?”

“Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?”

“Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for me, Ursula.”

“Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?”

“Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before.”

“And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?”

“Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?”

“What’s the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?”

“I don’t know,” said I; “it’s odd enough that I have asked that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they always told me that they did not know.”

“No more they did, brother; there’s only one person in England that knows, and that’s myself—the name for a leaf is patteran. Now there are two that knows it—the other is yourself.”

“Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged to you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but who told you?”

“My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, as no one has a better right to know than yourself, as she hated you mortally: it was one day when you had been asking our company what was the word for a leaf, and nobody could tell you, that she took me aside and told me, for she was in a good humour, and triumphed in seeing you baulked. She told me the word for leaf was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten the true meaning. She said that the trail was called patteran, because the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner. She said that nobody knew it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to tell the word to anyone but him I should marry; and to be particularly cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated. Well, brother, perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation; my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my husband about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trails with leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people did; so, when I saw my husband’s patteran, I knew it at once, and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along the bank towards the east, and I followed my husband’s patteran towards the east; and before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed, I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and, when I entered, I found there was what they calls an inquest being held upon a body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look at the body; and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body, than I knew it to be my husband’s; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew it partly by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, and I cried out, ‘It is my husband’s body,’ and I fell down in a fit, and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming one.”

“Dear me,” said I, “how terrible! But tell me, Ursula, how did your husband come by his death?”

“The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, brother, and he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in the water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating. Well, brother, when the people of the neighbourhood found that I was the wife of the drowned man, they were very kind to me, and made a subscription for me, with which, after having seen my husband buried, I returned the way I had come, till I met Jasper and his people, and with them I have travelled ever since: I was very melancholy for a long time, I assure you, brother; for the death of my husband preyed very much upon my mind.”

“His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, really, if he had died a natural one, you could scarcely have regretted it, for he appears to have treated you barbarously.”

“Women must bear, brother; and, barring that he kicked and beat me, and drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely stand, he was not a bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, is allowed to kick and beat his wife, and to bury her alive if he thinks proper. I am a gypsy, and have nothing to say against the law.”

“But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?”

“She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman people: so she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. Moreover, her husband does not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my opinion she would like him all the better if he were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury her alive; at any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him more.”

“Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro, Ursula.”

“Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, brother; you must travel in their company some time before you can understand them; they are a strange two, up to all kind of chaffing; but two more regular Romans don’t breathe, and I’ll tell you, for your instruction, that there isn’t a better mare-breaker in England than Jasper Petulengro; if you can manage Miss Isopel Berners as well as—”

“Isopel Berners,” said I, “how came you to think of her?”

“How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does with you in Mumpers’ Dingle, and travelling about with you; you will have, brother, more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to manage my sister Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her before, only I wanted to know what you had to say to me; and when we got into discourse, I forgot her. I say, brother, let me tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you will never—”

“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula.”

“Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never manage—”

“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with Isopel Berners. Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the subject; it is surprising to me that after all you have undergone, you should look so beautiful. I suppose you do not think of marrying again, Ursula?”

“No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any reasonable mort; especially such a good husband as I have got.”

“Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband was drowned?”

“Yes, brother, my first husband was.”

“And have you a second?”

“To be sure, brother.”

“And who is he? in the name of wonder.”

“Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure.”

“I do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry with you; such a handsome young woman as yourself to take up with such a nasty pepper-faced good for nothing—”

“I won’t hear my husband abused, brother; so you had better say no more.”

“Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny of his own, Ursula?”

“Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to take care of him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I will chore, if necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so heavy as scarcely to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you would not think him lazy if you were in a ring with him: he is a proper man with his hands; Jasper is going to back him for twenty pounds against Slammocks267 of the Chong gav, the brother of Roarer and Bell-metal, he says he has no doubt that he will win.”

“Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. Have you been long married?”

“About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when I sang the song, was given in celebration of the wedding.”

“Were you married in a church, Ursula?”

“We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples and lubbenys are ever married in a church: we took each other’s words. Brother, I have been with you near three hours beneath this hedge. I will go to my husband.”

“Does he know that you are here?”

“He does, brother.”

“And is he satisfied?”

“Satisfied! of course. Lor’, you gorgios! Brother, I go to my husband and my house.” And, thereupon, Ursula rose and departed.

After waiting a little time I also arose; it was now dark, and I thought I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle; at the entrance of it I found Mr. Petulengro. “Well, brother,” said he, “what kind of conversation have you and Ursula had beneath the hedge?”

“If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should have come and sat down beside us; you knew where we were.”

“Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down behind you.”

“Behind the hedge, Jasper?”

“Behind the hedge, brother.”

“And heard all our conversation?”

“Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was.”

“ ’Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good of themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed upon you.”

“If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, brother, and she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not always stick exactly to truth; you, however, have not much to complain of me.”

“You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she was not married.”

“She was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, not to Sylvester; nor was I aware that she was going to marry him. I once thought you had a kind of regard for her, and I am sure she had as much for you as a Romany chi can have for a gorgio. I half-expected to have heard you make love to her behind the hedge, but I begin to think you care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories. Lor’, to take a young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as you did to Ursula; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, with your gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a cunning one, brother.”

“There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. If people think I am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, simplicity of character is a puzzle to them. Your women are certainly extraordinary creatures, Jasper.”

“Didn’t I say they were rum animals? Brother, we Romans shall always stick together as long as they stick fast to us.”

“Do you think they always will, Jasper?”

“Can’t say, brother; nothing lasts forever. Romany chies are Romany chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty years ago. My wife, though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, brother. I think she is rather fond of Frenchmen and French discourse. I tell you what, brother, if ever gypsyism breaks up, it will be owing to our chies having been bitten by that mad puppy they calls gentility.”

XII

I descended to the bottom of the dingle. It was nearly involved in obscurity. To dissipate the feeling of melancholy which came over my mind, I resolved to kindle a fire; and having heaped dry sticks upon my hearth, and added a billet or two, I struck a light, and soon produced a blaze. Sitting down, I fixed my eyes upon the blaze, and soon fell into a deep meditation. I thought of the events of the day, the scene at church, and what I had heard at church, the danger of losing one’s soul, the doubts of Jasper Petulengro as to whether one had a soul. I thought over the various arguments which I had either heard, or which had come spontaneously to my mind, for or against the probability of a state of future existence. They appeared to me to be tolerably evenly balanced. I then thought that it was at all events taking the safest part to conclude that there was a soul. It would be a terrible thing, after having passed one’s life in the disbelief of the existence of a soul, to wake up after death a soul, and to find one’s self a lost soul. Yes, methought I would come to the conclusion that one has a soul. Choosing the safe side, however, appeared to me to be playing a rather dastardly part. I had never been an admirer of people who chose the safe side in everything; indeed I had always entertained a thorough contempt for them. Surely it would be showing more manhood to adopt the dangerous side, that of disbelief; I almost resolved to do so, but yet in a question of so much importance, I ought not to be guided by vanity. The question was not which was the safe, but the true side? yet how was I to know which was the true side? Then I thought of the Bible—which I had been reading in the morning—that spoke of the soul and a future state; but was the Bible true? I had heard learned and moral men say that it was true, but I had also heard learned and moral men say that it was not: how was I to decide? Still that balance of probabilities! If I could but see the way of truth, I would follow it, if necessary, upon hands and knees; on that I was determined; but I could not see it. Feeling my brain begin to turn round, I resolved to think of something else; and forthwith began to think of what had passed between Ursula and myself in our discourse beneath the hedge.

I mused deeply on what she had told me as to the virtue of the females of her race. How singular that virtue must be which was kept pure and immaculate by the possessor, whilst indulging in habits of falsehood and dishonesty! I had always thought the gypsy females extraordinary beings. I had often wondered at them, their dress, their manner of speaking, and, not least, at their names; but, until the present day, I had been unacquainted with the most extraordinary point connected with them. How came they possessed of this extraordinary virtue? was it because they were thievish? I remembered that an ancient thief-taker, who had retired from his useful calling, and who frequently visited the office of my master at law, the respectable S——, who had the management of his property—I remembered to have heard this worthy, with whom I occasionally held discourse philosophic and profound, when he and I chanced to be alone together in the office, say that all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain; but this axiom could scarcely hold good with respect to these women—however thievish they might be, they did care for something besides gain: they cared for their husbands. If they did thieve, they merely thieved for their husbands; and though, perhaps, some of them were vain, they merely prized their beauty because it gave them favour in the eyes of their husbands. Whatever the husbands were—and Jasper had almost insinuated that the males occasionally allowed themselves some latitude—they appeared to be as faithful to their husbands as the ancient Roman matrons were to theirs. Roman matrons! and, after all, might not these be in reality Roman matrons? They called themselves Romans; might not they be the descendants of the old Roman matrons? Might not they be of the same blood as Lucretia? And were not many of their strange names—Lucretia amongst the rest—handed down to them from old Rome? It is true their language was not that of old Rome; it was not, however, altogether different from it. After all, the ancient Romans might be a tribe of these people, who settled down and founded a village with the tilts of carts, which, by degrees, and the influx of other people, became the grand city of the world. I liked the idea of the grand city of the world owing its origin to a people who had been in the habit of carrying their houses in their carts. Why, after all, should not the Romans of history be a branch of these Romans? There were several points of similarity between them; if Roman matrons were chaste, both men and women were thieves. Old Rome was the thief of the world; yet still there were difficulties to be removed before I could persuade myself that the old Romans and my Romans were identical; and in trying to remove these difficulties, I felt my brain once more beginning to turn, and in haste took up another subject of meditation, and that was the patteran, and what Ursula had told me about it.

I had always entertained a strange interest for that sign by which in their wanderings the Romanese gave to those of their people who came behind intimation as to the direction which they took; but it now inspired me with greater interest than ever—now that I had learnt that the proper meaning of it was the leaves of trees. I had, as I had said in my dialogue with Ursula, been very eager to learn the word for leaf in the Romanian language, but had never learnt it till this day; so patteran signified leaf, the leaf of a tree; and no one at present knew that but myself and Ursula, who had learnt it from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the old stock; and then I thought what strange people the gypsies must have been in the old time. They were sufficiently strange at present, but they must have been far stranger of old; they must have been a more peculiar people—their language must have been more perfect—and they must have had a greater stock of strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived some two or three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these people when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered whether I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a strange, half-malicious, half-good-humoured being as Jasper, who would have instructed me in the language, then more deserving of note than at present. What might I not have done with that language, had I known it in its purity? Why, I might have written books in it; yet those who spoke it would hardly have admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept more to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learnt their language, and all their strange ways, and then—and then—and a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to think: “Supposing I had accomplished all this, what would have been the profit of it; and in what would all this wild gypsy dream have terminated?”

Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I began to think: “What was likely to be the profit of my present way of life; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, conversing with gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them their odd secrets?” What was likely to be the profit of such a kind of life, even should it continue for a length of time?—a supposition not very probable, for I was earning nothing to support me, and the funds with which I had entered upon this life were gradually disappearing. I was living, it is true, not unpleasantly, enjoying the healthy air of heaven; but, upon the whole, was I not sadly misspending my time? Surely I was; and, as I looked back, it appeared to me that I had always been doing so. What had been the profit of the tongues which I had learnt? had they ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no! it appeared to me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my imagination, and written the Life of Joseph Sell; but even when I wrote the Life of Sell, was I not in a false position? Provided I had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to make that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, and wander about the country for a time? But could I, taking all circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had? With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued with advantage the profession to which my respectable parents had endeavoured to bring me up? It appeared to me that I could not, and that the hand of necessity had guided me from my earliest years, until the present night, in which I found myself seated in the dingle, staring on the brands of the fire. But ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably gone, it was useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, what should I do in future? Should I write another book like the Life of Joseph Sell; take it to London, and offer it to a publisher? But when I reflected on the grisly sufferings which I had undergone whilst engaged in writing the Life of Sell, I shrank from the idea of a similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether I possessed the power to write a similar work—whether the materials for the life of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain? Had I not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely playing at—a tinker or a gypsy? But I soon saw that I was not fitted to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to play the gypsy or the tinker than to become either in reality. I had seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of that. All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my head; tilling the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit! but my idea of tilling the soil had no connection with Britain; for I could only expect to till the soil in Britain as a serf. I thought of tilling it in America, in which it was said there was plenty of wild, unclaimed land, of which anyone, who chose to clear it of its trees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, in an immense forest, clearing the land destined, by my exertions, to become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry—I ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself in America, engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. Well, why not marry, and go and till the ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry in, and to labour in. I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, and from writing the Life of Joseph Sell; but I could see tolerably well with them, and they were not bleared. I felt my arms, and thighs, and teeth—they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children—the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes would be bleared, and, perhaps, sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a wooing then, no labouring, no eating strong flesh, and begetting lusty children then; and I bethought me how, when all this should be, I should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things, I became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire till my eyes closed in a doze.

I continued dozing over the fire, until rousing myself I perceived that the brands were nearly consumed, and I thought of retiring for the night. I arose, and was about to enter my tent, when a thought struck me. “Suppose,” thought I, “that Isopel Berners should return in the midst of the night, how dark and dreary would the dingle appear without a fire! truly, I will keep up the fire, and I will do more; I have no board to spread for her, but I will fill the kettle, and heat it, so that, if she comes, I may be able to welcome her with a cup of tea, for I know she loves tea.” Thereupon I piled more wood upon the fire, and soon succeeded in producing a better blaze than before; then, taking the kettle, I set out for the spring. On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the east, I perceived that Charles’s wain was nearly opposite to it, high above in the heavens, by which I knew that, the night was tolerably well advanced. The gypsy encampment lay before me; all was hushed and still within it, and its inmates appeared to be locked in slumber; as I advanced, however, the dogs, which were fastened outside the tents, growled and barked; but presently recognising me, they were again silent, some of them wagging their tails. As I drew near a particular tent, I heard a female voice say, “Someone is coming!” and, as I was about to pass it, the cloth which formed the door was suddenly lifted up, and a black head and part of a huge naked body protruded. It was the head and upper part of the giant Tawno, who, according to the fashion of gypsy men, lay next the door wrapped in his blanket; the blanket had, however, fallen off, and the starlight shone clear on his athletic tawny body, and was reflected from his large staring eyes.

“It is only I, Tawno,” said I, “going to fill the kettle, as it is possible that Miss Berners may arrive this night.” “Kos-ko,” drawled out Tawno, and replaced the curtain. “Good, do you call it?” said the sharp voice of his wife; “there is no good in the matter! if that young chap were not living with the rawnee in the illegal and uncertificated line, he would not be getting up in the middle of the night to fill her kettles.” Passing on, I proceeded to the spring, where I filled the kettle, and then returned to the dingle.

Placing the kettle upon the fire, I watched it till it began to boil; then removing it from the top of the brands, I placed it close beside the fire, and leaving it simmering, I retired to my tent; where, having taken off my shoes, and a few of my garments, I lay down on my palliasse, and was not long in falling asleep. I believe I slept soundly for some time, thinking and dreaming of nothing; suddenly, however, my sleep became disturbed, and the subject of the patterans began to occupy my brain. I imagined that I saw Ursula tracing her husband, Launcelot Lovel, by means of his patterans; I imagined that she had considerable difficulty in doing so; that she was occasionally interrupted by parish beadles and constables, who asked her whither she was travelling, to whom she gave various answers. Presently methought that, as she was passing by a farmyard, two fierce and savage dogs flew at her; I was in great trouble, I remember, and wished to assist her, but could not, for though I seemed to see her, I was still at a distance: and now it appeared that she had escaped from the dogs, and was proceeding with her cart along a gravelly path which traversed a wild moor; I could hear the wheels grating amidst sand and gravel. The next moment I was awake, and found myself sitting up in my tent; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas caused by the fire; a feeling of dread came over me, which was perhaps natural, on starting suddenly from one’s sleep in that wild, lone place; I half-imagined that someone was nigh the tent; the idea made me rather uncomfortable, and, to dissipate it, I lifted up the canvas of the door and peeped out, and, lo! I had an indistinct view of a tall figure standing by the tent “Who is that?” said I, whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. “It is I,” said the voice of Isopel Berners; “you little expected me, I dare say; well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you.” “But I was expecting you,” said I, recovering myself, “as you may see by the fire and the kettle. I will be with you in a moment.”

Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was standing beside her cart, I said: “Just as I was about to retire to rest I thought it possible that you might come tonight, and got everything in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire whilst I lead the donkey and cart to the place where you stay; I will unharness the animal, and presently come and join you.” “I need not trouble you,” said Isopel; “I will go myself and see after my things.” “We will go together,” said I, “and then return and have some tea.” Isopel made no objection, and in about half an hour we had arranged everything at her quarters. I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently Isopel rejoined me, bringing her stool; she had divested herself of her bonnet, and her hair fell over her shoulders; she sat down, and I poured out the beverage, handing her a cup. “Have you made a long journey tonight?” said I. “A very long one,” replied Belle. “I have come nearly twenty miles since six o’clock.” “I believe I heard you coming in my sleep,” said I; “did the dogs above bark at you?” “Yes,” said Isopel, “very violently; did you think of me in your sleep?” “No,” said I; “I was thinking of Ursula and something she had told me.” “When and where was that?” said Isopel. “Yesterday evening,” said I, “beneath the dingle hedge.” “Then you were talking with her beneath the hedge?” “I was,” said I, “but only upon gypsy matters. Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, so that you need not think that she and I—” “She and you are quite at liberty to sit where you please,” said Isopel. “However, young man,” she continued, dropping her tone, which she had slightly raised, “I believe what you said, that you were merely talking about gypsy matters, and also what you were going to say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular acquaintance.” Isopel was now silent for some time. “What are you thinking of?” said I. “I was thinking,” said Belle, “how exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything in readiness for me, though you did not know that I should come.” “I had a presentiment that you would come,” said I; “but you forget that I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it was true I was then certain that you would come.” “I had not forgotten your doing so, young man,” said Belle; “but I was beginning to think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing but the gratification of your own selfish whims.” “I am very fond of having my own way,” said I, “but utterly selfish I am not, as I dare say I shall frequently prove to you. You will often find the kettle boiling when you come home.” “Not heated by you,” said Isopel, with a sigh. “By whom else?” said I; “surely you are not thinking of driving me away?” “You have as much right here as myself,” said Isopel, “as I have told you before; but I must be going myself.” “Well,” said I, “we can go together; to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this place.” “Our paths must be separate,” said Belle. “Separate,” said I; “what do you mean? I shan’t let you go alone, I shall go with you; and you know the road is as free to me as to you; besides, you can’t think of parting company with me, considering how much you would lose by doing so; remember that you know scarcely anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian from me would take you twenty years.”

Belle faintly smiled. “Come,” said I, “take another cup of tea.” Belle took another cup of tea, and yet another; we had some indifferent conversation, after which I arose and gave her donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked me, shook me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I returned to mine.

XIII

On the following morning, after breakfasting with Belle, who was silent and melancholy, I left her in the dingle, and took a stroll amongst the neighbouring lanes. After some time I thought I would pay a visit to the landlord of the public-house, whom I had not seen since the day when he communicated to me his intention of changing his religion. I therefore directed my steps to the house, and on entering it found the landlord standing in the kitchen. Just then two mean-looking fellows, who had been drinking at one of the tables, and who appeared to be the only customers in the house, got up, brushed past the landlord, and saying in a surly tone, we shall pay you some time or other, took their departure. “That’s the way they serve me now,” said the landlord with a sigh. “Do you know those fellows,” I demanded, “since you let them go away in your debt?” “I know nothing about them,” said the landlord, “save that they are a couple of scamps.” “Then why did you let them go away without paying you?” said I. “I had not the heart to stop them,” said the landlord; “and to tell you the truth, everybody serves me so now, and I suppose they are right, for a child could flog me.” “Nonsense,” said I; “behave more like a man, and with respect to those two fellows run after them, I will go with you, and if they refuse to pay the reckoning I will help you to shake some money out of their clothes.” “Thank you,” said the landlord; “but as they are gone, let them go on. What they have drank is not of much consequence.” “What is the matter with you?” said I, staring at the landlord, who appeared strangely altered; his features were wild and haggard, his formerly bluff cheeks were considerably sunken in, and his figure had lost much of its plumpness. “Have you changed your religion already, and has the fellow in black commanded you to fast?” “I have not changed my religion yet,” said the landlord with a kind of shudder; “I am to change it publicly this day fortnight, and the idea of doing so—I do not mind telling you—preys much upon my mind; moreover, the noise of the thing has got abroad, and everybody is laughing at me, and what’s more, coming and drinking my beer, and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself like one bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part. Confound the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him! yet what can I do without him? The brewer swears that unless I pay him fifty pounds within a fortnight he’ll send a distress warrant into the house, and take all I have. My poor niece is crying in the room above; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging myself; and perhaps it’s the best thing I can do, for it’s better to hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I’m sure I should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat religiously inclined, has been talking to me about.” “I wish I could assist you,” said I, “with money, but that is quite out of my power. However, I can give you a piece of advice. Don’t change your religion by any means; you can’t hope to prosper if you do; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with you, let him. Everybody would respect you ten times more provided you allowed yourself to be turned into the roads rather than change your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it.” “I am half-inclined to take your advice,” said the landlord; “only, to tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart in me.” “Come into the bar,” said I, “and let us have something together—you need not be afraid of my not paying for what I order.”

We went into the barroom, where the landlord and I discussed between us two bottles of strong ale, which he said were part of the last six which he had in his possession. At first he wished to drink sherry, but I begged him to do no such thing, telling him that sherry would do him no good under the present circumstances; nor, indeed, to the best of my belief, under any, it being of all wines the one for which I entertained the most contempt. The landlord allowed himself to be dissuaded, and after a glass or two of ale, confessed that sherry was a sickly, disagreeable drink, and that he had merely been in the habit of taking it from an idea he had that it was genteel. Whilst quaffing our beverage, he gave me an account of the various mortifications to which he had of late been subject, dwelling with particular bitterness on the conduct of Hunter, who he said came every night and mouthed him, and afterwards went away without paying for what he had drank or smoked, in which conduct he was closely imitated by a clan of fellows who constantly attended him. After spending several hours at the public-house I departed, not forgetting to pay for the two bottles of ale. The landlord, before I went, shaking me by the hand, declared that he had now made up his mind to stick to his religion at all hazards, the more especially as he was convinced he should derive no good by giving it up.

XIV268

It might be about five in the evening when I reached the gypsy encampment. Here I found Mr. Petulengro, Tawno Chikno, Sylvester and others in a great bustle, clipping and trimming certain ponies and old horses which they had brought with them. On inquiring of Jasper the reason of their being so engaged, he informed me that they were getting the horses ready for a fair, which was to be held on the morrow, at a place some miles distant, at which they should endeavour to dispose of them, adding: “Perhaps, brother, you will go with us, provided you have nothing better to do?” Not having any particular engagement, I assured him that I should have great pleasure in being of the party. It was agreed that we should start early on the following morning. Thereupon I descended into the dingle. Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling. “Were you waiting for me?” I inquired. “Yes,” said Belle; “I thought that you would come, and I waited for you.” “That was very kind,” said I. “Not half so kind,” said she, “as it was of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night, when there was scarcely a chance of my coming.” The tea-things were brought forward, and we sat down. “Have you been far?” said Belle. “Merely to that public-house,” said I, “to which you directed me on the second day of our acquaintance.” “Young men should not make a habit of visiting public-houses,” said Belle; “they are bad places.” “They may be so to some people,” said I, “but I do not think the worst public-house in England could do me any harm.” “Perhaps you are so bad already,” said Belle, with a smile, “that it would be impossible to spoil you.” “How dare you catch at my words?” said I; “come, I will make you pay for doing so—you shall have this evening the longest lesson in Armenian which I have yet inflicted upon you.” “You may well say inflicted,” said Belle, “but pray spare me. I do not wish to hear anything about Armenian, especially this evening.” “Why this evening?” said I. Belle made no answer. “I will not spare you,” said I; “this evening I intend to make you conjugate an Armenian verb.” “Well, be it so,” said Belle; “for this evening you shall command.” “To command is hramahyel,” said I. “Ram her ill, indeed,” said Belle; “I do not wish to begin with that.” “No,” said I, “as we have come to the verbs, we will begin regularly; hramahyel is a verb of the second conjugation. We will begin with the first.” “First of all tell me,” said Belle, “what a verb is?” “A part of speech,” said I, “which, according to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion; for example, I command you, or I hate you.” “I have given you no cause to hate me,” said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face.

“I was merely giving two examples,” said I, “and neither was directed at you. In those examples, to command and hate are verbs. Belle, in Armenian there are four conjugations of verbs; the first ends in al, the second in yel, the third in oul, and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?”

“I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill,” said Belle. “Hold your tongue,” said I, “or you will make me lose my patience.” “You have already made me nearly lose mine,” said Belle. “Let us have no unprofitable interruptions,” said I; “the conjugations of the Armenian verbs are neither so numerous nor so difficult as the declensions of the nouns; hear that, and rejoice. Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which signifies to rejoice. Come along; hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; why don’t you follow, Belle?”

“I am sure I don’t rejoice, whatever you may do,” said Belle. “The chief difficulty, Belle,” said I, “that I find in teaching you the Armenian grammar, proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every example I give. Rejoice, in this instance, is merely an example of an Armenian verb of the first conjugation, and has no more to do with your rejoicing than lal, which is also a verb of the first conjugation, and which signifies to weep, would have to do with your weeping, provided I made you conjugate it. Come along; hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; hntà, he rejoices; hntamk, we rejoice: now, repeat those words.”

“I can’t,” said Belle, “they sound more like the language of horses than of human beings. Do you take me for—?” “For what?” said I. Belle was silent. “Were you going to say mare?” said I. “Mare! mare! by the by, do you know, Belle, that mare in old English stands for woman! and that when we call a female an evil mare, the strict meaning of the term is merely bad woman. So if I were to call you a mare without prefixing bad, you must not be offended.” “But I should though,” said Belle. “I was merely attempting to make you acquainted with a philological fact,” said I. “If mare, which in old English, and likewise in vulgar English, signifies a woman, sounds the same as mare, which in modern and polite English signifies a female horse, I can’t help it. There is no such confusion of sounds in Armenian, not, at least, in the same instance. Belle, in Armenian, woman is ghin, the same word, by the by, as our queen, whereas mare is madagh tzi, which signifies a female horse; and perhaps you will permit me to add, that a hard-mouthed jade is, in Armenian, madagh tzi hsdierah.”269

“I can’t bear this much longer,” said Belle. “Keep yourself quiet,” said I; “I wish to be gentle with you; and to convince you, we will skip hntal, and also for the present verbs of the first conjugation and proceed to the second. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the prettiest verb in Armenian; not only of the second, but also of all the four conjugations; that verb is siriel. Here is the present tense: siriem, siries, sirè, siriemk, sirèk, sirien. You observe that it runs on just in the same manner as hntal, save and except that the e is substituted for a; and it will be as well to tell you that almost the only difference between the second, third and fourth conjugations, and the first, is the substituting in the present, preterite and other tenses, e or ou or i for a; so you see that the Armenian verbs are by no means difficult. Come on, Belle, and say siriem.” Belle hesitated. “Pray oblige me, Belle, by saying siriem!” Belle still appeared to hesitate. “You must admit, Belle, that it is much softer than hntam.” “It is so,” said Belle; “and to oblige you I will say siriem.” “Very well indeed, Belle,” said I. “No vartabied, or doctor, could have pronounced it better; and now, to show you how verbs act upon pronouns in Armenian, I will say siriem zkiez. Please to repeat siriem zkiez!” “Siriem zkiez!” said Belle; “that last word is very hard to say.” “Sorry that you think so, Belle,” said I. “Now please to say siriá zis.” Belle did so. “Exceedingly well,” said I. “Now say, yerani thè sirèir zis.” “Yerani thè sirèir zis,” said Belle. “Capital!” said I; “you have now said, I love you—love me—ah! would that you would love me!”

“And I have said all these things?” said Belle. “Yes,” said I; “you have said them in Armenian.” “I would have said them in no language that I understood,” said Belle; “and it was very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance, and make me say such things.” “Why so?” said I; “if you said them, I said them too.” “You did so,” said Belle; “but I believe you were merely bantering and jeering.” “As I told you before, Belle,” said I, “the chief difficulty which I find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and me every example I give.” “Then you meant nothing after all,” said Belle, raising her voice. “Let us proceed,” said I; “sirietsi, I loved.” “You never loved anyone but yourself,” said Belle; “and what’s more—” “Sirietsits, I will love,” said I; “siriestsies, thou wilt love.” “Never one so thoroughly heartless,” said Belle. “I tell you what, Belle, you are becoming intolerable, but we will change the verb; or rather I will now proceed to tell you here, that some of the Armenian conjugations have their anomalies; one species of these I wish to bring before your notice. As old Villotte says—from whose work I first contrived to pick up the rudiments of Armenian—‘Est verborum transitivorum, quorum infinitivus—’ but I forgot, you don’t understand Latin. He says there are certain transitive verbs, whose infinitive is in outsaniel; the preterite in outsi; the imperative in oue; for example—parghatsoutsaniem, I irritate—”

“You do, you do,” said Belle; “and it will be better for both of us, if you leave off doing so.”

“You would hardly believe, Belle,” said I, “that the Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is; for example, that word parghatsoutsaniem is evidently derived from the same root as feargaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say I vex.”

“You do, indeed,” said Belle, sobbing.

“But how do you account for it?”

“O man, man!” said Belle, bursting into tears, “for what purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write. Oh, leave off your nonsense; yet I know you will not do so, for it is the breath of your nostrils! I could have wished we should have parted in kindness, but you will not permit it. I have deserved better at your hands than such treatment. The whole time we have kept company together in this place, I have scarcely had one kind word from you, but the strangest—” and here the voice of Belle was drowned in her sobs.

“I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle,” said I. “I really have given you no cause to be so unhappy; surely teaching you a little Armenian was a very innocent kind of diversion.”

“Yes, but you went on so long, and in such a strange way, and made me repeat such strange examples, as you call them, that I could not bear it.”

“Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it’s my way; and I have dealt with you just as I would with—”

“A hard-mouthed jade,” said Belle, “and you practising your horse-witchery upon her. I have been of an unsubdued spirit, I acknowledge, but I was always kind to you; and if you have made me cry, it’s a poor thing to boast of.”

“Boast of!” said I; “a pretty thing indeed to boast of; I had no idea of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; what more can I do? Come, cheer up, Belle. You were talking of parting; don’t let us part, but depart, and that together.”

“Our ways lie different,” said Belle.

“I don’t see why they should,” said I. “Come, let us be off to America together.”

“To America together?” said Belle, looking full at me.

“Yes,” said I; “where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate the verb siriel conjugally.”

“Conjugally?” said Belle.

“Yes,” said I; “as man and wife in America, air yew ghin.”

“You are jesting, as usual,” said Belle.

“Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let us be off to America; and leave priests, humbug, learning and languages behind us.”

“I don’t think you are jesting,” said Belle; “but I can hardly entertain your offers; however, young man, I thank you.”

“You had better make up your mind, at once,” said I, “and let us be off. I shan’t make a bad husband, I assure you. Perhaps you think I am not worthy of you? To convince you, Belle, that I am, I am ready to try a fall with you this moment upon the grass. Brynhilda, the valkyrie, swore that no one should marry her who could not fling her down. Perhaps you have done the same. The man who eventually married her, got a friend of his, who was called Sigurd, the serpent-killer, to wrestle with her, disguising him in his own armour. Sigurd flung her down, and won her for his friend, though he loved her himself. I shall not use a similar deceit, nor employ Jasper Petulengro to personate me—so get up, Belle, and I will do my best to fling you down.”

“I require no such thing of you, or anybody,” said Belle; “you are beginning to look rather wild.”

“I every now and then do,” said I; “come, Belle, what do you say?”

“I will say nothing at present on the subject,” said Belle; “I must have time to consider.”

“Just as you please,” said I; “tomorrow I go to a fair with Mr. Petulengro, perhaps you will consider whilst I am away. Come, Belle, let us have some more tea. I wonder whether we shall be able to procure tea as good as this in the American forest.”

XV

It was about the dawn of day when I was awakened by the voice of Mr. Petulengro shouting from the top of the dingle, and bidding me get up. I arose instantly, and dressed myself for the expedition to the fair. On leaving my tent, I was surprised to observe Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to her own little encampment. “Dear me,” said I, “I little expected to find you up so early. I suppose Jasper’s call awakened you, as it did me.” “I merely lay down in my things,” said Belle, “and have not slept during the night.” “And why did you not take off your things and go to sleep?” said I. “I did not undress,” said Belle, “because I wished to be in readiness to bid you farewell when you departed; and as for sleeping, I could not.” “Well, God bless you!” said I, taking Belle by the hand. Belle made no answer, and I observed that her hand was very cold. “What is the matter with you?” said I, looking her in the face. Belle looked at me for a moment in the eyes, and then cast down her own—her features were very pale. “You are really unwell,” said I, “I had better not go to the fair, but stay here, and take care of you.” “No,” said Belle, “pray go, I am not unwell.” “Then go to your tent,” said I, “and do not endanger your health by standing abroad in the raw morning air. God bless you, Belle, I shall be home tonight, by which time I expect you will have made up your mind; if not, another lesson in Armenian, however late the hour be.” I then wrung Belle’s hand, and ascended to the plain above.

I found the Romany party waiting for me, and everything in readiness for departing. Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno were mounted on two old horses. The rest, who intended to go to the fair, amongst whom were two or three women, were on foot. On arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle. Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hand towards her. She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners again.

My companions and myself proceeded on our way. In about two hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held. After breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken stone wall, we drove our animals to the fair. The fair was a common cattle and horse fair: there was little merriment going on, but there was no lack of business. By about two o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of their animals at what they conceived very fair prices—they were all in high spirits, and Jasper proposed to adjourn to a public-house. As we were proceeding to one, a very fine horse, led by a jockey, made its appearance on the ground. Mr. Petulengro stopped short, and looked at it steadfastly: “Fino covar dove odoy sas miro—a fine thing were that if it were but mine!” he exclaimed. “If you covet it,” said I, “why do you not purchase it?” “We low gyptians never buy animals of that description; if we did we could never sell them, and most likely should be had up as horse-stealers.” “Then why did you say just now, ‘It were a fine thing if it were but yours?’ ” said I. “We gyptians always say so when we see anything that we admire. An animal like that is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand gentleman like yourself. I say, brother, do you buy that horse!” “How should I buy the horse, you foolish person?” said I. “Buy the horse, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “if you have not the money I can lend it you, though I be of lower Egypt.” “You talk nonsense,” said I; “however, I wish you would ask the man the price of it.” Mr. Petulengro, going up to the jockey, inquired the price of the horse. The man, looking at him scornfully, made no reply. “Young man,” said I, going up to the jockey, “do me the favour to tell me the price of that horse, as I suppose it is to sell.” The jockey, who was a surly-looking man, of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, then, after some hesitation, said, laconically, “Seventy.” “Thank you,” said I, and turned away. “Buy that horse,” said Mr. Petulengro, coming after me; “the dook tells me that in less than three months he will be sold for twice seventy.” “I will have nothing to do with him,” said I; “besides, Jasper, I don’t like his tail. Did you observe what a mean, scrubby tail he has?” “What a fool you are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “that very tail of his shows his breeding. No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail—’tis your scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers. Did you ever hear of Syntax, brother? That tail of his puts me in mind of Syntax. Well, I say nothing more, have your own way—all I wonder at is, that a horse like him was ever brought to such a fair of dog cattle as this.”

We then made the best of our way to a public-house, where we had some refreshment. I then proposed returning to the encampment, but Mr. Petulengro declined, and remained drinking with his companions till about six o’clock in the evening, when various jockeys from the fair came in. After some conversation a jockey proposed a game of cards; and in a little time, Mr. Petulengro and another gypsy sat down to play a game of cards with two of the jockeys.

Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived a suspicion that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and his companion. I therefore called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave him a hint to that effect. Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of thanking me, told me to mind my own bread and butter, and forthwith returned to his game. I continued watching the players for some hours. The gypsies lost considerably, and I saw clearly that the jockeys were cheating them most confoundedly. I therefore once more called Mr. Petulengro aside, and told him that the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him to return to the encampment. Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself. Incensed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words had received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone. It was a dark night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome. “Isopel Berners is waiting for me,” said I, “and the first word that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind. We shall go to America, and be so happy together.” On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, beside which stood the kettle simmering, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and have the kettle boiling against my arrival. Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she was gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone she, the girl, did not know. I then asked whether she had left no message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, sixpence into her hand. “Very strange,” thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel. “Does she mean to return?” thought I to myself. “Surely she means to return,” Hope replied, “or she would not have gone away without leaving any message;” “and yet she could scarcely mean to return, muttered Foreboding, or she would assuredly have left some message with the girl.” I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice. “Well, after all,” thought I, “I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be. Husbands do not grow upon hedgerows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return tomorrow.”

Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my tent, and went to sleep.

XVI

Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following day. Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the morning. When I saw him, which was about midday, I found him with his face bruised and swelled. It appeared that, some time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his companion; a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in conjunction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologised for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice.

Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle, and at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels. I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking against stones was certainly plain enough. “She comes at last,” thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast; “here she comes at last, now, how shall I receive her? Oh,” thought I, “I will receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her—that’s the way to manage these women.” The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse’s hoof at a lumbering trot. Those only whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then suddenly dashed down, can imagine what I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned to my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I was then undergoing I had fully merited, from the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief moment I supposed that she had returned.

It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget not, from the time of Isopel’s departure, that, as I was seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above—apparently that of a person descending—exclaim: “Here’s a strange place to bring a letter to;” and presently an old woman, with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and stood before me.

“Well, if I ever!” said she, as she looked about her. “My good gentlewoman,” said I, “pray what may you please to want?” “Gentlewoman!” said the old dame, “please to want—well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate. It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them. What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?” “What’s the name on the letter?” said I, getting up, and going to her. “There is no name upon it,” said she, taking a letter out of her scrip, and looking at it. “It is directed to the young man in Mumpers’ Dingle.” “Then it is for me, I make no doubt,” said I, stretching out my hand to take it. “Please to pay me ninepence first,” said the old woman. “However,” said she, after a moment’s thought, “civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return. Here’s the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not I must pay the postage myself.” “You are the postwoman, I suppose,” said I, as I took the letter. “I am the postman’s mother,” said the old woman; “but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself.” “You say the postage is ninepence,” said I; “here’s a shilling.” “Well, I call that honourable,” said the old woman, taking the shilling, and putting it into her pocket; “here’s your change, young man,” said she, offering me threepence. “Pray keep that for yourself,” said I; “you deserve it for your trouble.” “Well, I call that genteel,” said the old woman; “and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn’t read, I will read your letter for you. Let’s see it; it’s from some young woman or other, I dare say.” “Thank you,” said I, “but I can read.” “All the better for you,” said the old woman; “your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that’s the charge I generally make for reading letters; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you nothing. Well, if you can read, why don’t you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?” “I am in no hurry to open it,” said I, with a sigh. The old woman looked at me for a moment. “Well, young man,” said she, “there are some—especially those who can read—who don’t like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women. Well, I won’t intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter. I wish it may contain something pleasant. God bless you,” and with these words she departed.

I sat down on my stone with my letter in my hand. I knew perfectly well that it could have come from no other person than Isopel Berners; but what did the letter contain? I guessed tolerably well what its purport was—an eternal farewell, yet I was afraid to open the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed. There I sat with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as possible. At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man in “Mumpers’ Dingle,” with the addition, near ———, in the county of ———. Suddenly the idea occurred to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell, and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. Could it be so? “Alas! no,” presently said Foreboding. At last I became ashamed of my weakness. The letter must be opened sooner or later. Why not at once? So as the bather who, for a considerable time has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost before I was aware. I had no sooner done so than a paper fell out. I examined it; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair. “This is no good sign,” said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows:—

“To the Young Man in Mumpers’ Dingle

“Sir—I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at other times, and most often, very low. I am at a seaport, and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again.

“And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something about the manner in which I quitted you. It must have seemed somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without considerable reflection. I was afraid that I should not be able to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute.

“In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very strange manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long thinking about; so when you made your offer at last, everything was arranged—my cart and donkey engaged to be sold—and the greater part of my things disposed of. However, young man, when you did make it, I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it; at last, however, after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave you forever, because, for some time past, I had become almost convinced, that, though with a wonderful deal of learning, and exceedingly shrewd in some things, you were—pray don’t be offended—at the root mad! and though mad people, I have been told, sometimes make very good husbands, I was unwilling that your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle Berners, the workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity; for there is no concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse; notwithstanding that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as the best; you having yourself told me that my name is a noble name, and once, if I mistake not, that it was the same word as baron, which is the same thing as bear; and that to be called in old times a bear was considered a great compliment—the bear being a mighty strong animal, on which account our forefathers called all their great fighting-men barons, which is the same as bears.

“However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, many thanks to you, young man, from poor Belle, for the honour you did her in making that same offer; for, after all, it is an honour to receive an honourable offer, which she could see clearly yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it; but, on the contrary, entire sincerity. She assures you that she shall always bear it and yourself in mind, whether on land or water; and as a proof of the goodwill she bears to you, she sends you a lock of the hair which she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were pleased to call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a compliment, even as the old people meant to pass a compliment to their great folks, when they called them bears; though she cannot help thinking that they might have found an animal as strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, to call their great folks after: even as she thinks yourself, amongst your great store of words, might have found something a little more genteel to call her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, is rather a coarse and common kind of article.

“And as another proof of the goodwill she bears to you, she sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth all the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax.

“Fear God, and take your own part. There’s Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him—so fear God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him: but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight its best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill-treat you, young man, say, ‘Lord have mercy upon me!’ and then tip them Long Melford, to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over; and these last words, young man, are the last you will ever have from her who is nevertheless,

“Your affectionate female servant,

“Isopel Berners.”

After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding it in my hand. The daydream, in which I had been a little time before indulging, of marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to America, and having by her a large progeny, who were to assist me in felling trees, cultivating the soil, and who would take care of me when I was old, was now thoroughly dispelled. Isopel had deserted me, and was gone to America by herself, where, perhaps, she would marry some other person, and would bear him a progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped my progeny by her would do for me. Then the thought came into my head that though she was gone, I might follow her to America, but then I thought that if I did I might not find her; America was a very large place, and I did not know the port to which she was bound; but I could follow her to the port from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover the port to which she was bound; but then I did not even know the port from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter from any place. Suddenly it occurred to me that the postmark on the letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith looked at the back of the letter, and in the postmark read the name of a well-known and not very distant seaport. I then knew with tolerable certainty the port where she had embarked, and I almost determined to follow her, but I almost instantly determined to do no such thing. Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her. “Perhaps,” whispered Pride, “if I overtook her, she would only despise me for running after her;” and it also told me pretty roundly, that, provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself. So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners. I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both forever, but I determined not to follow her. Two or three times, however, during the day, I wavered in my determination, and was again and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent; Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning. “Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?” said he. I told him it was. “Is she coming back, brother?” “Never,” said I; “she is gone to America, and has deserted me.” “I always knew that you two were never destined for each other,” said he. “How did you know that?” I inquired. “The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller.” “Well,” said I, “if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller.” “You are to travel in another direction, brother,” said he. “I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings,” said I. “I can’t, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “there’s a power of clouds before my eye.” “You are a poor seer, after all,” said I; and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonised by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights.

XVII

It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke. At first I was almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day; recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into discourse with various Romanies, both male and female. After some time, feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to the landlord of the public-house. From the position of his affairs when I had last visited him, I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to his present circumstances. I imagined that I should either find him alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into the house in order to take possession of his effects.

Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o’clock in the afternoon, when I entered the house. I had come, though somewhat in want of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go to a house with “drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids,” I felt rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary. The house was thronged with company; the cries for ale and porter, hot brandy and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to receive and not to pay for the landlord’s liquids was manifested—on the contrary, everybody seemed disposed to play the most honourable part: “Landlord, here’s the money for this glass of brandy and water—do me the favour to take it; all right, remember I have paid you.” “Landlord, here’s the money for the pint of half-and-half—fourpence halfpenny, ain’t it?—here’s sixpence; keep the change—confound the change!” The landlord, assisted by his niece, bustled about, his brow erect, his cheeks plumped out, and all his features exhibiting a kind of surly satisfaction. Wherever he moved, marks of the most cordial amity were shown him, hands were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect, admiration, nay, almost of adoration, wanting. I observed one fellow, as the landlord advanced, take the pipe out of his mouth, and gaze upon him with a kind of grin of wonder, probably much the same as his ancestor, the Saxon lout of old, put on when he saw his idol Thur, dressed in a new kirtle. To avoid the press, I got into a corner, where on a couple of chairs sat two respectable-looking individuals, whether farmers or sow-gelders, I know not, but highly respectable-looking, who were discoursing about the landlord. “Such another,” said one, “you will not find in a summer’s day.” “No, nor in the whole of England,” said the other. “Tom of Hopton,” said the first: “ah! Tom of Hopton,” echoed the other; “the man who could beat Tom of Hopton could beat the world.” “I glory in him,” said the first. “So do I,” said the second; “I’ll back him against the world. Let me hear anyone say anything against him, and if I don’t—” then, looking at me, he added: “Have you anything to say against him, young man?” “Not a word,” said I, “save that he regularly puts me out.” “He’ll put anyone out,” said the man, “anyone out of conceit with himself;” then, lifting a mug to his mouth, he added, with a hiccup, “I drink his health.” Presently the landlord, as he moved about, observing me, stopped short: “Ah!” said he, “are you here? I am glad to see you, come this way.” “Stand back,” said he to his company, as I followed him to the bar, “stand back for me and this gentleman.” Two or three young fellows were in the bar, seemingly sporting yokels, drinking sherry and smoking. “Come, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “clear the bar, I must have a clear bar for me and my friend here.” “Landlord, what will you take,” said one, “a glass of sherry? I know you like it.” “——— sherry and you too,” said the landlord, “I want neither sherry nor yourself; didn’t you hear what I told you?” “All right, old fellow,” said the other, shaking the landlord by the hand, “all right, don’t wish to intrude—but I suppose when you and your friend have done, I may come in again;” then, with “a sarvant, sir,” to me, he took himself into the kitchen, followed by the rest of the sporting yokels.

Thereupon the landlord, taking a bottle of ale from a basket, uncorked it, and pouring the contents into two large glasses, handed me one, and motioning me to sit down, placed himself by me; then, emptying his own glass at a draught, he gave a kind of grunt of satisfaction, and fixing his eyes upon the opposite side of the bar, remained motionless, without saying a word, buried apparently in important cogitations. With respect to myself, I swallowed my ale more leisurely, and was about to address my friend, when his niece, coming into the bar, said that more and more customers were arriving, and how she should supply their wants she did not know, unless her uncle would get up and help her.

“The customers!” said the landlord, “let the scoundrels wait till you have time to serve them, or till I have leisure to see after them.” “The kitchen won’t contain half of them,” said his niece. “Then let them sit out abroad,” said the landlord. “But there are not benches enough, uncle,” said the niece. “Then let them stand or sit on the ground,” said the uncle, “what care I; I’ll let them know that the man who beat Tom of Hopton stands as well again on his legs as ever.” Then opening a side door which led from the bar into the back yard, he beckoned me to follow him. “You treat your customers in rather a cavalier manner,” said I, when we were alone together in the yard.

“Don’t I?” said the landlord; “and I’ll treat them more so yet; now I have got the whiphand of the rascals I intend to keep it. I daresay you are a bit surprised with regard to the change which has come over things since you were last here. I’ll tell you how it happened. You remember in what a desperate condition you found me, thinking of changing my religion, selling my soul to the man in black, and then going and hanging myself like Pontius Pilate; and I daresay you can’t have forgotten how you gave me good advice, made me drink ale, and give up sherry. Well, after you were gone, I felt all the better for your talk, and what you had made me drink, and it was a mercy that I did feel better; for my niece was gone out, poor thing, and I was left alone in the house, without a soul to look at, or to keep me from doing myself a mischief in case I was so inclined. Well, things wore on in this way till it grew dusk, when in came that blackguard Hunter with his train to drink at my expense, and to insult me as usual; there were more than a dozen of them, and a pretty set they looked. Well, they ordered about in a very free and easy manner for upwards of an hour and a half, occasionally sneering and jeering at me, as they had been in the habit of doing for some time past; so, as I said before, things wore on, and other customers came in, who, though they did not belong to Hunter’s gang, also passed off their jokes upon me; for, as you perhaps know, we English are a set of low hounds, who will always take part with the many by way of making ourselves safe, and currying favour with the stronger side. I said little or nothing, for my spirits had again become very low, and I was verily scared and afraid. All of a sudden I thought of the ale which I had drank in the morning, and of the good it did me then, so I went into the bar, opened another bottle, took a glass, and felt better; so I took another, and feeling better still, I went back into the kitchen, just as Hunter and his crew were about leaving. ‘Mr. Hunter,’ said I, ‘you and your people will please to pay me for what you have had?’ ‘What do you mean by my people?’ said he, with an oath. ‘Ah, what do mean you by calling us his people?’ said the clan. ‘We are nobody’s people;’ and then there was a pretty load of abuse, and threatening to serve me out. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I was perhaps wrong to call them your people, and beg your pardon and theirs. And now you will please to pay me for what you have had yourself, and afterwards I can settle with them.’ ‘I shall pay you when I think fit,’ said Hunter. ‘Yes,’ said the rest, ‘and so shall we. We shall pay you when we think fit.’ ‘I tell you what,’ said Hunter, ‘I conceives I do such an old fool as you an honour when I comes into his house and drinks his beer, and goes away without paying for it;’ and then there was a roar of laughter from everybody, and almost all said the same thing. ‘Now, do you please to pay me, Mr. Hunter?’ said I. ‘Pay you!’ said Hunter; ‘pay you! Yes, here’s the pay;’ and thereupon he held out his thumb, twirling it round till it just touched my nose. I can’t tell you what I felt that moment; a kind of madhouse thrill came upon me, and all I know is, that I bent back as far as I could, then lunging out, struck him under the ear, sending him reeling two or three yards, when he fell on the floor. I wish you had but seen how my company looked at me and at each other. One or two of the clan went to raise Hunter, and get him to fight, but it was no go; though he was not killed, he had had enough for that evening. Oh, I wish you had seen my customers; those who did not belong to the clan, but who had taken part with them, and helped to jeer and flout me, now came and shook me by the hand, wishing me joy, and saying as how ‘I was a brave fellow, and had served the bully right!’ As for the clan, they all said Hunter was bound to do me justice; so they made him pay me what he owed for himself, and the reckoning of those among them who said they had no money. Two or three of them then led him away, while the rest stayed behind, and flattered me, and worshipped me, and called Hunter all kinds of dogs’ names. What do you think of that?”

“Why,” said I, “it makes good what I read in a letter which I received yesterday. It is just the way of the world.”

“A’n’t it,” said the landlord. “Well, that a’n’t all; let me go on. Good fortune never yet came alone. In about an hour comes home my poor niece, almost in high sterricks with joy, smiling and sobbing. She had been to the clergyman of M——, the great preacher, to whose Church she was in the habit of going, and to whose daughters she was well known; and to him she told a lamentable tale about my distresses, and about the snares which had been laid for my soul; and so well did she plead my cause, and so strong did the young ladies back all she said, that the good clergyman promised to stand my friend, and to lend me sufficient money to satisfy the brewer, and to get my soul out of the snares of the man in black; and sure enough the next morning the two young ladies brought me the fifty pounds, which I forthwith carried to the brewer, who was monstrously civil, saying that he hoped any little misunderstanding we had had would not prevent our being good friends in future. That a’n’t all; the people of the neighbouring county hearing as if by art witchcraft that I had licked Hunter, and was on good terms with the brewer, forthwith began to come in crowds to look at me, pay me homage, and be my customers. Moreover, fifty scoundrels who owed me money, and who would have seen me starve rather than help me as long as they considered me a down pin, remembered their debts, and came and paid me more than they owed. That a’n’t all; the brewer being about to establish a stagecoach and three, to run across the country, says it shall stop and change horses at my house, and the passengers breakfast and sup as it goes and returns. He wishes me—whom he calls the best man in England—to give his son lessons in boxing, which he says he considers a fine manly English art, and a great defence against Popery—notwithstanding that only a month ago, when he considered me a down pin, he was in the habit of railing against it as a blackguard practice, and against me as a blackguard for following it; so I am going to commence with young hopeful tomorrow.”

“I really cannot help congratulating you on your good fortune,” said I.

“That a’n’t all,” said the landlord. “This very morning the folks of our parish made me churchwarden, which they would no more have done a month ago, when they considered me a down pin, than they—”

“Mercy upon us!” said I, “if fortune pours in upon you in this manner, who knows but that within a year they may make you justice of the peace?”

“Who knows, indeed!” said the landlord. “Well, I will prove myself worthy of my good luck by showing the grateful mind—not to those who would be kind to me now, but to those who were, when the days were rather gloomy. My customers shall have abundance of rough language, but I’ll knock anyone down who says anything against the clergyman who lent me the fifty pounds, or against the Church of England, of which he is parson and I am churchwarden. I am also ready to do anything in reason for him who paid me for the ale he drank, when I shouldn’t have had the heart to collar him for the money had he refused to pay; who never jeered or flouted me like the rest of my customers when I was a down pin, and though he refused to fight cross for me was never cross with me, but listened to all I had to say, and gave me all kinds of good advice. Now who do you think I mean by this last? why, who but yourself—who on earth but yourself? The parson is a good man and a great preacher, and I’ll knock anybody down who says to the contrary; and I mention him first, because why, he’s a gentleman, and you a tinker. But I am by no means sure you are not the best friend of the two; for I doubt, do you see, whether I should have had the fifty pounds but for you. You persuaded me to give up that silly drink they call sherry, and drink ale; and what was it but drinking ale which gave me courage to knock down that fellow Hunter—and knocking him down was, I verily believe, the turning point of my disorder. God don’t love them who won’t strike out for themselves; and as far as I can calculate with respect to time, it was just the moment after I had knocked down Hunter, that the parson consented to lend me the money, and everything began to grow civil to me. So, dash my buttons if I show the ungrateful mind to you! I don’t offer to knock anybody down for you, because why—I daresay you can knock a body down yourself; but I’ll offer something more to the purpose; as my business is wonderfully on the increase, I shall want somebody to help me in serving my customers, and keeping them in order. If you choose to come and serve for your board, and what they’ll give you, give me your fist; or if you like ten shillings a week better than their sixpences and ha’pence, only say so—though, to be open with you, I believe you would make twice ten shillings out of them—the sneaking, fawning, curry-favouring humbugs!”

“I am much obliged to you,” said I, “for your handsome offer, which, however, I am obliged to decline.”

“Why so?” said the landlord.

“I am not fit for service,” said I; “moreover, I am about to leave this part of the country.” As I spoke a horse neighed in the stable. “What horse is that?” said I.

“It belongs to a cousin of mine, who put it into my hands yesterday, in the hopes that I might get rid of it for him, though he would no more have done so a week ago, when he considered me a down pin, than he would have given the horse away. Are you fond of horses?”

“Very much,” said I.

“Then come and look at it.” He led me into the stable, where, in a stall, stood a noble-looking animal.

“Dear me,” said I, “I saw this horse at ——— fair.”

“Like enough,” said the landlord; “he was there and was offered for seventy pounds, but didn’t find a bidder at any price. What do you think of him?”

“He’s a splendid creature.”

“I am no judge of horses,” said the landlord; “but I am told he’s a first-rate trotter, good leaper, and has some of the blood of Syntax. What does all that signify?—the game is against his master, who is a down pin, is thinking of emigrating, and wants money confoundedly. He asked seventy pounds at the fair; but, between ourselves, he would be glad to take fifty here.”

“I almost wish,” said I, “that I were a rich squire.”

“You would buy him then,” said the landlord. Here he mused for some time, with a very profound look. “It would be a rum thing,” said he, “if some time or other that horse should come into your hands. Didn’t you hear how he neighed when you talked about leaving the country? My granny was a wise woman, and was up to all kinds of signs and wonders, sounds and noises, the interpretation of the language of birds and animals, crowing and lowing, neighing and braying. If she had been here, she would have said at once that that horse was fated to carry you away. On that point, however, I can say nothing, for under fifty pounds no one can have him. Are you taking that money out of your pocket to pay me for the ale? That won’t do; nothing to pay; I invited you this time. Now, if you are going, you had best get into the road through the yard-gate. I won’t trouble you to make your way through the kitchen and my fine-weather company—confound them!”

XVIII

As I returned along the road I met Mr. Petulengro and one of his companions, who told me that they were bound for the public-house; whereupon I informed Jasper how I had seen in the stable the horse which we had admired at the fair. “I shouldn’t wonder if you buy that horse after all, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro. With a smile at the absurdity of such a supposition, I left him and his companion, and betook myself to the dingle. In the evening I received a visit from Mr. Petulengro, who forthwith commenced talking about the horse, which he had again seen, the landlord having shown it to him on learning that he was a friend of mine. He told me that the horse pleased him more than ever, he having examined his points with more accuracy than he had an opportunity of doing on the first occasion, concluding by pressing me to buy him. I begged him to desist from such foolish importunity, assuring him that I had never so much money in all my life as would enable me to purchase the horse. Whilst this discourse was going on, Mr. Petulengro and myself were standing together in the midst of the dingle. Suddenly he began to move round me in a very singular manner, making strange motions with his hands, and frightful contortions with his features, till I became alarmed, and asked him whether he had not lost his senses? Whereupon, ceasing his movements and contortions, he assured me that he had not, but had merely been seized with a slight dizziness, and then once more returned to the subject of the horse. Feeling myself very angry, I told him that if he continued persecuting me in that manner, I should be obliged to quarrel with him; adding, that I believed his only motive for asking me to buy the animal was to insult my poverty. “Pretty poverty,” said he, “with fifty pounds in your pocket; however, I have heard say that it is always the custom of your rich people to talk of their poverty, more especially when they wish to avoid laying out money.” Surprised at his saying that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, I asked him what he meant; whereupon he told me that he was very sure that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, offering to lay me five shillings to that effect. “Done!” said I, “I have scarcely more than the fifth part of what you say.” “I know better, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “if you only pull out what you have in the pocket of your slop, I am sure you will have lost your wager.” Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt something which I had never felt there before, and pulling it out, perceived that it was a clumsy leathern purse, which I found on opening contained four ten-pound notes, and several pieces of gold. “Didn’t I tell you so, brother?” said Mr. Petulengro. “Now, in the first place, please to pay me the five shillings you have lost.” “This is only a foolish piece of pleasantry,” said I; “you put it into my pocket whilst you were moving about me, making faces like a distracted person. Here, take your purse back.” “I,” said Mr. Petulengro, “not I, indeed! don’t think I am such a fool. I have won my wager, so pay me the five shillings, brother.” “Do drop this folly,” said I, “and take your purse;” and I flung it on the ground. “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “you were talking of quarrelling with me just now. I tell you now one thing, which is, that if you do not take back the purse I will quarrel with you; and it shall be for good and all. I’ll drop your acquaintance, no longer call you my pal, and not even say sar shan to you when I meet you by the roadside. Hir mi diblis, I never will.” I saw by Jasper’s look and tone that he was in earnest, and, as I had really a regard for the strange being, I scarcely knew what to do. “Now, be persuaded, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, taking up the purse, and handing it to me; “be persuaded; put the purse into your pocket, and buy the horse.” “Well,” said I, “if I did so, would you acknowledge the horse to be yours, and receive the money again as soon as I should be able to repay you?”

“I would, brother, I would,” said he; “return me the money as soon as you please, provided you buy the horse.” “What motive have you for wishing me to buy that horse?” said I. “He’s to be sold for fifty pounds,” said Jasper, “and is worth four times that sum, though, like many a splendid bargain, he is now going a begging; buy him, and I’m confident that, in a little time, a grand gentleman of your appearance may have anything he asks for him, and found a fortune by his means. Moreover, brother, I want to dispose of this fifty pounds in a safe manner. If you don’t take it, I shall fool it away in no time, perhaps at card-playing, for you saw how I was cheated by those blackguard jockeys the other day—we gyptians don’t know how to take care of money: our best plan when we have got a handful of guineas is to make buttons with them; but I have plenty of golden buttons, and don’t wish to be troubled with more, so you can do me no greater favour than vesting the money in this speculation, by which my mind will be relieved of considerable care and trouble for some time at least.”

Perceiving that I still hesitated, he said: “Perhaps, brother, you think I did not come honestly by the money: by the honestest manner in the world, for it is the money I earnt by fighting in the ring: I did not steal it, brother, nor did I get it by disposing of spavined donkeys, or glandered ponies—nor is it, brother, the profits of my wife’s witchcraft and dukkerin.”

“But,” said I, “you had better employ it in your traffic.” “I have plenty of money for my traffic, independent of this capital,” said Mr. Petulengro; “ay, brother, and enough besides to back the husband of my wife’s sister, Sylvester, against Slammocks of the Chong gav for twenty pounds, which I am thinking of doing.”

“But,” said I, “after all, the horse may have found another purchaser by this time.” “Not he,” said Mr. Petulengro; “there is nobody in this neighbourhood to purchase a horse like that, unless it be your lordship—so take the money, brother,” and he thrust the purse into my hand. Allowing myself to be persuaded, I kept possession of the purse. “Are you satisfied now?” said I. “By no means, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “you will please to pay me the five shillings which you lost to me.” “Why,” said I, “the fifty pounds which I found in my pocket were not mine, but put in by yourself.” “That’s nothing to do with the matter, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “I betted you five shillings that you had fifty pounds in your pocket, which sum you had: I did not say that they were your own, but merely that you had fifty pounds; you will therefore pay me, brother, or I shall not consider you an honourable man.” Not wishing to have any dispute about such a matter, I took five shillings out of my under pocket, and gave them to him. Mr. Petulengro took the money with great glee, observing: “These five shillings I will take to the public-house forthwith, and spend in drinking with four of my brethren, and doing so will give me an opportunity of telling the landlord that I have found a customer for his horse, and that you are the man. It will be as well to secure the horse as soon as possible; for though the dook tells me that the horse is intended for you, I have now and then found that the dook is, like myself, somewhat given to lying.”

He then departed, and I remained alone in the dingle. I thought at first that I had committed a great piece of folly in consenting to purchase this horse; I might find no desirable purchaser for him, until the money in my possession should be totally exhausted, and then I might be compelled to sell him for half the price I had given for him, or be even glad to find a person who would receive him at a gift; I should then remain sans horse, and indebted to Mr. Petulengro. Nevertheless, it was possible that I might sell the horse very advantageously, and by so doing obtain a fund sufficient to enable me to execute some grand enterprise or other. My present way of life afforded no prospect of support, whereas the purchase of the horse did afford a possibility of bettering my condition, so, after all, had I not done right in consenting to purchase the horse? The purchase was to be made with another person’s property, it is true, and I did not exactly like the idea of speculating with another person’s property, but Mr. Petulengro had thrust his money upon me, and if I lost his money, he could have no one but himself to blame; so I persuaded myself that I had, upon the whole, done right, and having come to that persuasion, I soon began to enjoy the idea of finding myself on horseback again, and figured to myself all kinds of strange adventures which I should meet with on the roads before the horse and I should part company.

XIX

I saw nothing more of Mr. Petulengro that evening; on the morrow, however, he came and informed me that he had secured the horse for me, and that I was to go and pay for it at noon. At the hour appointed, therefore, I went with Mr. Petulengro and Tawno to the public, where, as before, there was a crowd of company. The landlord received us in the bar with marks of much satisfaction and esteem, made us sit down, and treated us with some excellent mild draught ale. “Who do you think has been here this morning?” he said to me; “why, that fellow in black, who came to carry me off to a house of Popish devotion, where I was to pass seven days and nights in meditation, as I think he called it, before I publicly renounced the religion of my country. I read him a pretty lecture, calling him several unhandsome names, and asking him what he meant by attempting to seduce a churchwarden of the Church of England. I tell you what, he ran some danger; for some of my customers, learning his errand, laid hold on him, and were about to toss him in a blanket, and then duck him in the horse-pond. I, however, interfered, and said, ‘that what he came about was between me and him, and that it was no business of theirs.’ To tell you the truth, I felt pity for the poor devil, more especially when I considered that they merely sided against him because they thought him the weakest, and that they would have wanted to serve me in the same manner had they considered me a down pin; so I rescued him from their hands, told him not to be afraid, for that nobody should touch him, and offered to treat him to some cold gin and water with a lump of sugar in it; and on his refusing, told him that he had better make himself scarce, which he did, and I hope I shall never see him again. So I suppose you are come for the horse; mercy upon us! who would have thought you would have become the purchaser? The horse, however, seemed to know it by his neighing. How did you ever come by the money? however, that’s no matter of mine. I suppose you are strongly backed by certain friends you have.”

I informed the landlord that he was right in supposing that I came for the horse, but that, before I paid for him, I should wish to prove his capabilities. “With all my heart,” said the landlord. “You shall mount him this moment.” Then going into the stable, he saddled and bridled the horse, and presently brought him out before the door. I mounted him, Mr. Petulengro putting a heavy whip into my hand, and saying a few words to me in his own mysterious language. “The horse wants no whip,” said the landlord. “Hold your tongue, daddy,” said Mr. Petulengro. “My pal knows quite well what to do with the whip, he’s not going to beat the horse with it.” About four hundred yards from the house there was a hill, to the foot of which the road ran almost on a perfect level; towards the foot of this hill, I trotted the horse, who set off at a long, swift pace, seemingly at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour. On reaching the foot of the hill, I wheeled the animal round, and trotted him towards the house—the horse sped faster than before. Ere he had advanced a hundred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice which Mr. Petulengro had given me, in his own language, and holding it over the horse’s head commenced drumming on the crown with the knob of the whip; the horse gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, continued his trot till he arrived at the door of the public-house, amidst the acclamations of the company, who had all rushed out of the house to be spectators of what was going on. “I see now what you wanted the whip for,” said the landlord, “and sure enough, that drumming on your hat was no bad way of learning whether the horse was quiet or not. Well, did you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better trotter?” “My cob shall trot against him,” said a fellow, dressed in velveteen, mounted on a low powerful-looking animal. “My cob shall trot against him to the hill and back again—come on!” We both started; the cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half the way to the hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he was about fifteen yards behind. Whereupon I turned slowly and waited for him. We then set off towards the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards behind when I reached the door. This running of horses, the wild uncouth forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north. I almost imagined myself Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of ———.

“Are you satisfied?” said the landlord. “Didn’t you tell me that he could leap?” I demanded. “I am told he can,” said the landlord; “but I can’t consent that he should be tried in that way, as he might be damaged.” “That’s right!” said Mr. Petulengro, “don’t trust my pal to leap that horse, he’ll merely fling him down, and break his neck and his own. There’s a better man than he close by; let him get on his back and leap him.” “You mean yourself, I suppose,” said the landlord. “Well, I call that talking modestly, and nothing becomes a young man more than modesty.” “It a’n’t I, daddy,” said Mr. Petulengro. “Here’s the man,” said he, pointing to Tawno. “Here’s the horse-leaper of the world!” “You mean the horseback breaker,” said the landlord. “That big fellow would break down my cousin’s horse.” “Why, he weighs only sixteen stone,” said Mr. Petulengro. “And his sixteen stone, with his way of handling a horse, does not press so much as any other one’s thirteen. Only let him get on the horse’s back, and you’ll see what he can do!” “No,” said the landlord, “it won’t do.” Whereupon Mr. Petulengro became very much excited, and pulling out a handful of money, said: “I’ll tell you what, I’ll forfeit these guineas, if my black pal there does the horse any kind of damage; duck me in the horse-pond if I don’t.” “Well,” said the landlord, “for the sport of the thing I consent, so let your white pal get down, and your black pal mount as soon as he pleases.” I felt rather mortified at Mr. Petulengro’s interference, and showed no disposition to quit my seat; whereupon he came up to me and said: “Now, brother, do get out of the saddle—you are no bad hand at trotting, I am willing to acknowledge that; but at leaping a horse there is no one like Tawno. Let every dog be praised for his own gift. You have been showing off in your line for the last half-hour; now do give Tawno a chance of exhibiting a little; poor fellow, he hasn’t often a chance of exhibiting, as his wife keeps him so much out of sight.” Not wishing to appear desirous of engrossing the public attention, and feeling rather desirous to see how Tawno, of whose exploits in leaping horses I had frequently heard, would acquit himself in the affair, I at length dismounted, and Tawno at a bound, leaped into the saddle, where he really looked like Gunnar of Hlitharend, save and except the complexion of Gunnar was florid, whereas that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness; and that all Tawno’s features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar had a snub nose. “There’s a leaping-bar behind the house,” said the landlord. “Leaping-bar!” said Mr. Petulengro scornfully. “Do you think my black pal ever rides at a leaping-bar? No more than at a windle-straw. Leap over that meadow-wall, Tawno.” Just past the house, in the direction in which I had been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which was a small meadow. Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall, permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, and pressing his calves against the horse’s sides, he loosed the rein, and the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant style. “Well done, man and horse!” said Mr. Petulengro; “now come back, Tawno.” The leap from the side of the meadow was, however, somewhat higher; and the horse, when pushed at it, at first turned away; whereupon Tawno backed him to a greater distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry; whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of his legs against it. “A near thing,” said the landlord, “but a good leap. Now, no more leaping, so long as I have control over the animal.” The horse was then led back to the stable; and the landlord, myself and companions going into the bar, I paid down the money for the horse.

Scarcely was the bargain concluded, when two or three of the company began to envy me the possession of the horse, and forcing their way into the bar, with much noise and clamour, said that the horse had been sold too cheap. One fellow, in particular, with a red waistcoat, the son of a wealthy farmer, said that if he had but known that the horse had been so good a one, he would have bought it at the first price asked for it, which he was now willing to pay, that is tomorrow, supposing—“supposing your father will let you have the money,” said the landlord, “which, after all, might not be the case, but, however that may be, it is too late now. I think myself the horse has been sold for too little money, but if so, all the better for the young man, who came forward when no other body did with his money in his hand. There, take yourselves out of my bar,” said he to the fellows; “and a pretty scoundrel you,” said he to the man of the red waistcoat, “to say the horse has been sold too cheap; why, it was only yesterday you said he was good for nothing, and were passing all kinds of jokes at him. Take yourself out of my bar, I say, you and all of you,” and he turned the fellows out. I then asked the landlord whether he would permit the horse to remain in the stable for a short time, provided I paid for his entertainment; and on his willingly consenting, I treated my friends with ale, and then returned with them to the encampment.

That evening I informed Mr. Petulengro and his party that on the morrow I intended to mount my horse and leave that part of the country in quest of adventures; inquiring of Jasper where, in the event of my selling the horse advantageously, I might meet with him, and repay the money I had borrowed of him; whereupon Mr. Petulengro informed me that in about ten weeks I might find him at a certain place at the Chong gav. I then stated that as I could not well carry with me the property which I possessed in the dingle, which after all was of no considerable value, I had resolved to bestow the said property, namely, the pony, tent, tinker-tools, etc., on Ursula and her husband, partly because they were poor, and partly on account of the great kindness which I bore to Ursula, from whom I had, on various occasions, experienced all manner of civility, particularly in regard to crabbed words. On hearing this intelligence, Ursula returned many thanks to her gentle brother, as she called me, and Sylvester was so overjoyed that, casting aside his usual phlegm, he said I was the best friend he had ever had in the world, and in testimony of his gratitude swore that he would permit me to give his wife a choomer in the presence of the whole company, which offer, however, met with a very mortifying reception, the company frowning disapprobation, Ursula protesting against anything of the kind, and I myself showing no forwardness to avail myself of it, having inherited from nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no slight store acquired in the course of my Irish education. I passed that night alone in the dingle in a very melancholy manner, with little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners, and in the morning when I quitted it I shed several tears, as I reflected that I should probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many hours in her company.

XX

On reaching the plain above, I found my Romany friends breakfasting, and on being asked by Mr. Petulengro to join them, I accepted the invitation. No sooner was breakfast over than I informed Ursula and her husband that they would find the property, which I had promised them, below in the dingle, commending the little pony Ambrol to their best care. I took leave of the whole company, which was itself about to break up camp and to depart in the direction of London, and made the best of my way to the public-house. I had a small bundle in my hand, and was dressed in the same manner as when I departed from London, having left my wagoner’s slop with the other effects in the dingle. On arriving at the public-house, I informed the landlord that I was come for my horse, inquiring, at the same time, whether he could not accommodate me with a bridle and saddle. He told me that the bridle and saddle, with which I had ridden the horse on the preceding day, were at my service for a trifle; that he had received them some time since in payment for a debt, and that he had himself no use for them. The leathers of the bridle were rather shabby, and the bit rusty, and the saddle was old-fashioned; but I was happy to purchase them for seven shillings, more especially as the landlord added a small valise, which he said could be strapped to the saddle, and which I should find very convenient for carrying my things in. I then proceeded to the stable, told the horse we were bound on an expedition, and giving him a feed of corn, left him to discuss it, and returned to the barroom to have a little farewell chat with the landlord, and at the same time to drink with him a farewell glass of ale. Whilst we were talking and drinking, the niece came and joined us: she was a decent, sensible young woman, who appeared to take a great interest in her uncle, whom she regarded with a singular mixture of pride and disapprobation—pride for the renown which he had acquired by his feats of old, and disapprobation for his late imprudences. She said that she hoped that his misfortunes would be a warning to him to turn more to his God than he had hitherto done, and to give up cockfighting and other lowlife practices. To which the landlord replied, that with respect to cockfighting he intended to give it up entirely, being determined no longer to risk his capital upon birds, and with respect to his religious duties, he should attend the church of which he was churchwarden at least once a quarter, adding, however, that he did not intend to become either canter or driveller, neither of which characters would befit a publican surrounded by such customers as he was, and that to the last day of his life he hoped to be able to make use of his fists. After a stay of about two hours I settled accounts, and having bridled and saddled my horse, and strapped on the valise, I mounted, shook hands with the landlord and his niece, and departed, notwithstanding that they both entreated me to tarry until the evening, it being then the heat of the day.

XXI

I bent my course in the direction of the north, more induced by chance than any particular motive; all quarters of the world having about equal attractions for me. I was in high spirits at finding myself once more on horseback, and trotted gaily on, until the heat of the weather induced me to slacken my pace, more out of pity for my horse than because I felt any particular inconvenience from it—heat and cold being then, and still, matters of great indifference to me. What I thought of I scarcely know, save and except that I have a glimmering recollection that I felt some desire to meet with one of those adventures which upon the roads of England are generally as plentiful as blackberries in autumn; and Fortune, who has generally been ready to gratify my inclinations, provided it cost her very little by so doing, was not slow in furnishing me with an adventure, perhaps as characteristic of the English roads as anything which could have happened.

I might have travelled about six miles amongst cross roads and lanes, when suddenly I found myself upon a broad and very dusty road which seemed to lead due north. As I wended along this I saw a man upon a donkey riding towards me. The man was commonly dressed, with a broad felt hat on his head, and a kind of satchel on his back; he seemed to be in a mighty hurry, and was every now and then belabouring the donkey with a cudgel. The donkey, however, which was a fine large creature of the silver-grey species, did not appear to sympathise at all with its rider in his desire to get on, but kept its head turned back as much as possible, moving from one side of the road to the other, and not making much forward way. As I passed, being naturally of a very polite disposition, I gave the man the sele of the day, asking him, at the same time, why he beat the donkey; whereupon the fellow eyeing me askance, told me to mind my own business, with the addition of something which I need not repeat. I had not proceeded a furlong before I saw seated on the dust by the wayside, close by a heap of stones, and with several flints before him, a respectable-looking old man, with a straw hat and a white smock, who was weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for, father?” said I. “Have you come to any hurt?” “Hurt enough,” sobbed the old man. “I have just been tricked out of the best ass in England by a villain, who gave me nothing but these trash in return,” pointing to the stones before him. “I really scarcely understand you,” said I; “I wish you would explain yourself more clearly.” “I was riding on my ass from market,” said the old man, “when I met here a fellow with a sack on his back, who, after staring at the ass and me a moment or two, asked me if I would sell her. I told him that I could not think of selling her, as she was very useful to me, and though an animal, my true companion, whom I loved as much as if she were my wife and daughter. I then attempted to pass on, but the fellow stood before me, begging me to sell her, saying that he would give me anything for her; well, seeing that he persisted, I said at last that if I sold her, I must have six pounds for her, and I said so to get rid of him, for I saw that he was a shabby fellow, who had probably not six shillings in the world; but I had better have held my tongue,” said the old man, crying more bitterly than before, “for the words were scarcely out of my mouth, when he said he would give me what I asked, and taking the sack from his back, he pulled out a steelyard, and going to the heap of stones there, he took up several of them and weighed them, then flinging them down before me, he said: ‘There are six pounds, neighbour; now, get off the ass, and hand her over to me.’ Well, I sat like one dumbfoundered for a time, till at last I asked him what he meant? ‘What do I mean?’ said he, ‘you old rascal, why, I mean to claim my purchase,’ and then he swore so awfully, that scarcely knowing what I did I got down, and he jumped on the animal and rode off as fast as he could.” “I suppose he was the fellow,” said I, “whom I just now met upon a fine grey ass, which he was beating with a cudgel.” “I daresay he was,” said the old man; “I saw him beating her as he rode away, and I thought I should have died.” “I never heard such a story,” said I; “well, do you mean to submit to such a piece of roguery quietly?” “Oh, dear,” said the old man, “what can I do? I am seventy-nine years of age; I am bad on my feet, and dar’n’t go after him.” “Shall I go?” said I; “the fellow is a thief, and anyone has a right to stop him.” “Oh, if you could but bring her again to me,” said the old man, “I would bless you to my dying day; but have a care; I don’t know but after all the law may say that she is his lawful purchase. I asked six pounds for her, and he gave me six pounds.” “Six flints, you mean,” said I; “no, no, the law is not quite so bad as that either; I know something about her, and am sure that she will never sanction such a quibble. At all events, I’ll ride after the fellow.” Thereupon turning the horse round, I put him to his very best trot; I rode nearly a mile without obtaining a glimpse of the fellow, and was becoming apprehensive that he had escaped me by turning down some bypath, two or three of which I had passed. Suddenly, however, on the road making a slight turning, I perceived him right before me, moving at a tolerably swift pace, having by this time probably overcome the resistance of the animal. Putting my horse to a full gallop, I shouted at the top of my voice: “Get off that donkey, you rascal, and give her up to me, or I’ll ride you down.” The fellow hearing the thunder of the horse’s hoofs behind him, drew up on one side of the road. “What do you want?” said he, as I stopped my charger, now almost covered with sweat and foam close beside him. “Do you want to rob me?” “To rob you?” said I. “No! but to take from you that ass, of which you have just robbed its owner.” “I have robbed no man,” said the fellow; “I just now purchased it fairly of its master, and the law will give it to me; he asked six pounds for it, and I gave him six pounds.” “Six stones, you mean, you rascal,” said I; “get down, or my horse shall be upon you in a moment;” then with a motion of my reins, I caused the horse to rear, pressing his sides with my heels as if I intended to make him leap. “Stop,” said the man, “I’ll get down and then try if I can’t serve you out.” He then got down, and confronted me with his cudgel; he was a horrible-looking fellow, and seemed prepared for anything. Scarcely, however, had he dismounted, when the donkey jerked the bridle out of his hand, and probably in revenge for the usage she had received, gave him a pair of tremendous kicks on the hip with her hinder legs, which overturned him, and then scampered down the road the way she had come. “Pretty treatment this,” said the fellow, getting up without his cudgel, and holding his hand to his side; “I wish I may not be lamed for life.” “And if you be,” said I, “it would merely serve you right, you rascal, for trying to cheat a poor old man out of his property by quibbling at words.” “Rascal!” said the fellow, “you lie, I am no rascal; and as for quibbling with words—suppose I did! What then? All the first people does it! The newspapers does it! the gentlefolks that calls themselves the guides of the popular mind does it! I’m no ignoramus. I reads the newspapers, and knows what’s what.” “You read them to some purpose,” said I. “Well, if you are lamed for life, and unfitted for any active line—turn newspaper editor; I should say you are perfectly qualified, and this day’s adventure may be the foundation of your fortune,” thereupon I turned round and rode off. The fellow followed me with a torrent of abuse. “Confound you,” said he—yet that was not the expression either—“I know you; you are one of the horse-patrol come down into the country on leave to see your relations. Confound you, you and the like of you have knocked my business on the head near Lunnon, and I suppose we shall have you shortly in the country.” “To the newspaper office,” said I, “and fabricate falsehoods out of flint stones;” then touching the horse with my heels, I trotted off, and coming to the place where I had seen the old man, I found him there, risen from the ground, and embracing his ass.

I told him that I was travelling down the road, and said that if his way lay in the same direction as mine he could do no better than accompany me for some distance, lest the fellow who, for aught I knew, might be hovering nigh, might catch him alone, and again get his ass from him. After thanking me for my offer, which he said he would accept, he got upon his ass, and we proceeded together down the road. My new acquaintance said very little of his own accord; and when I asked him a question, answered rather incoherently. I heard him every now and then say, “Villain!” to himself, after which he would pat the donkey’s neck, from which circumstance I concluded that his mind was occupied with his late adventure. After travelling about two miles, we reached a place where a driftway on the right led from the great road; here my companion stopped, and on my asking whether he was going any farther, he told me that the path to the right was the way to his home.

I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, and said, that as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would go with him and taste some of his mead. As I had never tasted mead, of which I had frequently read in the compositions of the Welsh bards, and, moreover, felt rather thirsty from the heat of the day, I told him that I should have great pleasure in attending him. Whereupon, turning off together, we proceeded about half a mile, sometimes between stone walls, and at other times hedges, till we reached a small hamlet, through which we passed, and presently came to a very pretty cottage, delightfully situated within a garden, surrounded by a hedge of woodbines. Opening a gate at one corner of the garden he led the way to a large shed, which stood partly behind the cottage, which he said was his stable; thereupon he dismounted and led his donkey into the shed, which was without stalls, but had a long rack and manger. On one side he tied his donkey, after taking off her caparisons, and I followed his example, tying my horse at the other side with a rope halter which he gave me; he then asked me to come in and taste his mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully down. Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood in the shed, I allowed the horse to drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old man, who all the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him whether he had any oats? “I have all kinds of grain,” he replied; and, going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a large and the other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other before the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned her nose to her master’s face, and fairly kissed him. Having given my horse his portion, I told the old man that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal table in a neatly sanded kitchen, he produced from an old-fashioned closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and filling the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me, and taking a seat opposite to me he lifted the other, nodded, and saying to me: “Health and welcome,” placed it to his lips and drank.

“Health and thanks,” I replied, and being very thirsty, emptied my cup at a draught I had scarcely done so, however, when I half-repented. The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became slightly dizzy. “Mead is a strong drink,” said the old man, as he looked at me, with half a smile on his countenance. “This is at any rate,” said I, “so strong, indeed, that I would not drink another cup for any consideration.” “And I would not ask you,” said the old man; “for, if you did, you would most probably be stupid all day, and wake next morning with a headache. Mead is a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not used to it, as I suppose you are not.” “Where do you get it?” said I. “I make it myself,” said the old man, “from the honey which my bees make.” “Have you many bees?” I inquired. “A great many,” said the old man. “And do you keep them,” said I, “for the sake of making mead with their honey?” “I keep them,” he replied, “partly because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in; they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with a little I make me some mead to warm my poor heart with, or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself.” “And do you support yourself entirely by means of your bees?” “No,” said the old man; “I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is my principal means of support.” “And do you live alone?” “Yes,” said he; “with the exception of the bees and the donkey, I live quite alone.” “And have you always lived alone?” The old man emptied his cup, and his heart being warmed with the mead, he told me his history, which was simplicity itself. His father was a small yeoman, who, at his death, had left him, his only child, the cottage, with a small piece of ground behind it, and on this little property he had lived ever since. About the age of twenty-five he had married an industrious young woman, by whom he had one daughter, who died before reaching years of womanhood. His wife, however, had survived her daughter many years, and had been a great comfort to him, assisting him in his rural occupations: but, about four years before the present period, he had lost her, since which time he had lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could; cultivating his ground, with the help of a lad from the neighbouring village, attending to his bees, and occasionally riding his donkey to market, and hearing the word of God, which he said he was sorry he could not read, twice a week regularly at the parish church. Such was the old man’s tale.

When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, and showed me his little domain. It consisted of about two acres in admirable cultivation; a small portion of it formed a kitchen garden, whilst the rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat, barley, peas and beans. The air was full of ambrosial sweets, resembling those proceeding from an orange grove, a place which though I had never seen at that time, I since have. In the garden was the habitation of the bees, a long box, supported upon three oaken stumps. It was full of small round glass windows, and appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much resembling drawers placed sideways. He told me that, as one compartment was filled, the bees left it for another; so that, whenever he wanted honey, he could procure some without injuring the insects. Through the little round windows I could see several of the bees at work; hundreds were going in and out of the doors; hundreds were buzzing about on the flowers, the woodbines and beans. As I looked around on the well-cultivated field, the garden, and the bees, I thought I had never before seen so rural and peaceful a scene.

When we returned to the cottage we again sat down, and I asked the old man whether he was not afraid to live alone. He told me that he was not, for that, upon the whole, his neighbours were very kind to him. I mentioned the fellow who had swindled him of his donkey upon the road. “That was no neighbour of mine,” said the old man, “and, perhaps, I shall never see him again, or his like.” “It’s a dreadful thing,” said I, “to have no other resource, when injured, than to shed tears on the road.” “It is so,” said the old man; “but God saw the tears of the old, and sent a helper.” “Why did you not help yourself?” said I. “Instead of getting off your ass, why did you not punch at the fellow, or at any rate use dreadful language, call him villain, and shout robbery?” “Punch!” said the old man, “shout! what, with these hands, and this voice—Lord, how you run on! I am old, young chap, I am old!” “Well,” said I, “it is a shameful thing to cry even when old.” “You think so now,” said the old man, “because you are young and strong; perhaps when you are as old as I, you will not be ashamed to cry.”

Upon the whole I was rather pleased with the old man, and much with all about him. As evening drew nigh, I told him that I must proceed on my journey; whereupon he invited me to tarry with him during the night, telling me that he had a nice room and bed above at my service. I, however, declined, and bidding him farewell, mounted my horse and departed. Regaining the road, I proceeded once more in the direction of the north; and, after a few hours, coming to a comfortable public-house, I stopped, and put up for the night.

XXII

I did not awake till rather late the next morning, and when I did, I felt considerable drowsiness, with a slight headache, which I was uncharitable enough to attribute to the mead which I had drunk on the preceding day. After feeding my horse, and breakfasting, I proceeded on my wanderings. Nothing occurred worthy of relating till midday was considerably past, when I came to a pleasant valley, between two gentle hills. I had dismounted, in order to ease my horse, and was leading him along by the bridle, when, on my right, behind a bank in which some umbrageous ashes were growing, I heard a singular noise. I stopped short and listened, and presently said to myself: “Surely this is snoring, perhaps that of a hedgehog.” On further consideration, however, I was convinced that the noise which I heard, and which certainly seemed to be snoring, could not possibly proceed from the nostrils of so small an animal, but must rather come from those of a giant, so loud and sonorous was it. About two or three yards farther was a gate, partly open, to which I went, and peeping into the field, saw a man lying on some rich grass, under the shade of one of the ashes; he was snoring away at a great rate. Impelled by curiosity, I fastened the bridle of my horse to the gate, and went up to the man. He was a genteelly-dressed individual; rather corpulent, with dark features, and seemingly about forty-five. He lay on his back, his hat slightly over his brow, and at his right hand lay an open book. So strenuously did he snore that the wind from his nostrils agitated, perceptibly, a fine cambric frill which he wore at his bosom. I gazed upon him for some time, expecting that he might awake; but he did not, but kept on snoring, his breast heaving convulsively. At last, the noise he made became so terrible, that I felt alarmed for his safety, imagining that a fit might seize him, and he lose his life while fast asleep. I therefore exclaimed: “Sir, sir, awake! you sleep overmuch.” But my voice failed to rouse him, and he continued snoring as before; whereupon I touched him slightly with my riding wand, but failing to wake him, I touched him again more vigorously; whereupon he opened his eyes, and, probably imagining himself in a dream, closed them again. But I was determined to arouse him, and cried as loud as I could: “Sir, sir, pray sleep no more!” He heard what I said, opened his eyes again, stared at me with a look of some consciousness, and, half-raising himself upon his elbows, asked me what was the matter. “I beg your pardon,” said I, “but I took the liberty of awaking you, because you appeared to be much disturbed in your sleep; I was fearful, too, that you might catch a fever from sleeping under a tree.” “I run no risk,” said the man, “I often come and sleep here; and as for being disturbed in my sleep, I felt very comfortable; I wish you had not awoke me.” “Well,” said I, “I beg your pardon once more. I assure you that what I did was with the best intention.” “Oh! pray make no further apology,” said the individual; “I make no doubt that what you did was done kindly; but there’s an old proverb, to the effect, ‘that you should let sleeping dogs lie,’ ” he added with a smile. Then, getting up, and stretching himself with a yawn, he took up his book and said: “I have slept quite long enough, and it’s quite time for me to be going home.” “Excuse my curiosity,” said I, “if I inquire what may induce you to come and sleep in this meadow?” “To tell you the truth,” answered he, “I am a bad sleeper.” “Pray, pardon me,” said I, “if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more heartily.” “If I did so,” said the individual, “I am beholden to this meadow and this book; but I am talking riddles, and will explain myself. I am the owner of a very pretty property, of which this valley forms part. Some years ago, however, up started a person who said the property was his; a lawsuit ensued, and I was on the brink of losing my all, when, most unexpectedly, the suit was determined in my favour. Owing, however, to the anxiety to which my mind had been subjected for years, my nerves had become terribly shaken; and no sooner was the trial terminated than sleep forsook my pillow. I sometimes passed nights without closing an eye; I took opiates, but they rather increased than alleviated my malady. About three weeks ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand, and advised me to take it every day to some pleasant part of my estate, and try and read a page or two, assuring me, if I did, that I should infallibly fall asleep. I took his advice, and selecting this place, which I considered the pleasantest part of my property, I came, and lying down, commenced reading the book, and before finishing a page was in a dead slumber. Every day since then I have repeated the experiment, and every time with equal success. I am a single man, without any children; and yesterday I made my will, in which, in the event of my friend’s surviving me, I have left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for me the most invaluable of all blessings—sleep.”

“Dear me,” said I, “how very extraordinary! Do you think that your going to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book?” “I suppose by both,” said my new acquaintance, “acting in cooperation.” “It may be so,” said I; “the magic influence does certainly not proceed from the meadow alone; for since I have been here, I have not felt the slightest inclination to sleep. Does the book consist of prose or poetry?” “It consists of poetry,” said the individual. “Not Byron’s?” said I. “Byron’s!” repeated the individual, with a smile of contempt; “no, no; there is nothing narcotic in Byron’s poetry. I don’t like it. I used to read it, but it thrilled, agitated and kept me awake. No; this is not Byron’s poetry, but the inimitable ———’s”—mentioning a name that I had never heard till then. “Will you permit me to look at it?” said I. “With pleasure,” he answered, politely handing me the book. I took the volume, and glanced over the contents. It was written in blank verse, and appeared to abound in descriptions of scenery; there was much mention of mountains, valleys, streams and waterfalls, harebells and daffodils.270 These descriptions were interspersed with dialogues, which though they proceeded from the mouths of pedlars and rustics, were of the most edifying description; mostly on subjects moral or metaphysical, and couched in the most gentlemanly and unexceptionable language, without the slightest mixture of vulgarity, coarseness or piebald grammar. Such appeared to me to be the contents of the book; but before I could form a very clear idea of them, I found myself nodding, and a surprising desire to sleep coming over me. Rousing myself, however, by a strong effort, I closed the book, and, returning it to the owner, inquired of him, “Whether he had any motive in coming and lying down in the meadow, besides the wish of enjoying sleep?” “None whatever,” he replied; “indeed, I should be very glad not to be compelled to do so, always provided I could enjoy the blessing of sleep; for by lying down under trees, I may possibly catch the rheumatism, or be stung by serpents; and, moreover, in the rainy season and winter the thing will be impossible, unless I erect a tent, which will possibly destroy the charm.” “Well,” said I, “you need give yourself no further trouble about coming here, as I am fully convinced that with this book in your hand, you may go to sleep anywhere, as your friend was doubtless aware, though he wished to interest your imagination for a time by persuading you to lie abroad; therefore, in future, whenever you feel disposed to sleep, try to read the book, and you will be sound asleep in a minute, the narcotic influence lies in the book, and not the field.” “I will follow your advice,” said the individual; “and this very night take it with me to bed, though I hope in time to be able to sleep without it, my nerves being already much quieted from the slumbers I have enjoyed in this field.” He then moved towards the gate, where we parted, he going one way and I and my horse the other.

More than twenty years subsequent to this period, after much wandering about the world, returning to my native country, I was invited to a literary tea-party, where, the discourse turning upon poetry, I, in order to show that I was not more ignorant than my neighbours, began to talk about Byron, for whose writings I really entertained considerable admiration, though I had no particular esteem for the man himself. At first, I received no answer to what I said—the company merely surveying me with a kind of sleepy stare. At length a lady, about the age of forty, with a large wart on her face, observed in a drawling tone, “That she had not read Byron—at least, since her girlhood—and then only a few passages; but that the impression on her mind was that his writings were of a highly objectionable character.” “I also read a little of him in my boyhood,” said a gentleman about sixty, but who evidently, from his dress and demeanour, wished to appear about thirty, “but I highly disapproved of him; for notwithstanding he was a nobleman, he is frequently very coarse, and very fond of raising emotion. Now emotion is what I dislike,” drawling out the last syllable of the word dislike. “There is only one poet for me—the divine ———,” and then he mentioned a name which I had only once heard, and afterwards quite forgotten, the name mentioned by the snorer in the field. “Ah! there is no one like him!” murmured some more of the company; “the poet of nature—of nature without its vulgarity.” I wished very much to ask these people whether they were ever bad sleepers, and whether they had read the poet, so called, from a desire of being set to sleep. Within a few days, however, I learnt that it had of late become very fashionable and genteel to appear half-asleep, and that one could exhibit no better mark of superfine breeding than by occasionally in company setting one’s rhonchal organ in action. I then ceased to wonder at the popularity, which I found nearly universal, of divine ———’s poetry; for, certainly in order to make one’s self appear sleepy in company, or occasionally to induce sleep, nothing could be more efficacious than a slight prelection of his poems. So poor Byron, with his fire and emotion—to say nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry—was dethroned, as I had prophesied he would be more than twenty years before, on the day of his funeral, though I had little idea that his humiliation, would have been brought about by one, whose sole strength consists in setting people to sleep. Well, all things are doomed to terminate in sleep. Before that termination, however, I will venture to prophesy that people will become a little more awake, snoring and yawning be a little less in fashion, and poor Byron be once more reinstated on his throne, though his rival will always stand a good chance of being worshipped by those whose ruined nerves are insensible to the narcotic powers of opium and morphine.

XXIII

I continued my journey, passing through one or two villages. The day was exceedingly hot, and the roads dusty. In order to cause my horse as little fatigue as possible, and not to chafe his back, I led him by the bridle, my doing which brought upon me a shower of remarks, jests and would-be witticisms from the drivers and front outside passengers of sundry stagecoaches which passed me in one direction or the other. In this way I proceeded till considerably past noon, when I felt myself very fatigued, and my horse appeared no less so; and it is probable that the lazy and listless manner in which we were moving on, tired us both much more effectually than hurrying along at a swift trot would have done, for I have observed that when the energies of the body are not exerted a languor frequently comes over it. At length arriving at a very large building with an archway, near the entrance of a town, I sat down on what appeared to be a stepping-block, and presently experienced a great depression of spirits. I began to ask myself whither I was going, and what I should do with myself and the horse which I held by the bridle? It appeared to me that I was alone in the world with the poor animal, who looked for support to me, who knew not how to support myself. Then the image of Isopel Berners came into my mind, and when I thought how I had lost her forever, and how happy I might have been with her in the New World had she not deserted me, I became yet more miserable.

As I sat in this state of mind, I suddenly felt someone clap me on the shoulder, and heard a voice say: “Ha! comrade of the dingle, what chance has brought you into these parts?” “I turned round, and beheld a man in the dress of a postillion, whom I instantly recognised as he to whom I had rendered assistance on the night of the storm.

“Ah!” said I, “is it you? I am glad to see you, for I was feeling very lonely and melancholy.”

“Lonely and melancholy,” he replied, “how is that? how can anyone be lonely and melancholy with such a noble horse as that you hold by the bridle?”

“The horse,” said I, “is one cause of my melancholy, for I know not in the world what to do with it.”

“Is it your own?”

“Yes,” said I, “I may call it my own, though I borrowed the money to purchase it.”

“Well, why don’t you sell it?”

“It is not always easy to find a purchaser for a horse like this,” said I; “can you recommend me one?”

“I? Why no, not exactly; but you’ll find a purchaser shortly—pooh! if you have no other cause for disquiet than that horse, cheer up, man, don’t be cast down. Have you nothing else on your mind? By the by, what’s become of the young woman you were keeping company with in that queer lodging place of yours?”

“She has left me,” said I.

“You quarrelled, I suppose?”

“No,” said I, “we did not exactly quarrel, but we are parted.”

“Well,” replied he, “but you will soon come together again.”

“No,” said I, “we are parted forever.”

“Forever! Pooh! you little know how people sometimes come together again who think they are parted forever. Here’s something on that point relating to myself. You remember, when I told you my story in that dingle of yours, that I mentioned a young woman, my fellow-servant when I lived with the English family in Mumbo Jumbo’s town, and how she and I, when our foolish governors were thinking of changing their religion, agreed to stand by each other, and be true to old Church of England, and to give our governors warning, provided they tried to make us renegades. Well, she and I parted soon after that, and never thought to meet again, yet we met the other day in the fields, for she lately came to live with a great family not far from here, and we have since agreed to marry, to take a little farm, for we have both a trifle of money, and live together till ‘death us do part.’ So much for parting forever! But what do I mean by keeping you broiling in the sun with your horse’s bridle in your hand, and you on my own ground? Do you know where you are? Why, that great house is my inn, that is, it’s my master’s, the best fellow in ———. Come along, you and your horse, both will find a welcome at my inn.”

Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were coaches, chaises, and a great many people; taking my horse from me, he led it into a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack; he then conducted me into a postillion’s keeping-room, which at that time chanced to be empty, and he then fetched a pot of beer and sat down by me.

After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, and I told him frankly that I did not know; whereupon he observed that, provided I had no objection, he had little doubt that I could be accommodated for some time at his inn. “Our upper ostler,” said he, “died about a week ago; he was a clever fellow, and, besides his trade, understood reading and accounts.”

“Dear me,” said I, interrupting him, “I am not fitted for the place of ostler; moreover, I refused the place of ostler at a public-house, which was offered to me only a few days ago.” The postillion burst into a laugh. “Ostler at a public-house, indeed! why, you would not compare a berth at a place like that with the situation of ostler at my inn, the first roadhouse in England! However, I was not thinking of the place of ostler for you; you are, as you say, not fitted for it, at any rate, not at a house like this. We have, moreover, the best under-ostler in all England—old Bill, with the drawback that he is rather fond of drink. We could make shift with him very well, provided we could fall in with a man of writing and figures, who could give an account of the hay and corn which comes in and goes out, and wouldn’t object to give a look occasionally at the yard. Now it appears to me that you are just such a kind of man, and, if you will allow me to speak to the governor, I don’t doubt that he will gladly take you, as he feels kindly disposed towards you from what he has heard me say concerning you.”

“And what should I do with my horse?” said I.

“The horse need give you no uneasiness,” said the postillion; “I know he will be welcome here both for bed and manger, and, perhaps, in a little time you may find a purchaser, as a vast number of sporting people frequent this house.” I offered two or three more objections, which the postillion overcame with great force of argument, and the pot being nearly empty, he drained it to the bottom drop, and then starting up, left me alone.

In about twenty minutes he returned, accompanied by a highly intelligent-looking individual, dressed in blue and black, with a particularly white cravat, and without a hat on his head: this individual, whom I should have mistaken for a gentleman but for the intelligence depicted in his face, he introduced to me as the master of the inn. The master of the inn shook me warmly by the hand, told me that he was happy to see me in his house, and thanked me in the handsomest terms for the kindness I had shown to his servant in the affair of the thunderstorm. Then saying that he was informed I was out of employ, he assured me that he should be most happy to engage me to keep his hay and corn account, and as general superintendent of the yard, and that with respect to the horse, which he was told I had, he begged to inform me that I was perfectly at liberty to keep it at the inn upon the very best, until I could find a purchaser; that with regard to wages—but he had no sooner mentioned wages than I cut him short, saying, that provided I stayed I should be most happy to serve him for bed and board, and requested that he would allow me until the next morning to consider of his offer; he willingly consented to my request, and, begging that I would call for anything I pleased, left me alone with the postillion.

I passed that night until about ten o’clock with the postillion, when he left me, having to drive a family about ten miles across the country; before his departure, however, I told him that I had determined to accept the offer of his governor, as he called him. At the bottom of my heart I was most happy that an offer had been made, which secured to myself and the animal a comfortable retreat at a moment when I knew not whither in the world to take myself and him.

XXIV

The inn, of which I had become an inhabitant, was a place of infinite life and bustle. Travellers of all descriptions, from all the cardinal points, were continually stopping at it; and to attend to their wants, and minister to their convenience, an army of servants, of one description or other, was kept; waiters, chambermaids, grooms, postillions, shoeblacks, cooks, scullions, and whatnot, for there was a barber and hairdresser, who had been at Paris, and talked French with a cockney accent, the French sounding all the better, as no accent is so melodious as the cockney. Jacks creaked in the kitchens turning round spits, on which large joints of meat piped and smoked before the great big fires. There was running up and down stairs, and along galleries, slamming of doors, cries of “Coming, sir,” and “Please to step this way, ma’am,” during eighteen hours of the four-and-twenty. Truly a very great place for life and bustle was this inn. And often in after life, when lonely and melancholy, I have called up the time I spent there, and never failed to become cheerful from the recollection.

I found the master of the house a very kind and civil person. Before being an innkeeper he had been in some other line of business; but on the death of the former proprietor of the inn had married his widow, who was still alive, but, being somewhat infirm, lived in a retired part of the house. I have said that he was kind and civil; he was, however, not one of those people who suffer themselves to be made fools of by anybody; he knew his customers, and had a calm, clear eye, which would look through a man without seeming to do so. The accommodation of his house was of the very best description; his wines were good, his viands equally so, and his charges not immoderate; though he very properly took care of himself. He was no vulgar innkeeper, had a host of friends, and deserved them all. During the time I lived with him, he was presented by a large assemblage of his friends and customers with a dinner at his own house, which was very costly, and at which the best of wines were sported, and after the dinner with a piece of plate estimated at fifty guineas. He received the plate, made a neat speech of thanks, and when the bill was called for, made another neat speech, in which he refused to receive one farthing for the entertainment, ordering in at the same time two dozen more of the best champagne, and sitting down amidst uproarious applause, and cries of “You shall be no loser by it!” Nothing very wonderful in such conduct, some people will say; I don’t say there is, nor have I any intention to endeavour to persuade the reader that the landlord was a Carlo Borromeo;271 he merely gave a quid pro quo; but it is not every person who will give you a quid pro quo. Had he been a vulgar publican, he would have sent in a swinging bill after receiving the plate; “but then no vulgar publican would have been presented with plate;” perhaps not, but many a vulgar public character has been presented with plate, whose admirers never received a quid pro quo, except in the shape of a swinging bill.

I found my duties of distributing hay and corn, and keeping an account thereof, anything but disagreeable, particularly after I had acquired the goodwill of the old ostler, who at first looked upon me with rather an evil eye, considering me somewhat in the light of one who had usurped an office which belonged to himself by the right of succession; but there was little gall in the old fellow, and, by speaking kindly to him, never giving myself any airs of assumption, but, above all, by frequently reading the newspapers to him—for though passionately fond of news and politics, he was unable to read—I soon succeeded in placing myself on excellent terms with him. A regular character was that old ostler; he was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had seen a great deal of life in the vicinity of London, to which, on the death of his parents, who were very poor people, he went at a very early age. Amongst other places where he had served as ostler was a small inn at Hounslow, much frequented by highwaymen, whose exploits he was fond of narrating, especially those of Jerry Abershaw, who, he said, was a capital rider; and on hearing his accounts of that worthy, I half regretted that the old fellow had not been in London, and I had not formed his acquaintance about the time I was thinking of writing the life of the said Abershaw, not doubting that with his assistance, I could have produced a book at least as remarkable as the life and adventures of that entirely imaginary personage Joseph Sell; perhaps, however, I was mistaken; and whenever Abershaw’s life shall appear before the public—and my publisher credibly informs me that it has not yet appeared—I beg and entreat the public to state which it likes best, the life of Abershaw or that of Sell, for which latter work I am informed that during the last few months there has been a prodigious demand. My old friend, however, after talking of Abershaw, would frequently add, that, good rider as Abershaw certainly was, he was decidedly inferior to Richard Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick, who was a pal of Abershaw’s, and had enjoyed a career as long, and nearly as remarkable as his own. I learned from him that both were capital customers at the Hounslow inn, and that he had frequently drank with them in the corn-room. He said that no man could desire more jolly or entertaining companions over a glass of “summut,” but that upon the road it was anything but desirable to meet them; there they were terrible, cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles of their pistols into people’s mouths; and at this part of his locution the old man winked, and said, in a somewhat lower voice, that upon the whole they were right in doing so, and that when a person had once made up his mind to become a highwayman, his best policy was to go the whole hog, fearing nothing, but making everybody afraid of him; that people never thought of resisting a savage-faced, foul-mouthed highwayman, and if he were taken, were afraid to bear witness against him, lest he should get off and cut their throats some time or other upon the roads; whereas people would resist being robbed by a sneaking, pale-visaged rascal, and would swear bodily against him on the first opportunity, adding, that Abershaw and Ferguson, two most awful fellows, had enjoyed a long career, whereas two disbanded officers of the army, who wished to rob a coach like gentlemen, had begged the passengers’ pardon, and talked of hard necessity, had been set upon by the passengers themselves, amongst whom were three women, pulled from their horses, conducted to Maidstone, and hanged with as little pity as such contemptible fellows deserved. “There is nothing like going the whole hog,” he repeated, “and if ever I had been a highwayman, I would have done so; I should have thought myself all the more safe; and, moreover, shouldn’t have despised myself. To curry favour with those you are robbing, sometimes at the expense of your own comrades, as I have known fellows do, why, it is the greatest ———.”

“So it is,” interposed my friend the postillion, who chanced to be present at a considerable part of the old ostler’s discourse; “it is, as you say, the greatest of humbug, and merely, after all, gets a fellow into trouble; but no regular bred highwayman would do it. I say, George, catch the Pope of Rome trying to curry favour with anybody he robs; catch old Mumbo Jumbo currying favour with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dean and Chapter, should he meet them in a stagecoach; it would be with him, Bricconi abbasso,272 as he knocked their teeth out with the butt of his trombone; and the old regular-built ruffian would be all the safer for it, as Bill would say, as ten to one the Archbishop and Chapter, after such a spice of his quality, would be afraid to swear against him, and to hang him, even if he were in their power, though that would be the proper way; for, if it is the greatest of all humbug for a highwayman to curry favour with those he robs, the next greatest is to try to curry favour with a highwayman when you have got him, by letting him off.”

Finding the old man so well acquainted with the history of highwaymen, and taking considerable interest in the subject, having myself edited a book containing the lives of many remarkable people who had figured on the highway, I forthwith asked him how it was that the trade of highwaymen had become extinct in England, as at present we never heard of anyone following it. Whereupon he told me that many causes had contributed to bring about that result; the principal of which were the following: the refusal to license houses which were known to afford shelter to highwaymen, which, amongst many others, had caused the inn at Hounslow to be closed; the enclosure of many a wild heath in the country, on which they were in the habit of lurking, and particularly the establishing in the neighbourhood of London of a well-armed mounted patrol, who rode the highwaymen down, and delivered them up to justice, which hanged them without ceremony.

“And that would be the way to deal with Mumbo Jumbo and his gang,” said the postillion, “should they show their visages in these realms; and I hear by the newspapers that they are becoming every day more desperate. Take away the licence from their public-houses, cut down the rookeries and shadowy old avenues in which they are fond of lying in wait, in order to sally out upon people as they pass in the roads; but, above all, establish a good mounted police to ride after the ruffians and drag them by the scruff of the neck to the next clink, where they might lie till they could be properly dealt with by law; instead of which, the Government are repealing the wise old laws enacted against such characters, giving fresh licenses every day to their public-houses, and saying that it would be a pity to cut down their rookeries and thickets because they look so very picturesque; and, in fact, giving them all kind of encouragement; why, if such behaviour is not enough to drive an honest man mad, I know not what is. It is of no use talking; I only wish the power were in my hands, and if I did not make short work of them, might I be a mere jackass postillion all the remainder of my life.”

Besides acquiring from the ancient ostler a great deal of curious information respecting the ways and habits of the heroes of the road, with whom he had come in contact in the early portion of his life, I picked up from him many excellent hints relating to the art of grooming horses. Whilst at the inn, I frequently groomed the stage and post-horses, and those driven up by travellers in their gigs: I was not compelled, nor indeed expected, to do so, but I took pleasure in the occupation; and I remember at that period one of the principal objects of my ambition was to be a first-rate groom, and to make the skins of the creatures I took in hand look sleek and glossy like those of moles. I have said that I derived valuable hints from the old man, and, indeed, became a very tolerable groom, but there was a certain finishing touch which I could never learn from him, though he possessed it himself, and which I could never attain to by my own endeavours; though my want of success certainly did not proceed from want of application, for I have rubbed the horses down, purring and buzzing all the time, after the genuine ostler fashion, until the perspiration fell in heavy drops upon my shoes, and when I had done my best and asked the old fellow what he thought of my work, I could never extract from him more than a kind of grunt, which might be translated, “Not so very bad, but I have seen a horse groomed much better,” which leads me to suppose that a person, in order to be a first-rate groom, must have something in him when he is born which I had not, and, indeed, which many other people have not who pretend to be grooms. What does the reader think?

XXV

Of one thing I am certain, that the reader must be much delighted with the wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of these pages are redolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours exhaled from those of some of my contemporaries, especially of those who pretend to be of the highly fashionable class, and who treat of reception-rooms, well may they be styled so, in which dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops, bishops, mayors, mayoresses—not forgetting the writers themselves, both male and female—congregate and press upon one another; how cheering, how refreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such an atmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn. Oh! the reader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old ostler, for which he or she will doubtless exclaim, “Much obliged!”—and, lest I should forget to perform my promise, the reader shall have it now.

I shall never forget an harangue from the mouth of the old man, which I listened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the threshold of the stable, after having attended to some of the wants of a batch of coach-horses. It related to the manner in which a gentleman should take care of his horse and self, whilst engaged in a journey on horseback, and was addressed to myself, on the supposition of my one day coming to an estate, and of course becoming a gentleman.

“When you are a gentleman,” said he, “should you ever wish to take a journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better than the one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder—I wonder, by the by, how you ever came by it—you can’t do better than follow the advice I am about to give you, both with respect to your animal and yourself. Before you start, merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn and a little water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a pint of water yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better during the whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for about ten miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down and see your horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till you come. If the ostler happens to be a dog-fancier, and has an English terrier dog like that of mine there, say what a nice dog it is, and praise its black and tawn; and if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier, ask him how he’s getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that kind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just what you please with your own horse, and when your back is turned, he’ll say to his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has seen you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, and, before you have finished breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of corn; chat with the ostler two or three minutes, till your horse has taken the shine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking any of it away when your back is turned, for such things are sometimes done—not that I ever did such a thing myself when I was at the inn at Hounslow. Oh, dear me, no! Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have finished your breakfast and called for the newspaper, go and water your horse, letting him have one pailful, then give him another feed of corn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the prime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken the shine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper, and I hope for your sake it may be the Globe, for that’s the best paper going, then pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay without counting it up, supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waiter sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk him gently for five miles; and whilst you are walking him in this manner, it may be as well to tell you to take care that you do not let him down and smash his knees, more especially if the road be a particularly good one, for it is not at a desperate hiverman pace, and over very bad roads, that a horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on your particularly nice road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and is half asleep, like the gemman on his back; well, at the end of the five miles, when the horse has digested his food, and is all right, you may begin to push your horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, and then walking him a quarter of a one, that his wind may be not distressed; and you may go on in that way for thirty miles, never galloping, of course, for none but fools or hivermen ever gallop horses on roads; and at the end of that distance you may stop at some other nice inn to dinner. I say, when your horse is led into the stable, after that same thirty miles’ trotting and walking, don’t let the saddle be whisked off at once, for if you do your horse will have such a sore back as will frighten you, but let your saddle remain on your horse’s back, with the girths loosened, till after his next feed of corn, and be sure that he has no corn, much less water, till after a long hour and more; after he is fed he may be watered to the tune of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him a regular rub down; you may then sit down to dinner, and when you have dined get up and see to your horse as you did after breakfast, in fact, you must do much after the same fashion you did at t’other inn; see to your horse, and by no means disoblige the ostler. So when you have seen to your horse a second time, you will sit down to your bottle of wine—supposing you to be a gentleman—and after you have finished it, and your argument about the corn-laws, with any commercial gentleman who happens to be in the room, you may mount your horse again, not forgetting to do the proper thing to the waiter and ostler; you may mount your horse again and ride him, as you did before, for about five and twenty miles, at the end of which you may put up for the night after a very fair day’s journey, for no gentleman, supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as I suppose you will by the time you become a gentleman, ought to ride a horse more than sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regard for his horse’s back, or his own either. See to your horse at night, and have him well rubbed down. The next day you may ride your horse forty miles, just as you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles will bring you to your journey’s end, unless your journey be a plaguy long one, and if so, never ride your horse more than five and thirty miles a day, always, however, seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him than yourself; which is but right and reasonable, seeing as how the horse is the best animal of the two.”

“When you are a gentleman,” said he, after a pause, “the first thing you must think about is to provide yourself with a good horse for your own particular riding; you will perhaps keep a coach and pair, but they will be less your own than your lady’s, should you have one, and your young gentry, should you have any; or, if you have neither, for madam, your housekeeper, and the upper female servants; so you need trouble your head less about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay away your money for screws; but be sure you get a good horse for your own riding; and that you may have a good chance of having a good one, buy one that’s young and has plenty of belly—a little more than the one has which you now have, though you are not yet a gentleman; you will, of course, look to his head, his withers, legs and other points, but never buy a horse at any price that has not plenty of belly; no horse that has not belly is ever a good feeder, and a horse that a’n’t a good feeder, can’t be a good horse; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the belly behind; a horse of that description can’t feed, and can never carry sixteen stone.

“So when you have got such a horse be proud of it—as I daresay you are of the one you have now—and wherever you go swear there a’n’t another to match it in the country, and if anybody gives you the lie, take him by the nose and tweak it off, just as you would do if anybody were to speak ill of your lady, or, for want of her, of your housekeeper. Take care of your horse, as you would of the apple of your eye—I am sure I would if I were a gentleman, which I don’t ever expect to be, and hardly wish, seeing as how I am sixty-nine, and am rather too old to ride—yes, cherish and take care of your horse as perhaps the best friend you have in the world; for, after all, who will carry you through thick and thin as your horse will? not your gentlemen friends, I warrant, nor your housekeeper, nor your upper servants, male or female; perhaps your lady would, that is, if she is a whopper, and one of the right sort; the others would be more likely to take up mud and pelt you with it, provided they saw you in trouble, than to help you. So take care of your horse, and feed him every day with your own hands; give him three-quarters of a peck of corn each day, mixed up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besides one hundredweight of hay in the course of a week; some say that the hay should be hardland hay, because it is wholesomest, but I say, let it be clover hay, because the horse likes it best; give him through summer and winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in summer and in winter hot; ride him gently about the neighbourhood every day, by which means you will give exercise to yourself and horse, and, moreover, have the satisfaction of exhibiting yourself and your horse to advantage, and hearing, perhaps, the men say what a fine horse, and the ladies saying what a fine man: never let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten to one, if you do, your groom will be wishing to show off before company, and will fling your horse down. I was groom to a gemman before I went to the inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth ninety guineas, by endeavouring to show off before some ladies that I met on the road. Turn your horse out to grass throughout May and the first part of June, for then the grass is sweetest, and the flies don’t sting so bad as they do later in summer; afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swale of the morn and the evening; after September the grass is good for little, lash and sour at best; every horse should go out to grass, if not his blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind is apt to become affected, but he ought to be kept as much as possible from the heat and flies, always got up at night, and never turned out late in the year—Lord! if I had always such a nice attentive person to listen to me as you are, I could go on talking about ’orses to the end of time.”

XXVI

I lived on very good terms, not only with the master and the old ostler, but with all the domestics and hangers on at the inn, waiters, chambermaids, cooks and scullions, not forgetting the “boots,” of which there were three. As for the postillions, I was sworn brother with them all, and some of them went so far as to swear that I was the best fellow in the world; for which high opinion entertained by them of me, I believe I was principally indebted to the good account their comrade gave of me, whom I had so hospitably received in the dingle. I repeat that I lived on good terms with all the people connected with the inn, and was noticed and spoken kindly to by some of the guests—especially by that class termed commercial travellers—all of whom were great friends and patronisers of the landlord, and were the principal promoters of the dinner, and subscribers to the gift of plate, which I have already spoken of, the whole fraternity striking me as the jolliest set of fellows imaginable, the best customers to an inn, and the most liberal to servants; there was one description of persons, however, frequenting the inn, which I did not like at all, and which I did not get on well with, and these people were the stage-coachmen.

The stage-coachmen of England, at the time of which I am speaking, considered themselves mighty fine gentry, nay, I verily believe the most important personages of the realm, and their entertaining this high opinion of themselves can scarcely be wondered at; they were low fellows, but masters at driving; driving was in fashion, and sprigs of nobility used to dress as coachmen and imitate the slang and behaviour of coachmen, from whom occasionally they would take lessons in driving as they sat beside them on the box, which post of honour any sprig of nobility who happened to take a place on a coach claimed as his unquestionable right; and then these sprigs would smoke cigars and drink sherry with the coachmen in barrooms, and on the road; and, when bidding them farewell, would give them a guinea or a half-guinea, and shake them by the hand, so that these fellows, being low fellows, very naturally thought no small liquor of themselves, but would talk familiarly of their friends lords so-and-so, the honourable misters so-and-so, and Sir Harry and Sir Charles, and be wonderfully saucy to anyone who was not a lord, or something of the kind; and this high opinion of themselves received daily augmentation from the servile homage paid them by the generality of the untitled male passengers, especially those on the fore part of the coach, who used to contend for the honour of sitting on the box with the coachman when no sprig was nigh to put in his claim. Oh! what servile homage these craven creatures did pay these same coach fellows, more especially after witnessing this or t’other act of brutality practised upon the weak and unoffending—upon some poor friendless woman travelling with but little money, and perhaps a brace of hungry children with her, or upon some thin and half-starved man travelling on the hind part of the coach from London to Liverpool with only eighteen pence in his pocket after his fare was paid, to defray his expenses on the road; for as the insolence of these knights was vast, so was their rapacity enormous; they had been so long accustomed to have crowns and half-crowns rained upon them by their admirers and flatterers, that they would look at a shilling, for which many an honest labourer was happy to toil for ten hours under a broiling sun, with the utmost contempt; would blow upon it derisively, or fillip it into the air before they pocketed it; but when nothing was given them, as would occasionally happen—for how could they receive from those who had nothing? and nobody was bound to give them anything, as they had certain wages from their employers—then what a scene would ensue! Truly the brutality and rapacious insolence of English coachmen had reached a climax; it was time that these fellows should be disenchanted, and the time—thank Heaven!—was not far distant. Let the craven dastards who used to curry favour with them, and applaud their brutality, lament their loss now that they and their vehicles have disappeared from the roads; I, who have ever been an enemy to insolence, cruelty and tyranny, loathe their memory, and, what is more, am not afraid to say so, well aware of the storm of vituperation, partly learnt from them, which I may expect from those who used to fall down and worship them.

Amongst the coachmen who frequented the inn was one who was called “the bang-up coachman.” He drove to our inn, in the fore part of every day, one of what were called the fast coaches, and afterwards took back the corresponding vehicle. He stayed at our house about twenty minutes, during which time the passengers of the coach which he was to return with dined; those at least who were inclined for dinner, and could pay for it. He derived his sobriquet of “the bang-up coachman” partly from his being dressed in the extremity of coach dandyism, and partly from the peculiar insolence of his manner, and the unmerciful fashion in which he was in the habit of lashing on the poor horses committed to his charge. He was a large, tall fellow, of about thirty, with a face which, had it not been bloated by excess, and insolence and cruelty stamped most visibly upon it, might have been called good-looking. His insolence indeed was so great, that he was hated by all the minor fry connected with coaches along the road upon which he drove, especially the ostlers, whom he was continually abusing or finding fault with. Many was the hearty curse which he received when his back was turned; but the generality of people were much afraid of him, for he was a swinging, strong fellow, and had the reputation of being a fighter, and in one or two instances had beaten in a barbarous manner individuals who had quarrelled with him.

I was nearly having a fracas with this worthy. One day, after he had been drinking sherry with a sprig, he swaggered into the yard where I happened to be standing; just then a waiter came by carrying upon a tray part of a splendid Cheshire cheese, with a knife, plate and napkin. Stopping the waiter, the coachman cut with the knife a tolerably large lump out of the very middle of the cheese, stuck it on the end of the knife, and putting it to his mouth nibbled a slight piece off it, and then, tossing the rest away with disdain, flung the knife down upon the tray, motioning the waiter to proceed; “I wish,” said I, “you may not want before you die what you have just flung away,” whereupon the fellow turned furiously towards me; just then, however, his coach being standing at the door, there was a cry for coachman, so that he was forced to depart, contenting himself for the present with shaking his fist at me, and threatening to serve me out on the first opportunity; before, however, the opportunity occurred he himself got served out in a most unexpected manner.

The day after this incident he drove his coach to the inn, and after having dismounted and received the contributions of the generality of the passengers, he strutted up, with a cigar in his mouth, to an individual who had come with him, and who had just asked me a question with respect to the direction of a village about three miles off, to which he was going. “Remember the coachman,” said the knight of the box to this individual, who was a thin person of about sixty, with a white hat, rather shabby black coat, and buff-coloured trousers, and who held an umbrella, and a small bundle in his hand. “If you expect me to give you anything,” said he to the coachman, “you are mistaken; I will give you nothing. You have been very insolent to me as I rode behind you on the coach, and have encouraged two or three trumpery fellows, who rode along with you, to cut scurvy jokes at my expense, and now you come to me for money; I am not so poor but I could have given you a shilling had you been civil; as it is, I will give you nothing.” “Oh! you won’t, won’t you?” said the coachman; “dear me! I hope I shan’t starve because you won’t give me anything—a shilling! why, I could afford to give you twenty if I thought fit, you pauper! civil to you, indeed! things are come to a fine pass if I need be civil to you! Do you know who you are speaking to? why, the best lords in the country are proud to speak to me. Why, it was only the other day that the Marquis of ——— said to me ———” and then he went on to say what the Marquis said to him; after which, flinging down his cigar, he strutted up the road, swearing to himself about paupers.

“You say it is three miles to ———,” said the individual to me; “I think I shall light my pipe, and smoke it as I go along.” Thereupon he took out from a side-pocket a tobacco-box and short meerschaum pipe, and implements for striking a light, filled his pipe, lighted it, and commenced smoking. Presently the coachman drew near. I saw at once there was mischief in his eye; the man smoking was standing with his back towards him, and he came so nigh to him, seemingly purposely, that as he passed a puff of smoke came of necessity against his face. “What do you mean by smoking in my face?” said he, striking the pipe of the elderly individual out of his mouth. The other, without manifesting much surprise, said: “I thank you; if you will wait a minute, I will give you a receipt for that favour;” then gathering up his pipe, and taking off his coat and hat, he laid them on a stepping-block which stood near, and rubbing his hands together, he advanced towards the coachman in an attitude of offence, holding his hands crossed very near to his face. The coachman, who probably expected anything but such a movement from a person of the age and appearance of the individual whom he had insulted, stood for a moment motionless with surprise; but, recollecting himself, he pointed at him derisively with his finger; the next moment, however, the other was close upon him, had struck aside the extended hand with his left fist, and given him a severe blow on the nose with his right, which he immediately followed by a left-hand blow in the eye; then drawing his body slightly backward, with the velocity of lightning he struck the coachman full in the mouth, and the last blow was the severest of all, for it cut the coachman’s lips nearly through; blows so quickly and sharply dealt I had never seen. The coachman reeled like a fir-tree in a gale, and seemed nearly unsensed. “Ho! what’s this? a fight! a fight!” sounded from a dozen voices, and people came running from all directions to see what was going on. The coachman coming somewhat to himself, disencumbered himself of his coat and hat; and, encouraged by two or three of his brothers of the whip, showed some symptoms of fighting, endeavouring to close with his foe, but the attempt was vain, his foe was not to be closed with; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off the blows of his opponent with the greatest sangfroid, always using the guard which I have already described, and putting in, in return, short, chopping blows with the swiftness of lightning. In a very few minutes the countenance of the coachman was literally cut to pieces, and several of his teeth were dislodged; at length he gave in; stung with mortification, however, he repented, and asked for another round; it was granted, to his own complete demolition. The coachman did not drive his coach back that day, he did not appear on the box again for a week; but he never held up his head afterwards. Before I quitted the inn, he had disappeared from the road, going no one knew where.

The coachman, as I have said before, was very much disliked upon the road, but there was an esprit de corps amongst the coachmen, and those who stood by did not like to see their brother chastised in such tremendous fashion. “I never saw such a fight before,” said one. “Fight! why, I don’t call it a fight at all; this chap here ha’n’t got a scratch, whereas Tom is cut to pieces; it is all along of that guard of his; if Tom could have got within his guard he would have soon served the old chap out.” “So he would,” said another; “it was all owing to that guard. However, I think I see into it, and if I had not to drive this afternoon, I would have a turn with the old fellow and soon serve him out.” “I will fight him now for a guinea,” said the other coachman, half taking off his coat; observing, however, that the elderly individual made a motion towards him, he hitched it upon his shoulder again, and added, “that is, if he had not been fighting already, but as it is, I am above taking an advantage, especially of such a poor old creature as that.” And when he had said this, he looked around him, and there was a feeble titter of approbation from two or three of the craven crew, who were in the habit of currying favour with the coachmen. The elderly individual looked for a moment at these last, and then said: “To such fellows as you I have nothing to say,” then turning to the coachmen, “and as for you,” he said, “ye cowardly bullies, I have but one word, which is, that your reign upon the roads is nearly over, and that a time is coming when ye will no longer be wanted or employed in your present capacity, when ye will either have to drive dung-carts, assist as ostlers at village alehouses, or rot in the workhouse.” Then putting on his coat and hat, and taking up his bundle, not forgetting his meerschaum, and the rest of his smoking apparatus, he departed on his way. Filled with curiosity, I followed him.

“I am quite astonished that you should be able to use your hands in the way you have done,” said I, as I walked with this individual in the direction in which he was bound.

“I will tell you how I became able to do so,” said the elderly individual, proceeding to fill and light his pipe as he walked along. “My father was a journeyman engraver, who lived in a very riotous neighbourhood in the outskirts of London. Wishing to give me something of an education, he sent me to a day-school, two or three streets distant from where we lived, and there, being rather a puny boy, I suffered much persecution from my schoolfellows, who were a very blackguard set. One day, as I was running home, with one of my tormentors pursuing me, old Sergeant Broughton, the retired fighting-man, seized me by the arm—”

“Dear me,” said I, “has it ever been your luck to be acquainted with Sergeant Broughton?”

“You may well call it luck,” said the elder individual; “but for him I should never have been able to make my way through the world. He lived only four doors from our house; so, as I was running along the street, with my tyrant behind me, Sergeant Broughton seized me by the arm. ‘Stop, my boy,’ said he, ‘I have frequently seen that scamp ill-treating you; now I will teach you how to send him home with a bloody nose; down with your bag of books; and now, my game chick,’ whispered he to me, placing himself between me and my adversary, so that he could not observe his motions, ‘clench your fist in this manner, and hold your arms in this, and when he strikes at you, move them as I now show you, and he can’t hurt you; now, don’t be afraid, but go at him.’ I confess that I was somewhat afraid, but I considered myself in some degree under the protection of the famous Sergeant, and, clenching my fist, I went at my foe, using the guard which my ally recommended. The result corresponded to a certain degree with the predictions of the Sergeant; I gave my foe a bloody nose and a black eye, though, notwithstanding my recent lesson in the art of self-defence, he contrived to give me two or three clumsy blows. From that moment I was the especial favourite of the Sergeant, who gave me further lessons, so that in a little time I became a very fair boxer, beating everybody of my own size who attacked me. The old gentleman, however, made me promise never to be quarrelsome, nor to turn his instructions to account, except in self-defence. I have always borne in mind my promise, and have made it a point of conscience never to fight unless absolutely compelled. Folks may rail against boxing if they please, but being able to box may sometimes stand a quiet man in good stead. How should I have fared today, but for the instructions of Sergeant Broughton? But for them, the brutal ruffian who insulted me must have passed unpunished. He will not soon forget the lesson which I have just given him—the only lesson he could understand. What would have been the use of reasoning with a fellow of that description? Brave old Broughton! I owe him much.”

“And your manner of fighting,” said I, “was the manner employed by Sergeant Broughton?”

“Yes,” said my new acquaintance; “it was the manner in which he beat everyone who attempted to contend with him, till, in an evil hour, he entered the ring with Slack, without any training or preparation, and by a chance blow lost the battle to a man who had been beaten with ease by those who, in the hands of Broughton, appeared like so many children. It was the way of fighting of him who first taught Englishmen to box scientifically, who was the head and father of the fighters of what is now called the old school, the last of which were Johnson and Big Ben.”

“A wonderful man, that Big Ben,” said I.

“He was so,” said the elderly individual; “but had it not been for Broughton, I question whether Ben would have ever been the fighter he was. Oh! there was no one like old Broughton; but for him I should at the present moment be sneaking along the road, pursued by the hissings and hootings of the dirty flatterers of that blackguard coachman.”

“What did you mean,” said I, “by those words of yours, that the coachmen would speedily disappear from the roads?”

“I meant,” said he, “that a new method of travelling is about to be established, which will supersede the old. I am a poor engraver, as my father was before me; but engraving is an intellectual trade, and by following it I have been brought in contact with some of the cleverest men in England. It has even made me acquainted with the projector of the scheme, which he has told me many of the wisest heads of England have been dreaming of during a period of six hundred years, and which it seems was alluded to by a certain Brazen Head in the storybook of Friar Bacon,273 who is generally supposed to have been a wizard, but in reality was a great philosopher. Young man, in less than twenty years, by which time I shall be dead and gone, England will be surrounded with roads of metal, on which armies may travel with mighty velocity, and of which the walls of brass and iron by which the friar proposed to defend his native land are types.” He then, shaking me by the hand, proceeded on his way, whilst I returned to the inn.

XXVII

A few days after the circumstance which I have last commemorated, it chanced that, as I was standing at the door of the inn, one of the numerous stagecoaches which were in the habit of stopping there, drove up, and several passengers got down. I had assisted a woman with a couple of children to dismount, and had just delivered to her a bandbox, which appeared to be her only property, which she had begged me to fetch down from the roof, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a voice exclaim: “Is it possible, old fellow, that I find you in this place?” I turned round, and, wrapped in a large blue cloak, I beheld my good friend Francis Ardry. I shook him most warmly by the hand, and said: “If you are surprised to see me, I am no less so to see you; where are you bound to?”

“I am bound for L——;274 at any rate, I am booked for that seaport,” said my friend in reply.

“I am sorry for it,” said I, “for in that case we shall have to part in a quarter of an hour, the coach by which you came stopping no longer.”

“And whither are you bound?” demanded my friend.

“I am stopping at present in this house, quite undetermined as to what to do.”

“Then come along with me,” said Francis Ardry.

“That I can scarcely do,” said I; “I have a horse in the stall which I cannot afford to ruin by racing to L—— by the side of your coach.”

My friend mused for a moment: “I have no particular business at L——,” said he; “I was merely going thither to pass a day or two, till an affair, in which I am deeply interested, at C——275 shall come off. I think I shall stay with you for four-and-twenty hours at least; I have been rather melancholy of late, and cannot afford to part with a friend like you at the present moment; it is an unexpected piece of good fortune to have met you; and I have not been very fortunate of late,” he added, sighing.

“Well,” said I, “I am glad to see you once more, whether fortunate or not; where is your baggage?”

“Yon trunk is mine,” said Francis, pointing to a trunk of black Russian leather upon the coach.

“We will soon have it down,” said I; and at a word which I gave to one of the hangers-on of the inn, the trunk was taken from the top of the coach. “Now,” said I to Francis Ardry, “follow me, I am a person of some authority in this house;” thereupon I led Francis Ardry into the house, and a word which I said to a waiter forthwith installed Francis Ardry in a comfortable private sitting-room, and his trunk in the very best sleeping-room of our extensive establishment.

It was now about one o’clock: Francis Ardry ordered dinner for two, to be ready at four, and a pint of sherry to be brought forthwith, which I requested my friend the waiter might be the very best, and which in effect turned out as I requested; we sat down, and when we had drunk to each other’s health, Frank requested me to make known to him how I had contrived to free myself from my embarrassments in London, what I had been about since I quitted that city, and the present posture of my affairs.

I related to Francis Ardry how I had composed the Life of Joseph Sell, and how the sale of it to the bookseller had enabled me to quit London with money in my pocket, which had supported me during a long course of ramble in the country, into the particulars of which I, however, did not enter with any considerable degree of fullness. I summed up my account by saying that “I was at present a kind of overlooker in the stables of the inn, had still some pounds in my purse, and, moreover, a capital horse in the stall.”

“No very agreeable posture of affairs,” said Francis Ardry, looking rather seriously at me.

“I make no complaints,” said I; “my prospects are not very bright, it is true, but sometimes I have visions both waking and sleeping, which, though always strange, are invariably agreeable. Last night, in my chamber near the hayloft, I dreamt that I had passed over an almost interminable wilderness—an enormous wall rose before me, the wall, methought, was the great wall of China: strange figures appeared to be beckoning to me from the top of the wall; such visions are not exactly to be sneered at. Not that such phantasmagoria,” said I, raising my voice, “are to be compared for a moment with such desirable things as fashion, fine clothes, cheques from uncles, parliamentary interest, the love of splendid females. Ah! woman’s love,” said I, and sighed.

“What’s the matter with the fellow?” said Francis Ardry.

“There is nothing like it,” said I.

“Like what?”

“Love, divine love,” said I.

“Confound love,” said Francis Ardry, “I hate the very name; I have made myself a pretty fool by it, but trust me for ever being caught at such folly again. In an evil hour I abandoned my former pursuits and amusements for it; in one morning spent at Joey’s there was more real pleasure than in—”

“Surely,” said I, “you are not hankering after dog-fighting again, a sport which none but the gross and unrefined care anything for? No, one’s thoughts should be occupied by something higher and more rational than dog-fighting; and what better than love—divine love? Oh, there’s nothing like it!”

“Pray, don’t talk nonsense,” said Francis Ardry.

“Nonsense!” said I; “why I was repeating, to the best of my recollection, what I heard you say on a former occasion.”

“If ever I talked such stuff,” said Francis Ardry, “I was a fool; and indeed I cannot deny that I have been one: no, there’s no denying that I have been a fool. What do you think? that false Annette has cruelly abandoned me.”

“Well,” said I, “perhaps you have yourself to thank for her having done so; did you never treat her with coldness, and repay her marks of affectionate interest with strange fits of eccentric humour?”

“Lord! how little you know of women,” said Francis Ardry; “had I done as you suppose, I should probably have possessed her at the present moment. I treated her in a manner diametrically opposite to that. I loaded her with presents, was always most assiduous to her, always at her feet, as I may say, yet she nevertheless abandoned me—and for whom? I am almost ashamed to say—for a fiddler.”

I took a glass of wine, Francis Ardry followed my example, and then proceeded to detail to me the treatment which he had experienced from Annette, and from what he said, it appeared that her conduct to him had been in the highest degree reprehensible; notwithstanding he had indulged her in everything, she was never civil to him, but loaded him continually with taunts and insults, and had finally, on his being unable to supply her with a sum of money which she had demanded, decamped from the lodgings which he had taken for her, carrying with her all the presents which at various times he had bestowed upon her, and had put herself under the protection of a gentleman who played the bassoon at the Italian Opera, at which place it appeared that her sister had lately been engaged as a danseuse. My friend informed me that at first he had experienced great agony at the ingratitude of Annette, but at last had made up his mind to forget her, and, in order more effectually to do so, had left London with the intention of witnessing a fight, which was shortly coming off at a town in these parts, between some dogs and a lion; which combat, he informed me, had for some time past been looked forward to with intense eagerness by the gentlemen of the sporting world.

I commended him for his resolution, at the same time advising him not to give up his mind entirely to dog-fighting, as he had formerly done, but, when the present combat should be over, to return to his rhetorical studies, and above all to marry some rich and handsome lady on the first opportunity, as, with his person and expectations, he had only to sue for the hand of the daughter of a marquis to be successful, telling him, with a sigh, that all women were not Annettes, and that, upon the whole, there was nothing like them. To which advice he answered, that he intended to return to rhetoric as soon as the lion fight should be over, but that he never intended to marry, having had enough of women; adding that he was glad he had no sister, as, with the feelings which he entertained with respect to her sex, he should be unable to treat her with common affection, and concluded by repeating a proverb which he had learnt from an Arab whom he had met at Venice, to the effect, that, “one who has been stung by a snake, shivers at the sight of a string.”

After a little more conversation, we strolled to the stable, where my horse was standing; my friend, who was a connoisseur in horseflesh, surveyed the animal with attention, and after inquiring where and how I had obtained him, asked what I intended to do with him; on my telling him that I was undetermined, and that I was afraid the horse was likely to prove a burden to me, he said: “It is a noble animal, and if you mind what you are about, you may make a small fortune by him. I do not want such an animal myself, nor do I know anyone who does; but a great horse-fair will be held shortly at a place where, it is true, I have never been, but of which I have heard a great deal from my acquaintances, where it is said a first-rate horse is always sure to fetch its value; that place is Horncastle, in Lincolnshire, you should take him thither.”

Francis Ardry and myself dined together, and after dinner partook of a bottle of the best port which the inn afforded. After a few glasses, we had a great deal of conversation; I again brought the subject of marriage and love, divine love, upon the carpet, but Francis almost immediately begged me to drop it; and on my having the delicacy to comply, he reverted to dog-fighting, on which he talked well and learnedly; amongst other things, he said that it was a princely sport of great antiquity, and quoted from Quintus Curtius to prove that the princes of India must have been of the fancy, they having, according to that author, treated Alexander to a fight between certain dogs and a lion. Becoming, notwithstanding my friend’s eloquence and learning, somewhat tired of the subject, I began to talk about Alexander. Francis Ardry said he was one of the two great men whom the world has produced, the other being Napoleon; I replied that I believed Tamerlane was a greater man than either; but Francis Ardry knew nothing of Tamerlane, save what he had gathered from the play of Timour the Tartar. “No,” said he, “Alexander and Napoleon are the great men of the world, their names are known everywhere. Alexander has been dead upwards of two thousand years, but the very English bumpkins sometimes christen their boys by the name of Alexander—can there be a greater evidence of his greatness? As for Napoleon, there are some parts of India in which his bust is worshipped.” Wishing to make up a triumvirate, I mentioned the name of Wellington, to which Francis Ardry merely said, “bah!” and resumed the subject of dog-fighting.

Francis Ardry remained at the inn during that day and the next, and then departed to the dog and lion fight; I never saw him afterwards, and merely heard of him once after a lapse of some years, and what I then heard was not exactly what I could have wished to hear. He did not make much of the advantages which he possessed—a pity, for how great were those advantages—person, intellect, eloquence, connection, riches! yet, with all these advantages, one thing highly needful seems to have been wanting in Francis. A desire, a craving, to perform something great and good. Oh! what a vast deal may be done with intellect, courage, riches, accompanied by the desire of doing something great and good! Why, a person may carry the blessings of civilisation and religion to barbarous, yet at the same time beautiful and romantic, lands; and what a triumph there is for him who does so! what a crown of glory! Of far greater value than those surrounding the brows of your mere conquerors. Yet who has done so in these times? Not many; not three, not two, something seems to have been always wanting; there is, however, one instance, in which the various requisites have been united, and the crown, the most desirable in the world—at least which I consider to be the most desirable—achieved, and only one, that of Brooke of Borneo.276

XXVIII

It never rains but it pours. I was destined to see at this inn more acquaintances than one. On the day of Francis Ardry’s departure, shortly after he had taken leave of me, as I was standing in the corn-chamber, at a kind of writing-table or desk, fastened to the wall, with a book before me, in which I was making out an account of the corn and hay lately received and distributed, my friend the postillion came running in out of breath. “Here they both are,” he gasped out; “pray do come and look at them.”

“Whom do you mean?” said I.

“Why, that red-haired Jack Priest, and that idiotic parson, Platitude; they have just been set down by one of the coaches, and want a post-chaise to go across the country in; and what do you think? I am to have the driving of them. I have no time to lose, for I must get myself ready; so do come and look at them.”

I hastened into the yard of the inn; two or three of the helpers of our establishment were employed in drawing forward a post-chaise out of the chaise-house, which occupied one side of the yard, and which was spacious enough to contain nearly twenty of these vehicles, though it was never full, several of them being always out upon the roads, as the demand upon us for post-chaises across the country was very great. “There they are,” said the postillion, softly, nodding toward two individuals, in one of whom I recognised the man in black, and in the other Mr. Platitude; “there they are; have a good look at them, while I go and get ready.” The man in black and Mr. Platitude were walking up and down the yard; Mr. Platitude was doing his best to make himself appear ridiculous, talking very loudly in exceedingly bad Italian, evidently for the purpose of attracting the notice of the bystanders, in which he succeeded, all the stable-boys and hangers-on about the yard, attracted by his vociferation, grinning at his ridiculous figure as he limped up and down. The man in black said little or nothing, but from the glances which he cast sideways appeared to be thoroughly ashamed of his companion; the worthy couple presently arrived close to where I was standing, and the man in black, who was nearest to me, perceiving me, stood still as if hesitating, but recovering himself in a moment, he moved on without taking any further notice. Mr. Platitude exclaimed as they passed, in broken lingo: “I hope we shall find the holy doctors all assembled,” and as they returned, “I make no doubt that they will all be rejoiced to see me.” Not wishing to be standing an idle gazer, I went to the chaise and assisted in attaching the horses, which had now been brought out, to the pole. The postillion presently arrived, and finding all ready took the reins and mounted the box, whilst I very politely opened the door for the two travellers; Mr. Platitude got in first, and, without taking any notice of me, seated himself on the farther side. In got the man in black and seated himself nearest to me. “All is right,” said I, as I shut the door, whereupon the postillion cracked his whip, and the chaise drove out of the yard. Just as I shut the door, however, and just as Mr. Platitude had recommenced talking in jergo, at the top of his voice, the man in black turned his face partly towards me, and gave me a wink with his left eye.

I did not see my friend the postillion till the next morning, when he gave me an account of the adventures he had met with on his expedition. It appeared that he had driven the man in black and the Reverend Platitude across the country by roads and lanes which he had some difficulty in threading. At length, when he had reached a part of the country where he had never been before, the man in black pointed out to him a house near the corner of a wood, to which he informed him they were bound. The postillion said it was a strange-looking house, with a wall round it, and, upon the whole, bore something of the look of a madhouse. There was already a post-chaise at the gate, from which three individuals had alighted—one of them the postillion said was a mean-looking scoundrel, with a regular petty-larceny expression in his countenance. He was dressed very much like the man in black, and the postillion said that he could almost have taken his Bible oath that they were both of the same profession. The other two he said were parsons, he could swear that, though he had never seen them before; there could be no mistake about them. Church of England parsons the postillion swore they were, with their black coats, white cravats, and airs, in which clumsiness and conceit were most funnily blended—Church of England parsons of the Platitude description, who had been in Italy, and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, and picked up a little broken Italian, and come home greater fools than they went forth. It appeared that they were all acquaintances of Mr. Platitude, for when the postillion had alighted and let Mr. Platitude and his companion out of the chaise, Mr. Platitude shook the whole three by the hand, conversed with his two brothers in a little broken jergo, and addressed the petty-larceny looking individual by the title of Reverend Doctor. In the midst of these greetings, however, the postillion said the man in black came up to him, and proceeded to settle with him for the chaise; he had shaken hands with nobody, and had merely nodded to the others; “and now,” said the postillion, “he evidently wished to get rid of me, fearing, probably, that I should see too much of the nonsense that was going on. It was whilst settling with me that he seemed to recognise me for the first time, for he stared hard at me, and at last asked whether I had not been in Italy; to which question, with a nod and a laugh, I replied that I had. I was then going to ask him about the health of the image of Holy Mary, and to say that I hoped it had recovered from its horsewhipping; but he interrupted me, paid me the money for the fare, and gave me a crown for myself, saying he would not detain me any longer. I say, partner, I am a poor postillion, but when he gave me the crown I had a good mind to fling it in his face. I reflected, however, that it was not mere gift-money, but coin which I had earned, and hardly too, so I put it in my pocket, and I bethought me, moreover, that, knave as I knew him to be, he had always treated me with civility; so I nodded to him, and he said something which, perhaps, he meant for Latin, but which sounded very much like ‘vails,’277 and by which he doubtless alluded to the money which he had given me. He then went into the house with the rest, the coach drove away which had brought the others, and I was about to get on the box and follow; observing, however, two more chaises driving up, I thought I would be in no hurry, so I just led my horses and chaise a little out of the way, and pretending to be occupied about the harness, I kept a tolerably sharp lookout at the new arrivals. Well, partner, the next vehicle that drove up was a gentleman’s carriage which I knew very well, as well as those within it, who were a father and son, the father a good kind of old gentleman, and a justice of the peace, therefore, not very wise, as you may suppose; the son a puppy who has been abroad, where he contrived to forget his own language, though only nine months absent, and now rules the roast over his father and mother, whose only child he is, and by whom he is thought wondrous clever. So this foreigneering chap brings his poor old father to this out-of-the-way house to meet these Platitudes and petty-larceny villains, and perhaps would have brought his mother too, only, simple thing, by good fortune she happens to be laid up with the rheumatiz. Well, the father and son, I beg pardon, I mean the son and father, got down and went in, and then after their carriage was gone, the chaise behind drove up, in which was a huge fat fellow, weighing twenty stone at least, but with something of a foreign look, and with him—who do you think? Why, a rascally Unitarian minister, that is, a fellow who had been such a minister, but who, some years ago leaving his own people, who had bred him up and sent him to their college at York, went over to the High Church, and is now, I suppose, going over to some other Church, for he was talking as he got down, wondrous fast in Latin, or what sounded something like Latin, to the fat fellow, who appeared to take things wonderfully easy, and merely grunted to the dog Latin which the scoundrel had learnt at the expense of the poor Unitarians at York. So they went into the house, and presently arrived another chaise, but ere I could make any further observations, the porter of the out-of-the-way house came up to me, asking what I was stopping there for? bidding me go away, and not pry into other people’s business. ‘Pretty business,’ said I to him, ‘that is being transacted in a place like this,’ and then I was going to say something uncivil, but he went to attend to the newcomers, and I took myself away on my own business as he bade me, not, however, before observing that these two last were a couple of blackcoats.”

The postillion then proceeded to relate how he made the best of his way to a small public-house, about a mile off, where he had intended to bait, and how he met on the way a landau and pair, belonging to a Scotch coxcomb whom he had known in London, about whom he related some curious particulars, and then continued: “Well, after I had passed him and his turnout, I drove straight to the public-house, where I baited my horses, and where I found some of the chaises and drivers who had driven the folks to the lunatic-looking mansion, and were now waiting to take them up again. Whilst my horses were eating their bait, I sat me down, as the weather was warm, at a table outside, and smoked a pipe, and drank some ale, in company with the coachman of the old gentleman who had gone to the house with his son, and the coachman then told me that the house was a Papist house, and that the present was a grand meeting of all the fools and rascals in the country, who came to bow down to images, and to concert schemes—pretty schemes no doubt—for overturning the religion of the country, and that for his part he did not approve of being concerned with such doings, and that he was going to give his master warning next day. So, as we were drinking and discoursing, up drove the chariot of the Scotchman, and down got his valet and the driver, and whilst the driver was seeing after the horses, the valet came and sat down at the table where the gentleman’s coachman and I were drinking. I knew the fellow well, a Scotchman like his master, and just of the same kidney, with white kid gloves, red hair frizzled, a patch of paint on his face, and his hands covered with rings. This very fellow, I must tell you, was one of those most busy in endeavouring to get me turned out of the servants’ club in Park Lane, because I happened to serve a literary man; so he sat down, and in a kind of affected tone cried out: ‘Landlord, bring me a glass of cold negus.’ The landlord, however, told him that there was no negus, but that if he pleased, he could have a jug of as good beer as any in the country. ‘Confound the beer,’ said the valet, ‘do you think I am accustomed to such vulgar beverage?’ However, as he found there was nothing better to be had, he let the man bring him some beer, and when he had got it, soon showed that he could drink it easily enough; so, when he had drunk two or three draughts, he turned his eyes in a contemptuous manner, first on the coachman, and then on me; I saw the scamp recollected me, for after staring at me and my dress for about half a minute, he put on a broad grin, and flinging his head back, he uttered a loud laugh. Well, I did not like this, as you may well believe, and taking the pipe out of my mouth, I asked him if he meant anything personal, to which he answered, that he had said nothing to me, and that he had a right to look where he pleased, and laugh when he pleased. Well, as to a certain extent he was right, as to looking and laughing, and as I have occasionally looked at a fool and laughed, though I was not the fool in this instance, I put my pipe into my mouth and said no more. This quiet and well-regulated behaviour of mine, however the fellow interpreted into fear; so, after drinking a little more, he suddenly started up, and striding once or twice before the table, he asked me what I meant by that impertinent question of mine, saying that he had a good mind to wring my nose for my presumption. ‘You have?’ said I, getting up, and laying down my pipe. ‘Well, I’ll now give you an opportunity.’ So I put myself in an attitude, and went up to him, saying: ‘I have an old score to settle with you, you scamp; you wanted to get me turned out of the club, didn’t you?’ And thereupon, remembering that he had threatened to wring my nose, I gave him a snorter upon his own. I wish you could have seen the fellow when he felt the smart; so far from trying to defend himself, he turned round, and with his hand to his face, attempted to run away; but I was now in a regular passion, and following him up, got before him, and was going to pummel away at him, when he burst into tears, and begged me not to hurt him, saying that he was sorry if he had offended me, and that, if I pleased, he would go down on his knees, or do anything else I wanted. Well, when I heard him talk in this manner, I, of course, let him be; I could hardly help laughing at the figure he cut; his face all blubbered with tears, and blood and paint; but I did not laugh at the poor creature either, but went to the table and took up my pipe, and smoked and drank as if nothing had happened; and the fellow, after having been to the pump, came and sat down, crying and trying to curry favour with me and the coachman; presently, however, putting on a confidential look, he began to talk of the Popish house, and of the doings there, and said he supposed as how we were of the party, and that it was all right; and then he began to talk of the Pope of Rome, and what a nice man he was, and what a fine thing it was to be of his religion, especially if folks went over to him; and how it advanced them in the world, and gave them consideration; and how his master, who had been abroad and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, was going over to the Popish religion, and had persuaded him to consent to do so, and to forsake his own, which I think the scoundrel called the ’Piscopal Church of Scotland, and how many others of that Church were going over, thinking to better their condition in life by so doing, and to be more thought on; and how many of the English Church were thinking of going over too, and that he had no doubt that it would all end right and comfortably. Well, as he was going on in this way, the old coachman began to spit, and getting up, flung all the beer that was in his jug upon the ground, and going away, ordered another jug of beer, and sat down at another table, saying that he would not drink in such company; and I too got up, and flung what beer remained in my jug—there wasn’t more than a drop—in the fellow’s face, saying, I would scorn to drink any more in such company; and then I went to my horses, put them to, paid my reckoning, and drove home.”

The postillion having related his story, to which I listened with all due attention, mused for a moment, and then said: “I daresay you remember how, some time since, when old Bill had been telling us how the Government a long time ago, had done away with robbing on the highway, by putting down the public-houses and places which the highwaymen frequented, and by sending out a good mounted police to hunt them down, I said that it was a shame that the present Government did not employ somewhat the same means in order to stop the proceedings of Mumbo Jumbo and his gang nowadays in England. Howsomever, since I have driven a fare to a Popish rendezvous, and seen something of what is going on there, I should conceive that the Government are justified in allowing the gang the free exercise of their calling. Anybody is welcome to stoop and pick up nothing, or worse than nothing, and if Mumbo Jumbo’s people, after their expeditions, return to their haunts with no better plunder in the shape of converts than what I saw going into yonder place of call, I should say they are welcome to what they get; for if that’s the kind of rubbish they steal out of the Church of England, or any other Church, who in his senses but would say a good riddance, and many thanks for your trouble? at any rate, that is my opinion of the matter.”

XXIX

It was now that I had frequent deliberations with myself. Should I continue at the inn in my present position? I was not very much captivated with it; there was little poetry in keeping an account of the corn, hay and straw which came in, and was given out, and I was fond of poetry; moreover, there was no glory at all to be expected in doing so, and I was fond of glory. Should I give up that situation, and remaining at the inn, become ostler under old Bill? There was more poetry in rubbing down horses than in keeping an account of straw, hay and corn; there was also some prospect of glory attached to the situation of ostler, for the grooms and stable-boys occasionally talked of an ostler, a great way down the road, who had been presented by some sporting people, not with a silver vase, as our governor had been, but with a silver currycomb, in testimony of their admiration for his skill; but I confess that the poetry of rubbing down had become, as all other poetry becomes, rather prosy by frequent repetition, and with respect to the chance of deriving glory from the employment, I entertained, in the event of my determining to stay, very slight hope of ever attaining skill in the ostler art sufficient to induce sporting people to bestow upon me a silver currycomb. I was not half so good an ostler as old Bill, who had never been presented with a silver currycomb, and I never expected to become so, therefore what chance had I? It was true, there was a prospect of some pecuniary emolument to be derived by remaining in either situation. It was very probable that, provided I continued to keep an account of the hay and corn coming in and expended, the landlord would consent to allow me a pound a week, which at the end of a dozen years, provided I kept myself sober, would amount to a considerable sum. I might, on the retirement of old Bill, by taking his place, save up a decent sum of money, provided, unlike him, I kept myself sober, and laid by all the shillings and sixpences I got; but the prospect of laying up a decent sum of money was not of sufficient importance to induce me to continue either at my wooden desk, or in the inn-yard. The reader will remember what difficulty I had to make up my mind to become a merchant under the Armenian’s auspices, even with the prospect of making two or three hundred thousand pounds by following the Armenian way of doing business, so it was not probable that I should feel disposed to be bookkeeper or ostler all my life with no other prospect than being able to make a tidy sum of money. If, indeed, besides the prospect of making a tidy sum at the end of perhaps forty years’ ostlering, I had been certain of being presented with a silver currycomb with my name engraved upon it, which I might have left to my descendants, or, in default thereof, to the parish church destined to contain my bones, with directions that it might be soldered into the wall above the arch leading from the body of the church into the chancel—I will not say with such a certainty of immortality, combined with such a prospect of moderate pecuniary advantage—I might not have thought it worth my while to stay; but I entertained no such certainty, and, taking everything into consideration, I determined to mount my horse and leave the inn.

This horse had caused me for some time past no little perplexity; I had frequently repented of having purchased him, more especially as the purchase had been made with another person’s money, and had more than once shown him to people who, I imagined, were likely to purchase him; but, though they were profuse in his praise, as people generally are in the praise of what they don’t intend to purchase, they never made me an offer, and now that I had determined to mount on his back and ride away, what was I to do with him in the sequel? I could not maintain him long. Suddenly I bethought me of Horncastle, which Francis Ardry had mentioned as a place where the horse was likely to find a purchaser, and not having determined upon any particular place to which to repair, I thought that I could do no better than betake myself to Horncastle in the first instance, and there endeavour to dispose of my horse.

On making inquiries with respect to the situation of Horncastle, and the time when the fair would be held, I learned that the town was situated in Lincolnshire, about a hundred and fifty miles from the inn at which I was at present sojourning, and that the fair would be held nominally within about a month, but that it was always requisite to be on the spot some days before the nominal day of the fair, as all the best horses were generally sold before that time, and the people who came to purchase gone away with what they had bought.

The people of the inn were very sorry on being informed of my determination to depart. Old Bill told me that he had hoped as how I had intended to settle down there, and to take his place as ostler when he was fit for no more work, adding, that though I did not know much of the business, yet he had no doubt but that I might improve. My friend the postillion was particularly sorry, and taking me with him to the taproom called for two pints of beer, to one of which he treated me; and whilst we were drinking told me how particularly sorry he was at the thought of my going, but that he hoped I should think better of the matter. On my telling him that I must go, he said that he trusted I should put off my departure for three weeks, in order that I might be present at his marriage, the banns of which were just about to be published. He said that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me dance a minuet with his wife after the marriage dinner; but I told him it was impossible that I should stay, my affairs imperatively calling me elsewhere; and that with respect to my dancing a minuet, such a thing was out of the question, as I had never learned to dance. At which he said that he was exceedingly sorry, and finding me determined to go, wished me success in all my undertakings.

The master of the house, to whom, as in duty bound I communicated my intention before I spoke of it to the servants, was, I make no doubt, very sorry, though he did not exactly tell me so. What he said was, that he had never expected that I should remain long there, as such a situation never appeared to him quite suitable to me, though I had been very diligent, and had given him perfect satisfaction. On his inquiring when I intended to depart, I informed him next day, whereupon he begged that I would defer my departure till the next day but one, and do him the favour of dining with him on the morrow. I informed him that I should be only too happy.

On the following day at four o’clock I dined with the landlord, in company with a commercial traveller. The dinner was good, though plain, consisting of boiled mackerel—rather a rarity in those parts at that time—with fennel sauce, a prime baron of roast beef after the mackerel, then a tart and noble Cheshire cheese; we had prime sherry at dinner, and whilst eating the cheese prime porter, that of Barclay, the only good porter in the world. After the cloth was removed we had a bottle of very good port; and whilst partaking of the port I had an argument with the commercial traveller on the subject of the corn-laws.

The commercial traveller, having worsted me in the argument on the subject of the corn-laws, got up in great glee, saying that he must order his gig, as business must be attended to. Before leaving the room, however, he shook me patronisingly by the hand, and said something to the master of the house, but in so low a tone that it escaped my ear.

No sooner had he departed than the master of the house told me that his friend the traveller had just said that I was a confounded sensible young fellow, and not at all opinionated, a sentiment in which he himself perfectly agreed; then hemming once or twice, he said that as I was going on a journey he hoped I was tolerably well provided with money, adding that travelling was rather expensive, especially on horseback, the manner in which he supposed, as I had a horse in the stable, I intended to travel. I told him that though I was not particularly well supplied with money, I had sufficient for the expenses of my journey, at the end of which I hoped to procure more. He then hemmed again, and said that since I had been at the inn I had rendered him a great deal of service in more ways than one, and that he could not think of permitting me to depart without making me some remuneration; then putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, he handed me a cheque for ten pounds, which he had prepared beforehand, the value of which he said I could receive at the next town, or that, if I wished it, any waiter in the house would cash it for me. I thanked him for his generosity in the best terms I could select, but, handing him back the cheque, I told him that I could not accept it, saying that, so far from his being my debtor, I believed myself to be indebted to him, as not only myself but my horse had been living at his house for several weeks. He replied, that as for my board at a house like his it amounted to nothing, and as for the little corn and hay which the horse had consumed it was of no consequence, and that he must insist upon my taking the cheque. But I again declined, telling him that doing so would be a violation of a rule which I had determined to follow, and which nothing but the greatest necessity would ever compel me to break through—never to incur obligations. “But,” said he, “receiving this money will not be incurring an obligation, it is your due.” “I do not think so,” said I; “I did not engage to serve you for money, nor will I take any from you.” “Perhaps you will take it as a loan?” said he. “No,” I replied, “I never borrow.” “Well,” said the landlord, smiling, “you are different from all others that I am acquainted with. I never yet knew anyone else who scrupled to borrow and receive obligations; why, there are two baronets in this neighbourhood who have borrowed money of me, ay, and who have never repaid what they borrowed; and there are a dozen squires who are under considerable obligations to me, who I daresay will never return them. Come, you need not be more scrupulous than your superiors—I mean in station.” “Every vessel must stand on its own bottom,” said I; “they take pleasure in receiving obligations, I take pleasure in being independent. Perhaps they are wise, and I am a fool, I know not, but one thing I am certain of, which is, that were I not independent I should be very unhappy: I should have no visions then.” “Have you any relations?” said the landlord, looking at me compassionately; “excuse me, but I don’t think you are exactly fit to take care of yourself.” “There you are mistaken,” said I, “I can take precious good care of myself; ay, and can drive a precious hard bargain when I have occasion, but driving bargains is a widely different thing from receiving gifts. I am going to take my horse to Horncastle, and when there I shall endeavour to obtain his full value—ay to the last penny.”

“Horncastle!” said the landlord, “I have heard of that place; you mustn’t be dreaming visions when you get there, or they’ll steal the horse from under you. Well,” said he, rising, “I shall not press you further on the subject of the cheque. I intend, however, to put you under an obligation to me.” He then rang the bell, and having ordered two fresh glasses to be brought, he went out and presently returned with a small pint bottle, which he uncorked with his own hand; then sitting down, he said: “The wine that I bring here, is port of eighteen hundred and eleven, the year of the comet, the best vintage on record; the wine which we have been drinking,” he added, “is good, but not to be compared with this, which I never sell, and which I am chary of. When you have drunk some of it, I think you will own that I have conferred an obligation upon you;” he then filled the glasses, the wine which he poured out diffusing an aroma through the room; then motioning me to drink, he raised his own glass to his lips, saying: “Come, friend, I drink to your success at Horncastle.”

XXX

I departed from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come to it, mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, with the small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the few things I had brought with me, was a small book of roads with a map, which had been presented to me by the landlord. I must not forget to state that I did not ride out of the yard, but that my horse was brought to me at the front door by old Bill, who insisted upon doing so, and who refused a five-shilling piece which I offered him; and it will be as well to let the reader know that the landlord shook me by the hand as I mounted, and that the people attached to the inn, male and female—my friend the postillion at the head—assembled before the house to see me off, and gave me three cheers as I rode away. Perhaps no person ever departed from an inn with more éclat or better wishes; nobody looked at me askance, except two stage-coachmen who were loitering about, one of whom said to his companion: “I say, Jim! twig his portmanteau! a regular Newmarket turnout, by ———!”

It was in the cool of the evening of a bright day—all the days of that summer were bright—that I departed. I felt at first rather melancholy at finding myself again launched into the wide world, and leaving the friends whom I had lately made behind me; but by occasionally trotting the horse, and occasionally singing a song of Romanvile,278 I had dispelled the feeling of melancholy by the time I had proceeded three miles down the main road. It was at the end of these three miles, just opposite a milestone, that I struck into a cross road. After riding about seven miles, threading what are called, in postillion parlance, cross-country roads, I reached another high road, tending to the east, along which I proceeded for a mile or two, when coming to a small inn, about nine o’clock, I halted and put up for the night.

Early on the following morning I proceeded on my journey, but fearing to gall the horse, I no longer rode him, but led him by the bridle, until I came to a town at a distance of about ten miles from the place where I had passed the night. Here I stayed during the heat of the day, more on the horse’s account than my own, and towards evening resumed my journey, leading the animal by the bridle as before; and in this manner I proceeded for several days, travelling on an average from twenty to twenty-five miles a day, always leading the animal, except perhaps now and then of an evening, when, if I saw a good piece of road before me, I would mount and put the horse into a trot, which the creature seemed to enjoy as much as myself, showing his satisfaction by snorting and neighing, whilst I gave utterance to my own exhilaration by shouts, or by “the chi she is kaulo;279 she soves pré lakie dumo,” or by something else of the same kind in Romanvile.

On the whole, I journeyed along very pleasantly, certainly quite as pleasantly as I do at present, now that I am become a gentleman and weigh sixteen stone, though some people would say that my present manner of travelling is much the most preferable, riding as I now do, instead of leading my horse; receiving the homage of ostlers instead of their familiar nods; sitting down to dinner in the parlour of the best inn I can find, instead of passing the brightest part of the day in the kitchen of a village alehouse; carrying on my argument after dinner on the subject of the corn-laws, with the best commercial gentlemen on the road, instead of being glad, whilst sipping a pint of beer, to get into conversation with blind trampers, or maimed Abraham sailors, regaling themselves on half-pints at the said village hostelries. Many people will doubtless say that things have altered wonderfully with me for the better, and they would say right, provided I possessed now what I then carried about with me in my journeys—the spirit of youth. Youth is the only season for enjoyment, and the first twenty-five years of one’s life are worth all the rest of the longest life of man, even though those five-and-twenty be spent in penury and contempt, and the rest in the possession of wealth, honours, respectability, ay, and many of them in strength and health, such as will enable one to ride forty miles before dinner, and over one’s pint of port—for the best gentleman in the land should not drink a bottle—carry on one’s argument, with gravity and decorum, with any commercial gentleman who, responsive to one’s challenge, takes the part of humanity and common sense against “protection” and the lord of the land.

Ah! there is nothing like youth—not that afterlife is valueless. Even in extreme old age one may get on very well, provided we will but accept of the bounties of God. I met the other day an old man, who asked me to drink. “I am not thirsty,” said I, “and will not drink with you.” “Yes, you will,” said the old man, “for I am this day one hundred years old; and you will never again have an opportunity of drinking the health of a man on his hundredth birthday.” So I broke my word, and drank. “Yours is a wonderful age,” said I. “It is a long time to look back to the beginning of it,” said the old man; “yet, upon the whole, I am not sorry to have lived it all.” “How have you passed your time?” said I. “As well as I could,” said the old man; “always enjoying a good thing when it came honestly within my reach; not forgetting to praise God for putting it there.” “I suppose you were fond of a glass of good ale when you were young?” “Yes,” said the old man, “I was; and so, thank God, I am still.” And he drank off a glass of ale.

On I went in my journey, traversing England from west to east, ascending and descending hills, crossing rivers by bridge and ferry, and passing over extensive plains. What a beautiful country is England! People run abroad to see beautiful countries, and leave their own behind unknown, unnoticed—their own the most beautiful! And then, again, what a country for adventures! especially to those who travel it on foot, or on horseback. People run abroad in quest of adventures, and traverse Spain or Portugal on mule or on horseback; whereas there are ten times more adventures to be met with in England than in Spain, Portugal, or stupid Germany to boot. Witness the number of adventures narrated in the present book—a book entirely devoted to England. Why, there is not a chapter in the present book which is not full of adventures, with the exception of the present one, and this is not yet terminated.

After traversing two or three counties, I reached the confines of Lincolnshire. During one particularly hot day I put up at a public-house, to which, in the evening, came a party of harvesters to make merry, who, finding me wandering about the house a stranger, invited me to partake of their ale; so I drank with the harvesters, who sang me songs about rural life, such as:—

Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail, as it sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn.

In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Romanvile, but the song of “Sivord280 and the horse Grayman.”281 I remained with them till it was dark, having, after sunset, entered into deep discourse with a celebrated ratcatcher, who communicated to me the secrets of his trade, saying, amongst other things: “When you see the rats pouring out of their holes, and running up my hands and arms, it’s not after me they comes, but after the oils I carries about me they comes;” and who subsequently spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it was the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it was likely to last forever; for whereas all other kinds of vermin were fast disappearing from England, rats were every day becoming more abundant. I had quitted this good company, and having mounted my horse, was making my way towards a town at about six miles distance, at a swinging trot, my thoughts deeply engaged on what I had gathered from the ratcatcher, when all on a sudden a light glared upon the horse’s face, who purled round in great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, or with as much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, flings Sivord the Snareswayne. I fell upon the ground—felt a kind of crashing about my neck—and forthwith became senseless.

XXXI

How long I remained senseless I cannot say—for a considerable time, I believe; at length, opening my eyes, I found myself lying on a bed in a middle-sized chamber, lighted by a candle, which stood on a table. An elderly man stood near me, and a yet more elderly female was holding a phial of very pungent salts to my olfactory organ. I attempted to move, but felt very stiff; my right arm appeared nearly paralysed, and there was a strange dull sensation in my head. “You had better remain still, young man,” said the elderly individual, “the surgeon will be here presently; I have sent a message for him to the neighbouring village.” “Where am I?” said I, “and what has happened?” “You are in my house,” said the old man, “and you have been flung from a horse. I am sorry to say that I was the cause. As I was driving home, the lights in my gig frightened the animal.” “Where is the horse?” said I. “Below, in my stable,” said the elderly individual. “I saw you fall, but knowing that on account of my age I could be of little use to you, I instantly hurried home—the accident did not occur more than a furlong off—and procuring the assistance of my lad, and two or three neighbouring cottagers, I returned to the spot where you were lying senseless. We raised you up, and brought you here. My lad then went in quest of the horse, who had run away as we drew nigh. When we saw him first, he was standing near you; he caught him with some difficulty, and brought him home. What are you about?” said the old man, as I strove to get off the bed. “I want to see the horse,” said I. “I entreat you to be still,” said the old man; “the horse is safe, I assure you.” “I am thinking about his knees,” said I. “Instead of thinking about your horse’s knees,” said the old man, “be thankful that you have not broke your own neck.” “You do not talk wisely,” said I; “when a man’s neck is broke, he is provided for; but when his horse’s knees are broke, he is a lost jockey, that is, if he has nothing but his horse to depend upon. A pretty figure I should cut at Horncastle, mounted on a horse blood-raw at the knees.” “Oh, you are going to Horncastle,” said the old man seriously, “then I can sympathise with you in your anxiety about your horse, being a Lincolnshire man, and the son of one who bred horses. I will myself go down into the stable, and examine into the condition of your horse, so pray remain quiet till I return; it would certainly be a terrible thing to appear at Horncastle on a broken-kneed horse.”

He left the room and returned in about ten minutes, followed by another person. “Your horse is safe,” said he, “and his knees are unblemished; not a hair ruffled. He is a fine animal, and will do credit to Horncastle; but here is the surgeon come to examine into your own condition.” The surgeon was a man about thirty-five, thin, and rather tall; his face was long and pale, and his hair, which was light, was carefully combed back as much as possible from his forehead. He was dressed very neatly, and spoke in a very precise tone. “Allow me to feel your pulse, friend?” said he, taking me by the right wrist. I uttered a cry, for at the motion which he caused a thrill of agony darted through my arm. “I hope your arm is not broke, my friend,” said the surgeon, “allow me to see; first of all, we must divest you of this cumbrous frock.”

The frock was removed with some difficulty, and then the upper vestments of my frame, with more difficulty still. The surgeon felt my arm, moving it up and down, causing me unspeakable pain. “There is no fracture,” said he at last, “but a contusion—a violent contusion. I am told you were going to Horncastle; I am afraid you will be hardly able to ride your horse thither in time to dispose of him; however, we shall see; your arm must be bandaged, friend, after which I shall bleed you, and administer a composing draught.”

To be short, the surgeon did as he proposed, and when he had administered the composing draught, he said: “Be of good cheer; I should not be surprised if you are yet in time for Horncastle.” He then departed with the master of the house, and the woman, leaving me to my repose. I soon began to feel drowsy, and was just composing myself to slumber, lying on my back, as the surgeon had advised me, when I heard steps ascending the stairs, and in a moment more the surgeon entered again, followed by the master of the house. “I hope we don’t disturb you,” said the former; “my reason for returning is to relieve your mind from any anxiety with respect to your horse. I am by no means sure that you will be able, owing to your accident, to reach Horncastle in time: to quiet you, however, I will buy your horse for any reasonable sum. I have been down to the stable, and approve of his figure. What do you ask for him?” “This is a strange time of night,” said I, “to come to me about purchasing my horse, and I am hardly in a fitting situation to be applied to about such a matter. What do you want him for?” “For my own use,” said the surgeon; “I am a professional man, and am obliged to be continually driving about; I cover at least one hundred and fifty miles every week.” “He will never answer your purpose,” said I; “he is not a driving horse, and was never between shafts in his life; he is for riding, more especially for trotting, at which he has few equals.” “It matters not to me whether he is for riding or driving,” said the surgeon, “sometimes I ride, sometimes drive; so, if we can come to terms, I will buy him, though, remember, it is chiefly to remove any anxiety from your mind about him.” “This is no time for bargaining,” said I; “if you wish to have the horse for a hundred guineas, you may; if not—” “A hundred guineas!” said the surgeon; “my good friend, you must surely be lightheaded—allow me to feel your pulse,” and he attempted to feel my left wrist. “I am not lightheaded,” said I, “and I require no one to feel my pulse; but I should be lightheaded if I were to sell my horse for less than I have demanded; but I have a curiosity to know what you would be willing to offer.” “Thirty pounds,” said the surgeon, “is all I can afford to give; and that is a great deal for a country surgeon to offer for a horse.” “Thirty pounds!” said I, “why, he cost me nearly double that sum. To tell you the truth, I am afraid you want to take advantage of my situation.” “Not in the least, friend,” said the surgeon, “not in the least; I only wished to set your mind at rest about your horse; but as you think he is worth more than I can afford to offer, take him to Horncastle by all means; I will do my best to cure you in time. Good night, I will see you again on the morrow.” Thereupon he once more departed with the master of the house. “A sharp one,” I heard him say, with a laugh, as the door closed upon him.

Left to myself, I again essayed to compose myself to rest, but for some time in vain. I had been terribly shaken by my fall, and had subsequently, owing to the incision of the surgeon’s lancet, been deprived of much of the vital fluid; it is when the body is in such a state that the merest trifles affect and agitate the mind; no wonder, then, that the return of the surgeon and the master of the house for the purpose of inquiring whether I would sell my horse, struck me as being highly extraordinary, considering the hour of the night, and the situation in which they knew me to be. What could they mean by such conduct—did they wish to cheat me of the animal? “Well, well,” said I, “if they did, what matters, they found their match; yes, yes,” said I, “but I am in their power, perhaps”—but I instantly dismissed the apprehension which came into my mind, with a pooh, nonsense! In a little time, however, a far more foolish and chimerical idea began to disturb me—the idea of being flung from my horse; was I not disgraced forever as a horseman by being flung from my horse? Assuredly I thought; and the idea of being disgraced as a horseman, operating on my nervous system, caused me very acute misery. “After all,” said I to myself, “it was perhaps the contemptible opinion which the surgeon must have formed of my equestrian powers, which induced him to offer to take my horse off my hands; he perhaps thought I was unable to manage a horse, and therefore in pity returned in the dead of night to offer to purchase the animal which had flung me;” and then the thought that the surgeon had conceived a contemptible opinion of my equestrian powers, caused me the acutest misery, and continued tormenting me until some other idea (I have forgot what it was, but doubtless equally foolish) took possession of my mind. At length, brought on by the agitation of my spirits, there came over me the same feeling of horror that I had experienced of old when I was a boy, and likewise of late within the dingle; it was, however, not so violent as it had been on those occasions, and I struggled manfully against it until by degrees it passed away, and then I fell asleep; and in my sleep I had an ugly dream. I dreamt that I had died of the injuries I had received from my fall, and that no sooner had my soul departed from my body than it entered that of a quadruped, even my own horse in the stable—in a word, I was, to all intents and purposes, my own steed; and as I stood in the stable chewing hay (and I remembered that the hay was exceedingly tough), the door opened, and the surgeon who had attended me came in. “My good animal,” said he, “as your late master has scarcely left enough to pay for the expenses of his funeral, and nothing to remunerate me for my trouble, I shall make bold to take possession of you. If your paces are good, I shall keep you for my own riding; if not, I shall take you to Horncastle, your original destination.” He then bridled and saddled me, and leading me out, mounted, and then trotted me up and down before the house, at the door of which the old man, who now appeared to be dressed in regular jockey fashion, was standing. “I like his paces well,” said the surgeon; “I think I shall take him for my own use.” “And what am I to have for all the trouble his master caused me?” said my late entertainer, on whose countenance I now observed, for the first time, a diabolical squint. “The consciousness of having done your duty to a fellow-creature in succouring him in a time of distress, must be your reward,” said the surgeon. “Pretty gammon, truly,” said my late entertainer. “What would you say if I were to talk in that way to you? Come, unless you choose to behave jonnock, I shall take the bridle and lead the horse back into the stable.” “Well,” said the surgeon, “we are old friends, and I don’t wish to dispute with you, so I’ll tell you what I will do. I will ride the animal to Horncastle, and we will share what he fetches like brothers.” “Good,” said the old man, “but if you say that you have sold him for less than a hundred, I shan’t consider you jonnock; remember what the young fellow said—that young fellow—” I heard no more, for the next moment I found myself on a broad road leading, as I supposed, in the direction of Horncastle, the surgeon still in the saddle, and my legs moving at a rapid trot. “Get on,” said the surgeon, jerking my mouth with the bit; whereupon, full of rage, I instantly set off at full gallop, determined, if possible, to dash my rider to the earth. The surgeon, however, kept his seat, and so far from attempting to abate my speed, urged me on to greater efforts with a stout stick, which methought he held in his hand. In vain did I rear and kick, attempting to get rid of my foe; but the surgeon remained as saddle-fast as ever the Maugrabin sorcerer in the Arabian tale,282 what time he rode the young prince transformed into a steed to his enchanted palace in the wilderness. At last, as I was still madly dashing on, panting and blowing, and had almost given up all hope, I saw at a distance before me a heap of stones by the side of the road, probably placed there for the purpose of repairing it; a thought appeared to strike me—I will shy at those stones, and, if I can’t get rid of him so, resign myself to my fate. So I increased my speed, till arriving within about ten yards of the heap, I made a desperate start, turning half-round with nearly the velocity of a millstone. Oh, the joy I experienced when I felt my enemy canted over my neck, and saw him lying senseless in the road. “I have you now in my power,” I said, or rather neighed, as, going up to my prostrate foe, I stood over him. “Suppose I were to rear now, and let my fore feet fall upon you, what would your life be worth? that is, supposing you are not killed already; but lie there, I will do you no further harm, but trot to Horncastle without a rider, and when there—” and without further reflection off I trotted in the direction of Horncastle, but had not gone far before my bridle, falling from my neck, got entangled with my off fore foot. I felt myself falling, a thrill of agony shot through me—my knees would be broken, and what should I do at Horncastle with a pair of broken knees; I struggled, but I could not disengage my off fore foot, and downward I fell, but before I had reached the ground I awoke, and found myself half out of bed, my bandaged arm in considerable pain, and my left hand just touching the floor.

With some difficulty I readjusted myself in bed. It was now early morning, and the first rays of the sun were beginning to penetrate the white curtains of a window on my left, which probably looked into a garden, as I caught a glimpse or two of the leaves of trees through a small uncovered part at the side. For some time I felt uneasy and anxious, my spirits being in a strange fluttering state. At last my eyes fell upon a small row of teacups, seemingly of china, which stood on a mantelpiece exactly fronting the bottom of the bed. The sight of these objects, I know not why, soothed and pacified me; I kept my eyes fixed upon them, as I lay on my back on the bed, with my head upon the pillow, till at last I fell into a calm and refreshing sleep.

XXXII

It might be about eight o’clock in the morning when I was awakened by the entrance of the old man. “How have you rested?” said he, coming up to the bedside, and looking me in the face. “Well,” said I, “and I feel much better, but I am still very sore.” I surveyed him now for the first time with attention. He was dressed in a sober-coloured suit, and was apparently between sixty and seventy. In stature he was rather above the middle height, but with a slight stoop; his features were placid, and expressive of much benevolence, but as it appeared to me, with rather a melancholy cast. As I gazed upon them, I felt ashamed that I should ever have conceived in my brain a vision like that of the preceding night, in which he appeared in so disadvantageous a light. At length he said: “It is now time for you to take some refreshment. I hear my old servant coming up with your breakfast.” In a moment the elderly female entered with a tray, on which was some bread and butter, a teapot and cup. The cup was of common blue earthenware, but the pot was of china, curiously fashioned, and seemingly of great antiquity. The old man poured me out a cupful of tea, and then, with the assistance of the woman, raised me higher, and propped me up with pillows. I ate and drank; when the pot was emptied of its liquid (it did not contain much), I raised it up with my left hand to inspect it. The sides were covered with curious characters, seemingly hieroglyphics. After surveying them for some time, I replaced it upon the tray. “You seem fond of china,” said I to the old man, after the servant had retired with the breakfast things, and I had returned to my former posture; “you have china on the mantelpiece, and that was a remarkable teapot out of which I have just been drinking.”

The old man fixed his eyes intently on me, and methought the expression of his countenance became yet more melancholy. “Yes,” said he at last, “I am fond of china—I have reason to be fond of china—but for china I should—” and here he sighed again.

“You value it for the quaintness and singularity of its form,” said I; “it appears to be less adapted for real use than our own pottery.”

“I care little about its form,” said the old man; “I care for it simply on account of—however, why talk to you on the subject which can have no possible interest for you? I expect the surgeon here presently.”

“I do not like that surgeon at all,” said I; “how strangely he behaved last night, coming back, when I was just falling asleep, to ask me if I would sell my horse.”

The old man smiled. “He has but one failing,” said he, “an itch for horse-dealing; but for that he might be a much richer man than he is; he is continually buying and exchanging horses, and generally finds himself a loser by his bargains: but he is a worthy creature, and skilful in his profession; it is well for you that you are under his care.”

The old man then left me, and in about an hour returned with the surgeon, who examined me and reported favourably as to my case. He spoke to me with kindness and feeling, and did not introduce the subject of the horse. I asked him whether he thought I should be in time for the fair. “I saw some people making their way thither today,” said he; “the fair lasts three weeks, and it has just commenced. Yes, I think I may promise you that you will be in time for the very heat of it. In a few days you will be able to mount your saddle with your arm in a sling, but you must by no means appear with your arm in a sling at Horncastle, as people would think that your horse had flung you, and that you wanted to dispose of him because he was a vicious brute. You must, by all means, drop the sling before you get to Horncastle.”

For three days I kept my apartment by the advice of the surgeon. I passed my time as I best could. Stretched on my bed, I either abandoned myself to reflection, or listened to the voices of the birds in the neighbouring garden. Sometimes, as I lay awake at night, I would endeavour to catch the tick of a clock, which methought sounded from some distant part of the house.

The old man visited me twice or thrice every day to inquire into my state. His words were few on these occasions, and he did not stay long. Yet his voice and his words were kind. What surprised me most in connection with this individual was, the delicacy of conduct which he exhibited in not letting a word proceed from his lips which could testify curiosity respecting who I was, or whence I came. All he knew of me was, that I had been flung from my horse on my way to a fair for the purpose of disposing of the animal, and that I was now his guest. I might be a common horsedealer for what he knew, yet I was treated by him with all the attention which I could have expected, had I been an alderman of Boston’s heir, and known to him as such. The county in which I am now, thought I at last, must be either extraordinarily devoted to hospitality, or this old host of mine must be an extraordinary individual. On the evening of the fourth day, feeling tired of my confinement, I put my clothes on in the best manner I could, and left the chamber. Descending a flight of stairs, I reached a kind of quadrangle, from which branched two or three passages; one of these I entered, which had a door at the farther end, and one on each side; the one to the left standing partly open, I entered it, and found myself in a middle-sized room with a large window, or rather glass door, which looked into a garden, and which stood open. There was nothing remarkable in this room, except a large quantity of china. There was china on the mantelpiece, china on two tables, and a small beaufet, which stood opposite the glass door, was covered with china; there were cups, teapots and vases of various forms, and on all of them I observed characters—not a teapot, not a teacup, not a vase of whatever form or size, but appeared to possess hieroglyphics on some part or other. After surveying these articles for some time with no little interest, I passed into the garden, in which there were small parterres of flowers, and two or three trees, and which, where the house did not abut, was bounded by a wall; turning to the right by a walk by the side of the house, I passed by a door—probably the one I had seen at the end of the passage—and arrived at another window similar to that through which I had come, and which also stood open; I was about to pass by it; when I heard the voice of my entertainer exclaiming: “Is that you? pray come in.”

I entered the room, which seemed to be a counterpart of the one which I had just left. It was of the same size, had the same kind of furniture, and appeared to be equally well stocked with china; one prominent article it possessed, however, which the other room did not exhibit—namely, a clock, which, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick, hung against the wall opposite to the door, the sight of which made me conclude that the sound which methought I had heard in the stillness of the night was not an imaginary one. There it hung on the wall, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick. The old gentleman was seated in an easy-chair a little way into the room, having the glass door on his right hand. On a table before him lay a large open volume, in which I observed Roman letters as well as characters. A few inches beyond the book on the table, covered all over with hieroglyphics, stood a china vase. The eyes of the old man were fixed upon it.

“Sit down,” said he, motioning me with his hand to a stool close by, but without taking his eyes from the vase.

“I can’t make it out,” said he at last, removing his eyes from the vase, and leaning back on the chair, “I can’t make it out.”

“I wish I could assist you,” said I.

“Assist me,” said the old man, looking at me with a half smile.

“Yes,” said I, “but I do not understand Chinese.”

“I suppose not,” said the old man, with another slight smile; “but—but—”

“Pray proceed,” said I.

“I wished to ask you,” said the old man, “how you knew that the characters on yon piece of crockery were Chinese; or, indeed, that there was such a language?”

“I knew the crockery was china,” said I, “and naturally enough supposed what was written upon it to be Chinese; as for there being such a language—the English have a language, the French have a language, and why not the Chinese?”

“May I ask you a question?”

“As many as you like.”

“Do you know any language besides English?”

“Yes,” said I, “I know a little of two or three.”

“May I ask their names?”

“Why not?” said I, “I know a little French.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, a little Welsh, and a little Haik.”

“What is Haik?”

“Armenian.”

“I am glad to see you in my house,” said the old man, shaking me by the hand; “how singular that one coming as you did should know Armenian.”

“Not more singular,” said I, “than that one living in such a place as this should know Chinese. How came you to acquire it?”

The old man looked at me, and sighed. “I beg pardon,” said I, “for asking what is, perhaps, an impertinent question; I have not imitated your own delicacy; you have never asked me a question without first desiring permission, and here I have been days and nights in your house an intruder on your hospitality, and you have never so much as asked me who I am.”

“In forbearing to do that,” said the old man, “I merely obeyed the Chinese precept: ‘Ask no questions of a guest’; it is written on both sides of the teapot out of which you have had your tea.”

“I wish I knew Chinese,” said I. “Is it a difficult language to acquire?”

“I have reason to think so,” said the old man. “I have been occupied upon it five-and-thirty years, and I am still very imperfectly acquainted with it; at least, I frequently find upon my crockery sentences the meaning of which to me is very dark, though it is true these sentences are mostly verses, which are, of course, more difficult to understand than mere prose.”

“Are your Chinese studies,” said I, “confined to crockery literature?”

“Entirely,” said the old man; “I read nothing else.”

“I have heard,” said I, “that the Chinese have no letters, but that for every word they have a separate character—is it so?”

“For every word they have a particular character,” said the old man; “though, to prevent confusion, they have arranged their words under two hundred and fourteen what we should call radicals, but which they call keys. As we arrange all our words in a dictionary under twenty-four letters, so do they arrange all their words, or characters, under two hundred and fourteen radical signs; the simplest radicals being the first, and the more complex the last.”

“Does the Chinese resemble any of the European languages in words?” said I.

“I am scarcely competent to inform you,” said the old man; “but I believe not.”

“What does that character represent?” said I, pointing to one on the vase.

“A knife,” said the old man; “that character is one of the simplest radicals or keys.”

“And what is the sound of it?” said I.

“Tau,” said the old man.

“Tau,” said I; “tau!”

“A strange word for a knife! is it not?” said the old man.

“Tawse!” said I; “tawse!”

“What is tawse?” said the old man.

“You were never at school at Edinburgh, I suppose?”

“Never,” said the old man.

“That accounts for your not knowing the meaning of tawse,” said I; “had you received the rudiments of a classical education at the High School, you would have known the meaning of tawse full well. It is a leathern thong, with which refractory urchins are recalled to a sense of their duty by the dominie. Tau—tawse—how singular!”

“I cannot see what the two words have in common, except a slight agreement in sound.”

“You will see the connection,” said I, “when I inform you that the thong, from the middle to the bottom, is cut or slit into two or three parts, from which slits or cuts, unless I am very much mistaken, it derives its name—tawse, a thong with slits or cuts, used for chastising disorderly urchins at the High School, from the French tailler, to cut; evidently connected with the Chinese tau, a knife—how very extraordinary!”

XXXIII

Two days—three days passed away, and I still remained at the house of my hospitable entertainer, my bruised limb rapidly recovering the power of performing its functions. I passed my time agreeably enough, sometimes in my chamber, communing with my own thoughts; sometimes in the stable, attending to, and not unfrequently conversing with, my horse; and at mealtime—for I seldom saw him at any other—discoursing with the old gentleman, sometimes on the Chinese vocabulary, sometimes on Chinese syntax, and once or twice on English horseflesh, though on this latter subject, notwithstanding his descent from a race of horse-traders, he did not enter with much alacrity. As a small requital for his kindness, I gave him one day, after dinner, unasked, a brief account of my history and pursuits. He listened with attention, and when it was concluded, thanked me for the confidence which I had reposed in him. “Such conduct,” said he, “deserves a return. I will tell you my own history; it is brief, but may perhaps not prove uninteresting to you—though the relation of it will give me some pain.” “Pray, then, do not recite it,” said I. “Yes,” said the old man, “I will tell you, for I wish you to know it.” He was about to begin, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon. The surgeon examined into the state of my bruised limb, and told me, what indeed I already well knew, that it was rapidly improving. “You will not even require a sling,” said he, “to ride to Horncastle. When do you propose going?” he demanded. “When do you think I may venture?” I replied. “I think, if you are a tolerably good horseman, you may mount the day after tomorrow,” answered the medical man. “By the by, are you acquainted with anybody at Horncastle?” “With no living soul,” I answered. “Then you would scarcely find stable-room for your horse. But I am happy to be able to assist you. I have a friend there who keeps a small inn, and who, during the time of the fair, keeps a stall vacant for any quadruped I may bring, until he knows whether I am coming or not. I will give you a letter to him, and he will see after the accommodation of your horse. Tomorrow I will pay you a farewell visit, and bring you the letter.” “Thank you,” said I; “and do not forget to bring your bill.” The surgeon looked at the old man, who gave him a peculiar nod. “Oh!” said he, in reply to me, “for the little service I have rendered you, I require no remuneration. You are in my friend’s house, and he and I understand each other.” “I never receive such favours,” said I, “as you have rendered me, without remunerating them; therefore, I shall expect your bill.” “Oh! just as you please,” said the surgeon; and shaking me by the hand more warmly than he had hitherto done, he took his leave.

On the evening of the next day, the last which I spent with my kind entertainer, I sat at tea with him in a little summerhouse in his garden, partially shaded by the boughs of a large fig-tree. The surgeon had shortly before paid me his farewell visit, and had brought me the letter of introduction to his friend at Horncastle, and also his bill, which I found anything but extravagant. After we had each respectively drank the contents of two cups—and it may not be amiss here to inform the reader that though I took cream with my tea, as I always do when I can procure that addition, the old man, like most people bred up in the country, drank his without it—he thus addressed me: “I am, as I told you on the night of your accident, the son of a breeder of horses, a respectable and honest man. When I was about twenty he died, leaving me, his only child, a comfortable property, consisting of about two hundred acres of land and some fifteen hundred pounds in money. My mother had died about three years previously. I felt the death of my mother keenly, but that of my father less than was my duty; indeed, truth compels me to acknowledge that I scarcely regretted his death. The cause of this want of proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced from him in an affair which deeply concerned me. I had formed an attachment for a young female in the neighbourhood, who, though poor, was of highly respectable birth, her father having been a curate of the Established Church. She was, at the time of which I am speaking, an orphan, having lost both her parents, and supported herself by keeping a small school. My attachment was returned, and we had pledged our vows, but my father, who could not reconcile himself to her lack of fortune, forbade our marriage in the most positive terms. He was wrong, for she was a fortune in herself—amiable and accomplished. Oh! I cannot tell you all she was—” and here the old man drew his hand across his eyes. “By the death of my father, the only obstacle to our happiness appeared to be removed. We agreed, therefore, that our marriage should take place within the course of a year, and I forthwith commenced enlarging my house and getting my affairs in order. Having been left in the easy circumstances which I have described, I determined to follow no business, but to pass my life in a strictly domestic manner, and to be very, very happy. Amongst other property derived from my father were several horses, which I disposed of in this neighbourhood, with the exception of two remarkably fine ones, which I determined to take to the next fair at Horncastle, the only place where I expected to be able to obtain what I considered to be their full value. At length the time arrived for the commencement of the fair, which was within three months of the period which my beloved and myself had fixed upon for the celebration of our nuptials. To the fair I went, a couple of trusty men following me with the horses. I soon found a purchaser for the animals, a portly, plausible person, of about forty, dressed in a blue riding coat, brown top boots, and leather breeches. There was a strange-looking urchin with him, attired in nearly similar fashion, with a beam in one of his eyes, who called him father. The man paid me for the purchase in banknotes—three fifty-pound notes for the two horses. As we were about to take leave of each other, he suddenly produced another fifty-pound note, inquiring whether I could change it, complaining, at the same time, of the difficulty of procuring change in the fair. As I happened to have plenty of small money in my possession, and as I felt obliged to him for having purchased my horses at what I considered to be a good price, I informed him that I should be very happy to accommodate him; so I changed him the note, and he, having taken possession of the horses, went his way, and I myself returned home.

“A month passed; during this time I paid away two of the notes which I had received at Horncastle from the dealer—one of them in my immediate neighbourhood, and the other at a town about fifteen miles distant, to which I had repaired for the purpose of purchasing some furniture. All things seemed to be going on most prosperously, and I felt quite happy, when one morning, as I was overlooking some workmen who were employed about my house, I was accosted by a constable, who informed me that he was sent to request my immediate appearance before a neighbouring bench of magistrates. Concluding that I was merely summoned on some unimportant business connected with the neighbourhood, I felt no surprise, and forthwith departed in company with the officer. The demeanour of the man upon the way struck me as somewhat singular. I had frequently spoken to him before, and had always found him civil and respectful, but he was now reserved and sullen, and replied to two or three questions which I put to him in anything but a courteous manner. On arriving at the place where the magistrates were sitting—an inn at a small town about two miles distant—I found a more than usual number of people assembled, who appeared to be conversing with considerable eagerness. At sight of me they became silent, but crowded after me as I followed the man into the magistrates’ room. There I found the tradesman to whom I had paid the note for the furniture at the town fifteen miles off in attendance, accompanied by an agent of the Bank of England; the former, it seems, had paid the note into a provincial bank, the proprietors of which, discovering it to be a forgery, had forthwith written up to the Bank of England, who had sent down their agent to investigate the matter. A third individual stood beside them—the person in my own immediate neighbourhood to whom I had paid the second note; this, by some means or other, before the coming down of the agent, had found its way to the same provincial bank, and also being pronounced a forgery, it had speedily been traced to the person to whom I had paid it. It was owing to the apparition of this second note that the agent had determined, without further inquiry, to cause me to be summoned before the rural tribunal.

“In a few words the magistrates’ clerk gave me to understand the state of the case. I was filled with surprise and consternation. I knew myself to be perfectly innocent of any fraudulent intention, but at the time of which I am speaking it was a matter fraught with the greatest danger to be mixed up, however innocently, with the passing of false money. The law with respect to forgery was terribly severe, and the innocent as well as the guilty occasionally suffered. Of this I was not altogether ignorant; unfortunately, however, in my transactions with the stranger, the idea of false notes being offered to me, and my being brought into trouble by means of them, never entered my mind. Recovering myself a little, I stated that the notes in question were two of three notes which I had received at Horncastle, for a pair of horses, which it was well known I had carried thither.

“Thereupon, I produced from my pocketbook the third note, which was forthwith pronounced a forgery. I had scarcely produced the third note, when I remembered the one which I had changed for the Horncastle dealer, and with the remembrance came the almost certain conviction that it was also a forgery; I was tempted for a moment to produce it, and to explain the circumstance—would to God I had done so!—but shame at the idea of having been so wretchedly duped prevented me, and the opportunity was lost. I must confess that the agent of the bank behaved, upon the whole, in a very handsome manner; he said that as it was quite evident that I had disposed of certain horses at the fair, it was very possible that I might have received the notes in question in exchange for them, and that he was willing, as he had received a very excellent account of my general conduct, to press the matter no further, that is, provided—And here he stopped. Thereupon, one of the three magistrates who were present asked me whether I chanced to have any more of these spurious notes in my possession. He certainly had a right to ask the question; but there was something peculiar in his tone—insinuating suspicion. It is certainly difficult to judge of the motives which rule a person’s conduct, but I cannot help imagining that he was somewhat influenced in his behaviour on that occasion, which was anything but friendly, by my having refused to sell him the horses at a price less than that which I expected to get at the fair; be this as it may, the question filled me with embarrassment, and I bitterly repented not having at first been more explicit. Thereupon the magistrate, in the same kind of tone, demanded to see my pocketbook. I knew that to demur would be useless, and produced it, and therewith, amongst two or three small country notes, appeared the fourth which I had received from the Horncastle dealer. The agent took it up and examined it with attention. ‘Well, is it a genuine note?’ asked the magistrate. ‘I am sorry to say that it is not,’ said the agent; ‘it is a forgery, like the other three.’ The magistrate shrugged his shoulders, as indeed did several people in the room. ‘A regular dealer in forged notes,’ said a person close behind me; ‘who would have thought it?’

“Seeing matters begin to look so serious, I aroused myself, and endeavoured to speak in my own behalf, giving a candid account of the manner in which I became possessed of the notes, but my explanation did not appear to meet much credit. The magistrate, to whom I have in particular alluded, asked, why I had not at once stated the fact of my having received a fourth note; and the agent, though in a very quiet tone, observed that he could not help thinking it somewhat strange that I should have changed a note of so much value for a perfect stranger, even supposing that he had purchased my horses, and had paid me their value in hard cash; and I noticed that he laid particular emphasis on the last words. I might have observed that I was an inexperienced young man, who, meaning no harm myself, suspected none in others, but I was confused, stunned, and my tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth. The men who had taken my horses to Horncastle, and for whom I had sent, as they lived close at hand, now arrived, but the evidence which they could give was anything but conclusive in my favour; they had seen me in company with an individual at Horncastle, to whom, by my orders, they had delivered certain horses, but they had seen no part of the money transaction; the fellow, whether from design or not, having taken me aside into a retired place, where he had paid me three spurious notes, and induced me to change the fourth, which throughout the affair was what bore most materially against me. How matters might have terminated I do not know; I might have gone to prison, and I might have been—Just then, when I most needed a friend, and least expected to find one, for though amongst those present there were several who were my neighbours, and who had professed friendship for me, none of them when they saw that I needed support and encouragement, came forward to yield me any, but, on the contrary, appeared by their looks to enjoy my terror and confusion—just then a friend entered the room in the person of the surgeon of the neighbourhood, the father of him who has attended you; he was not on very intimate terms with me, but he had occasionally spoken to me, and had attended my father in his dying illness, and chancing to hear that I was in trouble, he now hastened to assist me. After a short preamble, in which he apologised to the bench for interfering, he begged to be informed of the state of the case, whereupon the matter was laid before him in all its details. He was not slow in taking a fair view of it, and spoke well and eloquently in my behalf, insisting on the improbability that a person of my habits and position would be wilfully mixed up with a transaction like that of which it appeared I was suspected, adding, that as he was fully convinced of my innocence, he was ready to enter into any surety with respect to my appearance at any time to answer anything which might be laid to my charge. This last observation had particular effect, and as he was a person universally respected, both for his skill in his profession and his general demeanour, people began to think that a person in whom he took an interest could scarcely be concerned in anything criminal, and though my friend the magistrate—I call him so ironically—made two or three demurs, it was at last agreed between him and his brethren of the bench, that, for the present, I should be merely called upon to enter into my own recognisance for the sum of two hundred pounds, to appear whenever it should be deemed requisite to enter into any further investigation of the matter.

“So I was permitted to depart from the tribunal of petty justice without handcuffs, and uncollared by a constable; but people looked coldly and suspiciously upon me. The first thing I did was to hasten to the house of my beloved, in order to inform her of every circumstance attending the transaction. I found her, but how? A malicious female individual had hurried to her with a distorted tale, to the effect that I had been taken up as an utterer of forged notes; that an immense number had been found in my possession; that I was already committed, and that probably I should be executed. My affianced one tenderly loved me, and her constitution was delicate; fit succeeded fit; she broke a blood-vessel, and I found her deluged in blood; the surgeon had just been sent for; he came and afforded her every possible relief. I was distracted; he bade me have hope, but I observed he looked very grave.

“By the skill of the surgeon, the poor girl was saved in the first instance from the arms of death, and for a few weeks she appeared to be rapidly recovering; by degrees, however, she became melancholy; a worm preyed upon her spirit; a slow fever took possession of her frame. I subsequently learned that the same malicious female who had first carried to her an exaggerated account of the affair, and who was a distant relative of her own, frequently visited her, and did all in her power to excite her fears with respect to its eventual termination. Time passed on in a very wretched manner, our friend the surgeon showing to us both every mark of kindness and attention.

“It was owing to this excellent man that my innocence was eventually established. Having been called to a town on the borders of Yorkshire to a medical consultation, he chanced to be taking a glass of wine with the landlord of the inn at which he stopped, when the waiter brought in a note to be changed, saying, ‘That the Quaker gentleman, who had been for some days in the house, and was about to depart, had sent it to be changed, in order that he might pay his bill.’ The landlord took the note, and looked at it. ‘A fifty-pound bill,’ said he; ‘I don’t like changing bills of that amount, lest they should prove bad ones; however, as it comes from a Quaker gentleman, I suppose it is all right.’ The mention of a fifty-pound note aroused the attention of my friend, and he requested to be permitted to look at it; he had scarcely seen it, when he was convinced that it was one of the same description as those which had brought me into trouble, as it corresponded with them in two particular features, which the agent of the bank had pointed out to him and others as evidence of their spuriousness. My friend, without a moment’s hesitation, informed the landlord that the note was a bad one, expressing at the same time a great wish to see the Quaker gentleman who wanted to have it changed. ‘That you can easily do,’ said the landlord, and forthwith conducted him into the common room, where he saw a respectable-looking man, dressed like a Quaker, and seemingly about sixty years of age.

“My friend, after a short apology, showed him the note which he held in his hand, stating that he had no doubt it was a spurious one, and begged to be informed where he had taken it, adding, that a particular friend of his was at present in trouble, owing to his having taken similar notes from a stranger at Horncastle; but that he hoped that he, the Quaker, could give information, by means of which the guilty party, or parties, could be arrested. At the mention of Horncastle, it appeared to my friend that the Quaker gave a slight start. At the conclusion of this speech, however, he answered with great tranquillity, that he had received it in the way of business at ———, naming one of the principal towns in Yorkshire, from a very respectable person, whose name he was perfectly willing to communicate, and likewise his own, which he said was James, and that he was a merchant residing at Liverpool; that he would write to his friend at ———, requesting him to make inquiries on the subject; that just at that moment he was in a hurry to depart, having some particular business at a town about ten miles off, to go to which he had bespoken a post-chaise of the landlord; that with respect to the note, it was doubtless a very disagreeable thing to have a suspicious one in his possession, but that it would make little difference to him, as he had plenty of other money, and thereupon he pulled out a purse, containing various other notes, and some gold, observing, ‘that his only motive for wishing to change the other note was a desire to be well provided with change’; and finally, that if they had any suspicion with respect to him, he was perfectly willing to leave the note in their possession till he should return, which he intended to do in about a fortnight. There was so much plausibility in the speech of the Quaker, and his appearance and behaviour were so perfectly respectable, that my friend felt almost ashamed of the suspicion which at first he had entertained of him, though, at the same time, he felt an unaccountable unwillingness to let the man depart without some further interrogation. The landlord, however, who did not wish to disoblige one who had been, and might probably be again, a profitable customer, declared that he was perfectly satisfied, and that he had no wish to detain the note, which he made no doubt the gentleman had received in the way of business, and that as the matter concerned him alone, he would leave it to him to make the necessary inquiries. ‘Just as you please, friend,’ said the Quaker, pocketing the suspicious note; ‘I will now pay my bill.’ Thereupon he discharged the bill with a five-pound note, which he begged the landlord to inspect carefully, and with two pieces of gold.

“The landlord had just taken the money, receipted the bill, and was bowing to his customer, when the door opened, and a lad, dressed in a kind of grey livery, appeared, and informed the Quaker that the chaise was ready. ‘Is that boy your servant?’ said the surgeon. ‘He is, friend,’ said the Quaker. ‘Hast thou any reason for asking me that question?’ ‘And has he been long in your service?’ ‘Several years,’ replied the Quaker; ‘I took him into my house out of compassion, he being an orphan, but as the chaise is waiting, I will bid thee farewell.’ ‘I am afraid I must stop your journey for the present,’ said the surgeon; ‘that boy has exactly the same blemish in the eye which a boy had who was in company with the man at Horncastle, from whom my friend received the forged notes, and who there passed for his son.’ ‘I know nothing about that,’ said the Quaker, ‘but I am determined to be detained here no longer, after the satisfactory account which I have given as to the note’s coming into my possession.’ He then attempted to leave the room, but my friend detained him, a struggle ensued, during which a wig which the Quaker wore fell off, whereupon he instantly appeared to lose some twenty years of his age. ‘Knock the fellow down, father,’ said the boy; ‘I’ll help you.’

“And, forsooth, the pretended Quaker took the boy’s advice, and knocked my friend down in a twinkling. The landlord, however, and waiter, seeing how matters stood, instantly laid hold of him; but there can be no doubt that he would have escaped from the whole three, had not certain guests who were in the house hearing the noise, rushed in, and helped to secure him. The boy was true to his word, assisting him to the best of his ability, flinging himself between the legs of his father’s assailants, causing several of them to stumble and fall. At length, the fellow was secured, and led before a magistrate; the boy, to whom he was heard to say something which nobody understood, and to whom, after the man’s capture, no one paid much attention, was no more seen.

“The rest, as far as this man was concerned, may be told in a few words; nothing to criminate him was found on his person, but on his baggage being examined, a quantity of spurious notes was discovered. Much of his hardihood now forsook him, and in the hope of saving his life he made some very important disclosures; amongst other things, he confessed that it was he who had given me the notes in exchange for the horses, and also the note to be changed. He was subsequently tried on two indictments, in the second of which I appeared against him. He was condemned to die; but, in consideration of the disclosures he had made, his sentence was commuted to perpetual transportation.

“My innocence was thus perfectly established before the eyes of the world, and all my friends hastened to congratulate me. There was one who congratulated me more than all the rest—it was my beloved one, but—but—she was dying—”

Here the old man drew his hand before his eyes, and remained for some time without speaking; at length he removed his hand, and commenced again with a broken voice: “You will pardon me if I hurry over this part of my story; I am unable to dwell upon it. How dwell upon a period when I saw my only earthly treasure pine away gradually day by day, and knew that nothing could save her! She saw my agony, and did all she could to console me, saying that she was herself quite resigned. A little time before her death she expressed a wish that we should be united. I was too happy to comply with her request. We were united, I brought her to this house, where, in less than a week, she expired in my arms.”

XXXIV

After another pause, the old man once more resumed his narration: “If ever there was a man perfectly miserable it was myself, after the loss of that cherished woman. I sat solitary in the house, in which I had hoped in her company to realise the choicest earthly happiness, a prey to the bitterest reflections; many people visited, and endeavoured to console me. Amongst them was the clergyman of the parish, who begged me to be resigned, and told me that it was good to be afflicted. I bowed my head, but I could not help thinking how easy it must be for those who feel no affliction to bid others to be resigned, and to talk of the benefit resulting from sorrow; perhaps I should have paid more attention to his discourse than I did, provided he had been a person for whom it was possible to entertain much respect, but his own heart was known to be set on the things of this world.

“Within a little time he had an opportunity, in his own case, of practising resignation, and of realising the benefit of being afflicted. A merchant, to whom he had entrusted all his fortune, in the hope of a large interest, became suddenly a bankrupt, with scarcely any assets. I will not say that it was owing to this misfortune that the divine died in less than a month after its occurrence, but such was the fact. Amongst those who most frequently visited me was my friend the surgeon; he did not confine himself to the common topics of consolation, but endeavoured to impress upon me the necessity of rousing myself, advising me to occupy my mind with some pursuit, particularly recommending agriculture; but agriculture possessed no interest for me, nor, indeed, any pursuit within my reach; my hopes of happiness had been blighted, and what cared I for anything? so at last he thought it best to leave me to myself, hoping that time would bring with it consolation; and I remained solitary in my house, waited upon by a male and a female servant. Oh, what dreary moments I passed! My only amusement—and it was a sad one—was to look at the things which once belonged to my beloved, and which were now in my possession. Oh, how fondly would I dwell upon them! There were some books; I cared not for books, but these had belonged to my beloved. Oh, how fondly did I dwell on them! Then there was her hat and bonnet—oh, me, how fondly did I gaze upon them! and after looking at her things for hours, I would sit and ruminate on the happiness I had lost. How I execrated the moment I had gone to the fair to sell horses! ‘Would that I had never been at Horncastle to sell horses!’ I would say; ‘I might at this moment have been enjoying the company of my beloved, leading a happy, quiet, easy life, but for that fatal expedition;’ that thought worked on my brain, till my brain seemed to turn round.

“One day I sat at the breakfast-table gazing vacantly around me; my mind was in a state of inexpressible misery; there was a whirl in my brain, probably like that which people feel who are rapidly going mad; this increased to such a degree that I felt giddiness coming upon me. To abate this feeling I no longer permitted my eyes to wander about, but fixed them upon an object on the table, and continued gazing at it for several minutes without knowing what it was; at length, the misery in my head was somewhat stilled, my lips moved, and I heard myself saying, ‘What odd marks!’ I had fastened my eyes on the side of a teapot, and by keeping them fixed upon it, had become aware of a fact that had escaped my notice before—namely, that there were marks upon it. I kept my eyes fixed upon them, and repeated at intervals, ‘What strange marks!’ for I thought that looking upon the marks tended to abate the whirl in my head. I kept tracing the marks one after the other, and I observed that though they all bore a general resemblance to each other, they were all to a certain extent different. The smallest portion possible of curious interest had been awakened within me, and, at last, I asked myself, within my own mind: ‘What motive could induce people to put such odd marks on their crockery? They were not pictures, they were not letters; what motive could people have for putting them there?’ At last, I removed my eyes from the teapot, and thought for a few moments about the marks; presently, however, I felt the whirl returning; the marks became almost effaced from my mind, and I was beginning to revert to my miserable ruminations, when suddenly methought I heard a voice say: ‘The marks! the marks! cling to the marks! or—’ So I fixed my eyes again upon the marks, inspecting them more attentively, if possible, than I had done before, and, at last, I came to the conclusion that they were not capricious or fanciful marks, but were arranged systematically; when I had gazed at them for a considerable time, I turned the teapot round, and on the other side I observed marks of a similar kind, which I soon discovered were identical with the ones I had been observing. All the marks were something alike, but all somewhat different, and on comparing them with each other, I was struck with the frequent occurrence of a mark crossing an upright line, or projecting from it, now on the right, now on the left side; and I said to myself: ‘Why does this mark sometimes cross the upright line, and sometimes project?’ and the more I thought on the matter, the less did I feel of the misery in my head.

“The things were at length removed, and I sat, as I had for some time past been wont to sit after my meals, silent and motionless; but in the present instance my mind was not entirely abandoned to the one mournful idea which had so long distressed it. It was, to a certain extent, occupied with the marks on the teapot; it is true that the mournful idea strove hard with the marks on the teapot for the mastery in my mind, and at last the painful idea drove the marks of the teapot out; they, however, would occasionally return and flit across my mind for a moment or two, and their coming was like a momentary relief from intense pain. I thought once or twice that I would have the teapot placed before me, that I might examine the marks at leisure, but I considered that it would be as well to defer the reexamination of the marks till the next morning; at that time I did not take tea of an evening. By deferring the examination thus, I had something to look forward to on the next morning. The day was a melancholy one, but it certainly was more tolerable to me than any of the others had been since the death of my beloved. As I lay awake that night I occasionally thought of the marks, and in my sleep methought I saw them upon the teapot vividly before me. On the morrow, I examined the marks again; how singular they looked! Surely they must mean something, and if so, what could they mean? and at last I thought within myself whether it would be possible for me to make out what they meant: that day I felt more relief than on the preceding one, and towards night I walked a little about.

“In about a week’s time I received a visit from my friend the surgeon; after a little discourse, he told me that he perceived I was better than when he had last seen me, and asked me what I had been about; I told him that I had been principally occupied in considering certain marks which I had found on a teapot, and wondering what they could mean; he smiled at first, but instantly assuming a serious look, he asked to see the teapot. I produced it, and after having surveyed the marks with attention, he observed that they were highly curious, and also wondered what they meant. ‘I strongly advise you,’ said he, ‘to attempt to make them out, and also to take moderate exercise, and to see after your concerns.’ I followed his advice; every morning I studied the marks on the teapot, and in the course of the day took moderate exercise, and attended to little domestic matters, as became the master of a house.

“I subsequently learned that the surgeon, in advising me to study the marks, and endeavour to make out their meaning, merely hoped that by means of them my mind might by degrees be diverted from the mournful idea on which it had so long brooded. He was a man well skilled in his profession, but had read and thought very little on matters unconnected with it. He had no idea that the marks had any particular signification, or were anything else but common and fortuitous ones. That I became at all acquainted with their nature was owing to a ludicrous circumstance which I will now relate.

“One day, chancing to be at a neighbouring town, I was struck with the appearance of a shop recently established. It had an immense bow-window, and every part of it, to which a brush could be applied, was painted in a gaudy flaming style. Large bowls of green and black tea were placed upon certain chests, which stood at the window. I stopped to look at them, such a display, whatever it may be at the present time, being at the period of which I am speaking, quite uncommon in a country town. The tea, whether black or green, was very shining and inviting, and the bowls, of which there were three, standing on as many chests, were very grand and foreign looking. Two of these were white, with figures and trees painted upon them in blue; the other, which was the middlemost, had neither trees nor figures upon it, but as I looked through the window, appeared to have on its sides the very same kind of marks which I had observed on the teapot at home; there were also marks on the tea-chests, somewhat similar, but much larger, and apparently, not executed with so much care. ‘Best teas direct from China,’ said a voice close to my side; and looking round I saw a youngish man, with a frizzled head, flat face, and an immensely wide mouth, standing in his shirtsleeves by the door. ‘Direct from China,’ said he; ‘perhaps you will do me the favour to walk in and scent them?’ ‘I do not want any tea,’ said I; ‘I was only standing at the window examining those marks on the bowl and the chests. I have observed similar ones on a teapot at home.’ ‘Pray walk in, sir,’ said the young fellow, extending his mouth till it reached nearly from ear to ear; ‘pray walk in, and I shall be happy to give you any information respecting the manners and customs of the Chinese in my power.’ Thereupon I followed him into his shop, where he began to harangue on the manners, customs and peculiarities of the Chinese, especially their manner of preparing tea, not forgetting to tell me that the only genuine Chinese tea ever imported into England was to be found in his shop. ‘With respect to those marks,’ said he, ‘on the bowl and chests, they are nothing more nor less than Chinese writing, expressing something, though what I can’t exactly tell you. Allow me to sell you this pound of tea,’ he added, showing me a paper parcel. ‘On the envelope there is a printed account of the Chinese system of writing, extracted from authors of the most established reputation. These things I print principally with the hope of, in some degree, removing the worse than Gothic ignorance prevalent amongst the natives of these parts. I am from London myself. With respect to all that relates to the Chinese real imperial tea, I assure you sir, that—’ Well, to make short of what you doubtless consider a very tiresome story, I purchased the tea and carried it home. The tea proved imperially bad, but the paper envelope really contained some information on the Chinese language and writing, amounting to about as much as you gained from me the other day. On learning that the marks on the teapot expressed words, I felt my interest with respect to them considerably increased and returned to the task of inspecting them with greater zeal than before, hoping, by continually looking at them, to be able eventually to understand their meaning, in which hope you may easily believe I was disappointed, though my desire to understand what they represented continued on the increase. In this dilemma I determined to apply again to the shopkeeper from whom I bought the tea. I found him in rather low spirits, his shirtsleeves were soiled, and his hair was out of curl. On my inquiring how he got on, he informed me that he intended speedily to leave, having received little or no encouragement, the people, in their Gothic ignorance, preferring to deal with an old-fashioned shopkeeper over the way, who, so far from possessing any acquaintance with the polity and institutions of the Chinese, did not, he firmly believed, know that tea came from China. ‘You are come for some more, I suppose?’ said he. On receiving an answer in the negative he looked somewhat blank, but when I added that I came to consult with him as to the means which I must take in order to acquire the Chinese language he brightened up. ‘You must get a grammar,’ said he, rubbing his hands. ‘Have you not one?’ said I. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but any bookseller can procure you one.’ As I was taking my departure, he told me that as he was about to leave the neighbourhood, the bowl at the window, which bore the inscription, besides some other pieces of porcelain of a similar description, were at my service, provided I chose to purchase them. I consented, and two or three days afterwards took from off his hands all the china in his possession which bore inscriptions, paying what he demanded. Had I waited till the sale of his effects, which occurred within a few weeks, I could probably have procured it for a fifth part of the sum which I paid, the other pieces realising very little. I did not, however, grudge the poor fellow what he got from me, as I considered myself to be somewhat in his debt for the information he had afforded me.

“As for the rest of my story it may be briefly told. I followed the advice of the shopkeeper, and applied to a bookseller who wrote to his correspondent in London. After a long interval, I was informed that if I wished to learn Chinese I must do so through the medium of French, there being neither Chinese grammar nor dictionary in our language. I was at first very much disheartened. I determined, however, at last to gratify my desire of learning Chinese, even at the expense of learning French. I procured the books, and in order to qualify myself to turn them to account, took lessons in French from a little Swiss, the usher of a neighbouring boarding-school. I was very stupid in acquiring French; perseverance, however, enabled me to acquire a knowledge sufficient for the object I had in view. In about two years I began to study Chinese by myself, through the medium of the French.”

“Well,” said I, “and how did you get on with the study of the Chinese?”

And then the old man proceeded to inform me how he got on with the study of Chinese, enumerated all the difficulties he had had to encounter; dilating upon his frequent despondency of mind, and occasionally his utter despair of ever mastering Chinese. He told me that more than once he had determined upon giving up the study, but then the misery in his head forthwith returned, to escape from which he had as often resumed it. It appeared, however, that ten years elapsed before he was able to use ten of the two hundred and fourteen keys, which serve to undo the locks of Chinese writing.

“And are you able at present to use the entire number?” I demanded.

“Yes,” said the old man; “I can at present use the whole number. I know the key for every particular lock, though I frequently find the wards unwilling to give way.”

“Has nothing particular occurred to you,” said I, “during the time that you have been prosecuting your studies?”

“During the whole time in which I have been engaged in these studies,” said the old man, “only one circumstance has occurred which requires any particular mention—the death of my old friend the surgeon—who was carried off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy. His death was a great shock to me, and for a time interrupted my studies. His son, however, who succeeded him, was very kind to me, and, in some degree, supplied his father’s place; and I gradually returned to my Chinese locks and keys.”

“And in applying keys to the Chinese locks you employ your time?”

“Yes,” said the old man; “in making out the inscriptions on the various pieces of porcelain, which I have at different times procured, I pass my time. The first inscription which I translated was that on the teapot of my beloved.”

“And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at present in your possession?”

“About fifteen hundred.”

“And how did you obtain them?” I demanded.

“Without much labour,” said the old man, “in the neighbouring towns and villages—chiefly at auctions, of which, about twenty years ago, there were many in these parts.”

“And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies entirely to the crockery literature of China, when you have all the rest at your disposal?”

“The inscriptions enable me to pass my time,” said the old man; “what more would the whole literature of China do?”

“And from those inscriptions,” said I, “what a book it is in your power to make, whenever so disposed. ‘Translations from the crockery literature of China.’ Such a book would be sure to take; even glorious John himself would not disdain to publish it.”

The old man smiled. “I have no desire for literary distinction,” said he; “no ambition. My original wish was to pass my life in easy, quiet obscurity, with her whom I loved. I was disappointed in my wish; she was removed, who constituted my only felicity in this life; desolation came to my heart, and misery to my head. To escape from the latter I had recourse to Chinese. By degrees the misery left my head, but the desolation of the heart yet remains.”

“Be of good cheer,” said I; “through the instrumentality of this affliction you have learnt Chinese, and, in so doing, learnt to practice the duties of hospitality. Who but a man who could read Runes on a teapot, would have received an unfortunate wayfarer as you have received me?”

“Well,” said the old man, “let us hope that all is for the best. I am by nature indolent, and, but for this affliction, should, perhaps, have hardly taken the trouble to do my duty to my fellow-creatures. I am very, very indolent,” said he, slightly glancing towards the clock; “therefore let us hope that all is for the best; but, oh! these trials, they are very hard to bear.”

XXXV

The next morning, having breakfasted with my old friend, I went into the stable to make the necessary preparations for my departure; there, with the assistance of a stable lad, I cleaned and caparisoned my horse, and then, returning into the house, I made the old female attendant such a present as I deemed would be some compensation for the trouble I had caused. Hearing that the old gentleman was in his study, I repaired to him. “I am come to take leave of you,” said I, “and to thank you for all the hospitality which I have received at your hands.” The eyes of the old man were fixed steadfastly on the inscription which I had found him studying on a former occasion. “At length,” he murmured to himself, “I have it—I think I have it;” and then, looking at me, he said: “So you are about to depart?”

“Yes,” said I; “my horse will be at the front door in a few minutes; I am glad, however, before I go, to find that you have mastered the inscription.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “I believe I have mastered it; it seems to consist of some verses relating to the worship of the Spirit of the Hearth.”

“What is the Spirit of the Hearth?” said I.

“One of the many demons which the Chinese worship,” said the old man; “they do not worship one God, but many.” And then the old man told me a great many highly interesting particulars respecting the demon worship of the Chinese.

After the lapse of at least half an hour I said: “I must not linger here any longer, however willing. Horncastle is distant, and I wish to be there tonight. Pray can you inform me what’s o’clock?”

The old man, rising, looked towards the clock which hung on the side of the room at his left hand, on the farther side of the table at which he was seated.

“I am rather shortsighted,” said I, “and cannot distinguish the numbers at that distance.”

“It is ten o’clock,” said the old man; “I believe somewhat past.”

“A quarter, perhaps?”

“Yes,” said the old man, “a quarter or—”

“Or?”

“Seven minutes, or ten minutes past ten.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Why, to tell you the truth,” said the old man with a smile, “there is one thing to the knowledge of which I could never exactly attain.”

“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you do not know what’s o’clock?”

“I can give a guess,” said the old man, “to within a few minutes.”

“But you cannot tell the exact moment?”

“No,” said the old man.

“In the name of wonder,” said I, “with that thing there on the wall continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do not know what’s o’clock?”

“Why,” said the old man, “I have contented myself with giving a tolerably good guess; to do more would have been too great trouble.”

“But you have learnt Chinese,” said I.

“Yes,” said the old man, “I have learnt Chinese.”

“Well,” said I, “I really would counsel you to learn to know what’s o’clock as soon as possible. Consider what a sad thing it would be to go out of the world not knowing what’s o’clock. A millionth part of the trouble required to learn Chinese would, if employed, infallibly teach you to know what’s o’clock.”

“I had a motive for learning Chinese,” said the old man; “the hope of appeasing the misery in my head. With respect to not knowing what’s o’clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad in the matter. A man may get through the world very creditably without knowing what’s o’clock. Yet, upon the whole, it is no bad thing to know what’s o’clock—you, of course, do. It would be too good a joke if two people were to be together, one knowing Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing what’s o’clock. I’ll now see you off.”

XXXVI

Leaving the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o’clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which I reached in the evening of the same day, without having met any adventure on the way worthy of being marked down in this very remarkable history.

The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded with people and horses. I proceeded, without delay, to the inn to which my friend the surgeon had directed me. “It is of no use coming here,” said two or three ostlers, as I entered the yard—“all full—no room whatever;” whilst one added in an undertone, “That ere a’n’t a bad-looking horse.” “I want to see the master of this inn,” said I, as I dismounted from the horse. “See the master,” said an ostler—the same who had paid the negative kind of compliment to the horse—“a likely thing, truly; my master is drinking wine with some of the grand gentry, and can’t be disturbed for the sake of the like of you.” “I bring a letter to him,” said I, pulling out the surgeon’s epistle. “I wish you would deliver it to him,” I added, offering a half-crown. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the ostler, taking the letter and the half-crown; “my master will be right glad to see you; why, you ha’n’t been here for many a year; I’ll carry the note to him at once.” And with these words he hurried into the house. “That’s a nice horse, young man,” said another ostler; “what will you take for it?” to which interrogation I made no answer. “If you wish to sell him,” said the ostler, coming up to me, and winking knowingly, “I think I and my partners might offer you a summut under seventy pounds,” to which kind of half-insinuated offer I made no reply, save by winking in the same kind of knowing manner in which I had observed him wink. “Rather leary!” said a third ostler. “Well, young man, perhaps you will drink tonight with me and my partners, when we can talk the matter over.” Before I had time to answer, the landlord, a well-dressed, good-looking man, made his appearance with the ostler; he bore the letter in his hand. Without glancing at me, he betook himself at once to consider the horse, going round him and observing every point with the utmost minuteness. At last, after having gone round the horse three times, he stopped beside me, and keeping his eyes on the horse, bent his head towards his right shoulder. “That horse is worth some money,” said he, turning towards me suddenly, and slightly touching me on the arm with the letter which he held in his hand; to which observation I made no reply, save by bending my head towards the right shoulder as I had seen him do. “The young man is going to talk to me and my partners about it tonight,” said the ostler who had expressed an opinion that he and his friends might offer me somewhat under seventy pounds for the animal. “Pooh!” said the landlord, “the young man knows what he is about; in the meantime, lead the horse to the reserved stall, and see well after him. My friend,” said he, taking me aside after the ostler had led the animal away, “recommends you to me in the strongest manner, on which account alone I take you and your horse in. I need not advise you not to be taken in, as I should say, by your look, that you are tolerably awake; but there are queer hands at Horncastle at this time, and those fellows of mine, you understand me—; but I have a great deal to do at present, so you must excuse me.” And thereupon went into the house.

That same evening I was engaged at least two hours in the stable, in rubbing the horse down, and preparing him for the exhibition which I intended he should make in the fair on the following day. The ostler to whom I had given the half-crown occasionally assisted me, though he was too much occupied by the horses of other guests to devote any length of time to the service of mine; he more than once repeated to me his firm conviction that himself and partners could afford to offer me summut for the horse; and at a later hour when, in compliance with his invitation, I took a glass of summut with himself and partners, in a little room surrounded with corn-chests, on which we sat, both himself and partners endeavoured to impress upon me, chiefly by means of nods and winks, their conviction that they could afford to give me summut for the horse, provided I were disposed to sell him; in return for which intimation, with as many nods and winks as they had all collectively used, I endeavoured to impress upon them my conviction that I could get summut handsomer in the fair than they might be disposed to offer me, seeing as how—which how I followed by a wink and a nod, which they seemed perfectly to understand, one or two of them declaring that if the case was so it made a great deal of difference, and that they did not wish to be any hindrance to me, more particularly as it was quite clear I had been an ostler like themselves.

It was late at night when I began to think of retiring to rest. On inquiring if there was any place in which I could sleep, I was informed that there was a bed at my service, provided I chose to sleep in a two-bedded room, one of the beds of which was engaged by another gentleman. I expressed my satisfaction at this arrangement, and was conducted by a maidservant up many pairs of stairs to a garret, in which were two small beds, in one of which she gave me to understand another gentleman slept; he had, however, not yet retired to rest; I asked who he was, but the maidservant could give me no information about him, save that he was a highly respectable gentleman, and a friend of her master’s. Presently, bidding me good night, she left me with a candle; and I, having undressed myself and extinguished the light, went to bed. Notwithstanding the noises which sounded from every part of the house, I was not slow in falling asleep, being thoroughly tired. I know not how long I might have been in bed, perhaps two hours, when I was partially awakened by a light shining upon my face, whereupon, unclosing my eyes, I perceived the figure of a man, with a candle in one hand, staring at my face, whilst with the other hand, he held back the curtain of the bed. As I have said before, I was only partially awakened, my power of conception was consequently very confused; it appeared to me, however, that the man was dressed in a green coat; that he had curly brown or black hair, and that there was something peculiar in his look. Just as I was beginning to recollect myself, the curtain dropped, and I heard, or thought I heard, a voice say: “Don’t know the cove.” Then there was a rustling like a person undressing, whereupon being satisfied that it was my fellow-lodger, I dropped asleep, but was awakened again by a kind of heavy plunge upon the other bed, which caused it to rock and creak, when I observed that the light had been extinguished, probably blown out, if I might judge from a rather disagreeable smell of burnt wick which remained in the room, and which kept me awake till I heard my companion breathing hard, when, turning on the other side, I was again once more speedily in the arms of slumber.

XXXVII

It had been my intention to be up and doing early on the following morning, but my slumbers proved so profound, that I did not wake until about eight; on arising, I again found myself the sole occupant of the apartment, my more alert companion having probably risen at a much earlier hour. Having dressed myself, I descended, and going to the stable, found my horse under the hands of my friend the ostler, who was carefully rubbing him down. “There a’n’t a better horse in the fair,” said he to me, “and as you are one of us, and appear to be all right, I’ll give you a piece of advice—don’t take less than a hundred and fifty for him; if you mind your hits, you may get it, for I have known two hundred given in this fair for one no better, if so good.” “Well,” said I, “thank you for your advice, which I will take, and if successful, will give you ‘summut’ handsome.” “Thank you,” said the ostler; “and now let me ask whether you are up to all the ways of this here place?” “I have never been here before,” said I, “but I have a pair of tolerably sharp eyes in my head.” “That I see you have,” said the ostler, “but many a body, with as sharp a pair of eyes as yourn, has lost his horse in this fair, for want of having been here before, therefore,” said he, “I’ll give you a caution or two.” Thereupon the ostler proceeded to give me at least half a dozen cautions, only two of which I shall relate to the reader: the first, not to stop to listen to what any chance customer might have to say; and the last—the one on which he appeared to lay most stress—by no manner of means to permit a Yorkshireman to get up into the saddle, “for,” said he, “if you do, it is three to one that he rides off with the horse; he can’t help it; trust a cat amongst cream, but never trust a Yorkshireman on the saddle of a good horse; by the by,” he continued, “that saddle of yours is not a particularly good one, no more is the bridle. A shabby saddle and bridle have more than once spoiled the sale of a good horse. I tell you what, as you seem a decent kind of a young chap, I’ll lend you a saddle and bridle of my master’s, almost brand new; he won’t object, I know, as you are a friend of his, only you must not forget your promise to come down with ‘summut handsome’ after you have sold the animal.”

After a slight breakfast I mounted the horse, which, decked out in his borrowed finery, really looked better by a large sum of money than on any former occasion. Making my way out of the yard of the inn, I was instantly in the principal street of the town, up and down which an immense number of horses were being exhibited, some led, and others with riders. “A wonderful small quantity of good horses in the fair this time!” I heard a stout, jockey-looking individual say, who was staring up the street with his side towards me. “Halloo, young fellow!” said he, a few moments after I had passed, “whose horse is that? Stop! I want to look at him!” Though confident that he was addressing himself to me, I took no notice, remembering the advice of the ostler, and proceeded up the street. My horse possessed a good walking step; but walking, as the reader knows, was not his best pace, which was the long trot, at which I could not well exercise him in the street, on account of the crowd of men and animals; however, as he walked along, I could easily perceive that he attracted no slight attention amongst those, who by their jockey dress and general appearance, I imagined to be connoisseurs; I heard various calls to stop, to none of which I paid the slightest attention. In a few minutes I found myself out of the town, when, turning round for the purpose of returning, I found I had been followed by several of the connoisseur-looking individuals, whom I had observed in the fair. “Now would be the time for a display,” thought I; and looking around me I observed two five-barred gates, one on each side of the road, and fronting each other. Turning my horse’s head to one, I pressed my heels to his sides, loosened the reins, and gave an encouraging cry, whereupon the animal cleared the gate in a twinkling. Before he had advanced ten yards in the field to which the gate opened, I had turned him round, and again giving him cry and rein, I caused him to leap back again into the road, and still allowing him head, I made him leap the other gate; and forthwith turning him round, I caused him to leap once more into the road, where he stood proudly tossing his head, as much as to say, “What more?” “A fine horse! a capital horse!” said several of the connoisseurs. “What do you ask for him?” “Too much for any of you to pay,” said I. “A horse like this is intended for other kind of customers than any of you.” “How do you know that,” said one; the very same person whom I had heard complaining in the street of the paucity of good horses in the fair. “Come, let us know what you ask for him?” “A hundred and fifty pounds,” said I; “neither more nor less.” “Do you call that a great price?” said the man. “Why, I thought you would have asked double that amount! You do yourself injustice, young man.” “Perhaps I do,” said I, “but that’s my affair; I do not choose to take more.” “I wish you would let me get into the saddle,” said the man; “the horse knows you, and therefore shows to more advantage; but I should like to see how he would move under me, who am a stranger. Will you let me get into the saddle, young man?” “No,” said I; “I will not let you get into the saddle.” “Why not?” said the man. “Lest you should be a Yorkshireman,” said I, “and should run away with the horse.” “Yorkshire?” said the man; “I am from Suffolk, silly Suffolk, so you need not be afraid of my running away with the horse.” “Oh! if that’s the case,” said I, “I should be afraid that the horse would run away with you; so I will by no means let you mount.” “Will you let me look in his mouth?” said the man. “If you please,” said I; “but I tell you, he’s apt to bite.” “He can scarcely be a worse bite than his master,” said the man, looking into the horse’s mouth; “he’s four off. I say, young man, will you warrant this horse?” “No,” said I; “I never warrant horses; the horses that I ride can always warrant themselves.” “I wish you would let me speak a word to you,” said he. “Just come aside. It’s a nice horse,” said he in a half-whisper, after I had ridden a few paces aside with him. “It’s a nice horse,” said he, placing his hand upon the pommel of the saddle, and looking up in my face, “and I think I can find you a customer. If you would take a hundred, I think my lord would purchase it, for he has sent me about the fair to look him up a horse, by which he could hope to make an honest penny.” “Well,” said I, “and could he not make an honest penny, and yet give me the price I ask?” “Why,” said the go-between, “a hundred and fifty pounds is as much as the animal is worth, or nearly so; and my lord, do you see—” “I see no reason at all,” said I, “why I should sell the animal for less than he is worth, in order that his lordship may be benefited by him; so that if his lordship wants to make an honest penny, he must find some person who would consider the disadvantage of selling him a horse for less than it is worth as counterbalanced by the honour of dealing with a lord, which I should never do; but I can’t be wasting my time here. I am going back to the ———, where, if you, or any person, are desirous of purchasing the horse, you must come within the next half-hour, or I shall probably not feel disposed to sell him at all.” “Another word, young man,” said the jockey, but without staying to hear what he had to say, I put the horse to his best trot, and re-entering the town, and threading my way as well as I could through the press, I returned to the yard of the inn, where, dismounting, I stood still, holding the horse by the bridle.

I had been standing in this manner about five minutes, when I saw the jockey enter the yard, accompanied by another individual. They advanced directly towards me. “Here is my lord come to look at the horse, young man,” said the jockey. My lord, as the jockey called him, was a tall figure, of about five-and-thirty. He had on his head a hat somewhat rusty, and on his back a surtout of blue rather the worse for wear. His forehead, if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were brown, with a ratlike glare in them; the nose was rather long, and the mouth very wide; the cheekbones high, and the cheeks, as to hue and consistency, exhibiting very much the appearance of a withered red apple; there was a gaunt expression of hunger in the whole countenance. He had scarcely glanced at the horse; when drawing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips very much after the manner of a baboon when he sees a piece of sugar held out towards him. “Is this horse yours?” said he, suddenly turning towards me, with a kind of smirk. “It’s my horse,” said I; “are you the person who wishes to make an honest penny by it?” “How!” said he, drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and speaking with a very haughty tone; “what do you mean?” We looked at each other full in the face; after a few moments, the muscles of the mouth of him of the hungry look began to move violently, the face was puckered into innumerable wrinkles, and the eyes became half-closed. “Well,” said I, “have you ever seen me before? I suppose you are asking yourself that question.” “Excuse me, sir,” said he, dropping his lofty look, and speaking in a very subdued and civil tone, “I have never had the honour of seeing you before, that is—” said he, slightly glancing at me again, and again moving the muscles of his mouth; “no, I have never seen you before,” he added, making me a bow, “I have never had that pleasure. My business with you, at present, is to inquire the lowest price you are willing to take for this horse. My agent here informs me that you ask one hundred and fifty pounds, which I cannot think of giving. The horse is a showy horse, but look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and there in his near fore leg I observe something which looks very like a splint—yes, upon my credit,” said he, touching the animal, “he has a splint, or something which will end in one. A hundred and fifty pounds, sir! what could have induced you ever to ask anything like that for this animal? I protest that, in my time, I have frequently bought a better for—Who are you, sir? I am in treaty for this horse,” said he to a man who had come up whilst he was talking, and was now looking into the horse’s mouth. “Who am I?” said the man, still looking into the horse’s mouth; “who am I? his lordship asks me. Ah, I see, close on five,” said he, releasing the horse’s jaws, and looking at me. This newcomer was a thin, wiry-made individual, with wiry curling brown hair; his face was dark, and wore an arch and somewhat roguish expression; upon one of his eyes was a kind of speck or beam; he might be about forty, wore a green jockey coat, and held in his hand a black riding-whip, with a knob of silver wire. As I gazed upon his countenance, it brought powerfully to my mind the face which, by the light of the candle, I had seen staring over me on the preceding night, when lying in bed and half-asleep. Close beside him, and seemingly in his company, stood an exceedingly tall figure, that of a youth, seemingly about one-and-twenty, dressed in a handsome riding-dress, and wearing on his head a singular hat, green in colour, and with a very high peak. “What do you ask for this horse?” said he of the green coat, winking at me with the eye which had a beam in it, whilst the other shone and sparkled like Mrs. Colonel W——’s Golconda diamond. “Who are you, sir, I demand once more?” said he of the hungry look. “Who am I? why, who should I be but Jack Dale, who buys horses for himself and other folk; I want one at present for this short young gentleman,” said he, motioning with his finger to the gigantic youth. “Well, sir,” said the other, “and what business have you to interfere between me and any purchase I may be disposed to make?” “Well, then,” said the other, “be quick and purchase the horse, or, perhaps, I may.” “Do you think I am to be dictated to by a fellow of your description?” said his lordship; “begone, or—” “What do you ask for this horse?” said the other to me, very coolly. “A hundred and fifty,” said I. “I shouldn’t mind giving it to you,” said he. “You will do no such thing,” said his lordship, speaking so fast that he almost stuttered. “Sir,” said he to me, “I must give you what you ask; Symmonds, take possession of the animal for me,” said he to the other jockey who attended him. “You will please to do no such thing without my consent,” said I; “I have not sold him.” “I have this moment told you that I will give you the price you demand,” said his lordship; “is not that sufficient?” “No,” said I, “there is a proper manner of doing everything; had you come forward in a manly and gentlemanly manner to purchase the horse, I should have been happy to sell him to you, but after all the fault you have found with him, I would not sell him to you at any price, so send your friend to find up another.” “You behave in this manner, I suppose,” said his lordship, “because this fellow has expressed a willingness to come to your terms. I would advise you to be cautious how you trust the animal in his hands; I think I have seen him before and could tell you—” “What can you tell of me?” said the other, going up to him; “except that I have been a poor dicky-boy, and that now I am a dealer in horses, and that my father was lagged; that’s all you could tell of me, and that I don’t mind telling myself: but there are two things they can’t say of me, they can’t say that I am either a coward or a screw either, except so far as one who gets his bread by horses may be expected to be; and they can’t say of me that I ever ate up an ice which a young woman was waiting for, or that I ever backed out of a fight. Horse!” said he, motioning with his finger tauntingly to the other, “what do you want with a horse, except to take the bread out of the mouth of a poor man—tomorrow is not the battle of Waterloo, so that you don’t want to back out of danger, by pretending to have hurt yourself by falling from the creature’s back, my lord of the white feather; come, none of your fierce looks, I am not afraid of you.” In fact, the other had assumed an expression of the deadliest malice, his teeth were clenched, his lips quivered, and were quite pale; the ratlike eyes sparkled, and he made a half-spring, à la rat, towards his adversary, who only laughed. Restraining himself, however, he suddenly turned to his understrapper, saying: “Symmonds, will you see me thus insulted? go and trounce this scoundrel; you can, I know.” “Symmonds trounce me!” said the other, going up to the person addressed, and drawing his hand contemptuously over his face; “why, I beat Symmonds in this very yard in one round three years ago; didn’t I, Symmonds?” said he to the understrapper, who held down his head, muttering, in a surly tone, “I didn’t come here to fight; let everyone take his own part.” “That’s right, Symmonds,” said the other, “especially everyone from whom there is nothing to be got. I would give you half a crown for all the trouble you have had, provided I were not afraid that my Lord Plume there would get it from you as soon as you leave the yard together. Come, take yourselves both off; there’s nothing to be made here.” Indeed, his lordship seemed to be of the same opinion, for after a further glance at the horse, a contemptuous look at me, and a scowl at the jockey, he turned on his heel, muttering something which sounded like fellows, and stalked out of the yard, followed by Symmonds.

“And now, young man,” said the jockey, or whatever he was, turning to me with an arch leer, “I suppose I may consider myself as the purchaser of this here animal, for the use and behoof of this young gentleman?” making a sign with his head towards the tall young man by his side. “By no means,” said I; “I am utterly unacquainted with either of you, and before parting with the horse, I must be satisfied as to the respectability of the purchaser.” “Oh! as to that matter,” said he, “I have plenty of vouchers for my respectability about me,” and thrusting his hand into his bosom below his waistcoat, he drew out a large bundle of notes. “These are the kind of things,” said he, “which vouch best for a man’s respectability.” “Not always,” said I; “indeed, sometimes these kind of things need vouchers for themselves.” The man looked at me with a peculiar look. “Do you mean to say that these notes are not sufficient notes?” said he, “because if you do, I shall take the liberty of thinking that you are not over civil, and when I thinks a person is not over and above civil I sometimes takes off my coat, and when my coat is off—” “You sometimes knock people down,” I added; “well, whether you knock me down or not, I beg leave to tell you that I am a stranger in this fair, and that I shall part with the horse to nobody who has no better guarantee for his respectability than a roll of banknotes, which may be good or not for what I know, who am not a judge of such things.” “Oh! if you are a stranger here,” said the man, “as I believe you are, never having seen you here before except last night, when I think I saw you above stairs by the glimmer of a candle—I say, if you are a stranger, you are quite right to be cautious; queer things being done in this fair, as nobody knows better than myself,” he added with a leer; “but I suppose if the landlord of the house vouches for me and my notes, you will have no objection to part with the horse to me?” “None whatever,” said I, “and in the meantime the horse can return to the stable.”

Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler. The landlord of the house on being questioned by me as to the character and condition of my new acquaintance, informed me that he was a respectable horsedealer, and an intimate friend of his, whereupon the purchase was soon brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

XXXVIII

It was evening, and myself and the two acquaintances I had made in the fair—namely, the jockey and the tall foreigner—sat in a large upstairs room, which looked into a court; we had dined with several people connected with the fair at a long table d’hôte; they had now departed, and we sat at a small side-table with wine and a candle before us; both my companions had pipes in their mouths—the jockey a common pipe, and the foreigner one, the syphon of which, made of some kind of wood, was at least six feet long, and the bowl of which, made of a white kind of substance like porcelain, and capable of holding nearly an ounce of tobacco, rested on the ground. The jockey frequently emptied and replenished his glass; the foreigner sometimes raised his to his lips, for no other purpose seemingly than to moisten them, as he never drained his glass. As for myself, though I did not smoke, I had a glass before me, from which I sometimes took a sip. The room, notwithstanding the window was flung open, was in general so filled with smoke, chiefly that which was drawn from the huge bowl of the foreigner, that my companions and I were frequently concealed from each other’s eyes. The conversation, which related entirely to the events of the fair, was carried on by the jockey and myself, the foreigner, who appeared to understand the greater part of what we said, occasionally putting in a few observations in broken English. At length the jockey, after the other had made some ineffectual attempts to express something intelligibly which he wished to say, observed: “Isn’t it a pity that so fine a fellow as meinheer, and so clever a fellow too, as I believe him to be, is not a little better master of our language?”

“Is the gentleman a German?” said I; “if so, I can interpret for him anything he wishes to say.”

“The deuce you can,” said the jockey, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and staring at me through the smoke.

“Ha! you speak German,” vociferated the foreigner in that language. “By Isten,283 I am glad of it! I wanted to say—” And here he said in German what he wished to say, and which was of no great importance, and which I translated into English.

“Well, if you don’t put me out,” said the jockey; “what language is that—Dutch?”

“High Dutch,” said I.

“High Dutch, and you speak High Dutch—why I had booked you for as great an ignoramus as myself, who can’t write—no, nor distinguish in a book a great A from a bull’s foot.”

“A person may be a very clever man,” said I—“no, not a clever man, for clever signifies clerkly, and a clever man one who is able to read and write, and entitled to the benefit of his clergy or clerkship; but a person may be a very acute person without being able to read or write. I never saw a more acute countenance than your own.”

“No soft soap,” said the jockey, “for I never uses any. However, thank you for your information; I have hitherto thought myself a ’nition clever fellow, but from henceforth shall consider myself just the contrary, and only—what’s the word?—confounded ’cute.”

“Just so,” said I.

“Well,” said the jockey, “as you say you can speak High Dutch, I should like to hear you and master six foot six fire away at each other.”

“I cannot speak German,” said I, “but I can understand tolerably well what others say in it.”

“Come, no backing out,” said the jockey; “let’s hear you fire away for the glory of Old England.”

“Then you are a German?” said I in German to the foreigner.

“That will do,” said the jockey, “keep it up.”

“A German!” said the tall foreigner. “No, I thank God that I do not belong to the stupid, sluggish Germanic race, but to a braver, taller and handsomer people;” here taking the pipe out of his mouth, he stood up proudly erect, so that his head nearly touched the ceiling of the room, then reseating himself, and again putting the syphon to his lips, he added, “I am a Magyar.”284

“What is that?” said I.

The foreigner looked at me for a moment somewhat contemptuously, through the smoke, then said, in a voice of thunder, “A Hungarian!”

“What a voice the chap has when he pleases!” interposed the jockey; “what is he saying?”

“Merely that he is a Hungarian,” said I; but I added, “the conversation of this gentleman and myself in a language which you can’t understand must be very tedious to you, we had better give it up.”

“Keep on with it,” said the jockey; “I shall go on listening very contentedly till I fall asleep, no bad thing to do at most times.”

XXXIX

“Then you are a countryman of Tekeli, and of the queen who made the celebrated water,” said I, speaking to the Hungarian in German, which I was able to do tolerably well owing to my having translated the publisher’s philosophy into that language, always provided I did not attempt to say much at a time.

Hungarian. Ah! you have heard of Tekeli, and of L’eau de la Reine d’Hongrie.285 How is that?

Myself. I have seen a play acted, founded on the exploits of Tekeli,286 and have read Pigault Le Brun’s beautiful romance, entitled The Barons of Felsheim287 in which he is mentioned. As for the water, I have heard a lady, the wife of a master of mine, speak of it.

Hungarian. Was she handsome?

Myself. Very.

Hungarian. Did she possess the water?

Myself. I should say not; for I have heard her express a great curiosity about it.

Hungarian. Was she growing old?

Myself. Of course not, but why do you put all these questions?

Hungarian. Because the water is said to make people handsome, and above all, to restore to the aged the beauty of their youth. Well! Tekeli was my countryman, and I have the honour of having some of the blood of the Tekelis in my veins, but with respect to the queen, pardon me if I tell you that she was not an Hungarian; she was a Pole—Ersebet by name,288 daughter of Wladislaus Locticus King of Poland; she was the fourth spouse of Caroly the Second, King of the Magyar country, who married her in 1320. She was a great woman and celebrated politician, though at present chiefly known by her water.

Myself. How came she to invent it?

Hungarian. If her own account may be believed, she did not invent it. After her death, as I have read in Florentius of Buda,289 there was found a statement of the manner in which she came by it written in her own hand, on a flyleaf of her breviary, to the following effect: Being afflicted with a grievous disorder at the age of seventy-two, she received the medicine which was called her water, from an old hermit whom she never saw before or afterwards; it not only cured her, but restored to her all her former beauty, so that the King of Poland fell in love with her, and made her an offer of marriage, which she refused for the glory of God, from whose holy angel she believed she had received the water. The receipt for making it and directions for using it, were also found on the flyleaf. The principal component parts were burnt wine and rosemary, passed through an alembic; a drachm of it was to be taken once a week, “etelbenn vagy italbann,” in the food or the drink, early in the morning, and the cheeks were to be moistened with it every day. The effects, according to the statement, were wonderful—and perhaps they were upon the queen; but whether the water has been equally efficacious on other people, is a point which I cannot determine. I should wish to see some old woman who has been restored to youthful beauty by the use of L’eau de la Reine d’Hongrie.

Myself. Perhaps, if you did, the old gentlewoman would hardly be so ingenuous as the queen. But who are the Hungarians—descendants of Attila and his people?

The Hungarian shook his head, and gave me to understand that he did not believe that his nation were the descendants of Attila and his people, though he acknowledged that they were probably of the same race. Attila and his armies, he said, came and disappeared in a very mysterious manner, and that nothing could be said with positiveness about them; that the people now known as Magyars first made their appearance in Muscovy in the year 884, under the leadership of Almus,290 called so from alom, which, in the Hungarian language, signifies a dream; his mother, before his birth, having dreamt that the child with which she was enceinte would be the father of a long succession of kings, which, in fact, was the case; that after beating the Russians he entered Hungary, and coming to a place called Ungvar, from which many people believed that modern Hungary derived its name, he captured it, and held in it a grand festival, which lasted four days, at the end of which time he resigned the leadership of the Magyars to his son Arpad. This Arpad and his Magyars utterly subdued Pannonia—that is, Hungary and Transylvania—wresting the government of it from the Sclavonian tribes who inhabited it, and settling down amongst them as conquerors! After giving me this information, the Hungarian exclaimed with much animation: “A goodly country that which they had entered on, consisting of a plain surrounded by mountains, some of which intersect it here and there, with noble rapid rivers, the grandest of which is the mighty Dunau;291 a country with tiny volcanoes, casting up puffs of smoke and steam, and from which hot springs arise, good for the sick; with many fountains, some of which are so pleasant to the taste as to be preferred to wine; with a generous soil which, warmed by a beautiful sun, is able to produce corn, grapes, and even the Indian weed; in fact, one of the finest countries in the world, which even a Spaniard would pronounce to be nearly equal to Spain. Here they rested, meditating, however, fresh conquests. Oh, the Magyars soon showed themselves a mighty people. Besides Hungary and Transylvania, they subdued Bulgaria and Bosnia, and the land of Tot, now called Sclavonia. The generals of Zoltan, the son of Arpad, led troops of horsemen to the banks of the Rhine. One of them, at the head of a host, besieged Constantinople. It was then that Botond engaged in combat with a Greek of gigantic stature, who came out of the city and challenged the two best men in the Magyar army. ‘I am the feeblest of the Magyars,’ said Botond, ‘but I will kill thee;’ and he performed his word, having previously given a proof of the feebleness of his arm by striking his battle-axe through the brazen gate, making a hole so big that a child of five years old could walk through it.”

Myself. Of what religion were the old Hungarians?

Hungarian. They had some idea of a Supreme Being, whom they called Isten, which word is still used by the Magyars for God; but their chief devotion was directed to sorcerers and soothsayers, something like the Schamans of the Siberian steppes. They were converted to Christianity chiefly through the instrumentality of Istvan or Stephen, called after his death St. Istvan, who ascended the throne in the year one thousand. He was born in heathenesse, and his original name was Vojk: he was the first kiraly,292 or king, of the Magyars. Their former leaders had been called fejedelmek, or dukes. The Magyar language has properly no term either for king or house. Kiraly is a word derived from the Sclaves; haz, or house, from the Germans, who first taught them to build houses, their original dwellings having been tilted wagons.

Myself. Many thanks for your account of the great men of your country.

Hungarian. The great men of my country! I have only told you of the—Well, I acknowledge that Almus and Arpad were great men, but Hungary has produced many greater; I will not trouble you by recapitulating all, but there is one name I cannot forbear mentioning—but you have heard of it—even at Horncastle the name of Hunyadi must be familiar.

Myself. It may be so, though I rather doubt it; but, however that may be, I confess my ignorance. I have never, until this moment, heard the name of Hunyadi.

Hungarian. Not of Hunyadi Janos,293 not of Hunyadi John—for the genius of our language compels us to put a man’s Christian name after his other; perhaps you have heard of the name of Corvinus?

Myself. Yes, I have heard of the name of Corvinus.

Hungarian. By my God, I am glad of it; I thought our hammer of destruction, our thunderbolt, whom the Greeks called Achilles, must be known to the people of Horncastle. Well, Hunyadi and Corvinus are the same.

Myself. Corvinus means the man of the crow, or raven. I suppose that your John, when a boy, climbed up to a crow or a raven’s nest, and stole the young; a bold feat, well befitting a young hero.

Hungarian. By Isten, you are an acute guesser; a robbery there was, but it was not Hunyadi who robbed the raven, but the raven who robbed Hunyadi.

Myself. How was that?

Hungarian. In this manner: Hunyadi, according to tradition, was the son of King Sigmond, by a peasant’s daughter. The king saw and fell in love with her, whilst marching against the vaivode of Wallachia. He had some difficulty in persuading her to consent to his wishes, and she only yielded at last on the king making her a solemn promise that, in the event of her becoming with child by him, he would handsomely provide for her and the infant. The king proceeded on his expedition, and on his returning in triumph from Wallachia, he again saw the girl, who informed him that she was enceinte by him; the king was delighted with the intelligence, gave the girl money, and at the same time a ring, requesting her, if she brought forth a son, to bring the ring to Buda with the child, and present it to him. When her time was up, the peasant’s daughter brought forth a fair son, who was baptised by the name of John. After some time the young woman communicated the whole affair to her elder brother, whose name was Gaspar, and begged him to convey her and the child to the king at Buda. The brother consented, and both set out, taking the child with them. On their way, the woman, wanting to wash her clothes, laid the child down, giving it the king’s ring to play with. A raven, who saw the glittering ring, came flying, and plucking it out of the child’s hand, carried it up into a tree; the child suddenly began to cry, and the mother, hearing it, left her washing, and running to the child, forthwith missed the ring, but hearing the raven croak in the tree, she lifted up her eyes, and saw it with the ring in its beak. The woman, in great terror, called her brother, and told him what had happened, adding, that she durst not approach the king if the raven took away the ring. Gaspar, seizing his crossbow and quiver, ran to the tree, where the raven was yet with the ring, and discharged an arrow at it, but, being in a great hurry, he missed it; with his second shot he was more lucky, for he hit the raven in the breast, which, together with the ring, fell to the ground. Taking up the ring, they went on their way, and shortly arrived at Buda. One day, as the king was walking after dinner in his outer hall, the woman appeared before him with the child, and, showing him the ring, said: “Mighty lord! behold this token! and take pity upon me and your own son.” King Sigmond took the child and kissed it, and, after a pause said to the mother: “You have done right in bringing me the boy; I will take care of you, and make him a nobleman.” The king was as good as his word; he provided for the mother, caused the boy to be instructed in knightly exercises, and made him a present of the town of Hunyad, in Transylvania, on which account he was afterwards called Hunyadi, and gave him, as an armorial sign, a raven bearing a ring in his beak.

Such, oh young man of Horncastle! is the popular account of the birth of the great captain of Hungary, as related by Florentius of Buda. There are other accounts of his birth, which is, indeed, involved in much mystery, and of the reason of his being called Corvinus, but as this is the most pleasing, and is, upon the whole, founded on quite as good evidence as the others, I have selected it for recitation.

Myself. I heartily thank you; but you must tell me something more of Hunyadi. You call him your great captain; what did he do?

Hungarian. Do! what no other man of his day could have done. He broke the power of the Turk when he was coming to overwhelm Europe. From the blows inflicted by Hunyadi, the Turk never thoroughly recovered; he has been frequently worsted in latter times, but none but Hunyadi could have routed the armies of Amurath and Mahomed the Second.

Myself. How was it that he had an opportunity of displaying his military genius?

Hungarian. I can hardly tell you, but his valour soon made him famous; King Albert made him Ban of Szorenyi. He became eventually waivode of Transylvania, and governor of Hungary. His first grand action was the defeat of Bashaw Isack; and though himself surprised and routed at St. Imre, he speedily regained his prestige by defeating the Turks, with enormous slaughter, killing their leader, Mezerbeg; and subsequently, at the battle of the Iron Gates, he destroyed ninety thousand Turks, sent by Amurath to avenge the late disgrace. It was then that the Greeks called him Achilles.

Myself. He was not always successful.

Hungarian. Who could be always successful against the early Turk? He was defeated in the battle in which King Vladislaus lost his life, but his victories outnumbered his defeats threefold. His grandest victory—perhaps the grandest ever achieved by man—was over the terrible Mahomed the Second; who, after the taking of Constantinople in 1453, said: “One God in Heaven—one king on earth;” and marched to besiege Belgrade at the head of one hundred and fifty thousand men; swearing by the beard of the prophet, “That he would sup within it ere two months were elapsed.” He brought with him dogs, to eat the bodies of the Christians whom he should take or slay; so says Florentius; hear what he also says: The Turk sat down before the town towards the end of June, 1454, covering the Dunau and Szava294 with ships: and on the 4th of July he began to cannonade Belgrade with cannons twenty-five feet long, whose roar could be heard at Szeged, a distance of twenty-four leagues, at which place Hunyadi had assembled his forces. Hunyadi had been able to raise only fifteen thousand of well-armed and disciplined men, though he had with him vast bands of people, who called themselves Soldiers of the Cross, but who consisted of inexperienced lads from school, peasants and hermits, armed with swords, slings and clubs. Hunyadi, undismayed by the great disparity between his forces and those of the Turk, advanced to relieve Belgrade, and encamped at Szalankemen with his army. There he saw at once that his first step must be to attack the flotilla; he therefore privately informed Szilagy, his wife’s brother, who at that time defended Belgrade, that it was his intention to attack the ships of the Turks on the 14th day of July in front, and requested his cooperation in the rear. On the 14th came on the commencement of the great battle of Belgrade, between Hunyadi and the Turk. Many days it lasted.

Myself. Describe it.

Hungarian. I cannot. One has described it well—Florentius of Buda. I can only repeat a few of his words: “On the appointed day, Hunyadi, with two hundred vessels, attacked the Turkish flotilla in front, whilst Szilagy, with forty vessels, filled with the men of Belgrade, assailed it in the rear; striving for the same object, they sunk many of the Turkish vessels, captured seventy-four, burnt many, and utterly annihilated the whole fleet. After this victory, Hunyadi, with his army entered Belgrade, to the great joy of the Magyars. But though the force of Mahomed upon the water was destroyed, that upon the land remained entire; and with this, during six days and nights, he attacked the city without intermission, destroying its walls in many parts. His last and most desperate assault was made on the 21st day of July. Twice did the Turks gain possession of the outer town, and twice was it retaken with indescribable slaughter. The next day the combat raged without ceasing till midday, when the Turks were again beaten out of the town, and pursued by the Magyars to their camp. There the combat was renewed, both sides displaying the greatest obstinacy until Mahomed received a great wound over his left eye. The Turks then, turning their faces, fled, leaving behind them three hundred cannon in the hands of the Christians, and more than twenty-four thousand slain on the field of battle.”

Myself. After that battle, I suppose Hunyadi enjoyed his triumphs in peace?

Hungarian. In the deepest, for he shortly died. His great soul quitted his body, which was exhausted by almost superhuman exertions, on the 11th of August, 1456. Shortly before he died, according to Florentius, a comet appeared, sent, as it would seem, to announce his coming end. The whole Christian world mourned his loss. The Pope ordered the cardinals to perform a funeral ceremony at Rome in his honour. His great enemy himself grieved for him, and pronounced his finest eulogium. When Mahomed the Second heard of his death, he struck his head for some time against the ground without speaking. Suddenly he broke silence with these words: “Notwithstanding he was my enemy, yet do I bewail his loss; since the sun has shone in heaven, no Prince had ever yet such a man.”

Myself. What was the name of his Prince?

Hungarian. Laszlo the Fifth;295 who, though under infinite obligations to Hunyadi, was anything but grateful to him; for he once consented to a plan which was laid to assassinate him, contrived by his mortal enemy Ulrik, Count of Cilejia;296 and after Hunyadi’s death, caused his eldest son Hunyadi Laszlo, to be executed on a false accusation, and imprisoned his younger son, Matyas,297 who, on the death of Laszlo, was elected by the Magyars to be their king, on the 24th of January, 1458.

Myself. Was this Matyas a good king?

Hungarian. Was Matyas Corvinus a good king? O young man of Horncastle! he was the best and greatest that Hungary ever possessed, and, after his father, the most renowned warrior—some of our best laws were framed by him. It was he who organised the Hussar force, and it was he who took Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?

Myself. I really cannot say; but with respect to the Hussar force, is it of Hungarian origin?

Hungarian. Its name shows its origin. Huz,298 in Hungarian, is twenty and the Hussar force is so called because it is formed of twentieths. A law was issued by which it was ordered that every Hungarian nobleman, out of every twenty dependants, should produce a well-equipped horseman, and with him proceed to the field of battle.

Myself. Why did Matyas capture Vienna?

Hungarian. Because the Emperor Frederick took part against him with the King of Poland, who claimed the kingdom of Hungary for his son, and had also assisted the Turk. He captured it in the year 1487, but did not survive his triumph long, expiring there in the year 1490. He was so veracious a man, that it was said of him, after his death, “Truth died with Matyas.” It might be added that the glory of Hungary departed with him. I wish to say nothing more connected with Hungarian history.

Myself. Another word. Did Matyas leave a son?

Hungarian. A natural son, Hunyadi John, called so after the great man. He would have been universally acknowledged as King of Hungary but for the illegitimacy of his birth. As it was, Ulaszlo, the son of the King of Poland, afterwards called Ulaszlo the Second,299 who claimed Hungary as being descended from Albert, was nominated king by a great majority of the Magyar electors. Hunyadi John for some time disputed the throne with him; there was some bloodshed, but Hunyadi John eventually submitted, and became the faithful captain of Ulaszlo, notwithstanding that the Turk offered to assist him with an army of two hundred thousand men.

Myself. Go on.

Hungarian. To what? Tché Drak,300 to the Mohacs Veszedelem.301 Ulaszlo left a son, Lajos the Second,302 born without skin, as it is said; certainly without a head. He, contrary to the advice of all his wise counsellors—and amongst them was Batory Stephen,303 who became eventually King of Poland—engaged, with twenty-five thousand men, at Mohacs, Soliman the Turk, who had an army of two hundred thousand. Drak! the Magyars were annihilated, King Lajos disappeared with his heavy horse and armour in a bog. We call that battle, which was fought on the 29th of August, 1526, the destruction of Mohacs, but it was the destruction of Hungary.

Myself. You have twice used the word drak, what is the meaning of it? Is it Hungarian?

Hungarian. No! it belongs to the mad Wallacks. They are a nation of madmen on the other side of Transylvania. Their country was formerly a fief of Hungary, like Moldavia, which is inhabited by the same race, who speak the same language and are equally mad.

Myself. What language do they speak?

Hungarian. A strange mixture of Latin and Sclavonian—they themselves being a mixed race of Romans and Sclavonians. Trajan sent certain legions to form military colonies in Dacia; and the present Wallacks and Moldavians are, to a certain extent, the descendants of the Roman soldiers, who married the women of the country. I say to a certain extent, for the Sclavonian element both in blood and language seems to prevail.

Myself. And what is drak?

Hungarian. Dragon; which the Wallacks use for “devil.” The term is curious, as it shows that the old Romans looked upon the dragon as an infernal being.

Myself. You have been in Wallachia?

Hungarian. I have, and glad I was to get out of it. I hate the mad Wallacks.

Myself. Why do you call them mad?

Hungarian. They are always drinking or talking. I never saw a Wallachian eating or silent. They talk like madmen, and drink like madmen. In drinking they use small phials, the contents of which they pour down their throats. When I first went amongst them I thought the whole nation was under a course of physic, but the terrible jabber of their tongues soon undeceived me. Drak was the first word I heard on entering Dacia, and the last when I left it. The Moldaves, if possible, drink more, and talk more than the Wallachians.

Myself. It is singular enough that the only Moldavian I have known could not speak. I suppose he was born dumb.

Hungarian. A Moldavian born dumb! Excuse me, the thing is impossible—all Moldavians are born talking! I have known a Moldavian who could not speak, but he was not born dumb. His master, an Armenian, snipped off part of his tongue at Adrianople. He drove him mad with his jabber. He is now in London, where his master has a house. I have letters of credit on the house: the clerk paid me money in London, the master was absent; the money which you received for the horse belonged to that house.

Myself. Another word with respect to Hungarian history.

Hungarian. Drak! I wish to say nothing more about Hungarian history.

Myself. The Turk, I suppose, after Mohacs, got possession of Hungary?

Hungarian. Not exactly. The Turk, upon the whole, showed great moderation; not so the Austrian. Ferdinand the First claimed the crown of Hungary as being the cousin of Maria, widow of Lajos; he found too many disposed to support him. His claim, however, was resisted by Zapolya John, a Hungarian magnate, who caused himself to be elected king. Hungary was for a long time devastated by wars between the partisans of Zapolya and Ferdinand. At last Zapolya called in the Turk. Soliman behaved generously to him, and after his death befriended his young son, and Isabella his queen; eventually the Turks became masters of Transylvania and the greater part of Hungary. They were not bad masters, and had many friends in Hungary, especially amongst those of the reformed faith, to which I have myself the honour of belonging; those of the reformed faith found the Mufti304 more tolerant than the Pope. Many Hungarians went with the Turks to the siege of Vienna, whilst Tekeli and his horsemen guarded Hungary for them. A gallant enterprise that siege of Vienna, the last great effort of the Turk; it failed and he speedily lost Hungary, but he did not sneak from Hungary like a frightened hound. His defence of Buda will not be soon forgotten, where Apty Basha, the governor, died fighting like a lion in the breach. There’s many a Hungarian would prefer Stamboul to Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?

Myself. I have already told you that I cannot say. What became of Tekeli?

Hungarian. When Hungary was lost he retired with the Turks into Turkey. Count Renoncourt, in his Memoirs, mentions having seen him at Adrianople. The Sultan, in consideration of the services which he had rendered to the Muslim in Hungary, made over the revenues of certain towns and districts for his subsistence. The count says that he always went armed to the teeth, and was always attended by a young female dressed in male attire, who had followed him in his wars, and had more than once saved his life. His end is wrapped in mystery, I—whose greatest boast, next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood—know nothing of his end.

Myself. Allow me to ask who you are?

Hungarian. Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember, a poor Hungarian nobleman, son of one yet poorer. I was born in Transylvania, not far to the west of good Coloscvar.305 I served some time in the Austrian army as a noble Hussar, but am now equerry to a great nobleman, to whom I am distantly related. In his service I have travelled far and wide, buying horses. I have been in Russia and in Turkey, and am now at Horncastle, where I have had the satisfaction to meet with you, and to buy your horse, which is, in truth, a noble brute.

Myself. For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great deal of the history of your country.

Hungarian. All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, whom we call Budai Ferentz.306 He was professor of Greek and Latin at the Reformed College of Debreczen, where I was educated; he wrote a work entitled Magyar Polgari Lexicon, Lives of Great Hungarian Citizens. He was dead before I was born, but I found his book, when I was a child, in the solitary home of my father, which stood on the confines of a puszta, or wilderness, and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the winds were whistling around the house. Oh! how my blood used to glow at the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish; for Florentius has always done justice to the Turk. Many a passage similar to this have I got by heart; it is connected with a battle on the plain of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost: “The next day, which was Friday, as the two armies were drawn up in battle array, a Magyar hero, riding forth, galloped up and down, challenging the Turks to single combat. Then came out to meet him the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia; rushing upon each other, both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses.” O young man of Horncastle! if ever you learn Hungarian—and learn it assuredly you will after what I have told you—read the book of Florentius of Buda, even if you go to Hungary to get it, for you will scarcely find it elsewhere, and even there with difficulty, for the book has been long out of print. It describes the actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle of the sixteenth century; and besides being written in the purest Hungarian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the Reformed College at Debreczen.

Myself. I will go to Hungary rather than not read it. I am glad that the Turk beat the Magyar. When I used to read the ballads of Spain I always sided with the Moor against the Christian.

Hungarian. It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible horse of the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the two champions returned to their respective armies; but in the grand conflict which ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing them till night, and striking them on the necks with their scimitars. The Turk is a noble fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, were I not a Magyar.

Myself. The Turk always keeps his word, I am told.

Hungarian. Which the Christian very seldom does, and even the Hungarian does not always. In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at Szeged, peace with Amurath for ten years, which he swore with an oath to keep, but at the instigation of the Pope Julian he broke it, and induced his great captain, Hunyadi John, to share in the perjury. The consequence was the battle of Varna, of the 10th of November, in which Hunyadi was routed, and Ulaszlo slain. Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is both solemn and edifying:—

Romulidae Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi;
Discite mortales non temerare fidem:
Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere foedus
Non ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum.

“Halloo!” said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which he had been indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon his breast, “what is that? That’s not High Dutch; I bargained for High Dutch, and I left you speaking what I believed to be High Dutch, as it sounded very much like the language of horses, as I have been told High Dutch does; but as for what you are speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like the language of another kind of animal. I suppose you want to insult me, because I was once a dicky-boy.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said I; “the gentleman was making a quotation in Latin.”

“Latin, was it?” said the jockey; “that alters the case. Latin is genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy to learn it. Come, let us hear you fire away in Latin,” he continued, proceeding to relight his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he had laid on the table.

“If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin,” said the Hungarian, in very bad English, “I can oblige you; I learned to speak very good Latin in the college of Debreczen.”

“That’s more,” said I, “than I have done in the colleges where I have been; in any little conversation which we may yet have, I wish you would use German.”

“Well,” said the jockey, taking a whiff, “make your conversation as short as possible, whether in Latin or Dutch, for, to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of merely playing listener.”

“You were saying you had been in Russia,” said I; “I believe the Russians are part of the Sclavonian race.”

Hungarian. Yes, part of the great Sclavonian family; one of the most numerous races in the world. The Russians themselves are very numerous; would that the Magyars could boast of the fifth part of their number!

Myself. What is the number of the Magyars?

Hungarian. Barely four millions. We came a tribe of Tartars into Europe, and settled down amongst Sclavonians, whom we conquered, but who never coalesced with us. The Austrian at present plays in Pannonia the Sclavonian against us, and us against the Sclavonian; but the downfall of the Austrian is at hand; they, like us, are not a numerous people.

Myself. Who will bring about his downfall?

Hungarian. The Russians. The Rysckie Tsar307 will lead his people forth, all the Sclavonians will join him, he will conquer all before him.

Myself. Are the Russians good soldiers?

Hungarian. They are stubborn and unflinching to an astonishing degree, and their fidelity to their Tsar is quite admirable. See how the Russians behaved at Plescova,308 in Livonia, in the old time, against our great Batory Stephen; they defended the place till it was a heap of rubbish, and mark how they behaved after they had been made prisoners. Stephen offered them two alternatives: to enter into his service, in which they would have good pay, clothing and fair treatment; or to be allowed to return to Russia. Without the slightest hesitation they, to a man, chose the latter, though well aware that their beloved Tsar, the cruel Ivan Basilowits,309 would put them all to death, amidst tortures the most horrible, for not doing what was impossible—preserving the town.

Myself. You speak Russian?

Hungarian. A little. I was born in the vicinity of a Sclavonian tribe; the servants of our house were Sclavonians, and I early acquired something of their language, which differs not much from that of Russia; when in that country I quickly understood what was said.

Myself. Have the Russians any literature?

Hungarian. Doubtless; but I am not acquainted with it, as I do not read their language; but I know something of their popular tales, to which I used to listen in their izbushkas;310 a principal personage in these is a creation quite original—called Baba Yaga.

Myself. Who is Baba Yaga?

Hungarian. A female phantom, who is described as hurrying along the puszta, or steppe, in a mortar, pounding with a pestle at a tremendous rate, and leaving a long trace on the ground behind her with her tongue, which is three yards long, and with which she seizes any men and horses coming in her way, swallowing them down into her capacious belly. She has several daughters, very handsome, and with plenty of money; happy the young Muzhik who catches and marries one of them, for they make excellent wives.

“Many thanks,” said I, “for the information you have afforded me: this is rather poor wine,” I observed, as I poured out a glass; “I suppose you have better wine in Hungary?”

“Yes, we have better wine in Hungary. First of all there is Tokay, the most celebrated in the world, though I confess I prefer the wine of Eger—Tokay is too sweet.”

“Have you ever been at Tokay?”

“I have,” said the Hungarian.

“What kind of place is Tokay?”

“A small town situated on the Tyzza,311 a rapid river descending from the north; the Tokay Mountain is just behind the town, which stands on the right bank. The top of the mountain is called Kopacs Teto,312 or the bald tip; the hill is so steep that during thunderstorms pieces of it frequently fall down upon the roofs of the houses. It was planted with vines by King Lajos, who ascended the throne in the year 1342. The best wine called Tokay is, however, not made at Tokay, but at Kassau,313 two leagues farther into the Carpathians, of which Tokay is a spur. If you wish to drink the best Tokay, you must go to Vienna, to which place all the prime is sent. For the third time I ask you, O young man of Horncastle! why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?”

“And for the third time I tell you, O son of Almus! that I cannot say; perhaps, however, to drink the sweet Tokay wine; fools, you know, always like sweet things.”

“Good,” said the Hungarian; “it must be so, and when I return to Hungary, I will state to my countrymen your explanation of a circumstance which has frequently caused them great perplexity. Oh! the English are a clever people, and have a deep meaning in all they do. What a vision of deep policy opens itself to my view! they do not send their fool to Vienna in order to gape at processions, and to bow and scrape at a base Papist court, but to drink at the great dinners the celebrated Tokay of Hungary, which the Hungarians, though they do not drink it, are very proud of, and by doing so to intimate the sympathy which the English entertain for their fellow religionists of Hungary. Oh! the English are a deep people.”

XL

The pipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited considerable symptoms of exhaustion, little or no ruttling having been heard in the tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn through the syphon, having been emitted from the lips of the possessor. He now rose from his seat, and going to a corner of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then striding up and down the room, he cracked his fingers several times, exclaiming, in a half-musing manner: “Oh, the deep nation, which, in order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to drink the sweet wine of Tokay!”

The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there was no speck, saying: “Did you ever see a taller fellow?”

“Never,” said I.

“Or a finer?”

“That’s another question,” said I, “which I am not so willing to answer; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I have seen a finer.”

“A finer! where?” said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me.

“Amongst a strange set of people,” said I, “whom, if I were to name, you would, I daresay, only laugh at me.”

“Who be they?” said the jockey. “Come, don’t be ashamed; I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.”

“The people whom we call gypsies,” said I; “whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.”

“Zigeuner!” said the Hungarian; “by Isten! I do know those people.”

“Romany chals!” said the jockey; “whew! I begin to smell a rat.”

“What do you mean by smelling a rat?” said I.

“I’ll bet a crown,” said the jockey, “that you be the young chap what certain folks call ‘the Romany Rye.’ ”

“Ah!” said I, “how came you to know that name?”

“Be not you he?” said the jockey.

“Why, I certainly have been called by that name.”

“I could have sworn it,” said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on the sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the staircase. The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, “Go to your master, and tell him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen;” the waiter hurried away, and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent astonishment until the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table. The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow window at the end of the room, which looked into a courtyard, peeped out; then saying, “the coast is clear,” he shut down the principal sash which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed to understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before it, holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his arm. “Surely,” said I, “you are not mad enough to fling that bottle through the window?” “Here’s to the Romany Rye; here’s to the sweet master,” said the jockey, dashing the bottle through a pane in so neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room.

“Eljen edes csigany ur—eljen gul eray!314” said the Hungarian, swinging round his bottle, and discharging it at the window; but, either not possessing the jockey’s accuracy of aim, or reckless of consequences, he flung his bottle so, that it struck against part of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to pieces. The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates. “What do you think of that?” said the jockey; “were you ever so honoured before?” “Honoured!” said I. “God preserve me in future from such honour;” and I put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the glass. “That’s the way we of the cofrady honour great men at Horncastle,” said the jockey. “What, you are hurt! never mind; all the better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid to.” “And what are you going to do with the other bottle?” said I. “Do with it!” said the jockey, “why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an idea!”

“And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you have caused him!”

“What will your master say, William?” said the jockey to the waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied: “Very little, I dare say, sir; this a’n’t the first time your honour has done a thing of this kind.” “Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid for it,” said the jockey; “well, I shall never have paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink champagne.”

The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed and foamed. “How do you like it?” said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my portion at a draught.

“It is wonderful wine,” said I; “I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day.”

“Nor I,” said the jockey, “for everyday drinking give me a glass of old port, or—”

“Of hard old ale,” I interposed, “which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world.”

“Well said, Romany Rye,” said the jockey, “just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce.”

The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey: “How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals?”

“I first became acquainted with them,” said the jockey, “when I lived with old Fulcher the basketmaker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line.”

“And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?” said I.

“Frequently,” said the jockey, “and not only those of these parts; why, there’s scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these people. The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause.”

“And what is the cause?” said I, “for I am sure I do not know.”

“The cause is this,” said the jockey, “they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing.”

“They are a singular people,” said I.

“And what a singular language they have got,” said the jockey.

“Do you know it?” said I.

“Only a few words,” said the jockey; “they were always chary in teaching me any.”

“They were vary sherry to me to,” said the Hungarian, speaking in broken English; “I only could learn from them half a dozen words, for example, gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman, or edes ur in my own Magyar.”

“Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar’d gentleman,” said I; “then there are gypsies in your country?”

“Plenty,” said the Hungarian, speaking German, “and in Russia and Turkey too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and language. Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known! I know little of them, but enough to say that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about them; there is one Valter Scott—”

“Mind what you say about him,” said I; “he is our grand authority in matters of philology and history.”

“A pretty philologist,” said the Hungarian, “who makes the gypsies speak Roth-Welsch,315 the dialect of thieves; a pretty historian, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock.”316

“Where does he do that?” said I.

“In his conceited romance of Ivanhoe, he couples Thor and Tzernebock together, and calls them gods of the heathen Saxons.”

“Well,” said I, “Thur or Thor was certainly a god of the heathen Saxons.”

“True,” said the Hungarian; “but why couple him with Tzernebock? Tzernebock was a word which your Valter had picked up somewhere without knowing the meaning. Tzernebock was no god of the Saxons, but one of the gods of the Sclaves, on the southern side of the Baltic. The Sclaves had two grand gods to whom they sacrificed, Tzernebock and Bielebock;317 that is, the black and white gods, who represented the powers of dark and light. They were overturned by Waldemar, the Dane, the great enemy of the Sclaves; the account of whose wars you will find in one fine old book, written by Saxo Gramaticus,318 which I read in the library of the college of Debreczen. The Sclaves, at one time, were masters of all the southern shore of the Baltic, where their descendants are still to be found, though they have lost their language, and call themselves Germans; but the word Zernevitz near Danzig, still attests that the Sclavic language was once common in those parts. Zernevitz means the thing of blackness, as Tzernebock means the god of blackness. Prussia itself merely means, in Sclavish, Lower Russia. There is scarcely a race or language in the world more extended than the Sclavic. On the other side of the Dunau you will find the Sclaves and their language. Czernavoda is Sclavic, and means black water; in Turkish, kara su; even as Tzernebock means black god; and Belgrade, or Belograd, means the white town, even as Bielebock, or Bielebog, means the white god. Oh! he is one great ignorant, that Valter. He is going, they say, to write one history about Napoleon. I do hope that in his history he will couple his Thor and Tzernebock together. By my God! it would be good diversion that.”

“Walter Scott appears to be no particular favourite of yours,” said I.

“He is not,” said the Hungarian; “I hate him for his slavish principles. He wishes to see absolute power restored in this country, and Popery also—and I hate him because—what do you think? In one of his novels, published a few months ago, he has the insolence to insult Hungary in the person of one of her sons. He makes his great braggart, Coeur de Lion, fling a Magyar over his head. Ha! it was well for Richard that he never felt the grip of a Hungarian. I wish the braggart could have felt the grip of me, who am ‘a’ magyarok közt legkissebb,’ the least among the Magyars. I do hate that Scott, and all his vile gang of Lowlanders and Highlanders. The black corps, the fekete319 regiment of Matyas Hunyadi, was worth all the Scots, high or low, that ever pretended to be soldiers; and would have sent them all headlong into the Black Sea, had they dared to confront it on its shores; but why be angry with an ignorant, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock? Ha! Ha!”

“You have read his novels?” said I.

“Yes, I read them now and then. I do not speak much English, but I can read it well, and I have read some of his romances and mean to read his Napoleon, in the hope of finding Thor and Tzernebock coupled together in it, as in his high-flying Ivanhoe.”

“Come,” said the jockey, “no more Dutch, whether high or low. I am tired of it; unless we can have some English, I am off to bed.”

“I should be very glad to hear some English,” said I, “especially from your mouth. Several things which you have mentioned, have awakened my curiosity. Suppose you give us your history?”

“My history?” said the jockey. “A rum idea! however, less conversation should lag, I’ll give it you. First of all, however, a glass of champagne to each.”

After we had each taken a glass of champagne, the jockey commenced his history.

XLI

“My grandfather was a shorter, and my father was a smasher; the one was scragg’d, and the other lagg’d.”

I here interrupted the jockey by observing that his discourse was, for the greater part, unintelligible to me.

“I do not understand much English,” said the Hungarian, who, having replenished and resumed his mighty pipe, was now smoking away; “but, by Isten, I believe it is the gibberish which that great ignorant Valter Scott puts into the mouth of the folks he calls gypsies.”

“Something like it, I confess,” said I, “though this sounds more genuine than his dialect, which he picked up out of the canting vocabulary at the end of the English Rogue, a book which, however despised, was written by a remarkable genius. What do you call the speech you were using?” said I, addressing myself to the jockey.

“Latin,” said the jockey very coolly; “that is, that dialect of it which is used by the light-fingered gentry.”

“He is right,” said the Hungarian; “it is what the Germans call Roth-Welsch: they call it so because there are a great many Latin words in it, introduced by the priests, who, at the time of the Reformation, being too lazy to work and too stupid to preach, joined the bands of thieves and robbers who prowled about the country. Italy, as you are aware, is called by the Germans Welschland, or the land of the Welschers; and I may add that Wallachia derives its name from a colony of Welschers which Trajan sent there. Welsch and Wallack being one and the same word, and tantamount to Latin.”

“I dare say you are right,” said I; “but why was Italy termed Welschland?”

“I do not know,” said the Hungarian.

“Then I think I can tell you,” said I; “it was called so because the original inhabitants were a Cimbric tribe, who were called Gwyltiad, that is, a race of wild people, living in coverts, who were of the same blood, and spoke the same language as the present inhabitants of Wales. Welsh seems merely a modification of Gwyltiad. Pray, continue your history,” said I to the jockey, “only please to do so in a language which we can understand, and first of all interpret the sentence with which you began it.”

“I told you that my grandfather was a shorter,” said the jockey, “by which is meant a gentleman who shortens or reduces the current coin of these realms, for which practice he was scragged, that is, hung by the scrag of the neck. And when I said that my father was a smasher, I meant one who passes forged notes, thereby doing his best to smash the Bank of England; by being lagged, I meant he was laid fast, that is, had a chain put round his leg and then transported.”

“Your explanations are perfectly satisfactory,” said I; “the three first words are metaphorical, and the fourth, lagged, is the old genuine Norse term, lagda, which signifies laid, whether in durance, or in bed, has nothing to do with the matter. What you have told me confirms me in an opinion which I have long entertained, that thieves’ Latin is a strange, mysterious speech, formed of metaphorical terms, and words derived from various ancient languages. Pray, tell me, now, how the gentleman, your grandfather, contrived to shorten the coin of these realms?”

“You shall hear,” said the jockey; “but I have one thing to beg of you, which is, that when I have once begun my history you will not interrupt me with questions. I don’t like them, they stops one, and puts one out of one’s tale, and are not wanted; for anything which I think can’t be understood, I should myself explain, without being asked. My grandfather reduced or shortened the coin of this country by three processes: by aquafortis, by clipping and by filing. Filing and clipping he employed in reducing all kinds of coin, whether gold or silver; but aquafortis he used merely in reducing gold coin, whether guineas, jacobuses or Portugal pieces, otherwise called moidores, which were at one time as current as guineas. By laying a guinea in aquafortis for twelve hours, he could filch from it to the value of ninepence, and by letting it remain there for twenty-four to the value of eighteenpence, the aquafortis eating the gold away, and leaving it like a sediment in the vessel. He was generally satisfied with taking the value of ninepence from a guinea, of eighteenpence from a jacobus or moidore, or half a crown from a broad Spanish piece, whether he reduced them by aquafortis, filing or clipping. From a five-shilling piece, which is called a bull in Latin, because it is round like a bull’s head, he would file or clip to the value of fivepence, and from lesser coin in proportion. He was connected with a numerous gang, or set, of people, who had given up their minds and talents entirely to shortening.”

Here I interrupted the jockey. “How singular,” said I, “is the fall and debasement of words; you talk of a gang, or set, of shorters; you are, perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a thousand years ago, only connected with the great and Divine; they are ancient Norse words, which may be found in the heroic poems of the north, and in the Edda, a collection of mythologic and heroic songs. In these poems we read that such and such a king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes; or so-and-so, for example, Erik Bloodaxe,320 was admitted to the set of gods; but at present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of the low—we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of authors. How touching is this debasement of words in the course of time; it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names. I have known a Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs, who bore the falcon, mending old kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle.”

“Odd enough,” said the jockey; “but you were saying you knew one Berners—man or woman? I would ask.”

“A woman,” said I.

“What might her Christian name be?” said the jockey.

“It is not to be mentioned lightly,” said I with a sigh.

“I shouldn’t wonder if it were Isopel,” said the jockey with an arch glance of his one brilliant eye.

“It was Isopel,” said I; “did you know Isopel Berners?”

“Aye, and have reason to know her,” said the jockey, putting his hand into his left waistcoat pocket, as if to feel for something, “for she gave me what I believe few men could do—a most confounded whopping. But now, Mr. Romany Rye, I have again to tell you that I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m speaking, and to add that if you break in upon me a third time, you and I shall quarrel.”

“Pray, proceed with your story,” said I; “I will not interrupt you again.”

“Good!” said the jockey. “Where was I? Oh, with a set of people who had given up their minds to shortening! Reducing the coin, though rather a lucrative, was a very dangerous trade. Coin filed felt rough to the touch; coin clipped could be easily detected by the eye; and as for coin reduced by aquafortis, it was generally so discoloured that, unless a great deal of pains was used to polish it, people were apt to stare at it in a strange manner, and to say: ‘What have they been doing to this here gold?’ My grandfather, as I said before, was connected with a gang of shorters, and sometimes shortened money, and at other times passed off what had been shortened by other gentry.

“Passing off what had been shortened by others was his ruin; for once, in trying to pass off a broad piece which had been laid in aquafortis for four-and-twenty hours, and was very black, not having been properly rectified, he was stopped and searched, and other reduced coins being found about him, and in his lodgings, he was committed to prison, tried and executed. He was offered his life, provided he would betray his comrades; but he told the bigwigs, who wanted him to do so, that he would see them farther first, and died at Tyburn, amidst the cheers of the populace, leaving my grandmother and father, to whom he had always been a kind husband and parent—for, setting aside the crime for which he suffered, he was a moral man—leaving them, I say, to bewail his irreparable loss.

“ ’Tis said that misfortune never comes alone; this is, however, not always the case. Shortly after my grandfather’s misfortune, as my grandmother and her son were living in great misery in Spitalfields, her only relation—a brother from whom she had been estranged some years, on account of her marriage with my grandfather, who had been in an inferior station to herself—died, leaving all his property to her and the child. This property consisted of a farm of about a hundred acres, with its stock, and some money besides. My grandmother, who knew something of business, instantly went into the country, where she farmed the property for her own benefit and that of her son, to whom she gave an education suitable to a person in his condition, till he was old enough to manage the farm himself. Shortly after the young man came of age, my grandmother died, and my father, in about a year, married the daughter of a farmer, from whom he expected some little fortune, but who very much deceived him, becoming a bankrupt almost immediately after the marriage of his daughter, and himself and family going to the workhouse.

“My mother, however, made my father an excellent wife; and if my father in the long run did not do well it was no fault of hers. My father was not a bad man by nature; he was of an easy, generous temper—the most unfortunate temper, by the by, for success in this life that any person can be possessed of, as those who have it are almost sure to be made dupes of by the designing. But, though easy and generous, he was anything but a fool; he had a quick and witty tongue of his own when he chose to exert it, and woe be to those who insulted him openly, for there was not a better boxer in the whole country round. My parents were married several years before I came into the world, who was their first and only child. I may be called an unfortunate creature; I was born with this beam or scale on my left eye, which does not allow me to see with it; and though I can see tolerably sharply with the other, indeed more than most people can with both of theirs, it is a great misfortune not to have two eyes like other people. Moreover, setting aside the affair of my eye, I had a very ugly countenance, my mouth being slightly wrung aside, and my complexion rather swarthy. In fact, I looked so queer that the gossips and neighbours, when they first saw me, swore I was a changeling—perhaps it would have been well if I had never been born; for my poor father, who had been particularly anxious to have a son, no sooner saw me than he turned away, went to the neighbouring town, and did not return for two days. I am by no means certain that I was not the cause of his ruin, for till I came into the world he was fond of his home, and attended much to business, but afterwards he went frequently into company and did not seem to care much about his affairs: he was, however, a kind man, and when his wife gave him advice never struck her, nor do I ever remember that he kicked me when I came in his way, or so much as cursed my ugly face, though it was easy to see that he didn’t over-like me. When I was six years old I was sent to the village school, where I was soon booked for a dunce, because the master found it impossible to teach me either to read or write. Before I had been at school two years, however, I had beaten boys four years older than myself, and could fling a stone with my left hand (for if I am right-eyed I am left-handed) higher and farther than anyone in the parish. Moreover, no boy could equal me at riding, and no people ride so well or desperately as boys. I could ride a donkey—a thing far more difficult to ride than a horse—at full gallop over hedges and ditches, seated, or rather floating upon his hinder part; so, though anything but clever, as this here Romany Rye would say, I was yet able to do things which few other people could do. By the time I was ten my father’s affairs had got into a very desperate condition, for he had taken to gambling and horse-racing, and, being unsuccessful, had sold his stock, mortgaged his estate, and incurred very serious debts. The upshot was, that within a little time all he had was seized, himself imprisoned, and my mother and myself put into a cottage belonging to the parish, which, being very cold and damp, was the cause of her catching a fever, which speedily carried her off. I was then bound apprentice to a farmer, in whose service I underwent much coarse treatment, cold and hunger.

“After lying in prison near two years, my father was liberated by an Act for the benefit of insolvent debtors; he was then lost sight of for some time; at last, however, he made his appearance in the neighbourhood dressed like a gentleman, and seemingly possessed of plenty of money. He came to see me, took me into a field, and asked me how I was getting on. I told him I was dreadfully used, and begged him to take me away with him; he refused, and told me to be satisfied with my condition, for that he could do nothing for me. I had a great love for my father, and likewise a great admiration for him on account of his character as a boxer, the only character which boys in general regard, so I wished much to be with him, independently of the dog’s life I was leading where I was; I therefore said if he would not take me with him, I would follow him; he replied that I must do no such thing, for that if I did, it would be my ruin. I asked him what he meant, but he made no reply, only saying that he would go and speak to the farmer. Then taking me with him, he went to the farmer, and in a very civil manner said that he understood I had not been very kindly treated by him, but he hoped that in future I should be used better. The farmer answered in a surly tone, that I had been only too well treated, for that I was a worthless young scoundrel; high words ensued, and the farmer, forgetting the kind of man he had to deal with, checked him with my grandsire’s misfortune, and said he deserved to be hanged like his father. In a moment my father knocked him down, and on his getting up, gave him a terrible beating, then taking me by the hand he hastened away; as we were going down a lane he said we were now both done for. ‘I don’t care a straw for that, father,’ said I, ‘provided I be with you.’ My father took me to the neighbouring town, and going into the yard of a small inn, he ordered out a pony and light cart which belonged to him, then paying his bill, he told me to mount upon the seat, and getting up drove away like lightning; we drove for at least six hours without stopping, till we came to a cottage by the side of a heath; we put the pony and cart into a shed, and went into the cottage, my father unlocking the door with a key which he took out of his pocket; there was nobody in the cottage when we arrived, but shortly after there came a man and woman, and then some more people, and by ten o’clock at night there were a dozen of us in the cottage. The people were companions of my father. My father began talking to them in Latin, but I did not understand much of the discourse, though I believe it was about myself, as their eyes were frequently turned to me. Some objections appeared to be made to what he said; however, all at last seemed to be settled, and we all sat down to some food. After that, all the people got up and went away, with the exception of the woman, who remained with my father and me. The next day my father also departed, leaving me with the woman, telling me before he went that she would teach me some things which it behoved me to know. I remained with her in the cottage upwards of a week; several of those who had been there coming and going. The woman, after making me take an oath to be faithful, told me that the people whom I had seen were a gang who got their livelihood by passing forged notes, and that my father was a principal man amongst them, adding that I must do my best to assist them. I was a poor ignorant child at that time, and I made no objection, thinking that whatever my father did must be right; the woman then gave me some instructions in the smasher’s dialect of the Latin language. I made great progress, because, for the first time in my life, I paid great attention to my lessons. At last my father returned, and, after some conversation with the woman, took me away in his cart. I shall be very short about what happened to my father and myself during two years. My father did his best to smash the Bank of England by passing forged notes, and I did my best to assist him. We attended races and fairs in all kinds of disguises; my father was a first-rate hand at a disguise, and could appear of all ages, from twenty to fourscore; he was, however, grabbed at last. He had said, as I have told you, that he should be my ruin, but I was the cause of his, and all owing to the misfortune of this here eye of mine. We came to this very place of Horncastle, where my father purchased two horses of a young man, paying for them with three forged notes purporting to be Bank of Englanders of fifty pounds each, and got the young man to change another of the like amount; he at that time appeared as a respectable dealer and I as his son, as I really was.

“As soon as we had got the horses we conveyed them to one of the places of call belonging to our gang, of which there were several. There they were delivered into the hands of one of our companions, who speedily sold them in a distant part of the country. The sum which they fetched—for the gang kept very regular accounts—formed an important item on the next day of sharing, of which there were twelve in the year. The young man, whom my father had paid for the horses with his smashing notes, was soon in trouble about them, and ran some risk, as I heard, of being executed; but he bore a good character, told a plain story, and, above all, had friends, and was admitted to bail; to one of his friends he described my father and myself. This person happened to be at an inn in Yorkshire, where my father, disguised as a Quaker, attempted to pass a forged note. The note was shown to this individual, who pronounced it a forgery, it being exactly similar to those for which the young man had been in trouble, and which he had seen. My father, however, being supposed a respectable man, because he was dressed as a Quaker—the very reason, by the by why anybody who knew aught of the Quakers would have suspected him to be a rogue—would have been let go, had I not made my appearance, dressed as his footboy. The friend of the young man looked at my eye, and seized hold of my father, who made a desperate resistance, I assisting him as in duty bound. Being, however, overpowered by numbers, he bade me by a look, and a word or two in Latin, to make myself scarce. Though my heart was fit to break, I obeyed my father, who was speedily committed. I followed him to the county town in which he was lodged, where shortly after I saw him tried, convicted and condemned. I then, having made friends with the jailor’s wife, visited him in his cell, where I found him very much cast down. He said, that my mother had appeared to him in a dream, and talked to him about a resurrection and Christ Jesus; there was a Bible before him, and he told me the chaplain had just been praying with him. He reproached himself much, saying, he was afraid he had been my ruin, by teaching me bad habits. I told him not to say any such thing, for that I had been the cause of his, owing to the misfortune of my eye. He begged me to give over all unlawful pursuits, saying, that if persisted in, they were sure of bringing a person to destruction. I advised him to try and make his escape, proposing that when the turnkey came to let me out, he should knock him down, and fight his way out, offering to assist him, showing him a small saw, with which one of our companions, who was in the neighbourhood, had provided me, and with which he could have cut through his fetters in five minutes; but he told me he had no wish to escape, and was quite willing to die. I was rather hard at that time; I am not very soft now; and I felt rather ashamed of my father’s want of what I called spirit. He was not executed after all; for the chaplain, who was connected with a great family, stood his friend and got his sentence commuted, as they call it, to transportation; and in order to make the matter easy, he induced my father to make some valuable disclosures with respect to the smashers’ system. I confess that I would have been hanged before I would have done so, after having reaped the profit of it; that is, I think so now, seated comfortably in my inn, with my bottle of champagne before me. He, however, did not show himself carrion; he would not betray his companions, who had behaved very handsomely to him, having given the son of a lord, a great barrister, not a hundred-pound forged bill, but a hundred hard guineas, to plead his cause, and another ten, to induce him, after pleading, to put his hand to his breast, and say that, upon his honour, he believed the prisoner at the bar to be an honest and injured man. No; I am glad to be able to say, that my father did not show himself exactly carrion, though I could almost have wished he had let himself—However, I am here with my bottle of champagne and the Romany Rye, and he was in his cell, with bread and water and the prison chaplain. He took an affectionate leave of me before he was sent away, giving me three out of five guineas, all the money he had left. He was a kind man, but not exactly fitted to fill my grandfather’s shoes. I afterwards learned that he died of fever, as he was being carried across the sea.

“During the ’sizes I had made acquaintance with old Fulcher. I was in the town on my father’s account, and he was there on his son’s, who, having committed a small larceny, was in trouble. Young Fulcher, however, unlike my father, got off, though he did not give the son of a lord a hundred guineas to speak for him, and ten more to pledge his sacred honour for his honesty, but gave Counsellor P—— one-and-twenty shillings to defend him, who so frightened the principal evidence, a plain honest farming-man, that he flatly contradicted what he had first said, and at last acknowledged himself to be all the rogues in the world, and, amongst other things, a perjured villain. Old Fulcher, before he left the town with his son—and here it will be well to say that he and his son left it in a kind of triumph, the base drummer of a militia regiment, to whom they had given half a crown, beating his drum before them—old Fulcher I say, asked me to go and visit him, telling me where, at such a time, I might find him and his caravan and family; offering, if I thought fit, to teach me basket-making: so, after my father had been sent off, I went and found up old Fulcher, and became his apprentice in the basket-making line. I stayed with him till the time of his death, which happened in about three months, travelling about with him and his family, and living in green lanes, where we saw gypsies and trampers, and all kinds of strange characters. Old Fulcher, besides being an industrious basketmaker, was an out and out thief, as was also his son, and, indeed, every member of his family. They used to make baskets during the day, and thieve during a great part of the night. I had not been with them twelve hours, before old Fulcher told me that I must thieve as well as the rest. I demurred at first, for I remembered the fate of my father, and what he had told me about leaving off bad courses, but soon allowed myself to be over-persuaded, more especially as the first robbery I was asked to do was a fruit robbery. I was to go with young Fulcher, and steal some fine Morell cherries, which grew against a wall in a gentleman’s garden; so young Fulcher and I went and stole the cherries, one half of which we ate, and gave the rest to the old man, who sold them to a fruiterer ten miles off from the place where we had stolen them. The next night old Fulcher took me out with himself. He was a great thief, though in a small way. He used to say, that they were fools, who did not always manage to keep the rope below their shoulders, by which he meant, that it was not advisable to commit a robbery, or do anything which could bring you to the gallows. He was all for petty larceny, and knew where to put his hand upon any little thing in England, which it was possible to steal. I submit it to the better judgment of the Romany Rye, who I see is a great hand for words and names, whether he ought not to have been called old Filcher, instead of Fulcher. I shan’t give a regular account of the larcenies which he committed during the short time I knew him, either alone by himself, or with me and his son. I shall merely relate the last:—

“A melancholy gentleman, who lived a very solitary life, had a large carp in a shady pond in a meadow close to his house; he was exceedingly fond of it, and used to feed it with his own hand, the creature being so tame that it would put its snout out of the water to be fed when it was whistled to; feeding and looking at his carp were the only pleasures the poor melancholy gentleman possessed. Old Fulcher—being in the neighbourhood, and having an order from a fishmonger for a large fish, which was wanted at a great city dinner, at which His Majesty was to be present—swore he would steal the carp, and asked me to go with him. I had heard of the gentleman’s fondness for his creature, and begged him to let it be, advising him to go and steal some other fish; but old Fulcher swore, and said he would have the carp, although its master should hang himself; I told him he might go by himself, but he took his son and stole the carp, which weighed seventeen pounds. Old Fulcher got thirty shillings for the carp, which I afterwards heard was much admired and relished by His Majesty. The master, however, of the carp, on losing his favourite, became more melancholy than ever, and in a little time hanged himself. ‘What’s sport for one, is death to another,’ I once heard at the village school read out of a copybook.

“This was the last larceny old Fulcher ever committed. He could keep his neck always out of the noose, but he could not always keep his leg out of the trap. A few nights after, having removed to a distance, he went to an osier car in order to steal some osiers for his basket-making, for he never bought any. I followed a little way behind. Old Fulcher had frequently stolen osiers out of the car, whilst in the neighbourhood, but during his absence the property, of which the car was a part, had been let to a young gentleman, a great hand for preserving game. Old Fulcher had not got far into the car before he put his foot into a mantrap. Hearing old Fulcher shriek, I ran up, and found him in a dreadful condition. Putting a large stick which I carried into the jaws of the trap, I contrived to prize them open, and get old Fulcher’s leg out, but the leg was broken. So I ran to the caravan, and told young Fulcher of what had happened, and he and I went and helped his father home. A doctor was sent for, who said it was necessary to take the leg off, but old Fulcher, being very much afraid of pain, said it should not be taken off, and the doctor went away, but after some days, old Fulcher becoming worse, ordered the doctor to be sent for, who came and took off his leg, but it was then too late, mortification had come on, and in a little time old Fulcher died.

“Thus perished old Fulcher; he was succeeded in his business by his son, young Fulcher, who, immediately after the death of his father, was called old Fulcher, it being our English custom to call everybody old, as soon as their fathers are buried; young Fulcher—I mean he who had been called young, but was now old Fulcher—wanted me to go out and commit larcenies with him; but I told him that I would have nothing more to do with thieving, having seen the ill effects of it, and that I should leave them in the morning. Old Fulcher begged me to think better of it, and his mother joined with him. They offered, if I would stay, to give me Mary Fulcher as a mort, till she and I were old enough to be regularly married, she being the daughter of the one, and the sister of the other. I liked the girl very well, for she had always been civil to me, and had a fair complexion and nice red hair, both of which I like, being a bit of a black myself; but I refused, being determined to see something more of the world than I could hope to do with the Fulchers, and moreover, to live honestly, which I could never do along with them. So the next morning I left them: I was, as I said before, quite determined upon an honest livelihood, and I soon found one. He is a great fool who is ever dishonest in England. Any person who has any natural gift, and everybody has some natural gift, is sure of finding encouragement in this noble country of ours, provided he will but exhibit it. I had not walked more than three miles before I came to a wonderfully high church steeple, which stood close by the road; I looked at the steeple, and going to a heap of smooth pebbles which lay by the roadside, I took up some, and then went into the churchyard, and placing myself just below the tower, my right foot resting on a ledge, about two feet from the ground, I, with my left hand—being a left-handed person, do you see—flung or chucked up a stone, which lighting on the top of the steeple, which was at least a hundred and fifty feet high, did there remain. After repeating this feat two or three times, I ‘hulled’ up a stone, which went clean over the tower, and then one, my right foot still on the ledge, which rising at least five yards above the steeple, did fall down just at my feet. Without knowing it, I was showing off my gift to others besides myself, doing what, perhaps, not five men in England could do. Two men, who were passing by, stopped and looked at my proceedings, and when I had done flinging came into the churchyard, and, after paying me a compliment on what they had seen me do, proposed that I should join company with them; I asked them who they were, and they told me. The one was Hopping Ned, and the other Biting Giles. Both had their gifts, by which they got their livelihood; Ned could hop a hundred yards with any man in England, and Giles could lift up with his teeth any dresser or kitchen table in the country, and, standing erect, hold it dangling in his jaws. There’s many a big oak table and dresser in certain districts of England, which bear the marks of Giles’s teeth; and I make no doubt that, a hundred or two years hence, there’ll be strange stories about those marks, and that people will point them out as a proof that there were giants in bygone time, and that many a dentist will moralise on the decays which human teeth have undergone.

“They wanted me to go about with them, and exhibit my gift occasionally as they did theirs, promising that the money that was got by the exhibitions should be honestly divided. I consented, and we set off together, and that evening coming to a village, and putting up at the alehouse, all the grand folks of the village being there smoking their pipes, we contrived to introduce the subject of hopping—the upshot being that Ned hopped against the schoolmaster for a pound, and beat him hollow; shortly after, Giles, for a wager, took up the kitchen table in his jaws, though he had to pay a shilling to the landlady for the marks he left, whose grandchildren will perhaps get money by exhibiting them. As for myself, I did nothing that day, but the next, on which my companions did nothing, I showed off at hulling stones against a cripple, the crack man for stone throwing, of a small town, a few miles farther on. Bets were made to the tune of some pounds; I contrived to beat the cripple, and just contrived; for to do him justice, I must acknowledge he was a first-rate hand at stones, though he had a game hip, and went sideways; his head, when he walked—if his movements could be called walking—not being above three feet above the ground. So we travelled, I and my companions, showing off our gifts, Giles and I occasionally for a gathering, but Ned never hopping unless against somebody for a wager. We lived honestly and comfortably, making no little money by our natural endowments, and were known over a great part of England as ‘Hopping Ned,’ ‘Biting Giles,’ and ‘Hull over the Head Jack,’ which was my name, it being the blackguard fashion of the English, do you see, to—”

Here I interrupted the jockey. “You may call it a blackguard fashion,” said I, “and I dare say it is, or it would scarcely be English; but it is an immensely ancient one, and is handed down to us from our northern ancestry, especially the Danes, who were in the habit of giving people surnames, or rather nicknames, from some quality of body or mind, but generally from some disadvantageous peculiarity of feature; for there is no denying that the English, Norse, or whatever we may please to call them, are an envious, depreciatory set of people, who not only give their poor comrades contemptuous surnames, but their great people also. They didn’t call you the matchless Hurler, because, by doing so, they would have paid you a compliment, but Hull-over-the-Head Jack, as much as to say that after all you were a scrub: so, in ancient time, instead of calling Regner the great conqueror, the Nation Tamer, they surnamed him Lodbrog,321 which signifies Rough or Hairy Breeks—lod or loddin signifying rough or hairy; and instead of complimenting Halgerdr,322 the wife of Gunnar of Hlitharend, the great champion of Iceland, upon her majestic presence, by calling her Halgerdr, the stately or tall, what must they do but term her Ha-brokr, or High-breeks, it being the fashion in old times for Northern ladies to wear breeks, or breeches, which English ladies of the present day never think of doing; and just, as of old, they called Halgerdr Long-breeks, so this very day a fellow of Horncastle called, in my hearing, our noble-looking Hungarian friend here, Long-stockings. Oh, I could give you a hundred instances, both ancient and modern, of this unseemly propensity of our illustrious race, though I will only trouble you with a few more ancient ones; they not only nicknamed Regner, but his sons also, who were all kings, and distinguished men; one, whose name was Biorn,323 they nicknamed Ironsides; another, Sigurd, Snake in the Eye; another, White Sark, or White Shirt—I wonder they did not call him Dirty Shirt; and Ivarr, another, who was king of Northumberland, they called Beinlausi, or the Legless, because he was spindle-shanked, had no sap in his bones, and consequently no children. He was a great king, it is true, and very wise, nevertheless his blackguard countrymen, always averse, as their descendants are, to give credit to anybody, for any valuable quality or possession, must needs lay hold, do you see—”

But before I could say any more, the jockey, having laid down his pipe, rose, and having taken off his coat, advanced towards me.

XLII

The jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, as I have stated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry tone: “This is the third time you have interrupted me in my tale, Mr. Rye; I passed over the two first times with a simple warning, but you will now please to get up and give me the satisfaction of a man.”

“I am really sorry,” said I, “if I have given you offence, but you were talking of our English habit of bestowing nicknames, and I could not refrain from giving a few examples tending to prove what a very ancient habit it is.”

“But you interrupted me,” said the jockey, “and put me out of my tale, which you had no right to do; and as for your examples, how do you know that I wasn’t going to give some as old or older than yourn? Now, stand up, and I’ll make an example of you.”

“Well,” said I, “I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt you, and I ask your pardon.”

“That won’t do,” said the jockey, “asking pardon won’t do.”

“Oh,” said I, getting up, “if asking pardon does not satisfy you, you are a different man from what I considered you.”

But here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall form and pipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, “Let there be no dispute! As for myself, I am very much obliged to the young man of Horncastle for his interruption, though he has told me that one of his dirty townsmen called me ‘Longstockings.’ By Isten! there is more learning in what he has just said than in all the verdammt324 English histories of Thor and Tzernebock I ever read.”

“I care nothing for his learning,” said the jockey. “I consider myself as good a man as he, for all his learning; so stand out of the way, Mr. Sixfoot-eleven or—”

“I shall do no such thing,” said the Hungarian. “I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself. You ask a young man to drink champagne with you, you make him dronk, he interrupt you with very good sense; he ask your pardon, yet you not—”

“Well,” said the jockey, “I am satisfied. I am rather a short-tempered person, but I bear no malice. He is, as you say, drinking my wine, and has perhaps taken a drop too much, not being used to such high liquor; but one doesn’t like to be put out of one’s tale, more especially when one was about to moralise, do you see, oneself, and to show off what little learning one has. However, I bears no malice. Here is a hand to each of you; we’ll take another glass each, and think no more about it.”

The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our glasses and his own with what champagne remained in the bottle, put on his coat, sat down, and resumed his pipe and story.

“Where was I? Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping Ned and Biting Giles. Those were happy days, and a merry and prosperous life we led. However, nothing continues under the sun in the same state in which it begins, and our firm was soon destined to undergo a change. We came to a village where there was a very high church steeple, and in a little time my comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display my gift by flinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, who stood at the four corners on the top, carved in stone. The parson, seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his rectory to see what was going on. After I had flung up the stones, letting them fall just where I liked—and one, I remember fell on the head of Mark, where I daresay it remains to the present day—the parson, who was one of the description of people called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let the next stone I flung up fall into it. He wished, do you see, to know with what weight the stone would fall down, and talked something about gravitation—a word which I could never understand to the present day, save that it turned out a grave matter to me. I, like a silly fellow myself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height, contrived so that it fell into the parson’s hand, which it cut dreadfully. The parson flew into a great rage, more particularly as everybody laughed at him, and, being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, who was likewise constable, to conduct me to prison as a rogue and vagabond, telling my comrades that if they did not take themselves off, he would serve them in the same manner. So Ned hopped off, and Giles ran after him, without making any gathering, and I was led to Bridewell, my mittimus following at the end of a week, the parson’s hand not permitting him to write before that time. In the Bridewell I remained a month, when, being dismissed, I went in quest of my companions, whom, after some time, I found up, but they refused to keep my company any longer, telling me that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more trouble than profit; they had, moreover, filled up my place. Going into a cottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country fellow making faces to amuse his children; the faces were so wonderful that Hopping Ned and Biting Giles at once proposed taking him into partnership, and the man—who was a fellow not very fond of work—after a little entreaty, went away with them. I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn’t blame the others for preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at all times, but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing human. He was called Ugly Moses. I was so amazed at his faces, that though poor myself I gave him sixpence, which I have never grudged to this day, for I never saw anything like them. The firm throve wonderfully after he had been admitted into it. He died some little time ago, keeper of a public-house, which he had been enabled to take from the profits of his faces. A son of his, one of the children he was making faces to when my comrades entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very rising one. He has his gift—he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, but he has something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quiet grin; he would not have done to grin through a collar like his father, and would never have been taken up by Hopping Ned and Biting Giles, but that grin of his caused him to be noticed by a much greater person than either; an attorney observing it took a liking to the lad, and prophesied that he would some day be heard of in the world; and in order to give him the first lift, took him into his office, at first to light fires and do such kind of work, and after a little time taught him to write, then promoted him to a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried, and without children, left him what he had when he died. The young fellow, after practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in a few years, helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to recommend him, he became, as I said before, a rising barrister. He comes our circuit, and I occasionally employ him, when I am obliged to go to law about such a thing as an unsound horse. He generally brings me through—or rather that grin of his does—and yet I don’t like the fellow, confound him, but I’m an oddity—no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is a fellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face but with a look which seems to say I am an honest man, and what cares I for anyone? And an honest man he is, and something more. I have known coves with a better gift of the gab, though not many, but he always speaks to the purpose, and understands law thoroughly; and that’s not all. When at college, for he has been at college, he carried off everything before him as a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they call matthew mattocks. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I have heard that he who is first-rate at matthew mattocks is thought more of than if he were first-rate Latiner.

“Well, the chap that I’m talking about, not only came out first-rate Latiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too, doing, in fact, as I am told by those who knows, for I was never at college myself, what no one had ever done before. Well, he makes his appearance at our circuit, does very well, of course, but he has a somewhat high front, as becomes an honest man, and one who has beat everyone at Latin and matthew mattocks; and who can speak first-rate law and sense; but see now, the cove with the grin, who has like myself never been at college, knows nothing of Latin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift of the gab, has two briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, for that grin of his curries favour with the juries; and mark me, that grin of his will enable him to beat the other in the long run. We all know what all barrister coves looks forward to—a seat on the hop sack. Well, I’ll bet a bull to fivepence that the grinner gets upon it, and the snarler doesn’t; at any rate, that he gets there first. I calls my cove—for he is my cove—a snarler; because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are called snarlers, and for no other reason; for the chap, though with a high front, is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, after buying an animal out of my stable. I have often thought it a pity he wasn’t born with a grin on his face like the son of Ugly Moses. It is true he would scarcely then have been an out and outer at Latin and matthew mattocks, but what need of either to a chap born with a grin? Talk of being born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth! give me a cove born with a grin on his face—a much better endowment.

“I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have talked as much as folks do during a whole night in the Commons’ House, though, of course, not with so much learning, or so much to the purpose, because—why? They are in the House of Commons, and we in a public room of an inn at Horncastle. The goodness of the ale, do ye see, never depending on what it is made of, oh, no! but on the fashion and appearance of the jug in which it is served up. After being turned out of the firm, I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shall not trouble you with describing. I did not like any of them, however, as they did not exactly suit my humour; at last I found one which did. One Saturday forenoon, I chanced to be in the cattle-market of a place about eighty miles from here; there I won the favour of an old gentleman who sold dickeys. He had a very shabby squad of animals, without soul or spirit; nobody would buy them, till I leaped upon their hinder ends, and by merely wriggling in a particular manner, made them caper and bound so to people’s liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold at very sufficient prices. The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill, that he took me home with him, and in a very little time into partnership. It’s a good thing to have a gift, but yet better to have two. I might have got a very decent livelihood by throwing stones, but I much question whether I should ever have attained to the position in society which I now occupy, but for my knowledge of animals. I lived very comfortably with the old gentleman till he died, which he did about a fortnight after he had laid his old lady in the ground. Having no children, he left me what should remain after he had been buried decently, and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings in silver. I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time I saved a hundred pounds. I then embarked in the horse line. One day, being in the—market on a Saturday, I saw Mary Fulcher with a halter round her neck, led about by a man, who offered to sell her for eighteenpence.325 I took out the money forthwith and bought her; the man was her husband, a basketmaker, with whom she had lived several years without having any children; he was a drunken, quarrelsome fellow, and having had a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid of her, by putting a halter round her neck and leading her to the cattle-market, as if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right to do, all women being considered mares by old English law, and, indeed still called mares in certain counties, where genuine old English is still preserved. That same afternoon, the man who had been her husband, having got drunk in a public-house, with the money which he had received for her, quarrelled with another man, and receiving a blow under the ear, fell upon the floor, and died of artiflex; and in less than three weeks I was married to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular banns. I am told she was legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a halter round her neck; but, to tell you the truth, I think everybody should live by his trade, and I didn’t wish to act shabbily towards our parson, who is a good fellow, and has certainly a right to his fees. A better wife than Mary Fulcher—I mean Mary Dale—no one ever had; she has borne me several children, and has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me, and to be my faithful wife. Amongst other things, I begged her to have done with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since.

“I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being a person who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely. I always make a point when a gentleman comes to me, and says, ‘Mr. Dale’ or ‘John,’ for I have no objection to be called John by a gentleman—‘I wants a good horse, and I am ready to pay a good price’—I always makes a point, I say, to furnish him with an animal worth the money; but when I sees a fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing to circumvent me what does I do? I doesn’t quarrel with him; not I; but, letting him imagine he is taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screw for thirty pounds, not worth thirty shillings. All honest, respectable people have at present great confidence in me, and frequently commissions me to buy them horses at great fairs like this.

“This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landed proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some great prince in his own country, who had a long time ago been entertained at the house of the landed proprietor, and the consequence is, that I brings young six foot six to Horncastle, and purchases for him the horse of the Romany Rye. I don’t do these kind things for nothing, it is true; that can’t be expected, for everyone must live by his trade; but, as I said before, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, I have discovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy; though, as I also said before, when I’m along with thieves, I can beat them at their own game. If I am obliged to do it, I can pass off the veriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a child I had found out by various means what may be done with animals. I wish now to ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye. Certain folks have told me that you are a horse witch; are you one, or are you not?”

“I, like yourself,” said I, “know, to a certain extent, what may be done with animals.”

“Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in the world for a flying drummedary?”

“By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel remained in his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in a surprising degree.”

“And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter appear so tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman of sixty, who wanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him for fifty pounds?”

“By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which would make him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the heart to kick or bite anybody, for a season at least.”

“And where did you learn all this?” said the jockey.

“I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the making drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told the same things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now tell me, do you bewitch horses in this way?”

“I?” said the jockey; “mercy upon us! I wouldn’t do such things for a hatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels and hocussing! And now let me ask you, how you would spirit a horse out of a field?”

“How would I spirit a horse out of a field?”

“Yes; supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on taking up the horse-stealing line of business.”

“Why, I should—But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying to pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from you with respect to your art, before I tell you anything more. Now, how would you whisper a horse out of a field, provided you were down in the world, and so forth?”

“Ah, ah, I see you are up to a game, Mr. Romany; however, I am a gentleman in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the unhandsome thing to anybody who has dealt fairly towards me. Now, you told me something I didn’t know, and I’ll tell you something which perhaps you do know. I whispers a horse out of a field in this way: I have a mare in my stable; well, in the early season of the year I goes into my stable ——— Well, I puts the sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked. I takes my bottle in my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by night, where there is a very fine stag horse. I manage with great difficulty to get within ten yards of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to run away. I then uncorks my bottle, presses my forefinger to the sponge, and holds it out to the horse, the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and comes nearer. I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket. My business is done, for the next two hours the horse would follow me anywhere—the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him. Now, is that your way of doing business?”

“My way of doing business? Mercy upon us! I wouldn’t steal a horse in that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the world; however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick somewhat similar is described in the history of Herodotus.”326

“In the history of Herod’s ass!” said the jockey; “well, if I did write a book, it should be about something more genteel than a dickey.”

“I did not say Herod’s ass,” said I, “but Herodotus, a very genteel writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel people, in a language no less genteel than Greek, more than two thousand years ago. There was a dispute as to who should be king amongst certain imperious chieftains. At last they agreed to obey him whose horse should neigh first on a certain day, in front of the royal palace, before the rising of the sun; for you must know that they did not worship the person who made the sun as we do, but the sun itself. So one of these chieftains, talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would be king, the fellow said: ‘Why you, master, or I don’t know much about horses.’ So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do, but takes his master’s horse before the palace and introduce him to a mare in the stable, and then lead him forth again. Well, early the next day all the chieftains on their horses appeared in front of the palace before the dawn of day. Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of him who had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the animal within the stable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings rang. His rider was forthwith elected king, and a brave king he was. So this shows what seemingly wonderful things may be brought about by a little preparation.”

“It doth,” said the jockey; “what was the chap’s name?”

“His name—his name—Darius Hystaspes.”

“And the groom’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“And he made a good king?”

“First-rate.”

“Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king the groom would have made, through whose knowledge of ’orses he was put on the throne. And now another question Mr. Romany Rye, have you particular words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?”

“You should ask me,” said I, “whether I have horses that can be aggravated or soothed by particular words. No words have any particular power over horses or other animals who have never heard them before—how should they? But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoyment with particular words which they are acquainted with. I’ll give you an example. I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of kicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a particular tone; but that word was connected with a very painful operation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been under his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a moment by another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind of tone; the word was deaghblasda,327 or sweet tasted. Some time after the operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow—who was what the Irish call a fairy smith—had done all he could to soothe the creature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of which the cob became passionately fond. Invariably, however, before giving it a button, he said, ‘Deaghblasda,’ with which word the cob by degrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse the cob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance, he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would be instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to give him after using the word deaghblasda.”

“There is nothing wonderful to be done,” said the jockey, “without a good deal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks stare and wonder at certain things which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done; and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples. Can either of you lend me a handkerchief? That won’t do,” said he, as I presented him with a silk one. “I wish for a delicate white handkerchief. That’s just the kind of thing,” said he, as the Hungarian offered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with gold at the hems; “now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire.” “Don’t let him do so by any means,” said the Hungarian, speaking to me in German, “it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would not have it burnt for the world.” “He has no occasion to be under any apprehension,” said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the Hungarian had said, “I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name is not Jack Dale.” Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the left side of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time had burnt very low, and holding his head back, he applied the flame to the handkerchief, which instantly seemed to catch fire. “What do you think of that?” said he to the Hungarian. “Why, that you have ruined me,” said the latter. “No harm done, I assure you,” said the jockey, who presently, clapping his hand on his bosom extinguished the fire, and returned the handkerchief to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. “I see no burn upon it,” said the Hungarian; “but in the name of Gott, how could you set it on fire without burning it?” “I never set it on fire at all,” said the jockey; “I set this on fire,” showing us a piece of half-burnt calico. “I placed this calico above it, and lighted not the handkerchief, but the rag. Now I will show you something else. I have a magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along my arm. But, first of all, I would gladly know whether either of you can do the like.” Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into our pockets, took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them run up our arms, but utterly failed; both shillings, after we had made two or three attempts, falling to the ground. “What noncomposses you both are,” said the jockey; and placing a shilling on the end of the fingers of his right hand he made strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the shilling instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and jumping as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards the head of the jockey.

“How do I do that?” said he, addressing himself to me. “I really do not know,” said I, “unless it is by the motion of your arm.” “The motion of my nonsense,” said the jockey, and, making a dreadful grimace, the shilling hopped upon his knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climb up his breast. “How is that done?” said he again. “By witchcraft, I suppose,” said I. “There you are right,” said the jockey; “by the witchcraft of one of Miss Berners’ hairs; the end of one of her long hairs is tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the other end goes round my neck by means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my head, the shilling follows it. I suppose you wish to know how I got the hair,” said he, grinning at me. “I will tell you. I once, in the course of my ridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long hair, and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get off my horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter into conversation with her. After giving her the sele of the day, and complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one of the threads; whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me fellow, told me to take myself off. ‘I must have a hair first,’ said I, making a snatch at one. I believe I hurt her; but, whether I did or not, up she started, and, though her hair was unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had in my life. Lor! how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held me round the neck with her left arm; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on my knees, which she gave me in a moment, when she saw me in that condition, being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her pardon, but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put through a shilling, with which I have on evenings after fairs, like this, frequently worked what seemed to those who looked on downright witchcraft, but which is nothing more than pleasant deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to testify my regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair. I think you have a kind of respect for Miss Berners; but whether you have or not, keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of the finest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle. I believe I have told you my history,” said he—“no, not quite; there is one circumstance I had passed over. I told you that I have thriven very well in business, and so I have, upon the whole: at any rate, I find myself comfortably off now. I have horses, money, and owe nobody a groat; at any rate, nothing but what I could pay tomorrow. Yet I have had my dreary day, ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in the world. All of a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to go wrong with me—horses became sick or died, people who owed me money broke or ran away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went against me; and not from any mismanagement of my own. I looked round for help, but—what do you think?—nobody would help me. Somehow or other it had got abroad that I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to avoid me, as if I had got the plague. Those who were always offering me help when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble, talked of arresting me. Yes; two particular friends of mine, who had always been offering me their purses when my own was stuffed full, now talked of arresting me, though I only owed the scoundrels a hundred pounds each; and they would have done so, provided I had not paid them what I owed them; and how did I do that? Why, I was able to do it because I found a friend—and who was that friend? Why, a man who has since been hung, of whom everybody has heard, and of whom everybody for the next hundred years will occasionally talk.

“One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had occasionally met at sporting dinners. He came to look after a Suffolk Punch, the best horse, by the by, that anybody can purchase to drive, it being the only animal of the horse kind in England that will pull twice at a dead weight. I told him that I had none at that time that I could recommend; in fact, that every horse in my stable was sick. He then invited me to dine with him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the hope of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner, during which he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, he asked me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened by the wine he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without reserve. With an oath or two for not having treated him at first like a friend, he said he would soon set me all right; and pulling out two hundred pounds, told me to pay him when I could. I felt as I never felt before; however, I took his notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was right again, and had returned him his money. On paying it to him, I said that I had now a Punch which would just suit him, saying that I would give it to him—a free gift—for nothing. He swore at me, telling me to keep my Punch, for that he was suited already. I begged him to tell me how I could requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadful oath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when his time was come. I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word. The night before the day he was hanged at H——,328 I harnessed a Suffolk Punch to my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered to him, which I have ever since kept, and which brought me and this short young man to Horncastle, and in eleven hours I drove that Punch one hundred and ten miles. I arrived at H—— just in the nick of time. There was the ugly jail, the scaffold, and there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in the world. Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of the crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stood up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted: ‘God Almighty bless you, Jack!’ The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me—for his face was always somewhat grim, do you see—nodded and said, or I thought I heard him say: ‘All right old chap.’ The next moment—my eyes water. He had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines, lost his half-pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the throat of a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he had good qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the bad things laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to fight cross, as it was said he did on the day of the awful thunderstorm. Ned Flatnose329 fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was not what’s called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he could put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was two inches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently his right fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself round, and put in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take away the senses of anybody in the world. It was by putting in that blow in his second fight with Spring330 that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack in the first battle, but in the second Ned Painter—for that was his real name—contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring; and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver.

“Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so. You ask the reason why, perhaps. I’ll tell you; the lack of a certain quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing which can bring him to the gallows. In my rough way I’ll draw their characters from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not the best character of the two. Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond of fighting, going a birds’-nesting, but I never heard he did anything particularly cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher’s dog’s tail; whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast, and when a boy would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set them running on the ice and in the snow, and was particularly fond of burning cats alive in the fire. Jack, when a lad, gets a commission on board a ship as an officer of horse marines, and in two or three engagements behaves quite up to the mark—at least of a marine, the marines having no particular character for courage, you know—never having run to the guns and fired them like madmen after the blue jackets had had more than enough. Oh, dear me, no! My lord gets into the valorous British army, where cowardice—oh, dear me!—is a thing almost entirely unknown; and being on the field of Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on the sick list—a pretty excuse—hurting his back—for not being present at such a fight. Old Benbow, after part of both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight, made the carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and continued on deck, cheering his men till he died. Jack returns home, and gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets his living by the ring, and the turf, and gambling, doing many an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to his charge. My lord does much the same without the excuse for doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and a black, only in a more polished way, and with more cunning, and I may say success, having done many a rascally thing never laid to his charge. Jack at last cuts the throat of a villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world, and who, I am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw and white feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly taking away a man’s life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad? Whitefeather will cut no person’s throat—I will not say who has cheated him, for being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobody cheats him, but he’ll do something quite as bad; out of envy to a person who never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever and respected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a mortal injury. But Jack is hanged, and my lord is not. Is that right? My wife, Mary Fulcher—I beg her pardon, Mary Dale—who is a Methodist, and has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams, says some people are preserved from hanging by the grace of God. With her I differs, and says it is from want of courage. This Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack’s courage, and with one tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago, for he has ten times Jack’s malignity. Jack was hanged because, along with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow is not, because with all Jack’s bad qualities, and many more, amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. Think of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a distressed fellow-creature; why he would rob, but for the law and the fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying is—and has been heard to say that he would not trust his own father for sixpence, and he can’t imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever given. I never heard a person give him a good word—stay, stay, yes! I once heard an old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of receiving company gracefully and dismissing them without refreshment. I don’t wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of that compliment. Well! he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not quite enviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard ones—everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him with so doing; whilst he has been rejected by a woman—what a mortification to the low pride of which the scoundrel has plenty! There’s a song about both circumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It’s a funny kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant or Deputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it’s past one.” The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung the following song:—

The Jockey’s Song

Now list to a ditty both funny and true!—
Merrily moves the dance along—
A ditty that tells of a coward and screw,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all—
Merrily moves the dance along—
Had yet resolution to go to a ball,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

“Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?”—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
Said she, “Sir, to dance I should like very well,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

They danc’d to the left, and they danc’d to the right—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
And her troth the fair damsel bestow’d on the knight
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

“Now, what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle?”—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
Said she, “Sir, an ice I should like very well,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

But the ice, when he’d got it, he instantly ate—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
Although his poor partner was all in a fret,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
For he saw ’twas the very last ice on the board,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

“Now, when shall we marry?” the gentleman cried;—
Merrily moves the dance along;—
“Sir, get you to Jordan,” the damsel replied,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

“I never will wed with the pitiful elf”—
Merrily moves the dance along—
“Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

“I’d pardon your backing from red Waterloo,”—
Merrily moves the dance along—
“But I never will wed with a coward and screw,”
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

XLIII

The next morning I began to think of departing; I had sewed up the money which I had received for the horse in a portion of my clothing, where I entertained no fears for its safety, with the exception of a small sum in notes, gold and silver, which I carried in my pocket. Ere departing, however, I determined to stroll about and examine the town, and observe more particularly the humours of the fair than I had hitherto an opportunity of doing. The town, when I examined it, offered no object worthy of attention but its church—an edifice of some antiquity; under the guidance of an old man, who officiated as sexton, I inspected its interior attentively, occasionally conversing with my guide, who, however, seemed much more disposed to talk about horses than the church. “No good horses in the fair this time, measter,” said he; “none but one brought hither by a chap whom nobody knows, and bought by a foreigneering man, who came here with Jack Dale. The horse fetched a good swinging price, which is said, however, to be much less than its worth; for the horse is a regular clipper; not such a one ’tis said, has been seen in the fair for several summers. Lord Whitefeather says that he believes the fellow who brought him to be a highwayman, and talks of having him taken up, but Lord Whitefeather is only in a rage because he could not get him for himself. The chap would not sell it to un; Lord Screw wanted to beat him down, and the chap took huff, said he wouldn’t sell it to him at no price, and accepted the offer of the foreigneering man, or of Jack, who was his ’terpreter, and who scorned to higgle about such an hanimal, because Jack is a gentleman, though bred a dickey-boy, whilst ’tother, though bred a Lord, is a screw and a whitefeather. Everyone says the cove was right, and I says so too; I likes spirit, and if the cove were here, and in your place, measter, I would invite him to drink a pint of beer. Good horses are scarce now, measter, ay, and so are good men, quite a different set from what there were when I was young; that was the time for men and horses. Lord bless you, I know all the breeders about here; they are not a bad set, and they breed a very fairish set of horses, but they are not like what their fathers were, nor are their horses like their fathers’ horses. Now there is Mr. ———, the great breeder, a very fairish man, with very fairish horses; but, Lord bless you, he’s nothing to what his father was, nor his steeds to his father’s; I ought to know, for I was at the school here with his father, and afterwards for many a year helped him to get up his horses; that was when I was young, measter—those were the days. You look at that monument, measter,” said he, as I stopped and looked attentively at a monument on the southern side of the church near the altar; “that was put up for a rector of this church, who lived a long time ago, in Oliver’s time, and was ill-treated and imprisoned by Oliver and his men; you will see all about it on the monument. There was a grand battle fought nigh this place, between Oliver’s men and the Royal party, and the Royal party had the worst of it, as I’m told they generally had; and Oliver’s men came into the town, and did a great deal of damage, and ill-treated the people. I can’t remember anything about the matter myself, for it happened just one hundred years before I was born, but my father was acquainted with an old countryman, who lived not many miles from here, who said he remembered perfectly well the day of the battle; that he was a boy at the time, and was working in a field near the place where the battle was fought, and he heard shouting and noise of firearms, and also the sound of several balls, which fell in the field near him. Come this way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day’s field.” Leaving the monument, on which was inscribed an account of the life and sufferings of the Royalist Rector of Horncastle, I followed the sexton to the western end of the church, where, hanging against the wall, were a number of scythes stuck in the ends of poles. “Those are the weapons, measter,” said the sexton, “which the great people put into the hands of a number of the country folks, in order that they might use them against Oliver’s men; ugly weapons enough; however, Oliver’s men won, and Sir Jacob Ashley and his party were beat. And a rare time Oliver and his men had of it, till Oliver died, when the other party got the better, not by fighting, ’tis said, but through a General Monk, who turned sides. Ah, the old fellow that my father knew said he well remembered the time when General Monk went over and proclaimed Charles the Second. Bonfires were lighted everywhere, oxen roasted, and beer drunk by pailfuls; the country folks were drunk with joy, and something else; sung scurvy songs about Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks, and pelted his men, wherever they found them, with stones and dirt.” “The more ungrateful scoundrels they,” said I. “Oliver and his men fought the battle of English independence against a wretched king and corrupt lords. Had I been living at the time, I should have been proud to be a trooper of Oliver.” “You would, measter, would you? Well, I never quarrels with the opinions of people who come to look at the church, and certainly independence is a fine thing. I like to see a chap of an independent spirit, and if I were now to see the cove who refused to sell his horse to my Lord Screw and Whitefeather, and let Jack Dale have him, I would offer to treat him to a pint of beer—e’es, I would, verily. Well, measter, you have now seen the church, and all there’s in it worth seeing—so I’ll just lock up, and go and finish digging the grave I was about when you came, after which I must go into the fair to see how matters are going on. Thank ye, measter,” said he, as I put something into his hand; “thank ye kindly; ’tis not everyone who gives me a shilling nowadays who comes to see the church, but times are very different from what they were when I was young; I was not sexton then, but something better; helped Mr. ——— with his horses, and got many a broad crown. Those were the days, measter, both for men and horses; and I say, measter, if men and horses were so much better when I was young than they are now, what, I wonder, must they have been in the time of Oliver and his men?”

XLIV

Leaving the church, I strolled through the fair, looking at the horses, listening to the chaffering of the buyers and sellers, and occasionally putting in a word of my own, which was not always received with much deference; suddenly, however, on a whisper arising that I was the young cove who had brought the wonderful horse to the fair which Jack Dale had bought for the foreigneering man, I found myself an object of the greatest attention; those who had before replied with stuff! and nonsense! to what I said, now listened with the greatest eagerness to any nonsense which I chose to utter, and I did not fail to utter a great deal; presently, however, becoming disgusted with the beings about me, I forced my way, not very civilly, through my crowd of admirers; and passing through an alley and a back street, at last reached an outskirt of the fair, where no person appeared to know me. Here I stood, looking vacantly on what was going on, musing on the strange infatuation of my species, who judge of a person’s words, not from their intrinsic merit, but from the opinion—generally an erroneous one—which they have formed of the person. From this reverie I was roused by certain words which sounded near me, uttered in a strange tone, and in a strange cadence—the words were, “them that finds, wins; and them that can’t find, loses.” Turning my eyes in the direction from which the words proceeded, I saw six or seven people, apparently all countrymen, gathered round a person standing behind a tall white table of very small compass. “What!” said I, “the thimble-engro of ——— Fair331 here at Horncastle.” Advancing nearer, however, I perceived that though the present person was a thimble-engro, he was a very different one from my old acquaintance of ——— Fair. The present one was a fellow about half a foot taller than the other. He had a long, haggard, wild face, and was dressed in a kind of jacket, something like that of a soldier, with dirty hempen trousers, and with a foreign-looking peaked hat on his head. He spoke with an accent evidently Irish, and occasionally changed the usual thimble formula into, “them that finds, wins, and them that can’t—och, sure!—they loses;” saying also frequently, “your honour,” instead of “my lord.” I observed, on drawing nearer, that he handled the pea and thimble with some awkwardness, like that which might be expected from a novice in the trade. He contrived, however, to win several shillings, for he did not seem to play for gold, from “their honours.” Awkward as he was, he evidently did his best, and never flung a chance away by permitting anyone to win. He had just won three shillings from a farmer, who, incensed at his loss, was calling him a confounded cheat, and saying that he would play no more, when up came my friend of the preceding day, Jack, the jockey. This worthy, after looking at the thimble-man a moment or two, with a peculiarly crafty glance, cried out, as he clapped down a shilling on the table, “I will stand you, old fellow!” “Them that finds, wins; and them that can’t—och, sure!—they loses,” said the thimble-man. The game commenced, and Jack took up the thimble without finding the pea; another shilling was produced, and lost in the same manner: “this is slow work,” said Jack, banging down a guinea on the table; “can you cover that, old fellow?” The man of the thimble looked at the gold, and then at him who produced it, and scratched his head. “Come, cover that, or I shall be off,” said the jockey. “Och, sure, my lord!—no, I mean your honour—no, sure, your lordship,” said the other, “if I covers it at all, it must be with silver, for divil a bit of gold have I by me.” “Well, then, produce the value in silver,” said the jockey, “and do it quickly, for I can’t be staying here all day.” The thimble-man hesitated, looked at Jack with a dubious look, then at the gold, and then scratched his head. There was now a laugh amongst the surrounders, which evidently nettled the fellow, who forthwith thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulling out all his silver treasure, just contrived to place the value of the guinea on the table. “Them that finds, wins, and them that can’t find—loses,” interrupted Jack, lifting up a thimble, out of which rolled a pea. “There, paddy, what do you think of that?” said he, seizing the heap of silver with one hand, whilst he pocketed the guinea with the other. The thimble-engro stood, for some time, like one transfixed, his eyes glaring wildly, now at the table, and now at his successful customer; at last he said: “Arrah, sure, master!—no, I manes my lord—you are not going to ruin a poor boy!” “Ruin you!” said the other; “what! by winning a guinea’s change? a pretty small dodger you—if you have not sufficient capital, why do you engage in so deep a trade as thimbling? come, will you stand another game?” “Och, sure, master, no! the twenty shillings and one which you have chated me of were all I had in the world.” “Cheated you,” said Jack, “say that again, and I will knock you down.” “Arrah! sure, master, you knows that the pea under the thimble was not mine; here is mine master; now give me back my money.” “A likely thing,” said Jack; “no, no, I know a trick worth two or three of that; whether the pea was yours or mine, you will never have your twenty shillings and one again; and if I have ruined you, all the better; I’d gladly ruin all such villains as you, who ruin poor men with your dirty tricks, whom you would knock down and rob on the road, if you had but courage: not that I mean to keep your shillings, with the exception of the two you cheated from me, which I’ll keep. A scramble, boys! a scramble!” said he, flinging up all the silver into the air, with the exception of the two shillings; and a scramble there instantly was, between the rustics who had lost their money and the urchins who came running up; the poor thimble-engro tried likewise to have his share; but though he flung himself down, in order to join more effectually in the scramble, he was unable to obtain a single sixpence; and having in his rage given some of his fellow-scramblers a cuff or two, he was set upon by the boys and country fellows, and compelled to make an inglorious retreat with his table, which had been flung down in the scuffle, and had one of its legs broken. As he retired, the rabble hooted, and Jack, holding up in derision the pea with which he had outmanoeuvred him, exclaimed: “I always carry this in my pocket in order to be a match for vagabonds like you.”

The tumult over, Jack gone, and the rabble dispersed, I followed the discomfited adventurer at a distance, who, leaving the town, went slowly on, carrying his dilapidated piece of furniture, till coming to an old wall by the roadside, he placed it on the ground, and sat down, seemingly in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his mouth. Going nearly up to him, I stood still, whereupon he looked up, and perceiving I was looking steadfastly at him, he said, in a angry tone: “Arrah! what for are you staring at me so? By my shoul, I think you are one of the thaives who are after robbing me. I think I saw you among them, and if I were only sure of it, I would take the liberty of trying to give you a big bating.” “You have had enough of trying to give people a beating,” said I; “you had better be taking your table to some skilful carpenter to get it repaired. He will do it for sixpence.” “Divil a sixpence did you and your thaives leave me,” said he; “and if you do not take yourself off, joy, I will be breaking your ugly head with the foot of it.” “Arrah, Murtagh!” said I, “would ye be breaking the head of your friend and scholar to whom you taught the blessed tongue of Oilien nan Naomha,332 in exchange for a pack of cards?” Murtagh, for he it was, gazed at me for a moment with a bewildered look; then, with a gleam of intelligence in his eye, he said: “Shorsha! no, it can’t be—yes by my faith it is!” Then, springing up and seizing me by the hand, he said: “Yes, by the powers, sure enough it is Shorsha agra! Arrah, Shorsha! where have you been this many a day? Sure, you are not one of the spalpeens who are after robbing me?” “Not I,” I replied, “but I saw all that happened. Come, you must not take matters so to heart; cheer up; such things will happen in connection with the trade you have taken up.” “Sorrow befall the trade, and the thief who taught it me,” said Murtagh; “and yet the trade is not a bad one, if I only knew more of it, and had someone to help and back me. Och! the idea of being cheated and bamboozled by that one-eyed thief in the horseman’s dress.” “Let bygones be bygones, Murtagh,” said I; “it is no use grieving for the past; sit down, and let us have a little pleasant gossip. Arrah, Murtagh! when I saw you sitting under the wall, with your thumb to your mouth, it brought to my mind tales which you used to tell me all about Finn-ma-Coul. You have not forgotten Finn-ma-Coul, Murtagh, and how he sucked wisdom out of his thumb.”333 “Sorrow a bit have I forgot about him, Shorsha,” said Murtagh, as we sat down together, “nor what you yourself told me about the snake. Arrah, Shorsha! what ye told me about the snake bates anything I ever told you about Finn. Ochone, Shorsha! perhaps you will be telling me about the snake once more? I think the tale would do me good, and I have need of comfort, God knows, ochone!” Seeing Murtagh in such a distressed plight, I forthwith told him over again the tale of the snake, in precisely the same words as I have related it in the first part of this history. After which, I said: “Now, Murtagh, tit for tat; ye will be telling me one of the old stories of Finn-ma-Coul.” “Och, Shorsha! I haven’t heart enough,” said Murtagh. “Thank you for your tale, but it makes me weep; it brings to my mind Dungarvon times of old334—I mean the times we were at school together.” “Cheer up, man,” said I, “and let’s have the story, and let it be about Ma-Coul and the salmon and his thumb.” “Arrah, Shorsha! I can’t. Well, to oblige you, I’ll give it you. Well, you know Ma-Coul was an exposed child, and came floating over the salt sea in a chest which was cast ashore at Veintry Bay. In the corner of that bay was a castle, where dwelt a giant and his wife, very respectable and dacent people, and this giant, taking his morning walk along the bay, came to the place where the child had been cast ashore in his box. Well, the giant looked at the child, and being filled with compassion for his exposed state, took the child up in his box, and carried him home to his castle, where he and his wife, being dacent respectable people, as I telled ye before, fostered the child and took care of him, till he became old enough to go out to service and gain his livelihood, when they bound him out apprentice to another giant, who lived in a castle up the country, at some distance from the bay.

“This giant, whose name was Darmod David Odeen, was not a respectable person at all, but a big ould wagabone. He was twice the size of the other giant, who, though bigger than any man, was not a big giant; for, as there are great and small men, so there are great and small giants—I mean some are small when compared with the others. Well, Finn served this giant a considerable time, doing all kinds of hard and unreasonable service for him, and receiving all kinds of hard words, and many a hard knock and kick to boot—sorrow befall the ould wagabone who could thus ill-treat a helpless foundling. It chanced that one day the giant caught a salmon, near a salmon-leap upon his estate—for, though a big ould blackguard, he was a person of considerable landed property, and high sheriff for the county Cork. Well, the giant brings home the salmon by the gills, and delivers it to Finn, telling him to roast it for the giant’s dinner; ‘but take care, ye young blackguard,’ he added, ‘that in roasting it—and I expect ye to roast it well—you do not let a blister come upon its nice satin skin, for if ye do, I will cut the head off your shoulders.’ ‘Well,’ thinks Finn, ‘this is a hard task; however, as I have done many hard tasks for him, I will try and do this too, though I was never set to do anything yet half so difficult.’ So he prepared his fire, and put his gridiron upon it, and lays the salmon fairly and softly upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, turning it from one side to the other just in the nick of time, before the soft satin skin could be blistered. However, on turning it over the eleventh time—and twelve would have settled the business—he found he had delayed a little bit of time too long in turning it over, and that there was a small, tiny blister on the soft outer skin. Well, Finn was in a mighty panic, remembering the threats of the ould giant; however, he did not lose heart, but clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down. Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh thoroughly hot, so Finn’s thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his mouth, sucked it, in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment—hubbuboo!—became imbued with all the wisdom of the world.”

Myself. Stop, Murtagh! stop!

Murtagh. All the witchcraft, Shorsha.

Myself. How wonderful!

Murtagh. Was it not, Shorsha? The salmon, do you see, was a fairy salmon.

Myself. What a strange coincidence!

Murtagh. A what, Shorsha?

Myself. Why, that the very same tale should be told of Finn-ma-Coul which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane.

“What thief was that, Shorsha?”

“Thief! ’Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir. Sigurd was the hero of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great hero of Ireland. He, too, according to one account, was an exposed child, and came floating in a casket to a wild shore, where he was suckled by a hind, and afterwards found and fostered by Mimir, a fairy blacksmith; he, too, sucked wisdom from a burn. According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling of the heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his mouth in order to suck out the pain, became imbued with all the wisdom of the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and whatnot. I have heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times in the blessed days of old, but its identity with the tale of Sigurd never occurred to me till now. It is true, when I knew you of old, I had never read the tale of Sigurd, and have since almost dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind; but as soon as you told me again about Finn’s burning his finger, the coincidence struck me. I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the Danes—”

“Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except many a bloody bating and plundering, which they never paid them back. Och, Shorsha! you, edicated in ould Ireland, to say that the Irish owes anything good to the plundering villains—the Siol Loughlin.”335

“They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst others, Finn-ma-Coul and the burnt finger; and if ever I publish the Loughlin songs, I’ll tell the world so.”

“But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye—to say nothing of the Irish part of it.”

“Then the world, Murtagh—to say nothing of the Irish part of it—will be a fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to be able to believe oneself, and respect oneself. How few whom the world believes believe and respect themselves.”

“Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?”

“I’d rather you should not, Murtagh, I know all about it already.”

“Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha? Och, it was doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes! Och, Shorsha! let me tell you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone, Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him—for Finn could do no feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in Dungarvon times of old;” and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to the following effect:—

O little the foolish words I heed
O Oisin’s son, from thy lips which come;
No strength were in Finn for valorous deed,
Unless to the gristle he suck’d his thumb.

“Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh, I am no longer in the cue for Finn. I would rather hear your own history. Now tell us, man, all that has happened to ye since Dungarvon times of old?”

“Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows back upon me!”

“Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to find a help for them. I owe you much, Murtagh; you taught me Irish, and I will do all I can to help you.”

“Why, then, Shorsha, I’ll tell ye my history. Here goes!”

XLV

“Well, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us—and a sorrowful hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, your funny stories of your snake, and the battles of your military—they sent me to Paris and Salamanca, in order to make a saggart of me.”

“Pray excuse me,” said I, “for interrupting you, but what kind of place is Salamanca?”

“Divil a bit did I ever see of it, Shorsha!”

“Then why did you say ye were sent there? Well, what kind of place is Paris? Not that I care much about Paris.”

“Sorrow a bit did I ever see of either of them, Shorsha, for no one sent me to either. When we says at home a person is going to Paris and Salamanca, it manes that he is going abroad to study to be a saggart, whether he goes to them places or not. No, I never saw either—bad luck to them—I was shipped away from Cork up the straits to a place called Leghorn, from which I was sent to ——— to a religious house,336 where I was to be instructed in saggarting till they had made me fit to cut a dacent figure in Ireland. We had a long and tedious voyage, Shorsha; not so tedious, however, as it would have been had I been fool enough to lave your pack of cards behind me, as the thaif, my brother Denis, wanted to persuade me to do, in order that he might play with them himself. With the cards I managed to have many a nice game with the sailors, winning from them ha’pennies and sixpences until the captain said that I was ruining his men, and keeping them from their duty; and being a heretic and a Dutchman, swore that unless I gave over he would tie me up to the mast and give me a round dozen. This threat obliged me to be more on my guard, though I occasionally contrived to get a game at night, and to win sixpennies and ha’pennies.

“We reached Leghorn at last, and glad I was to leave the ship and the master, who gave me a kick as I was getting over the side, bad luck to the dirty heretic for kicking a son of the Church, for I have always been a true son of the Church, Shorsha, and never quarrelled with it unless it interfered with me in my playing at cards. I left Leghorn with certain muleteers, with whom I played at cards at the baiting-houses, and who speedily won from me all the ha’pennies and sixpences I had won from the sailors. I got my money’s worth, however, for I learnt from the muleteers all kind of quaint tricks upon the cards, which I knew nothing of before; so I did not grudge them what they chated me of, and when we parted we did so in kindness on both sides. On getting to ——— I was received into the religious house for Irishes. It was the Irish house, Shorsha, into which I was taken, for I do not wish ye to suppose that I was in the English religious house which there is in that city, in which a purty set are edicated, and in which purty doings are going on if all tales be true.

“In this Irish house I commenced my studies, learning to sing and to read the Latin prayers of the Church. ’Faith, Shorsha, many’s the sorrowful day I passed in that house learning the prayers and litanies, being half-starved, with no earthly diversion at all, at all, until I took the cards out of my chest and began instructing in card-playing the chum which I had with me in the cell; then I had plenty of diversion along with him during the times when I was not engaged in singing, and chanting, and saying the prayers of the Church; there was, however, some drawback in playing with my chum, for though he was very clever in learning, divil a sixpence had he to play with, in which respect he was like myself, the master who taught him, who had lost all my money to the muleteers who taught me the tricks upon the cards; by degrees, however, it began to be noised about the religious house that Murtagh from Hibrodary,337 had a pack of cards with which he played with his chum in the cell; whereupon other scholars of the religious house came to me, some to be taught and others to play, so with some I played, and others I taught, but neither to those who could play, or to those who could not, did I teach the elegant tricks which I learnt from the muleteers. Well, the scholars came to me for the sake of the cards, and the porter and the cook of the religious house, who could both play very well, came also; at last I became tired of playing for nothing, so I borrowed a few bits of silver from the cook, and played against the porter, and by means of my tricks I won money from the porter and then I paid the cook the bits of silver which I had borrowed of him, and played with him, and won a little of his money, which I let him win back again, as I had lived long enough in a religious house to know that it is dangerous to take money from the cook. In a little time, Shorsha, there was scarcely anything going on in the house but card-playing; the almoner played with me, and so did the sub-rector, and I won money from both; not too much, however, lest they should tell the rector, who had the character of a very austere man and of being a bit of a saint; however, the thief of a porter, whose money I had won, informed the rector of what was going on, and one day the rector sent for me into his private apartment, and gave me so long and pious a lecture upon the heinous sin of card-playing, that I thought I should sink into the ground; after about half an hour’s inveighing against card-playing, he began to soften his tone, and with a long sigh told me that at one time of his life he had been a young man himself, and had occasionally used the cards; he then began to ask me some questions about card-playing, which questions I afterwards found were to pump from me what I knew about the science. After a time he asked me whether I had got my cards with me, and on my telling him I had, he expressed a wish to see them, whereupon I took the pack out of my pocket, and showed it to him; he looked at it very attentively, and at last, giving another deep sigh, he said: that though he was nearly weaned from the vanities of the world, he had still an inclination to see whether he had entirely lost the little skill which at one time he possessed. When I heard him speak in this manner, I told him that if his reverence was inclined for a game of cards, I should be very happy to play one with him; scarcely had I uttered these words than he gave a third sigh, and looked so very much like a saint that I was afraid he was going to excommunicate me. Nothing of the kind, however, for presently he gets up and locks the door, then sitting down at the table, he motioned me to do the same, which I did, and in five minutes there we were playing at cards, his reverence and myself.

“I soon found that his reverence knew quite as much about card-playing as I did. Divil a trick was there connected with cards that his reverence did not seem awake to. As, however, we were not playing for money, this circumstance did not give me much uneasiness; so we played game after game for two hours, when his reverence, having business, told me I might go, so I took up my cards, made my obedience, and left him. The next day I had other games with him, and so on for a very long time, still playing for nothing. At last his reverence grew tired of playing for nothing, and proposed that we should play for money. Now, I had no desire to play with his reverence for money, as I knew that doing so would bring on a quarrel. As long as we were playing for nothing, I could afford to let his reverence use what tricks he pleased; but if we played for money, I couldn’t do so. If he played his tricks, I must play mine, and use every advantage to save my money; and there was one I possessed which his reverence did not. The cards being my own, I had put some delicate little marks on the trump cards, just at the edges, so that when I daylt, by means of a little sleight of hand, I could dale myself any trump card I pleased. But I wished, as I said before, to have no dealings for money with his reverence, knowing that he was master in the house, and that he could lead me a dog of a life, if I offended him, either by winning his money, or not letting him win mine. So I told him I had no money to play with, but the ould thief knew better; he knew that I was every day winning money from the scholars, and the sub-rector, and the other people of the house, and the ould thaif had determined to let me go on in that way winning money, and then by means of his tricks, which he thought I dare not resent, to win from me all my earnings—in a word, Shorsha, to let me fill myself like a sponge, and then squeeze me for his own advantage. So he made me play with him, and in less than three days came on the quarrel; his reverence chated me, and I chated his reverence; the ould thaif knew every trick that I knew, and one or two more; but in daling out the cards I nicked his reverence; scarcely a trump did I ever give him, Shorsha, and won his money purty freely. Och, it was a purty quarrel! All the delicate names in the Newgate Calendar, if ye ever heard of such a book; all the hangdog names in the Newgate histories, and the lives of Irish rogues, did we call each other—his reverence and I! Suddenly, however, putting out his hand, he seized the cards, saying, ‘I will examine these cards, ye chating scoundrel! for I believe there are dirty marks on them, which ye have made in order to know the winning cards.’ ‘Give me back my pack,’ said I, ‘or m’anam on Dioul338 if I be not the death of ye!’ His reverence, however, clapped the cards into his pocket, and made the best of his way to the door, I hanging upon him. He was a gross, fat man, but, like most fat men, deadly strong, so he forced his way to the door, and, opening it, flung himself out, with me still holding on him like a terrier dog on a big fat pig; then he shouts for help, and in a little time I was secured and thrust into a lockup room, where I was left to myself. Here was a purty alteration. Yesterday I was the idol of the religious house, thought more on than his reverence, everyone paying me court and wurtship, and wanting to play cards with me, and to learn my tricks, and fed, moreover, on the tidbits of the table; and today I was in a cell, nobody coming to look at me but the blackguard porter who had charge of me, my cards taken from me, and with nothing but bread and water to live upon. Time passed dreary enough for a month, at the end of which time his reverence came to me, leaving the porter just outside the door in order to come to his help should I be violent; and then he read me a very purty lecture on my conduct, saying I had turned the religious house topsy-turvy, and corrupted the scholars, and that I was the chate of the world, for that on inspecting the pack he had discovered the dirty marks which I had made upon the trump cards for to know them by. He said a good dale more to me, which is not worth relating, and ended by telling me that he intended to let me out of confinement next day, but that if ever I misconducted myself any more, he would clap me in again for the rest of my life. I had a good mind to call him an ould thaif, but the hope of getting out made me hold my tongue, and the next day I was let out; and need enough I had to be let out, for what with being alone, and living on the bread and water, I was becoming frighted, or, as the doctors call it, narvous. But when I was out—oh, what a change I found in the religious house; no card-playing, for it had been forbidden to the scholars, and there was now nothing going on but reading and singing; divil a merry visage to be seen, but plenty of prim airs and graces; but the case of the scholars, though bad enough, was not half so bad as mine, for they could speak to each other, whereas I could not have a word of conversation, for the ould thaif of a rector had ordered them to send me to ‘Coventry,’ telling them that I was a gambling chate, with morals bad enough to corrupt a horse regiment; and whereas they were allowed to divert themselves with going out, I was kept reading and singing from morn till night. The only soul who was willing to exchange a word with me was the cook, and sometimes he and I had a little bit of discourse in a corner, and we condoled with each other, for he liked the change in the religious house almost as little as myself; but he told me that, for all the change below stairs, there was still card-playing going on above, for that the ould thaif of a rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner played at cards together, and that the rector won money from the others—the almoner had told him so—and, moreover, that the rector was the thaif of the world, had been a gambler in his youth, and had once been kicked out of a clubhouse at Dublin for chating at cards, and after that circumstance had apparently reformed and lived dacently till the time when I came to the religious house with my pack, but that the sight of that had brought him back to his ould gambling. He told the cook, moreover, that the rector frequently went out at night to the houses of the great clergy and chated at cards.

“In this melancholy state, with respect to myself, things continued a long time, when suddenly there was a report that his Holiness the Pope intended to pay a visit to the religious house in order to examine into its state of discipline. When I heard this I was glad, for I determined, after the Pope had done what he had come to do, to fall upon my knees before him, and make a regular complaint of the treatment I had received, to tell him of the chating at cards of the rector, and to beg him to make the ould thaif give me back my pack again. So the day of the visit came, and his Holiness made his appearance with his attendants, and, having looked over the religious house, he went into the rector’s room with the rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner. I intended to have waited until his Holiness came out, but finding he stayed a long time I thought I would e’en go into him, so I went up to the door without anybody observing me—his attendants being walking about the corridor—and opening it I slipped in, and there what do you think I saw? Why, his Holiness the Pope, and his reverence the rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner seated at cards; and the ould thaif of a rector was dealing out the cards which ye had given me, Shorsha, to his Holiness the Pope, the sub-rector, the almoner, and himself.”

In this part of his history I interrupted Murtagh, saying that I was afraid he was telling untruths, and that it was highly improbable that the Pope would leave the Vatican to play cards with Irish at their religious house, and that I was sure, if on his, Murtagh’s authority, I were to tell the world so, the world would never believe it.

“Then the world, Shorsha, would be a fool, even as you were just now saying you had frequently believed it to be; the grand thing, Shorsha, is to be able to believe oneself; if ye can do that, it matters very little whether the world believes ye or no. But a purty thing for you and the world to stickle at the Pope’s playing at cards at a religious house of Irish; och! if I were to tell you and the world what the Pope has been sometimes at, at the religious house of English thaives, I would excuse you and the world for turning up your eyes. However, I wish to say nothing against the Pope. I am a son of the Church, and if the Pope don’t interfere with my cards divil a bit will I have to say against him; but I saw the Pope playing, or about to play, with the pack which had been taken from me, and when I told the Pope, the Pope did not—ye had better let me go on with my history, Shorsha; whether you or the world belave it or not, I am sure it is quite as true as your tale of the snake, or saying that Finn got his burnt finger from the thaives of Loughlin; and whatever you may say, I am sure the world will think so too.”

I apologised to Murtagh for interrupting him, and telling him that his history, whether true or not, was infinitely diverting, begged him to continue it.

XLVI

“I was telling ye, Shorsha, when ye interrupted me, that I found the Pope, the rector, the sub-rector and the almoner seated at the table, the rector with my pack of cards in his hands, about to dale out to the Pope and the rest, not forgetting himself, for whom he intended all the trump-cards, no doubt. No sooner did they perceive me than they seemed taken all aback; but the rector, suddenly starting up with the cards in his hand, asked me what I did there, threatening to have me well disciplined if I did not go about my business; ‘I am come for my pack,’ said I, ‘ye ould thaif, and to tell his Holiness how I have been treated by ye’; then going down on my knees before his Holiness, I said, ‘Arrah, now, your Holiness! will ye not see justice done to a poor boy who has been sadly misused? The pack of cards which that ould ruffian has in his hand are my cards, which he has taken from me, in order to chate with. Arrah! don’t play with him, your Holiness, for he’ll only chate ye—there are dirty marks upon the cards which bear the trumps, put there in order to know them by; and the ould thaif in dealing out will give himself all the good cards, and chate ye of the last farthing in your pocket; so let them be taken from him, your Holiness and given back to me; and order him to lave the room, and then, if your Holiness be for an honest game, don’t think I am the boy to baulk ye. I’ll take the ould ruffian’s place, and play with ye till evening, and all night besides, and divil an advantage will I take of the dirty marks, though I know them all, having placed them on the cards myself.’ I was going on in this way when the ould thaif of a rector, flinging down the cards, made at me as if to kick me out of the room, whereupon I started up and said: ‘If ye are for kicking, sure two can play at that’; and then I kicked at his reverence, and his reverence at me, and there was a regular scrimmage between us, which frightened the Pope, who, getting up, said some words which I did not understand, but which the cook afterwards told me were, ‘English extravagance, and this is the second edition’; for it seems that, a little time before, his Holiness had been frightened in St. Peter’s Church by the servant of an English family, which those thaives of the English religious house had been endeavouring to bring over to the Catholic faith, and who didn’t approve of their being converted. Och! his Holiness did us all sore injustice to call us English, and to confound our house with the other; for however dirty our house might be, our house was a clane house compared with the English house, and we honest people compared with those English thaives. Well, his Holiness was frighted, and the almoner ran out, and brought in his Holiness’s attendants, and they laid hold of me, but I struggled hard, and said: ‘I will not go without my pack; arrah, your Holiness! make them give me back my pack, which Shorsha gave me in Dungarvon times of old’; but my struggles were of no use. I was pulled away and put in the ould dungeon, and his Holiness went away sore frighted, crossing himself much, and never returned again.

“In the ould dungeon I was fastened to the wall by a chain, and there I was disciplined once every other day for the first three weeks, and then I was left to myself, and my chain, and hunger; and there I sat in the dungeon, sometimes screeching, sometimes holloing, for I soon became frighted, having nothing in the cell to divert me. At last the cook found his way to me by stealth, and comforted me a little, bringing me tidbits out of the kitchen; and he visited me again and again—not often, however, for he dare only come when he could steal away the key from the custody of the thaif of a porter. I was three years in the dungeon, and should have gone mad but for the cook, and his words of comfort, and his tidbits, and nice books which he brought me out of the library, which were the Calendars of Newgate and the Lives of Irish Rogues and Raparees,339 the only English books in the library. However, at the end of three years, the ould thaif of a rector, wishing to look at them books, missed them from the library, and made a perquisition about them, and the thaif of a porter said that he shouldn’t wonder if I had them, saying that he had once seen me reading; and then the rector came with others to my cell, and took my books from me, from under my straw, and asked me how I came by them; and on my refusal to tell, they disciplined me again till the blood ran down my back; and making more perquisition they at last accused the cook of having carried the books to me, and the cook not denying, he was given warning to leave next day, but he left that night, and took me away with him, for he stole the key, and came to me and cut my chain through, and then he and I escaped from the religious house through a window—the cook with a bundle, containing what things he had. No sooner had we got out than the honest cook gave me a little bit of money and a loaf, and told me to follow a way which he pointed out, which he said would lead to the sea; and then, having embraced me after the Italian way, he left me, and I never saw him again. So I followed the way which the cook pointed out, and in two days reached a seaport called Chiviter Vik,340 terribly foot foundered, and there I met a sailor who spoke Irish, and who belonged to a vessel just ready to sail for France; and the sailor took me on board his vessel, and said I was his brother, and the captain gave me a passage to a place in France called Marseilles; and when I got there, the captain and sailor got a little money for me and a passport, and I travelled across the country towards a place they directed me to called Bayonne, from which they said I might, perhaps, get to Ireland. Coming, however, to a place called Pau, all my money being gone, I enlisted into a regiment called the Army of the Faith,341 which was going into Spain, for the King of Spain had been dethroned and imprisoned by his own subjects, as perhaps you may have heard; and the King of France, who was his cousin, was sending an army to help him, under the command of his own son, whom the English called Prince Hilt,342 because when he was told that he was appointed to the command, he clapped his hand on the hilt of his sword. So I enlisted into the regiment of the Faith, which was made up of Spaniards, many of them priests who had run out of Spain, and broken Germans, and foot-foundered Irish like myself. It was said to be a blackguard regiment, that same regiment of the Faith; but, ’faith, I saw nothing blackguardly going on in it, for you would hardly reckon card-playing, and dominoes, and pitch and toss blackguardly, and I saw nothing else going on in it. There was one thing in it which I disliked—the priests drawing their Spanish knives occasionally, when they lost their money. After we had been some time at Pau, the Army of the Faith was sent across the mountains into Spain, as the vanguard of the French; and no sooner did the Spaniards see the Faith than they made a dash at it, and the Faith ran away, myself along with it, and got behind the French army, which told it to keep there, and the Faith did so, and followed the French army, which soon scattered the Spaniards, and in the end placed the king on his throne again. When the war was over the Faith was disbanded; some of the foreigners, however, amongst whom I was one, were put into a Guard regiment, and there I continued for more than a year.

“One day, being at a place called the Escurial, I took stock, as the tradesmen say, and found I possessed the sum of eighty dollars won by playing at cards, for though I could not play so well with the foreign cards as with the pack ye gave me, Shorsha, I had yet contrived to win money from the priests and soldiers of the Faith. Finding myself possessed of such a capital I determined to leave the service, and to make the best of my way to Ireland; so I deserted, but coming in an evil hour to a place they calls Torre Lodones, I found the priest playing at cards with his parishioners. The sight of the cards made me stop, and then, fool like, notwithstanding the treasure I had about me, I must wish to play, so not being able to speak their language, I made signs to them to let me play, and the priest and his thaives consented willingly; so I sat down to cards with the priest and two of his parishioners, and in a little time had won plenty of their money, but I had better never have done any such a thing, for suddenly the priest and all his parishioners set upon me and bate me, and took from me all I had, and cast me out of the village more dead than alive. Och! it’s a bad village that; and if I had known what it was I would have avoided it, or run straight through it, though I saw all the card-playing in the world going on in it. There is a proverb about it, as I was afterwards told, old as the time of the Moors, which holds good to the present day—it is, that in Torre Lodones there are twenty-four housekeepers, and twenty-five thieves, maning that all the people are thaives, and the clergyman to boot, who is not reckoned a housekeeper; and troth I found the clergyman the greatest thaif of the lot. After being cast out of that village I travelled for nearly a month, subsisting by begging tolerably well, for though most of the Spanish are thaives, they are rather charitable; but though charitable thaives they do not like their own being taken from them without leave being asked, as I found to my cost; for on my entering a garden near Seville, without leave, to take an orange, the labourer came running up and struck me to the ground with a hatchet, giving me a big wound in the arm. I fainted with loss of blood, and on reviving I found myself in a hospital at Seville, to which the labourer and the people of the village had taken me. I should have died of starvation in that hospital had not some English people heard of me and come to see me; they tended me with food till I was cured, and then paid my passage on board a ship to London, to which place the ship carried me.

“And now I was in London with five shillings in my pocket—all I had in the world—and that did not last for long; and when it was gone I begged in the streets, but I did not get much by that, except a month’s hard labour in the correction-house; and when I came out I knew not what to do, but thought I would take a walk in the country, for it was springtime, and the weather was fine, so I took a walk about seven miles from London, and came to a place where a great fair was being held; and there I begged, but got nothing but a halfpenny, and was thinking of going farther when I saw a man with a table, like that of mine, playing with thimbles, as you saw me. I looked at the play, and saw him win money, and run away, and hunted by constables more than once. I kept following the man, and at last entered into conversation with him; and learning from him that he was in want of a companion to help him, I offered to help him if he would pay me; he looked at me from top to toe, and did not wish at first to have anything to do with me, as he said my appearance was against me. ’Faith, Shorsha, he had better have looked at home, for his appearance was not much in his favour: he looked very much like a Jew, Shorsha. However, he at last agreed to take me to be his companion or bonnet as he called it; and I was to keep a lookout, and let him know when constables were coming, and to spake a good word for him occasionally, whilst he was chating folks with his thimbles and his pea. So I became his bonnet, and assisted him in the fair, and in many other fairs beside; but I did not like my occupation much, or rather my master, who, though not a big man, was a big thaif, and an unkind one, for do all I could I could never give him pleasure; and he was continually calling me fool and bogtrotter, and twitting me because I could not learn his thaives’ Latin, and discourse with him in it, and comparing me with another acquaintance, or bit of a pal of his, whom he said he had parted with in the fair, and of whom he was fond of saying all kinds of wonderful things, amongst others, that he knew the grammar of all tongues. At last, wearied with being twitted by him with not being able to learn his thaives’ Greek, I proposed that I should teach him Irish, that we should spake it together when we had anything to say in secret. To that he consented willingly; but, och! a purty hand he made with Irish, ’faith, not much better than did I with his thaives’ Hebrew. Then my turn came, and I twitted him nicely with dullness, and compared him with a pal that I had in ould Ireland, in Dungarvon times of yore, to whom I teached Irish, telling him that he was the broth of a boy, and not only knew the grammar of all human tongues, but the dialects of the snakes besides; in fact, I tould him all about your own swate sell; Shorsha, and many a dispute and quarrel had we together about our pals, which was the cleverest fellow, his or mine.

“Well, after having been wid him about two months, I quitted him without noise, taking away one of his tables, and some peas and thimbles; and that I did with a safe conscience, for he paid me nothing, and was not over free with the meat and the drink, though I must say of him that he was a clever fellow, and perfect master of his trade, by which he made a power of money, and bating his not being able to learn Irish, and a certain Jewish lisp which he had, a great master of his tongue, of which he was very proud; so much so, that he once told me that when he had saved a certain sum of money he meant to leave off the thimbling business, and enter Parliament; into which, he said, he could get at any time, through the interest of a friend of his, a Tory Peer—my Lord Whitefeather, with whom, he said, he had occasionally done business. With the table, and other things which I had taken, I commenced trade on my own account, having contrived to learn a few of his tricks. My only capital was the change for half a guinea, which he had once let fall, and which I picked up, which was all I could ever get from him: for it was impossible to stale any money from him, he was so awake, being up to all the tricks of thaives, having followed the diving trade, as he called it, for a considerable time. My wish was to make enough by my table to enable me to return with credit to ould Ireland, where I had no doubt of being able to get myself ordained as priest; and, in troth, notwithstanding I was a beginner, and without any companion to help me, I did tolerably well, getting my meat and drink, and increasing my small capital, till I came to this unlucky place of Horncastle, where I was utterly ruined by the thaif in the rider’s dress. And now, Shorsha, I am after telling you my history; perhaps you will now be telling me something about yourself?”

I told Murtagh all about myself that I deemed necessary to relate, and then asked him what he intended to do; he repeated that he was utterly ruined, and that he had no prospect before him but starving, or making away with himself. I inquired “How much would take him to Ireland, and establish him there with credit.” “Five pounds,” he answered, adding, “but who in the world would be fool enough to lend me five pounds, unless it be yourself, Shorsha, who, may be, have not got it; for when you told me about yourself, you made no boast of the state of your affairs.” “I am not very rich,” I replied, “but I think I can accommodate you with what you want. I consider myself under great obligations to you, Murtagh; it was you who instructed me in the language of Oilein nan Naomha, which has been the foundation of all my acquisitions in philology; without you, I should not be what I am—Lavengro! which signifies a philologist. Here is the money, Murtagh,” said I, putting my hand into my pocket, and taking out five pounds, “much good may it do you.” He took the money, stared at it, and then at me—“And you mane to give me this, Shorsha?” “It is no longer mine to give,” said I; “it is yours.” “And you give it to me for the gratitude you bear me?” “Yes,” said I, “and for Dungarvon times of old.” “Well, Shorsha,” said he, “you are a broth of a boy, and I’ll take your benefaction—five pounds! och, Jasus!” He then put the money in his pocket, and springing up, waved his hat three times, uttering some old Irish cry; then, sitting down, he took my hand, and said: “Sure, Shorsha, I’ll be going thither; and when I get there, it is turning over another leaf I will be; I have learnt a thing or two abroad; I will become a priest; that’s the trade, Shorsha! and I will cry out for repale; that’s the cry, Shorsha! and I’ll be a fool no longer.” “And what will you do with your table?” said I. “ ’Faith, I’ll be taking it with me, Shorsha; and when I gets to Ireland, I’ll get it mended, and I will keep it in the house which I shall have; and when I looks upon it, I will be thinking of all I have undergone.” “You had better leave it behind you,” said I; “if you take it with you, you will, perhaps, take up the thimble trade again before you get to Ireland, and lose the money I am after giving you.” “No fear of that, Shorsha; never will I play on that table again, Shorsha, till I get it mended, which shall not be till I am a priest, and have a house in which to place it.”

Murtagh and I then went into the town, where we had some refreshment together, and then parted on our several ways. I heard nothing of him for nearly a quarter of a century, when a person who knew him well, coming from Ireland, and staying at my humble house, told me a great deal about him. He reached Ireland in safety, soon reconciled himself with his Church, and was ordained a priest; in the priestly office he acquitted himself in a way very satisfactory, upon the whole, to his superiors, having, as he frequently said, learned wisdom abroad. The Popish Church never fails to turn to account any particular gift which its servants may possess; and discovering soon that Murtagh was endowed with considerable manual dexterity—proof of which he frequently gave at cards, and at a singular game which he occasionally played at thimbles—it selected him as a very fit person to play the part of exorcist; and accordingly he travelled through a great part of Ireland, casting out devils from people possessed, which he afterwards exhibited, sometimes in the shape of rabbits, and occasionally birds and fishes. There is a holy island in a lake in Ireland, to which the people resort at a particular season of the year. Here Murtagh frequently attended, and it was here that he performed a cure which will cause his name long to be remembered in Ireland, delivering a possessed woman of two demons, which he brandished aloft in his hands, in the shape of two large eels, and subsequently hurled into the lake, amidst the shouts of an enthusiastic multitude. Besides playing the part of an exorcist, he acted that of a politician with considerable success; he attached himself to the party of the sire of agitation—“the man of paunch,” and preached and hallooed for repeal with the loudest and best, as long as repeal was the cry; as soon, however, as the Whigs attained the helm of Government, and the greater part of the loaves and fishes—more politely termed the patronage of Ireland—was placed at the disposition of the priesthood, the tone of Murtagh, like that of the rest of his brother saggarts, was considerably softened; he even went so far as to declare that politics were not altogether consistent with sacerdotal duty; and resuming his exorcisms, which he had for some time abandoned, he went to the Isle of Holiness, and delivered a possessed woman of six demons in the shape of white mice. He, however, again resumed the political mantle in the year 1848, during the short period of the rebellion of the so-called Young Irelanders. The priests, though they apparently sided with this party, did not approve of it, as it was chiefly formed of ardent young men, fond of what they termed liberty, and by no means admirers of priestly domination, being mostly Protestants. Just before the outbreak of this rebellion, it was determined between the priests and the ———, that this party should be rendered comparatively innocuous by being deprived of the sinews of war—in other words, certain sums of money which they had raised for their enterprise. Murtagh was deemed the best qualified person in Ireland to be entrusted with the delicate office of getting their money from them. Having received his instructions, he invited the leaders to his parsonage amongst the mountains, under pretence of deliberating with them about what was to be done. They arrived there just before nightfall, dressed in red, yellow and green, the colours so dear to enthusiastic Irishmen; Murtagh received them with great apparent cordiality, and entered into a long discourse with them, promising them the assistance of himself and order, and received from them a profusion of thanks. After a time Murtagh, observing, in a jocular tone, that consulting was dull work, proposed a game of cards, and the leaders, though somewhat surprised, assenting, he went to a closet, and taking out a pack of cards, laid it upon the table; it was a strange dirty pack, and exhibited every mark of having seen very long service. On one of his guests making some remarks on the “ancientness” of its appearance, Murtagh observed that there was a very wonderful history attached to that pack; it had been presented to him, he said, by a young gentleman, a disciple of his, to whom, in Dungarvon times of yore, he had taught the Irish language, and of whom he related some very extraordinary things; he added that he, Murtagh, had taken it to ———,343 where it had once the happiness of being in the hands of the Holy Father; by a great misfortune, he did not say what, he had lost possession of it, and had returned without it, but had some time since recovered it; a nephew of his, who was being educated at ———344 for a priest, having found it in a nook of the college, and sent it to him.

Murtagh and the leaders then played various games with this pack, more especially one called by the initiated “blind hookey,” the result being that at the end of about two hours the leaders found they had lost one-half of their funds; they now looked serious, and talked of leaving the house, but Murtagh begging them to stay supper, they consented. After supper, at which the guests drank rather freely, Murtagh said that, as he had not the least wish to win their money, he intended to give them their revenge; he would not play at cards with them, he added, but at a funny game of thimbles, at which they would be sure of winning back their own; then going out, he brought in a table, tall and narrow, on which placing certain thimbles and a pea, he proposed that they should stake whatever they pleased on the almost certainty of finding the pea under the thimbles. The leaders, after some hesitation, consented, and were at first eminently successful, winning back the greater part of what they had lost; after some time, however, Fortune, or rather Murtagh, turned against them, and then, instead of leaving off, they doubled and trebled their stakes, and continued doing so until they had lost nearly the whole of their funds. Quite furious, they now swore that Murtagh had cheated them, and insisted on having their property restored to them. Murtagh, without a word of reply, went to the door, and shouting into the passage something in Irish, the room was instantly filled with bogtrotters, each at least six feet high, with a stout shillelah in his hand. Murtagh then turning to his guests, asked them what they meant by insulting an anointed priest; telling them that it was not for the likes of them to avenge the wrongs of Ireland. “I have been clane mistaken in the whole of ye,” said he, “I supposed ye Irish, but have found, to my sorrow, that ye are nothing of the kind; purty fellows to pretend to be Irish, when there is not a word of Irish on the tongue of any of ye, divil a ha’porth; the illigant young gentleman to whom I taught Irish, in Dungarvon times of old, though not born in Ireland, has more Irish in him than any ten of ye. He is the boy to avenge the wrongs of Ireland, if ever foreigner is to do it.” Then saying something to the bogtrotters, they instantly cleared the room of the young Irelanders, who retired sadly disconcerted; nevertheless, being very silly young fellows, they hoisted the standard of rebellion; few, however, joining them, partly because they had no money, and partly because the priests abused them with might and main, their rebellion ended in a lamentable manner; themselves being seized and tried, and though convicted, not deemed of sufficient importance to be sent to the scaffold, where they might have had the satisfaction of saying—

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

My visitor, after saying that of the money won, Murtagh retained a considerable portion, that a part went to the hierarchy for what were called church purposes, and that the ——— took the remainder, which it employed in establishing a newspaper, in which the private characters of the worthiest and most loyal Protestants in Ireland were traduced and vilified, concluded his account by observing, that it was the common belief that Murtagh, having by his services, ecclesiastical and political, acquired the confidence of the priesthood and favour of the Government, would, on the first vacancy, be appointed to the high office of Popish Primate of Ireland.

XLVII

Leaving Horncastle I bent my steps in the direction of the east.345 I walked at a brisk rate, and late in the evening reached a large town, situate at the entrance of an extensive firth, or arm of the sea, which prevented my farther progress eastward. Sleeping that night in the suburbs of the town, I departed early next morning in the direction of the south. A walk of about twenty miles brought me to another large town, situated on a river, where I again turned towards the east. At the end of the town I was accosted by a fiery-faced individual, somewhat under the middle size, dressed as a recruiting sergeant.

“Young man,” said the recruiting sergeant, “you are just the kind of person to serve the Honourable East India Company.”

“I had rather the Honourable Company should serve me,” said I.

“Of course, young man. Well, the Honourable East India Company shall serve you—that’s reasonable. Here, take this shilling; ’tis service-money. The Honourable Company engages to serve you, and you the Honourable Company; both parties shall be thus served; that’s just and reasonable.”

“And what must I do for the Company?”

“Only go to India; that’s all.”

“And what should I do in India?”

“Fight, my brave boy! fight, my youthful hero!”

“What kind of country is India?”

“The finest country in the world! Rivers, bigger than the Ouse. Hills, higher than anything near Spalding! Trees—you never saw such trees! Fruits—you never saw such fruits!”

“And the people—what kind of folk are they?”

“Pah! Kauloes—blacks—a set of rascals not worth regarding.”

“Kauloes!” said I; “blacks!”

“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant; “and they call us lolloes, which in their beastly gibberish, means reds.”

“Lolloes!” said I; “reds!”

“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant, “kauloes and lolloes; and all the lolloes have to do is to kick and cut down the kauloes, and take from them their rupees, which mean silver money. Why do you stare so?”

“Why,” said I, “this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro.”

“Mr. Pet—?”

“Yes,” said I, “and Tawno Chikno.”

“Tawno Chik—? I say, young fellow, I don’t like your way of speaking; no, nor your way of looking. You are mad, sir; you are mad; and what’s this? Why your hair is grey! You won’t do for the Honourable Company—they like red. I’m glad I didn’t give you the shilling. Good day to you.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I as I proceeded rapidly along a broad causeway, in the direction of the east, “if Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno came originally from India. I think I’ll go there.”

Part
III

Appendix

I

A Word for Lavengro

[Shortly after the publication of the first three volumes of the present work, the author received various letters from individuals, in which he was requested to state what might be the drift and tendency of Lavengro. The author cannot help thinking it somewhat extraordinary, that, after a preface in which he was particularly careful to tell the public what the book was, and the object with which it was written, any fresh information with respect to it should be required of him. As, however, all the letters which he has received have been written in a friendly spirit, he will now endeavour to be a little more explicit than on a former occasion.]

Lavengro is the history up to a certain period of one of rather a peculiar mind and system of nerves, with an exterior shy and cold, under which lurk much curiosity, especially with regard to what is wild and extraordinary, a considerable quantity of energy and industry, and an unconquerable love of independence. It narrates his earliest dreams and feelings, dwells with minuteness on the ways, words and characters of his father, mother and brother, lingers on the occasional resting-places of his wandering half-military childhood, describes the gradual hardening of his bodily frame by robust exercises, his successive struggles, after his family and himself have settled down in a small local capital, to obtain knowledge of every kind, but more particularly philological lore; his visits to the tent of the Romany chal, and the parlour of the Anglo-German philosopher; the effect produced upon his character by his flinging himself into contact with people all widely differing from each other, but all extraordinary; his reluctance to settle down to the ordinary pursuits of life; his struggles after moral truth; his glimpses of God and the obscuration of the Divine Being, to his mind’s eye; and his being cast upon the world of London by the death of his father, at the age of nineteen.346 In the world within a world, the world of London, it shows him playing his part for some time as he best can, in the capacity of a writer for reviews and magazines, and describes what he saw and underwent whilst labouring in that capacity; it represents him, however, as never forgetting that he is the son of a brave but poor gentleman, and that if he is a hack author, he is likewise a scholar. It shows him doing no dishonourable jobs, and proves that if he occasionally associates with low characters, he does so chiefly to gratify the curiosity of a scholar. In his conversations with the apple-woman of London Bridge, the scholar is ever apparent, so again in his acquaintance with the man of the table; for the book is no raker up of the uncleanness of London, and if it gives what at first sight appears refuse, it invariably shows that a pearl of some kind, generally a philological one, is contained amongst it; it shows its hero always accompanied by his love of independence, scorning in the greatest poverty to receive favours from anybody, and describes him finally rescuing himself from peculiarly miserable circumstances by writing a book, an original book, within a week, even as Johnson is said to have written his Rasselas, and Beckford his Vathek, and tells how, leaving London, he betakes himself to the roads and fields.

In the country it shows him leading a life of roving adventure, becoming tinker, gypsy, postillion, ostler; associating with various kinds of people, chiefly of the lower classes, whose ways and habits are described; but, though leading this erratic life, we gather from the book that his habits are neither vulgar nor vicious, that he still follows to a certain extent his favourite pursuits, hunting after strange characters, or analysing strange words and names. At the conclusion of the fifth volume, which terminates the first part of the history, it hints that he is about to quit his native land on a grand philological expedition.

Those who read this book with attention—and the author begs to observe that it would be of little utility to read it hurriedly—may derive much information with respect to matters of philology and literature; it will be found treating of most of the principal languages from Ireland to China, and of the literature which they contain; and it is particularly minute with regard to the ways, manners and speech of the English section of the most extraordinary and mysterious clan or tribe of people to be found in the whole world—the children of Roma.347 But it contains matters of much more importance than anything in connection with philology, and the literature and manners of nations. Perhaps no work was ever offered to the public in which the kindness and providence of God have been set forth by more striking examples, or the machinations of priestcraft been more truly and lucidly exposed, or the dangers which result to a nation when it abandons itself to effeminacy, and a rage for what is novel and fashionable, than the present.

With respect to the kindness and providence of God, are they not exemplified in the case of the old apple-woman and her son? These are beings in many points bad, but with warm affections, who, after an agonising separation, are restored to each other, but not until the hearts of both are changed and purified by the influence of affliction. Are they not exemplified in the case of the rich gentleman, who touches objects in order to avert the evil chance? This being has great gifts and many amiable qualities, but does not everybody see that his besetting sin is selfishness? He fixes his mind on certain objects, and takes inordinate interest in them, because they are his own, and those very objects, through the providence of God, which is kindness in disguise, become snakes and scorpions to whip him. Tired of various pursuits, he at last becomes an author, and publishes a book, which is very much admired, and which he loves with his usual inordinate affection; the book, consequently becomes a viper to him, and at last he flings it aside and begins another; the book, however, is not flung aside by the world, who are benefited by it, deriving pleasure and knowledge from it: so the man who merely wrote to gratify self, has already done good to others, and got himself an honourable name. But God will not allow that man to put that book under his head and use it as a pillow: the book has become a viper to him, he has banished it, and is about another, which he finishes and gives to the world; it is a better book than the first, and everyone is delighted with it; but it proves to the writer a scorpion, because he loves it with inordinate affection; but it was good for the world that he produced this book, which stung him as a scorpion. Yes; and good for himself, for the labour of writing it amused him, and perhaps prevented him from dying of apoplexy; but the book is banished, and another is begun, and herein, again, is the providence of God manifested; the man has the power of producing still, and God determines that he shall give to the world what remains in his brain, which he would not do, had he been satisfied with the second work; he would have gone to sleep upon that as he would upon the first, for the man is selfish and lazy. In his account of what he suffered during the composition of this work, his besetting sin of selfishness is manifest enough; the work on which he is engaged occupies his every thought, it is his idol, his deity, it shall be all his own, he won’t borrow a thought from anyone else, and he is so afraid lest, when he publishes it, that it should be thought that he had borrowed from anyone, that he is continually touching objects, his nervous system, owing to his extreme selfishness, having become partly deranged. He is left touching, in order to banish the evil chance from his book, his deity. No more of his history is given; but does the reader think that God will permit that man to go to sleep on his third book, however extraordinary it may be? Assuredly not. God will not allow that man to rest till he has cured him to a certain extent of his selfishness, which has, however, hitherto been very useful to the world.

Then, again, in the tale of Peter Williams, is not the hand of Providence to be seen? This person commits a sin in his childhood, utters words of blasphemy, the remembrance of which, in after life, preying upon his imagination, unfits him for quiet pursuits, to which he seems to have been naturally inclined; but for the remembrance of that sin, he would have been Peter Williams the quiet, respectable Welsh farmer, somewhat fond of reading the ancient literature of his country in winter evenings, after his work was done. God, however, was aware that there was something in Peter Williams to entitle him to assume a higher calling; he therefore permits this sin, which, though a childish affair, was yet a sin, and committed deliberately, to prey upon his mind till he becomes at last an instrument in the hand of God, a humble Paul, the great preacher, Peter Williams, who, though he considers himself a reprobate and a castaway, instead of having recourse to drinking in mad desperation, as many do who consider themselves reprobates, goes about Wales and England preaching the word of God, dilating on his power and majesty, and visiting the sick and afflicted, until God sees fit to restore to him his peace of mind; which he does not do, however, until that mind is in a proper condition to receive peace, till it has been purified by the pain of the one idea which has so long been permitted to riot in his brain; which pain, however, an angel, in the shape of a gentle, faithful wife, had occasionally alleviated; for God is merciful even in the blows which He bestoweth, and will not permit anyone to be tempted beyond the measure which he can support. And here it will be as well for the reader to ponder upon the means by which the Welsh preacher is relieved from his mental misery: he is not relieved by a text from the Bible, by the words of consolation and wisdom addressed to him by his angel-minded wife, nor by the preaching of one yet more eloquent than himself; but by a quotation made by Lavengro from the life of Mary Flanders, cutpurse and prostitute, which life Lavengro had been in the habit of reading at the stall of his old friend the apple-woman, on London Bridge, who had herself been very much addicted to the perusal of it, though without any profit whatever. Should the reader be dissatisfied with the manner in which Peter Williams is made to find relief, the author would wish to answer, that the Almighty frequently accomplishes his purposes by means which appear very singular to the eyes of men, and at the same time to observe that the manner in which that relief is obtained, is calculated to read a lesson to the proud, fanciful and squeamish, who are ever in a fidget lest they should be thought to mix with low society or to bestow a moment’s attention on publications which are not what is called of a perfectly unobjectionable character. Had not Lavengro formed the acquaintance of the old apple-woman on London Bridge, he would not have had an opportunity of reading the life of Mary Flanders; and, consequently, of storing in a memory, which never forgets anything, a passage which contained a balm for the agonised mind of poor Peter Williams. The best medicines are not always found in the finest shops. Suppose, for example, if, instead of going to London Bridge to read, he had gone to Albemarle Street, and had received from the proprietors of the literary establishment in that very fashionable street, permission to read the publications on the tables of the saloons there, does the reader think he would have met any balm in those publications for the case of Peter Williams? does the reader suppose that he would have found Mary Flanders there? He would certainly have found that highly unobjectionable publication Rasselas, and the Spectator, or Lives of Royal and Illustrious Personages, but, of a surety, no Mary Flanders;348 so when Lavengro met with Peter Williams, he would have been unprovided with a balm to cure his ulcerated mind, and have parted from him in a way not quite so satisfactory as the manner in which he took his leave of him; for it is certain that he might have read Rasselas, and all the other unexceptionable works to be found in the library of Albemarle Street, over and over again, before he would have found any cure in them for the case of Peter Williams. Therefore the author requests the reader to drop any squeamish nonsense he may wish to utter about Mary Flanders, and the manner in which Peter Williams was cured.

And now with respect to the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o’clock. This individual was a man whose natural powers would have been utterly buried and lost beneath a mountain of sloth and laziness had not God determined otherwise. He had in his early years chalked out for himself a plan of life in which he had his own ease and self-indulgence solely in view; he had no particular bad passions to gratify, he only wished to lead an easy, quiet life, just as if the business of this mighty world could be carried on by innocent people fond of ease and quiet, or that Providence would permit innocent, quiet drones to occupy any portion of the earth and to cumber it. God had at any rate decreed that this man should not cumber it as a drone. He brings a certain affliction upon him, the agony of which produces that terrible whirling of the brain which, unless it is stopped in time, produces madness; he suffers indescribable misery for a period, until one morning his attention is arrested, and his curiosity is aroused, by certain Chinese letters on a teapot; his curiosity increases more and more, and, of course, in proportion as his curiosity is increased with respect to the Chinese marks, the misery in his brain, produced by his mental affliction, decreases. He sets about learning Chinese, and after the lapse of many years, during which his mind subsides into a certain state of tranquillity, he acquires sufficient knowledge of Chinese to be able to translate with ease the inscriptions to be found on its singular crockery. Yes, the laziest of human beings, through the providence of God, a being, too, of rather inferior capacity, acquires the written part of a language so difficult that, as Lavengro said on a former occasion, none but the cleverest people in Europe, the French, are able to acquire it. But God did not intend that man should merely acquire Chinese. He intended that he should be of use to his species, and by the instrumentality of the first Chinese inscription which he translates, the one which first arrested his curiosity, he is taught the duties of hospitality; yes, by means of an inscription in the language of a people, who have scarcely an idea of hospitality themselves, God causes the slothful man to play a useful and beneficent part in the world, relieving distressed wanderers, and, amongst others, Lavengro himself. But a striking indication of the man’s surprising sloth is still apparent in what he omits to do; he has learnt Chinese, the most difficult of languages, and he practises acts of hospitality, because he believes himself enjoined to do so by the Chinese inscription, but he cannot tell the hour of the day by the clock within his house; he can get on, he thinks, very well without being able to do so; therefore, from this one omission, it is easy to come to a conclusion as to what a sluggard’s part the man would have played in life, but for the dispensation of Providence; nothing but extreme agony could have induced such a man to do anything useful. He still continues, with all he has acquired, with all his usefulness, and with all his innocence of character, without any proper sense of religion, though he has attained a rather advanced age. If it be observed, that this want of religion is a great defect in the story, the author begs leave to observe that he cannot help it. Lavengro relates the lives of people so far as they were placed before him, but no further. It was certainly a great defect in so good a man to be without religion; it was likewise a great defect in so learned a man not to be able to tell what was o’clock. It is probable that God, in His loving kindness, will not permit that man to go out of the world without religion; who knows but some powerful minister of the Church, full of zeal for the glory of God, will illume that man’s dark mind; perhaps some clergyman will come to the parish who will visit him and teach him his duty to his God. Yes, it is very probable that such a man, before he dies, will have been made to love his God; whether he will ever learn to know what’s o’clock, is another matter. It is probable that he will go out of the world without knowing what’s o’clock. It is not so necessary to be able to tell the time of day by the clock as to know one’s God through His inspired word; a man cannot get to heaven without religion, but a man can get there very comfortably without knowing what’s o’clock.

But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested in the case of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is enabled to make his way in the world up to a certain period, without falling a prey either to vice or poverty. In his history, there is a wonderful illustration of part of the text, quoted by his mother: “I have been young, but now am old, yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread.” He is the son of good and honourable parents, but at the critical period of life, that of entering into the world, he finds himself without any earthly friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way; he does not become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor does he get into Parliament, nor does the last volume conclude in the most satisfactory and unobjectionable manner, by his marrying a dowager countess, as that wise man Addison did, or by his settling down as a great country gentleman, perfectly happy and contented, like the very moral Roderick Random, or the equally estimable Peregrine Pickle; he is hack author, gypsy, tinker and postillion, yet, upon the whole, he seems to be quite as happy as the younger sons of most earls, to have as high feelings of honour; and when the reader loses sight of him, he has money in his pocket honestly acquired, to enable him to commence a journey quite as laudable as those which the younger sons of earls generally undertake. Surely all this is a manifestation of the kindness and providence of God; and yet he is not a religious person; up to the time when the reader loses sight of him, he is decidedly not a religious person; he has glimpses, it is true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he prays very seldom, is not fond of going to church; and, though he admires Tate and Brady’s version of the Psalms, his admiration is rather caused by the beautiful poetry which that version contains than the religion; yet his tale is not finished—like the tale of the gentleman who touched objects, and that of the old man who knew Chinese without knowing what was o’clock; perhaps, like them, he is destined to become religious, and to have, instead of occasional glimpses frequent and distinct views of his God; yet, though he may become religious, it is hardly to be expected that he will become a very precise and straightlaced person; it is probable that he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his gypsyism, his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps some inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any friend who may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and a readiness to take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and as little hop as may well be—ale at least two years old—with the aforesaid friend, when the diversion is over; for, as it is the belief of the writer that a person may get to heaven very comfortably without knowing what’s o’clock, so it is his belief that he will not be refused admission there, because to the last he has been fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a willingness to partake of any of the good things which it pleases the Almighty to put within the reach of his children during their sojourn upon earth.

II

On Priestcraft

The writer will now say a few words about priestcraft, and the machinations of Rome, and will afterwards say something about himself, and his motives for writing against them.

With respect to Rome, and her machinations, much valuable information can be obtained from particular parts of Lavengro, and its sequel. Shortly before the time when the hero of the book is launched into the world, the Popish agitation in England had commenced. The Popish propaganda had determined to make a grand attempt on England; Popish priests were scattered over the land, doing the best they could to make converts to the old superstition. With the plans of Rome, and her hopes, and the reasons on which those hopes are grounded, the hero of the book becomes acquainted, during an expedition which he makes into the country, from certain conversations which he holds with a priest in a dingle, in which the hero had taken up his residence; he likewise learns from the same person much of the secret history of the Roman See, and many matters connected with the origin and progress of the Popish superstition. The individual with whom he holds these conversations is a learned, intelligent, but highly-unprincipled person, of a character however very common amongst the priests of Rome, who in general are people void of all religion, and who, notwithstanding they are tied to Rome by a band which they have neither the power nor wish to break, turn her and her practices, over their cups with their confidential associates, to a ridicule only exceeded by that to which they turn those who become the dupes of their mistress and themselves.

It is now necessary that the writer should say something with respect to himself, and his motives for waging war against Rome. First of all, with respect to himself, he wishes to state, that to the very last moment of his life, he will do and say all that in his power may be to hold up to contempt and execration the priestcraft and practices of Rome; there is, perhaps, no person better acquainted than himself, not even among the choicest spirits of the priesthood, with the origin and history of Popery. From what he saw and heard of Popery in England, at a very early period of his life, his curiosity was aroused, and he spared himself no trouble, either by travel or study, to make himself well acquainted with it in all its phases, the result being a hatred of it, which he hopes and trusts he shall retain till the moment when his spirit quits the body. Popery is the great lie of the world; a source from which more misery and social degradation have flowed upon the human race, than from all the other sources from which those evils come. It is the oldest of all superstitions; and though in Europe it assumes the name of Christianity, it existed and flourished amidst the Himalayan hills at least two thousand years before the real Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea; in a word, it is Buddhism; and let those who may be disposed to doubt this assertion, compare the Popery of Rome, and the superstitious practices of its followers, with the doings of the priests who surround the grand Lama; and the mouthings, bellowing, turnings round, and, above all, the penances of the followers of Buddha with those of Roman devotees. But he is not going to dwell here on this point; it is dwelt upon at tolerable length in the text, and has likewise been handled with extraordinary power by the pen of the gifted but irreligious Volney; moreover, the élite of the Roman priesthood are perfectly well aware that their system is nothing but Buddhism under a slight disguise, and the European world in general has entertained for some time past an inkling of the fact.

And now a few words with respect to the motives of the writer for expressing a hatred for Rome.

This expressed abhorrence of the author for Rome might be entitled to little regard, provided it were possible to attribute it to any self-interested motive. There have been professed enemies of Rome, or of this or that system; but their professed enmity may frequently be traced to some cause which does them little credit; but the writer of these lines has no motive, and can have no motive, for his enmity to Rome, save the abhorrence of an honest heart for what is false, base and cruel. A certain clergyman wrote with much heat against the Papists in the time of ———349 who was known to favour the Papists, but was not expected to continue long in office, and whose supposed successor,350 the person, indeed, who did succeed him, was thought to be hostile to the Papists. This divine, who obtained a rich benefice from the successor of ———351 who during352 time had always opposed him in everything he proposed to do, and who, of course, during that time affected to be very inimical to Popery—this divine might well be suspected of having a motive equally creditable for writing against the Papists, as that which induced him to write for them, as soon as his patron, who eventually did something more for him,353 had espoused their cause; but what motive, save an honest one, can the present writer have, for expressing an abhorrence of Popery? He is no clergyman, and consequently can expect neither benefices nor bishoprics, supposing it were the fashion of the present, or likely to be the fashion of any future administration to reward clergymen with benefices or bishoprics, who, in the defence of the religion of their country write, or shall write, against Popery, and not to reward those who write, or shall write, in favour of it, and all its nonsense and abominations.

“But if not a clergyman, he is the servant of a certain society which has the overthrow of Popery in view, and therefore,” etc. This assertion, which has been frequently made, is incorrect, even as those who have made it probably knew it to be. He is the servant of no society whatever. He eats his own bread,354 and is one of the very few men in England who are independent in every sense of the word.

It is true he went to Spain with the colours of that society on his hat—oh! the blood glows in his veins! oh! the marrow awakes in his old bones when he thinks of what he accomplished in Spain in the cause of religion and civilisation with the colours of that society in his hat, and its weapon in his hand, even the sword of the word of God; how with that weapon he hewed left and right, making the priests fly before him, and run away squeaking: “Vaya! qué demonio es este!”355 Ay, and when he thinks of the plenty of Bible swords which he left behind him, destined to prove, and which have already proved, pretty calthrops in the heels of Popery. “Halloo! Batuschca,” he exclaimed the other night on reading an article in a newspaper;356 “what do you think of the present doings in Spain? Your old friend the zingaro, the gitano who rode about Spain, to say nothing of Galicia, with the Greek Buchini behind him as his squire, had a hand in bringing them about; there are many brave Spaniards connected with the present movement357 who took Bibles from his hands, and read them and profited by them, learning from the inspired page the duties of one man towards another, and the real value of a priesthood and their head, who set at nought the Word of God, and think only of their own temporal interests; ay, and who learned Gitano—their own Gitano—from the lips of the London Caloró, and also songs in the said Gitano, very fit to dumbfounder your semi-Buddhist priests when they attempt to bewilder people’s minds with their school-logic and pseudo-ecclesiastical nonsense, songs such as—

“ ’Un Erajai
Sinaba chibando un sermon”358

But with that society he has long since ceased to have any connection; he bade it adieu with feelings of love and admiration more than fourteen years ago, so in continuing to assault Popery, no hopes of interest founded on that society can sway his mind—interest! who, with worldly interest in view, would ever have anything to do with that society? It is poor and supported, like its founder Christ, by poor people; and so far from having political influence, it is in such disfavour, and has ever been, with the dastardly great, to whom the government of England has for many years past been confided, that the having borne its colours only for a month would be sufficient to exclude any man, whatever his talents, his learning, or his courage may be, from the slightest chance of being permitted to serve his country either for fee, or without. A fellow who unites in himself the bankrupt trader, the broken author, or rather bookmaker, and the laughed-down single speech spouter of the House of Commons, may look forward, always supposing that at one time he has been a foaming radical, to the government of an important colony. Ay, an ancient fox who has lost his tail may, provided he has a score of radical friends, who will swear that he can bark Chinese, though Chinese is not barked but sung, be forced upon a Chinese colony, though it is well known that to have lost one’s tail, is considered by the Chinese in general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been once connected with a certain society, to which, to its honour be it said, all the radical party are vehemently hostile, would be quite sufficient to keep anyone not only from a government, but something much less, even though he could translate the rhymed Sessions of Hariri,359 and were versed, still retaining his tail, in the two languages360 in which Kien-Loung wrote his Eulogium on Moukden, that piece which, translated by Amyot, the learned Jesuit, won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire.

No! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he would, instead of writing against Popery, write for it; all the trumpery titled—he will not call them great again—would then be for him, and their masters the radicals, with their hosts of newspapers, would be for him, more especially if he would commence maligning the society whose colours he had once on his hat—a society which, as the priest says in the text, is one of the very few Protestant institutions for which the Popish Church entertains any fear, and consequently respect, as it respects nothing which it does not fear. The writer said that certain “rulers” would never forgive him for having been connected with that society; he went perhaps too far in saying “never.” It is probable that they would take him into favour on one condition, which is, that he should turn his pen and his voice against that society; such a mark “of a better way of thinking,” would perhaps induce them to give him a government, nearly as good as that which they gave to a certain ancient radical fox at the intercession of his radical friends (who were bound to keep him from the pauper’s kennel), after he had promised to foam, bark and snarl at corruption no more; he might even entertain hopes of succeeding, nay, of superseding, the ancient creature in his government; but even were he as badly off as he is well off, he would do no such thing. He would rather exist on crusts and water; he has often done so, and been happy; nay, he would rather starve than be a rogue—for even the feeling of starvation is happiness compared with what he feels who knows himself to be a rogue, provided he has any feeling at all. What is the use of a mitre or knighthood to a man who has betrayed his principles? What is the use of a gilt collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a fox who has lost his tail? Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the fox who has lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate loathes him and more especially if, like himself, she has lost her brush. Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the two-legged rogue who has parted with his principles, or those which he professed—for what? We’ll suppose a government. What’s the use of a government, if, the next day after you have received it, you are obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with the hoot of every honest man sounding in your ears?

“Lightly liar leaped and away ran.”

—Piers Plowman.

But bigotry, it has been said, makes the author write against Popery; and thoroughgoing bigotry, indeed, will make a person say or do anything. But the writer is a very pretty bigot truly! Where will the public find traces of bigotry in anything he has written? He has written against Rome with all his heart, with all his mind, with all his soul, and with all his strength; but as a person may be quite honest, and speak and write against Rome, in like manner he may speak and write against her, and be quite free from bigotry; though it is impossible for anyone but a bigot or a bad man to write or speak in her praise; her doctrines, actions and machinations being what they are.

Bigotry! The author was born, and has always continued, in the wrong Church for bigotry, the quiet, unpretending Church of England; a Church which, had it been a bigoted Church, and not long suffering almost to a fault, might with its opportunities, as the priest says in the text, have stood in a very different position from that which it occupies at present. No! let those who are in search of bigotry, seek for it in a Church very different from the inoffensive Church of England, which never encourages cruelty or calumny. Let them seek for it amongst the members of the Church of Rome, and more especially amongst those who have renegaded to it. There is nothing, however false and horrible, which a pervert to Rome will not say for his Church, and which his priests will not encourage him in saying; and there is nothing, however horrible—the more horrible indeed and revolting to human nature, the more eager he would be to do it—which he will not do for it and which his priests will not encourage him in doing.

Of the readiness which converts to Popery exhibit to sacrifice all the ties of blood and affection on the shrine of their newly-adopted religion, there is a curious illustration in the work of Luigi Pulci. This man, who was born in Florence in the year 1432, and who was deeply versed in the Bible, composed a poem, called the Morgante Maggiore, which he recited at the table of Lorenzo di Medici, the great patron of Italian genius. It is a mock-heroic and religious poem, in which the legends of knight-errantry, and of the Popish Church, are turned to unbounded ridicule. The pretended hero of it is a converted giant, called Morgante; though his adventures do not occupy the twentieth part of the poem, the principal personages being Charlemagne, Orlando, and his cousin Rinaldo of Montalban. Morgante has two brothers, both of them giants, and in the first canto of the poem, Morgante is represented with his brothers as carrying on a feud with the abbot and monks of a certain convent, built upon the confines of heathenesse; the giants being in the habit of flinging down stones, or rather huge rocks, on the convent. Orlando, however, who is banished from the court of Charlemagne, arriving at the convent, undertakes to destroy them, and, accordingly, kills Passamonte and Alabastro, and converts Morgante, whose mind had been previously softened by a vision, in which the “Blessed Virgin” figures. No sooner is he converted than, as a sign of his penitence, what does he do, but hastens and cuts off the hands of his two brothers, saying—

“Io vo’ tagliar le mani à tutti quanti
E porterolle à que’ monaci santi.”361

And he does cut off the hands of his brethren, and carries them to the abbot, who blesses him for so doing. Pulci here is holding up to ridicule and execration the horrid butchery or betrayal of friends by popish converts, and the encouragement they receive from the priest. No sooner is a person converted to Popery, than his principal thought is how he can bring the hands and feet of his brethren, however harmless they may be, and different from the giants, to the “holy priests,” who, if he manages to do so, never fail to praise him, saying to the miserable wretch, as the abbot said to Morgante:—

“Tu sarai or perfetto e veto amico
A Cristo, quauto tu gli eri nemico.”362

Can the English public deny the justice of Pulci’s illustration, after something which it has lately witnessed? Has it not seen equivalents for the hands and feet of brothers carried by popish perverts to the “holy priests,” and has it not seen the manner in which the offering has been received? Let those who are in quest of Bigotry seek for it among the perverts to Rome, and not amongst those who, born in the pale of the Church of England, have always continued in it.

III

On Foreign Nonsense

With respect to the third point, various lessons which the book reads to the nation at large, and which it would be well for the nation to ponder and profit by.

There are many species of nonsense to which the nation is much addicted, and of which the perusal of Lavengro ought to give them a wholesome shame. First of all, with respect to the foreign nonsense so prevalent now in England. The hero is a scholar; but, though possessed of a great many tongues, he affects to be neither Frenchman, nor German, nor this or that foreigner; he is one who loves his country, and the language and literature of his country, and speaks up for each and all when there is occasion to do so. Now what is the case with nine out of ten amongst those of the English who study foreign languages? No sooner have they picked up a smattering of this or that speech than they begin to abuse their own country, and everything connected with it, more especially its language. This is particularly the case with those who call themselves German students. It is said, and the writer believes with truth, that when a woman falls in love with a particularly ugly fellow, she squeezes him with ten times more zest than she would a handsome one, if captivated by him. So it is with these German students; no sooner have they taken German in hand than there is nothing like German. Oh, the dear, delightful German! How proud I am that it is now my own, and that its divine literature is within my reach! And all this whilst mumbling the most uncouth speech, and crunching the most crabbed literature in Europe. The writer is not an exclusive admirer of everything English; he does not advise his country people never to go abroad, never to study foreign languages, and he does not wish to persuade them that there is nothing beautiful or valuable in foreign literature; he only wishes that they would not make themselves fools with respect to foreign people, foreign languages or reading; that if they chance to have been in Spain, and have picked up a little Spanish, they would not affect the airs of Spaniards; that if males they would not make Tomfools of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, dressing themselves in zamarras, and saying, carajo!363 and if females that they would not make zanies of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, flinging mantillas over their heads, and by saying carai, and perhaps carajo too; or if they have been in France or Italy, and have picked up a little French or Italian, they would not affect to be French or Italians; and particularly, after having been a month or two in Germany, or picked up a little German in England, they would not make themselves foolish about everything German, as the Anglo-German in the book does—a real character, the founder of the Anglo-German school in England, and the cleverest Englishman who ever talked or wrote encomiastic nonsense about Germany and the Germans. Of all infatuations connected with what is foreign, the infatuation about everything that is German, to a certain extent prevalent in England, is assuredly the most ridiculous. One can find something like a palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish about particular languages, literatures and people. The Spanish certainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains the grand book of the world. French is a manly language. The French are the great martial people in the world; and French literature is admirable in many respects. Italian is a sweet language, and of beautiful simplicity—its literature perhaps the first in the world. The Italians!—wonderful men have sprung up in Italy. Italy is not merely famous for painters, poets, musicians, singers and linguists—the greatest linguist the world ever saw, the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an Italian; but it is celebrated for men—men emphatically speaking: Columbus was an Italian, Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of the mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte; but the German language, German literature, and the Germans! The writer has already stated his opinion with respect to German; he does not speak from ignorance or prejudice; he has heard German spoken, and many other languages. German literature! He does not speak from ignorance, he has read that and many a literature, and he repeats—however, he acknowledges that there is one fine poem in the German language, that poem is the Oberon;364 a poem, by the by, ignored by the Germans—a speaking fact—and of course, by the Anglo-Germanists. The Germans! he has been amongst them, and amongst many other nations, and confesses that his opinion of the Germans, as men, is a very low one. Germany, it is true, has produced one very great man, the monk who fought the Pope, and nearly knocked him down; but this man his countrymen—a telling fact—affect to despise, and, of course, the Anglo-Germanists: the father of Anglo-Germanism365 was very fond of inveighing against Luther.

The madness, or rather foolery, of the English for foreign customs, dresses and languages, is not an affair of today, or yesterday—it is of very ancient date, and was very properly exposed nearly three centuries ago by one Andrew Borde,366 who under the picture of a “Naked man, with a pair of shears in one hand, and a roll of cloth in the other,” inserted the following lines along with others:—367

I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here,
Musing in my mind what garment I shall weare;
For now I will weare this, and now I will weare that,
Now I will weare, I cannot tell what.
All new fashions be pleasant to mee,
I will have them, whether I thrive or thee;
What do I care if all the world me fail?
I will have a garment [shall] reach to my taile;
Then am I a minion, for I weare the new guise.
The next yeare after I hope to be wise,
Not only in wearing my gorgeous array,
For I will go to learning a whole summer’s day,
I will learn Latine, Hebrew, Greek, and French,
And I will learn Dutch, sitting on my bench.
I had no peere if to myself I were true,
Because I am not so, diverse times do I rue.
Yet I lacke nothing, I have all things at will
If I were wise and would hold myself still,
And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining,
But ever to be true to God and my King.
But I have such matters rowling in my pate,
That I will and do—I cannot tell what, etc.

IV

On Gentility Nonsense

What is gentility? People in different stations in England entertain different ideas of what is genteel,368 but it must be something gorgeous, glittering or tawdry, to be considered genteel by any of them. The beau-ideal of the English aristocracy, of course with some exceptions, is some young fellow with an imperial title, a military personage of course, for what is military is so particularly genteel, with flaming epaulets, a cocked hat and plume, a prancing charger, and a band of fellows called generals and colonels, with flaming epaulets, cocked hats and plumes, and prancing chargers vapouring behind him. It was but lately that the daughter of an English marquis was heard to say, that the sole remaining wish of her heart—she had known misfortunes, and was not far from fifty—was to be introduced to—whom? The Emperor of Austria! The sole remaining wish of the heart of one who ought to have been thinking of the grave and judgment, was to be introduced to the miscreant who had caused the blood of noble Hungarian females to be whipped out of their shoulders, for no other crime than devotion to their country, and its tall and heroic sons. The middle classes—of course there are some exceptions—admire the aristocracy, and consider them pinks, the aristocracy who admire the Emperor of Austria, and adored the Emperor of Russia, till he became old, ugly and unfortunate, when their adoration instantly terminated; for what is more ungenteel than age, ugliness and misfortune! The beau-ideal with those of the lower classes, with peasants and mechanics, is some flourishing railroad contractor: look, for example, how they worship Mr. Flamson.369 This person makes his grand début in the year ’thirty-nine, at a public meeting in the principal room of a country inn. He has come into the neighbourhood with the character of a man worth a million pounds, who is to make everybody’s fortune; at this time, however, he is not worth a shilling of his own, though he flashes about dexterously three or four thousand pounds, part of which sum he has obtained by specious pretences, and part from certain individuals who are his confederates. But in the year ’forty-nine, he is really in possession of the fortune which he and his agents pretended he was worth ten years before—he is worth a million pounds. By what means has he come by them? By railroad contracts, for which he takes care to be paid in hard cash before he attempts to perform them, and to carry out which he makes use of the sweat and blood of wretches who, since their organisation, have introduced crimes and language into England to which it was previously almost a stranger—by purchasing, with paper, shares by hundreds in the schemes to execute which he contracts, and which are of his own devising; which shares he sells as soon as they are at a high premium, to which they are speedily forced by means of paragraphs, inserted by himself and agents, in newspapers devoted to his interest, utterly reckless of the terrible depreciation to which they are almost instantly subjected. But he is worth a million pounds, there can be no doubt of the fact—he has not made people’s fortunes, at least those whose fortunes it was said he would make; he has made them away; but his own he has made, emphatically made it; he is worth a million pounds. Hurrah for the millionaire! The clown who views the pandemonium of red brick which he has built on the estate which he has purchased in the neighbourhood of the place of his grand début in which every species of architecture, Greek, Indian and Chinese, is employed in caricature—who hears of the grand entertainment he gives at Christmas in the principal dining-room, the hundred wax-candles, the wagon-load of plate, and the oceans of wine which form parts of it, and above all the two ostrich poults, one at the head, and the other at the foot of the table, exclaims: “Well! if he a’n’t bang up, I don’t know who be; why he beats my lord hollow!” The mechanic of the borough town, who sees him dashing through the streets in an open landau, drawn by four milk-white horses, amidst its attendant outriders; his wife, a monster of a woman, by his side, stout as the wife of Tamerlane, who weighed twenty stone, and bedizened out like her whose person shone with the jewels of plundered Persia, stares with silent wonder, and at last exclaims: “That’s the man for my vote!” You tell the clown that the man of the mansion has contributed enormously to corrupt the rural innocence of England; you point to an incipient branch railroad, from around which the accents of Gomorrah are sounding, and beg him to listen for a moment, and then close his ears. Hodge scratches his head and says: “Well, I have nothing to say to that; all I known is that he is bang up, and I wish I were he;” perhaps he will add—a Hodge has been known to add—“He has been kind enough to put my son on that very railroad; ’tis true the company is somewhat queer, and the work rather killing, but he gets there half a crown a day, whereas from the farmers he would only get eighteenpence.” You remind the mechanic that the man in the landau has been the ruin of thousands, and you mention people whom he himself knows, people in various grades of life, widows and orphans amongst them, whose little all he has dissipated, and whom he has reduced to beggary by inducing them to become sharers in his delusive schemes. But the mechanic says: “Well, the more fools they to let themselves be robbed. But I don’t call that kind of thing robbery, I merely call it outwitting; and everybody in this free country has a right to outwit others if he can. What a turnout he has!” One was once heard to add: “I never saw a more genteel-looking man in all my life except one, and that was a gentleman’s walley, who was much like him. It is true he is rather undersized, but then, madam, you know, makes up for all.”

V

Subject of Gentility Continued

In the last chapter have been exhibited specimens of gentility, so considered by different classes; by one class, power, youth and epaulets are considered the ne plus ultra of gentility; by another class, pride, stateliness and title; by another, wealth and flaming tawdriness. But what constitutes a gentleman? It is easy to say at once what constitutes a gentleman, and there are no distinctions in what is gentlemanly,370 as there are in what is genteel. The characteristics of a gentleman are high feeling—a determination never to take a cowardly advantage of another—a liberal education—absence of narrow views—generosity and courage, propriety of behaviour. Now a person may be genteel according to one or another of the three standards described above, and not possess one of the characteristics of a gentleman. Is the emperor a gentleman, with spatters of blood on his clothes, scourged from the backs of noble Hungarian women? Are the aristocracy gentlefolks, who admire him? Is Mr. Flamson a gentleman, although he has a million pounds? No! cowardly miscreants, admirers of cowardly miscreants, and people who make a million pounds by means compared with which those employed to make fortunes by the getters up of the South Sea Bubble might be called honest dealing, are decidedly not gentlefolks. Now as it is clearly demonstrable that a person may be perfectly genteel according to some standard or other, and yet be no gentleman, so is it demonstrable that a person may have no pretensions to gentility, and yet be a gentleman. For example, there is Lavengro! Would the admirers of the emperor, or the admirers of those who admire the emperor, or the admirers of Mr. Flamson, call him genteel? and gentility with them is everything! Assuredly they would not; and assuredly they would consider him respectively as a being to be shunned, despised, or hooted. Genteel! Why at one time he is a hack author—writes reviewals for eighteenpence a page—edits a Newgate chronicle. At another he wanders the country with a face grimy from occasionally mending kettles; and there is no evidence that his clothes are not seedy and torn, and his shoes down at the heel; but by what process of reasoning will they prove that he is no gentleman? Is he not learned? Has he not generosity and courage? Whilst a hack author, does he pawn the books entrusted to him to review? Does he break his word to his publisher? Does he write begging letters? Does he get clothes or lodgings without paying for them? Again, whilst a wanderer, does he insult helpless women on the road with loose proposals or ribald discourse? Does he take what is not his own from the hedges? Does he play on the fiddle, or make faces in public-houses, in order to obtain pence or beer? or does he call for liquor, swallow it, and then say to a widowed landlady, “Mistress, I have no brass?” In a word, what vice and crime does he perpetrate—what low acts does he commit? Therefore, with his endowments, who will venture to say that he is no gentleman?—unless it be an admirer of Mr. Flamson—a clown—who will, perhaps, shout: “I say he is no gentleman; for who can be a gentleman who keeps no gig?”

The indifference exhibited by Lavengro for what is merely genteel, compared with his solicitude never to infringe the strict laws of honour, should read a salutary lesson. The generality of his countrymen are far more careful not to transgress the customs of what they call gentility, than to violate the laws of honour or morality. They will shrink from carrying their own carpetbag, and from speaking to a person in seedy raiment, whilst to matters of much higher importance they are shamelessly indifferent. Not so Lavengro; he will do anything that he deems convenient, or which strikes his fancy, provided it does not outrage decency, or is unallied to profligacy; is not ashamed to speak to a beggar in rags, and will associate with anybody, provided he can gratify a laudable curiosity. He has no abstract love for what is low, or what the world calls low. He sees that many things which the world looks down upon are valuable, so he prizes much which the world contemns; he sees that many things which the world admires are contemptible, so he despises much which the world does not; but when the world prizes what is really excellent, he does not contemn it, because the world regards it. If he learns Irish, which all the world scoffs at, he likewise learns Italian, which all the world melts at. If he learns Gypsy, the language of the tattered tent, he likewise learns Greek, the language of the college hall. If he learns smithery, he also learns—ah! what does he learn to set against smithery?—the law? No; he does not learn the law, which, by the way, is not very genteel. Swimming? Yes, he learns to swim. Swimming, however, is not genteel; and the world—at least the genteel part of it—acts very wisely in setting its face against it; for to swim you must be naked, and how would many a genteel person look without his clothes? Come, he learns horsemanship; a very genteel accomplishment, which every genteel person would gladly possess, though not all genteel people do.

Again as to associates: if he holds communion when a boy with Murtagh, the scarecrow of an Irish academy, he associates in after life with Francis Ardry, a rich and talented young Irish gentleman about town. If he accepts an invitation from Mr. Petulengro to his tent, he has no objection to go home with a rich genius to dinner; who then will say that he prizes a thing or a person because they are ungenteel? That he is not ready to take up with everything that is ungenteel he gives a proof, when he refuses, though on the brink of starvation, to become bonnet to the thimble-man, an office, which, though profitable, is positively ungenteel. Ah! but some sticker-up for gentility will exclaim: “The hero did not refuse this office from an insurmountable dislike to its ungentility, but merely from a feeling of principle.” Well! the writer is not fond of argument, and he will admit that such was the case; he admits that it was a love of principle, rather than an over-regard for gentility, which prevented the hero from accepting, when on the brink of starvation, an ungenteel though lucrative office, an office which, the writer begs leave to observe, many a person with a great regard for gentility, and no particular regard for principle, would in a similar strait have accepted; for when did a mere love for gentility keep a person from being a dirty scoundrel, when the alternatives apparently were “either be a dirty scoundrel or starve?” One thing, however, is certain, which is, that Lavengro did not accept the office, which if a love for what is low had been his ruling passion he certainly would have done; consequently, he refuses to do one thing which no genteel person would willingly do, even as he does many things which every genteel person would gladly do, for example, speaks Italian, rides on horseback, associates with a fashionable young man, dines with a rich genius, et cetera. Yet—and it cannot be minced—he and gentility with regard to many things are at strange divergency; he shrinks from many things at which gentility placidly hums a tune, or approvingly simpers, and does some things at which gentility positively shrinks. He will not run into debt for clothes or lodgings, which he might do without any scandal to gentility; he will not receive money from Francis Ardry, and go to Brighton with the sister of Annette Le Noir, though there is nothing ungenteel in borrowing money from a friend, even when you never intend to repay him, and something poignantly genteel in going to a watering-place with a gay young Frenchwoman; but he has no objection, after raising twenty pounds by the sale of that extraordinary work Joseph Sell, to set off into the country, mend kettles under hedgerows, and make pony and donkey shoes in a dingle. Here, perhaps, some plain, well-meaning person will cry—and with much apparent justice—how can the writer justify him in this act? What motive, save a love for what is low, could induce him to do such things? Would the writer have everybody who is in need of recreation go into the country, mend kettles under hedges, and make pony shoes in dingles? To such an observation the writer would answer, that Lavengro had an excellent motive in doing what he did, but that the writer is not so unreasonable as to wish everybody to do the same. It is not everybody who can mend kettles. It is not everybody who is in similar circumstances to those in which Lavengro was. Lavengro flies from London and hack authorship, and takes to the roads from fear of consumption; it is expensive to put up at inns, and even at public-houses, and Lavengro has not much money; so he buys a tinker’s cart and apparatus, and sets up as tinker, and subsequently as blacksmith; a person living in a tent, or in anything else, must do something or go mad; Lavengro had a mind, as he himself well knew, with some slight tendency to madness, and had he not employed himself, he must have gone wild; so to employ himself he drew upon one of his resources, the only one available at the time. Authorship had nearly killed him, he was sick of reading, and had besides no books; but he possessed the rudiments of an art akin to tinkering; he knew something of smithery, having served a kind of apprenticeship in Ireland to a fairy smith; so he draws upon his smithery to enable him to acquire tinkering, and through the help which it affords him, owing to its connection with tinkering, he speedily acquires that craft, even as he had speedily acquired Welsh, owing to its connection with Irish, which language he possessed; and with tinkering he amuses himself until he lays it aside to resume smithery. A man who has any innocent resource, has quite as much right to draw upon it in need, as he has upon a banker in whose hands he has placed a sum; Lavengro turns to advantage, under particular circumstances, a certain resource which he has, but people who are not so forlorn as Lavengro, and have not served the same apprenticeship which he had, are not advised to follow his example. Surely he was better employed in plying the trades of tinker and smith than in having recourse to vice, in running after milkmaids, for example. Running after milkmaids is by no means an ungenteel rural diversion; but let anyone ask some respectable casuist (The Bishop of London for example), whether Lavengro was not far better employed, when in the country, at tinkering and smithery than he would have been in running after all the milkmaids in Cheshire, though tinkering is in general considered a very ungenteel employment, and smithery little better, notwithstanding that an Orcadian poet,371 who wrote in Norse about eight hundred years ago, reckons the latter among nine noble arts which he possessed, naming it along with playing at chess, on the harp, and ravelling runes, or as the original has it, “treading runes”—that is, compressing them into a small compass by mingling one letter with another, even as the Turkish caligraphists ravel the Arabic letters, more especially those who write talismans.

Nine arts have I, all noble;
I play at chess so free,
At ravelling runes I’m ready,
At books and smithery;
I’m skill’d o’er ice at skimming
On skates, I shoot and row,
And few at harping match me,
Or minstrelsy, I trow.

But though Lavengro takes up smithery, which, though the Orcadian ranks it with chess-playing and harping, is certainly somewhat of a grimy art, there can be no doubt that, had he been wealthy and not so forlorn as he was, he would have turned to many things, honourable, of course, in preference. He has no objection to ride a fine horse when he has the opportunity: he has his daydream of making a fortune of two hundred thousand pounds by becoming a merchant and doing business after the Armenian fashion; and there can be no doubt that he would have been glad to wear fine clothes, provided he had had sufficient funds to authorise him in wearing them. For the sake of wandering the country and plying the hammer and tongs, he would not have refused a commission in the service of that illustrious monarch George the Fourth, provided he had thought that he could live on his pay, and not be forced to run in debt to tradesmen, without any hope of paying them, for clothes and luxuries, as many highly genteel officers in that honourable service were in the habit of doing. For the sake of tinkering, he would certainly not have refused a secretaryship of an embassy to Persia, in which he might have turned his acquaintance with Persian, Arabic, and the Lord only knows what other languages, to account. He took to tinkering and smithery, because no better employments were at his command. No war is waged in the book against rank, wealth, fine clothes or dignified employments; it is shown, however, that a person may be a gentleman and a scholar without them. Rank, wealth, fine clothes and dignified employments, are no doubt very fine things, but they are merely externals, they do not make a gentleman, they add external grace and dignity to the gentleman and scholar, but they make neither; and is it not better to be a gentleman without them than not a gentleman with them? Is not Lavengro, when he leaves London on foot with twenty pounds in his pocket, entitled to more respect than Mr. Flamson flaming in his coach with a million? And is not even the honest jockey at Horncastle, who offers a fair price to Lavengro for his horse, entitled to more than the scoundrel lord, who attempts to cheat him of one-fourth of its value.

Millions, however, seem to think otherwise, by their servile adoration of people whom without rank, wealth and fine clothes they would consider infamous, but whom possessed of rank, wealth and glittering habiliments they seem to admire all the more for their profligacy and crimes. Does not a blood-spot, or a lust-spot, on the clothes of a blooming emperor, give a kind of zest to the genteel young god? Do not the pride, superciliousness and selfishness of a certain aristocracy make it all the more regarded by its worshippers? and do not the clownish and gutter-blood admirers of Mr. Flamson like him all the more because they are conscious that he is a knave? If such is the case—and alas! is it not the case?—they cannot be too frequently told that fine clothes, wealth and titles adorn a person in proportion as he adorns them; that if worn by the magnanimous and good they are ornaments indeed, but if by the vile and profligate they are merely san benitos, and only serve to make their infamy doubly apparent; and that a person in seedy raiment and tattered hat, possessed of courage, kindness and virtue, is entitled to more respect from those to whom his virtues are manifested than any cruel profligate emperor, selfish aristocrat, or knavish millionaire in the world.

The writer has no intention of saying that all in England are affected with the absurd mania for gentility; nor is such a statement made in the book; it is shown therein that individuals of various classes can prize a gentleman, notwithstanding seedy raiment, dusty shoes or tattered hat—for example, the young Irishman, the rich genius, the postillion, and his employer. Again, when the life of the hero is given to the world, amidst the howl about its lowness and vulgarity, raised by the servile crew whom its independence of sentiment has stung, more than one powerful voice has been heard testifying approbation of its learning and the purity of its morality. That there is some salt in England, minds not swayed by mere externals, he is fully convinced; if he were not, he would spare himself the trouble of writing; but to the fact that the generality of his countrymen are basely grovelling before the shrine of what they are pleased to call gentility, he cannot shut his eyes.

Oh! what a clever person that Cockney was, who, travelling in the Aberdeen railroad carriage, after edifying the company with his remarks on various subjects, gave it as his opinion that Lieutenant P——372 would, in future, be shunned by all respectable society! And what a simple person that elderly gentleman was, who, abruptly starting, asked in rather an authoritative voice, “And why should Lieutenant P—— be shunned by respectable society?” and who, after entering into what was said to be a masterly analysis of the entire evidence of the case, concluded by stating, “that having been accustomed to all kinds of evidence all his life, he had never known a case in which the accused had obtained a more complete and triumphant justification than Lieutenant P—— had done in the late trial.”

Now the Cockney, who is said to have been a very foppish Cockney, was perfectly right in what he said, and therein manifested a knowledge of the English mind and character, and likewise of the modern English language, to which his catechist, who, it seems, was a distinguished member of the Scottish bar, could lay no pretensions. The Cockney knew what the Lord of Session knew not, that the British public is gentility crazy, and he knew, moreover, that gentility and respectability are synonymous. No one in England is genteel or respectable that is “looked at,” who is the victim of oppression; he may be pitied for a time, but when did not pity terminate in contempt? A poor harmless young officer—but why enter into the details of the infamous case? they are but too well known, and if ever cruelty, pride and cowardice, and things much worse than even cruelty, cowardice and pride were brought to light, and, at the same time, countenanced, they were in that case. What availed the triumphant justification of the poor victim? There was at first a roar of indignation against his oppressors, but how long did it last? He had been turned out of the service, they remained in it with their red coats and epaulets; he was merely the son of a man who had rendered good service to his country; they were, for the most part, highly connected—they were in the extremest degree genteel, he quite the reverse; so the nation wavered, considered, thought the genteel side was the safest after all, and then with the cry of “Oh! there is nothing like gentility,” ratted bodily. Newspaper and public turned against the victim, scouted him, apologised for the—what should they be called?—who were not only admitted into the most respectable society, but courted to come, the spots not merely of wine on their military clothes, giving them a kind of poignancy. But there is a God in heaven; the British glories are tarnished—Providence has never smiled on British arms since that case—oh! Balaklava!373 thy name interpreted is net of fishes, and well dost thou deserve that name. How many a scarlet golden fish has of late perished in the mud amidst thee, cursing the genteel service, and the genteel leader which brought him to such a doom.

Whether the rage for gentility is most prevalent amongst the upper, middle or lower classes it is difficult to say; the priest in the text seems to think that it is exhibited in the most decided manner in the middle class; it is the writer’s opinion, however, that in no class is it more strongly developed than in the lower: what they call being wellborn goes a great way amongst them, but the possession of money much farther, whence Mr. Flamson’s influence over them. Their rage against, and scorn for, any person who by his courage and talents has advanced himself in life, and still remains poor, are indescribable; “he is no better than ourselves,” they say, “why should he be above us?”—for they have no conception that anybody has a right to ascendency over themselves except by birth or money. This feeling amongst the vulgar has been, to a certain extent, the bane of the two services, naval and military. The writer does not make this assertion rashly; he observed this feeling at work in the army when a child, and he has good reason for believing that it was as strongly at work in the navy at the same time, and is still as prevalent in both. Why are not brave men raised from the ranks? is frequently the cry, why are not brave sailors promoted? the Lord help brave soldiers and sailors who are promoted; they have less to undergo from the high airs of their brother officers, and those are hard enough to endure, than from the insolence of the men. Soldiers and sailors promoted to command are said to be in general tyrants; in nine cases out of ten, when they are tyrants, they have been obliged to have recourse to extreme severity in order to protect themselves from the insolence and mutinous spirit of the men—“He is no better than ourselves: shoot him, bayonet him, or fling him overboard!” they say of some obnoxious individual raised above them by his merit. Soldiers and sailors in general, will bear any amount of tyranny from a lordly sot, or the son of a man who has “plenty of brass”—their own term—but will mutiny against the just orders of a skilful and brave officer who “is no better than themselves.” There was the affair of the Bounty, for example: Bligh was one of the best seamen that ever trod deck, and one of the bravest of men; proofs of his seamanship he gave by steering, amidst dreadful weather, a deeply laden boat for nearly four thousand miles over an almost unknown ocean—of his bravery, at the fight of Copenhagen, one of the most desperate ever fought, of which after Nelson he was the hero: he was, moreover, not an unkind man; but the crew of the Bounty, mutinied against him, and set him half naked in an open boat, with certain of his men who remained faithful to him, and ran away with the ship. Their principal motive for doing so was an idea, whether true or groundless the writer cannot say, that Bligh was “no better than themselves;” he was certainly neither a lord’s illegitimate, nor possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The writer knows what he is writing about, having been acquainted in his early years with an individual who was turned adrift with Bligh, and who died about the year ’22, a lieutenant in the navy, in a provincial town in which the writer was brought up.374 The ringleaders in the mutiny were two scoundrels, Christian and Young, who had great influence with the crew, because they were genteelly connected. Bligh, after leaving the Bounty, had considerable difficulty in managing the men who had shared his fate, because they considered themselves “as good men as he,” notwithstanding, that to his conduct and seamanship they had alone to look, under Heaven, for salvation from the ghastly perils that surrounded them. Bligh himself, in his journal, alludes to this feeling. Once,375 when he and his companions landed on a desert island, one of them said, with a mutinous look, that he considered himself “as good a man as he;” Bligh, seizing a cutlass, called upon him to take another and defend himself, whereupon the man said that Bligh was going to kill him, and made all manner of concessions; now why did this fellow consider himself as good a man as Bligh? Was he as good a seaman? no, nor a tenth part as good. As brave a man? no, nor a tenth part as brave; and of these facts he was perfectly well aware, but bravery and seamanship stood for nothing with him, as they still stand with thousands of his class; Bligh was not genteel by birth or money, therefore Bligh was no better than himself. Had Bligh, before he sailed, got a twenty-thousand pound prize in the lottery, he would have experienced no insolence from this fellow, for there would have been no mutiny in the Bounty. “He is our betters,” the crew would have said, “and it is our duty to obey him.”

The wonderful power of gentility in England is exemplified in nothing more than in what it is producing amongst Jews, Gypsies and Quakers. It is breaking up their venerable communities. All the better, someone will say. Alas! alas! It is making the wealthy Jews forsake the synagogue for the opera-house, or the gentility chapel, in which a disciple of Mr. Platitude, in a white surplice, preaches a sermon at noonday from a desk, on each side of which is a flaming taper. It is making them abandon their ancient literature, their Mischna, their Gemara, their Zohar, for gentility novels, The Young Duke, the most unexceptionably genteel book ever written, being the principal favourite. It makes the young Jew ashamed of the young Jewess, it makes her ashamed of the young Jew. The young Jew marries an opera dancer, or if the dancer will not have him, as is frequently the case, the cast-off Miss of the honourable Spencer So-and-so. It makes the young Jewess accept the honourable offer of a cashiered lieutenant of the Bengal Native Infantry; or, if such a person does not come forward, the dishonourable offer of a cornet of a regiment of crack hussars. It makes poor Jews, male and female, forsake the synagogue for the sixpenny theatre or penny hop; the Jew to take up with an Irish female of loose character, and the Jewess with a musician of the Guards, or the Tipperary servant of Captain Mulligan. With respect to the gypsies, it is making the women what they never were before—harlots; and the men what they never were before—careless fathers and husbands. It has made the daughter of Ursula, the chaste, take up with the base drummer of a wild-beast show. It makes Gorgiko Brown, the gypsy man, leave his tent and his old wife, of an evening, and thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him. “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro the other day to the Romany Rye, after telling him many things connected with the decadence of gypsyism, “there is one Gorgiko Brown, who, with a face as black as a teakettle, wishes to be mistaken for a Christian tradesman; he goes into the parlour of a third-rate inn of an evening, calls for rum and water, and attempts to enter into conversation with the company about politics and business; the company flout him or give him the cold shoulder, or perhaps complain to the landlord, who comes and asks him what business he has in the parlour, telling him if he wants to drink to go into the taproom, and perhaps collars him and kicks him out, provided he refuses to move.” With respect to the Quakers, it makes the young people like the young Jews, crazy after gentility diversions, worship, marriages or connections, and makes old Peas do what it makes Gorgiko Brown do, thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him, and out of which he is not kicked, because unlike the gypsy he is not poor. The writer would say much more on these points, but want of room prevents him; he must therefore request the reader to have patience until he can lay before the world a pamphlet, which he has been long meditating, to be entitled “Remarks on the Strikingly Similar Effects Which a Love for Gentility Has Produced, and Is Producing, Amongst Jews, Gypsies and Quakers.”

The priest in the book has much to say on the subject of this gentility-nonsense; no person can possibly despise it more thoroughly than that very remarkable individual seems to do, yet he hails its prevalence with pleasure, knowing the benefits which will result from it to the Church of which he is the sneering slave. “The English are mad after gentility,” says he; “well, all the better for us; their religion for a long time past has been a plain and simple one, and consequently by no means genteel; they’ll quit it for ours, which is the perfection of what they admire; with which Templars, Hospitalers, mitred abbots, Gothic abbeys, long-drawn aisles, golden censers, incense, et cetera, are connected; nothing, or next to nothing, of Christ, it is true, but weighed in the balance against gentility, where will Christianity be? why, kicking against the beam—ho! ho!” And in connection with the gentility-nonsense, he expatiates largely, and with much contempt, on a species of literature by which the interests of his Church in England have been very much advanced—all genuine priests have a thorough contempt for everything which tends to advance the interests of their Church—this literature is made up of pseudo Jacobitism, Charlie o’er the waterism, or nonsense about Charlie o’er the water. And the writer will now take the liberty of saying a few words about it on his own account.

VI

On Scotch Gentility Nonsense

Of the literature just alluded to Scott was the inventor. It is founded on the fortunes and misfortunes of the Stuart family, of which Scott was the zealous defender and apologist, doing all that in his power lay to represent the members of it as noble, chivalrous, high-minded, unfortunate princes; though, perhaps, of all the royal families that ever existed upon earth, this family was the worst. It was unfortunate enough, it is true; but it owed its misfortunes entirely to its crimes, viciousness, bad faith, and cowardice. Nothing will be said of it here until it made its appearance in England to occupy the English throne.

The first of the family which we have to do with, James, was a dirty, cowardly miscreant, of whom the less said the better. His son, Charles the First, was a tyrant—exceedingly cruel and revengeful, but weak and dastardly; he caused a poor fellow to be hanged in London, who was not his subject, because he had heard that the unfortunate creature had once bit his own glove at Cadiz, in Spain, at the mention of his name; and he permitted his own bulldog, Strafford, to be executed by his own enemies, though the only crime of Strafford was, that he had barked furiously at those enemies, and had worried two or three of them, when Charles shouted, “Fetch ’em.” He was a bitter, but yet a despicable enemy, and the coldest and most worthless of friends; for though he always hoped to be able, some time or other, to hang his enemies, he was always ready to curry favour with them, more especially if he could do so at the expense of his friends. He was the haughtiest, yet meanest of mankind. He once caned a young nobleman for appearing before him in the drawing-room not dressed exactly according to the court etiquette; yet he condescended to flatter and compliment him who, from principle, was his bitterest enemy, namely Harrison, when the republican colonel was conducting him as a prisoner to London. His bad faith was notorious; it was from abhorrence of the first public instance which he gave of his bad faith, his breaking his word to the Infanta of Spain, that the poor Hiberno-Spaniard bit his glove at Cadiz; and it was his notorious bad faith which eventually cost him his head; for the Republicans would gladly have spared him, provided they could put the slightest confidence in any promise, however solemn, which he might have made to them. Of them, it would be difficult to say whether they most hated or despised him. Religion he had none. One day he favoured Popery; the next, on hearing certain clamours of the people, he sent his wife’s domestics back packing to France, because they were Papists. Papists, however, should make him a saint, for he was certainly the cause of the taking of Rochelle.

His son, Charles the Second, though he passed his youth in the school of adversity, learned no other lesson from it than the following one—take care of yourself, and never do an action, either good or bad, which is likely to bring you into any great difficulty; and this maxim he acted up to as soon as he came to the throne. He was a Papist, but took especial care not to acknowledge his religion, at which he frequently scoffed, till just before his last gasp, when he knew that he could lose nothing, and hoped to gain everything by it. He was always in want of money, but took care not to tax the country beyond all endurable bounds; preferring to such a bold and dangerous course, to become the secret pensioner of Louis, to whom, in return for his gold, he sacrificed the honour and interests of Britain. He was too lazy and sensual to delight in playing the part of a tyrant himself; but he never checked tyranny in others save in one instance. He permitted beastly butchers to commit unmentionable horrors on the feeble, unarmed and disunited Covenanters of Scotland, but checked them when they would fain have endeavoured to play the same game on the numerous united, dogged and warlike Independents of England. To show his filial piety, he bade the hangman dishonour the corpses of some of his father’s judges, before whom, when alive, he ran like a screaming hare; but permitted those who had lost their all in supporting his father’s cause, to pine in misery and want. He would give to a painted harlot a thousand pounds for a loathsome embrace, and to a player or buffoon a hundred for a trumpery pun, but would refuse a penny to the widow or orphan of an old Royalist soldier. He was the personification of selfishness; and as he loved and cared for no one, so did no one love or care for him. So little had he gained the respect or affection of those who surrounded him, that after his body had undergone an after-death examination, parts of it were thrown down the sinks of the palace, to become eventually the prey of the swine and ducks of Westminster.

His brother, who succeeded him, James the Second, was a Papist, but sufficiently honest to acknowledge his Popery, but upon the whole, he was a poor creature; though a tyrant, he was cowardly; had he not been a coward he would never have lost his throne. There were plenty of lovers of tyranny in England who would have stood by him, provided he would have stood by them, and would, though not Papists, have encouraged him in his attempt to bring back England beneath the sway of Rome, and perhaps would eventually have become Papists themselves; but the nation raising a cry against him, and his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange, invading the country, he forsook his friends, of whom he had a host, but for whom he cared little—left his throne, for which he cared a great deal—and Popery in England, for which he cared yet more, to their fate, and escaped to France, from whence, after taking a little heart, he repaired to Ireland, where he was speedily joined by a gallant army of Papists whom he basely abandoned at the Boyne, running away in a most lamentable condition, at the time when by showing a little courage he might have enabled them to conquer. This worthy, in his last will, bequeathed his heart to England, his right arm to Scotland, and his bowels to Ireland. What the English and Scotch said to their respective bequests is not known, but it is certain that an old Irish priest, supposed to have been a great granduncle of the present Reverend Father Murtagh, on hearing of the bequest to Ireland, fell into a great passion, and having been brought up at “Paris and Salamanca,” expressed his indignation in the following strain: “Malditas sean tus tripas! teniamos bastante del olor de tus tripas al tiempo de tu huida de la batalla del Boyne!”376

His son, generally called the Old Pretender, though born in England, was carried in his infancy to France, where he was brought up in the strictest principles of Popery, which principles, however, did not prevent him becoming (when did they ever prevent anyone?) a worthless and profligate scoundrel; there are some doubts as to the reality of his being a son of James, which doubts are probably unfounded, the grand proof of his legitimacy being the thorough baseness of his character. It was said of his father that he could speak well, and it may be said of him that he could write well, the only thing he could do which was worth doing, always supposing that there is any merit in being able to write. He was of a mean appearance, and, like his father, pusillanimous to a degree. The meaness of his appearance disgusted, and his pusillanimity discouraged, the Scotch when he made his appearance amongst them in the year 1715, some time after the standard of rebellion had been hoisted by Mar. He only stayed a short time in Scotland, and then, seized with panic, retreated to France, leaving his friends to shift for themselves as they best could. He died a pensioner of the Pope.

The son of this man, Charles Edward, of whom so much in latter years has been said and written, was a worthless, ignorant youth, and a profligate and illiterate old man. When young, the best that can be said of him is, that he had occasionally springs of courage, invariably at the wrong time and place, which merely served to lead his friends into inextricable difficulties. When old, he was loathsome and contemptible to both friend and foe. His wife loathed him, and for the most terrible of reasons; she did not pollute his couch, for to do that was impossible—he had made it so vile; but she betrayed it, inviting to it not only Alfieri the Filthy, but the coarsest grooms. Doctor King, the warmest and almost last adherent of his family, said that there was not a vice or crime of which he was not guilty; as for his foes, they scorned to harm him even when in their power. In the year 1745 he came down from the Highlands of Scotland, which had long been a focus of rebellion. He was attended by certain clans of the Highlands, desperadoes used to free-bootery from their infancy, and, consequently, to the use of arms, and possessed of a certain species of discipline; with these he defeated at Prestonpans a body of men called soldiers, but who were in reality peasants and artisans, levied about a month before, without discipline or confidence in each other, and who were miserably massacred by the Highland army; he subsequently invaded England, nearly destitute of regular soldiers, and penetrated as far as Derby, from which place he retreated on learning that regular forces which had been hastily recalled from Flanders were coming against him, with the Duke of Cumberland at their head; he was pursued, and his rear guard overtaken and defeated by the dragoons of the duke at Clifton, from which place the rebels retreated in great confusion across the Eden into Scotland, where they commenced dancing Highland reels and strathspeys on the bank of the river, for joy at their escape, whilst a number of wretched girls, paramours of some of them, were perishing in the waters of the swollen river in an attempt to follow them; they themselves passed over by eighties and by hundreds, arm in arm, for mutual safety, without the loss of a man, but they left the poor paramours to shift for themselves, nor did any of these canny people after passing the stream dash back to rescue a single female life—no, they were too well employed upon the bank in dancing strathspeys to the tune of “Charlie o’er the water.” It was, indeed, Charlie o’er the water, and canny Highlanders o’er the water, but where were the poor prostitutes meantime? In the water.

The Jacobite farce, or tragedy, was speedily brought to a close by the battle of Culloden; there did Charlie wish himself back again o’er the water, exhibiting the most unmistakable signs of pusillanimity; there were the clans cut to pieces, at least those who could be brought to the charge, and there fell Giles Mac Bean, or as he was called in Gaelic, Giliosa Mac Beathan, a kind of giant, six feet four inches and a quarter high, “than whom,” as his wife said in a coronach377 she made upon him, “no man who stood at Cuiloitr was taller”—Giles Mac Bean the Major of the clan Cattan—a great drinker—a great fisher—a great shooter, and the champion of the Highland host.

The last of the Stuarts was a cardinal.

Such were the Stuarts, such their miserable history. They were dead and buried in every sense of the word until Scott resuscitated them—how? by the power of fine writing, and by calling to his aid that strange divinity, gentility. He wrote splendid novels about the Stuarts, in which he represents them as unlike what they really were, as the graceful and beautiful papillon is unlike the hideous and filthy worm. In a word, he made them genteel, and that was enough to give them paramount sway over the minds of the British people. The public became Stuart-mad, and everybody, especially the women, said, “What a pity it was that we hadn’t a Stuart to govern.” All parties, Whig, Tory or Radical, became Jacobite at heart, and admirers of absolute power. The Whigs talked about the liberty of the subject, and the Radicals about the rights of man still, but neither party cared a straw for what it talked about, and mentally swore that, as soon as by means of such stuff they could get places, and fill their pockets, they would be as Jacobite as the Jacobs themselves. As for the Tories, no great change in them was necessary; everything favouring absolutism and slavery being congenial to them. So the whole nation, that is, the reading part of the nation, with some exceptions, for thank God there has always been some salt in England, went over the water to Charlie. But going over to Charlie was not enough, they must, or at least a considerable part of them, go over to Rome too, or have a hankering to do so. As the priest sarcastically observes in the text, “As all the Jacobs were Papists, so the good folks who through Scott’s novels admire the Jacobs must be Papists too.” An idea got about that the religion of such genteel people as the Stuarts must be the climax of gentility, and that idea was quite sufficient. Only let a thing, whether temporal or spiritual, be considered genteel in England, and if it be not followed it is strange indeed; so Scott’s writings not only made the greater part of the nation Jacobite, but Popish.

Here some people will exclaim—whose opinions remain sound and uncontaminated—what you say is perhaps true with respect to the Jacobite nonsense at present so prevalent being derived from Scott’s novels, but the Popish nonsense, which people of the genteeler classes are so fond of, is derived from Oxford. We sent our sons to Oxford nice honest lads, educated in the principles of the Church of England, and at the end of the first term they came home puppies, talking Popish nonsense, which they had learned from the pedants to whose care we had entrusted them; ay, not only Popery but Jacobitism, which they hardly carried with them from home, for we never heard them talking Jacobitism before they had been at Oxford; but now their conversation is a farrago of Popish and Jacobite stuff—“Complines and Claverse.” Now, what these honest folks say is, to a certain extent, founded on fact; the Popery which has overflowed the land during the last fourteen or fifteen years, has come immediately from Oxford, and likewise some of the Jacobitism, Popish and Jacobite nonsense, and little or nothing else, having been taught at Oxford for about that number of years. But whence did the pedants get the Popish nonsense with which they have corrupted youth? Why, from the same quarter from which they got the Jacobite nonsense with which they have inoculated those lads who were not inoculated with it before—Scott’s novels. Jacobitism and Laudism, a kind of half Popery, had at one time been very prevalent at Oxford, but both had been long consigned to oblivion there, and people at Oxford cared as little about Laud as they did about the Pretender. Both were dead and buried there, as everywhere else, till Scott called them out of their graves when the pedants of Oxford hailed both—ay, and the Pope, too, as soon as Scott had made the old fellow fascinating, through particular novels, more especially the Monastery and Abbot. Then the quiet, respectable, honourable Church of England would no longer do for the pedants of Oxford; they must belong to a more genteel Church—they were ashamed at first to be downright Romans—so they would be Lauds. The pale-looking, but exceedingly genteel non-juring clergyman in Waverley was a Laud; but they soon became tired of being Lauds, for Laud’s Church, gew-gawish and idolatrous as it was, was not sufficiently tinselly and idolatrous for them, so they must be Popes, but in a sneaking way, still calling themselves Church of England men, in order to batten on the bounty of the Church which they were betraying, and likewise have opportunities of corrupting such lads as might still resort to Oxford with principles uncontaminated.

So the respectable people, whose opinions are still sound, are, to a certain extent, right when they say that the tide of Popery, which has flowed over the land, has come from Oxford. It did come immediately from Oxford, but how did it get to Oxford? Why, from Scott’s novels. Oh! that sermon which was the first manifestation of Oxford feeling, preached at Oxford some time in the year ’38 by a divine of a weak and confused intellect, in which Popery was mixed up with Jacobitism! The present writer remembers perfectly well, on reading some extracts from it at the time in a newspaper, on the top of a coach, exclaiming—“Why, the simpleton has been pilfering from Walter Scott’s novels!”

O Oxford pedants! Oxford pedants! ye whose politics and religion are both derived from Scott’s novels! what a pity it is that some lad of honest parents, whose mind ye are endeavouring to stultify with your nonsense about “Complines and Claverse,” has not the spirit to start up and cry, “Confound your gibberish! I’ll have none of it. Hurrah for the Church, and the principles of my father!”

VII

Same Subject Continued

Now what could have induced Scott to write novels tending to make people Papists and Jacobites, and in love with arbitrary power? Did he think that Christianity was a gaudy mummery? He did not, he could not, for he had read the Bible; yet was he fond of gaudy mummeries, fond of talking about them. Did he believe that the Stuarts were a good family, and fit to govern a country like Britain? He knew that they were a vicious, worthless crew, and that Britain was a degraded country as long as they swayed the sceptre; but for those facts he cared nothing, they governed in a way which he liked, for he had an abstract love of despotism, and an abhorrence of everything savouring of freedom and the rights of man in general. His favourite political picture was a joking, profligate, careless king, nominally absolute—the heads of great houses paying court to, but in reality governing, that king, whilst revelling with him on the plunder of a nation, and a set of crouching, grovelling vassals (the literal meaning of vassal is a wretch), who, after allowing themselves to be horsewhipped, would take a bone if flung to them, and be grateful; so that in love with mummery, though he knew what Christianity was, no wonder he admired such a Church as that of Rome, and that which Laud set up; and by nature formed to be the holder of the candle to ancient worm-eaten and profligate families, no wonder that all his sympathies were with the Stuarts and their dissipated insolent party, and all his hatred directed against those who endeavoured to check them in their proceedings, and to raise the generality of mankind something above a state of vassalage, that is, wretchedness. Those who were born great, were, if he could have had his will, always to remain great, however worthless their characters. Those who were born low, were always to remain so, however great their talents; though, if that rule were carried out, where would he have been himself?

In the book which he called the History of Napoleon Bonaparte, in which he plays the sycophant to all the legitimate crowned heads in Europe, whatever their crimes, vices or miserable imbecilities, he, in his abhorrence of everything low which by its own vigour makes itself illustrious, calls Murat of the sabre the son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook. It is a pity that people who give themselves hoity-toity airs—and the Scotch in general are wonderfully addicted to giving themselves hoity-toity airs, and checking people better than themselves with their birth378 and their country—it is a great pity that such people do not look at home—son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook! Well, and what was Scott himself? Why, son of a pettifogger, of an Edinburgh pettifogger. “Oh, but Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch, and therefore—” descended from old cow-stealers, was he? Well, had he had nothing to boast of beyond such a pedigree, he would have lived and died the son of a pettifogger, and been forgotten, and deservedly so; but he possessed talents, and by his talents rose like Murat, and like him will be remembered for his talents alone, and deservedly so. “Yes, but Murat was still the son of a pastry-cook, and though he was certainly good at the sabre, and cut his way to a throne, still—” Lord! what fools there are in the world; but as no one can be thought anything of in this world without a pedigree, the writer will now give a pedigree for Murat, of a very different character from the cow-stealing one of Scott, but such a one as the proudest he might not disdain to claim. Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch—was he? Good! and Murat was descended from the old Moors of Spain, from the Abencerages379 (sons of the saddle) of Granada. The name Murat is Arabic, and is the same as Murad (Le Désiré, or the wished-for one). Scott in his genteel Life of Bonaparte, says that “when Murat was in Egypt, the similarity between the name of the celebrated Mameluke Mourad and that of Bonaparte’s Meilleur Sabreur was remarked, and became the subject of jest amongst the comrades of the gallant Frenchman.” But the writer of the novel of Bonaparte did not know that the names were one and the same. Now which was the best pedigree, that of the son of the pastry-cook, or that of the son of the pettifogger? Which was the best blood? Let us observe the workings of the two bloods. He who had the blood of the “sons of the saddle” in him, became the wonderful cavalier of the most wonderful host that ever went forth to conquest, won for himself a crown and died the death of a soldier, leaving behind him a son, only inferior to himself in strength, in prowess, and in horsemanship. The descendant of the cow-stealer became a poet, a novel writer, the panegyrist of great folk and genteel people; became insolvent because, though an author, he deemed it ungenteel to be mixed up with the business part of authorship; died paralytic and brokenhearted because he could no longer give entertainments to great folks; leaving behind him, amongst other children, who were never heard of, a son, who, through his father’s interest, had become lieutenant-colonel in a genteel cavalry regiment. A son who was ashamed of his father because his father was an author; a son who—paugh—why ask which was the best blood?

So, owing to his rage for gentility, Scott must needs become the apologist of the Stuarts and their party; but God made this man pay dearly for taking the part of the wicked against the good; for lauding up to the skies the miscreants and robbers, and calumniating the noble spirits of Britain, the salt of England, and his own country. As God had driven the Stuarts from their throne, and their followers from their estates, making them vagabonds and beggars on the face of the earth, taking from them all they cared for, so did that same God, who knows perfectly well how and where to strike, deprive the apologist of that wretched crew of all that rendered life pleasant in his eyes, the lack of which paralysed him in body and mind, rendered him pitiable to others, loathsome to himself—so much so, that he once said, “Where is the beggar who would change places with me, notwithstanding all my fame?” Ah! God knows perfectly well how to strike. He permitted him to retain all his literary fame to the very last—his literary fame for which he cared nothing; but what became of the sweetness of life, his fine house, his grand company, and his entertainments? The grand house ceased to be his; he was only permitted to live in it on sufferance, and whatever grandeur it might still retain, it soon became as desolate a looking house as any misanthrope could wish to see—where were the grand entertainments and the grand company? there are no grand entertainments where there is no money; no lords and ladies where there are no entertainments—and there lay the poor lodger in the desolate house, groaning on a bed no longer his, smitten by the hand of God in the part where he was most vulnerable. Of what use telling such a man to take comfort, for he had written the Minstrel and Rob Roy—telling him to think of his literary fame? Literary fame, indeed! he wanted back his lost gentility.—

Retain my altar,
I care nothing for it—but, oh! touch not my beard.

—Parny’s War of the Gods.

He dies, his children die too, and then comes the crowning judgment of God on what remains of his race and the house which he had built. He was not a Papist himself, nor did he wish anyone belonging to him to be Popish, for he had read enough of the Bible to know that no one can be saved through Popery, yet had he a sneaking affection for it, and would at times in an underhand manner, give it a good word both in writing and discourse, because it was a gaudy kind of worship, and ignorance and vassalage prevailed so long as it flourished—but he certainly did not wish any of his people to become Papists, nor the house which he had built to become a Popish house, though the very name he gave it savoured of Popery; but Popery becomes fashionable through his novels and poems—the only one that remains of his race, a female grandchild, marries a person who, following the fashion, becomes a Papist, and makes her a Papist too. Money abounds with the husband, who buys the house, and then the house becomes the rankest Popish house in Britain. A superstitious person might almost imagine that one of the old Scottish Covenanters, whilst the grand house was being built from the profits resulting from the sale of writings favouring Popery and persecution, and calumniatory of Scotland’s saints and martyrs, had risen from the grave, and banned Scott, his race, and his house, by reading a certain Psalm.

In saying what he has said about Scott, the author has not been influenced by any feeling of malice or ill-will, but simply by a regard for truth, and a desire to point out to his countrymen the harm which has resulted from the perusal of his works; he is not one of those who would depreciate the talents of Scott—he admires his talents, both as a prose writer and a poet; as a poet especially he admires him, and believes him to have been by far the greatest, with perhaps the exception of Mickiewicz, who only wrote for unfortunate Poland, that Europe has given birth to during the last hundred years. As a prose writer he admires him less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause of the Stuarts and gentility. What book of fiction of the present century can you read twice, with the exception of Waverley and Rob Roy? There is Pelham it is true, which the writer of these lines has seen a Jewess reading in the steppe of Debreczin, and which a young Prussian Baron, a great traveller, whom he met at Constantinople in ’44 told him he always carried in his valise. And, in conclusion, he will say, in order to show the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a writer, that he did for the spectre of the wretched Pretender what all the kings of Europe could not do for his body—placed it on the throne of these realms; and for Popery, what Popes and Cardinals strove in vain to do for three centuries—brought back its mummeries and nonsense into the temples of the British Isles.

Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether they wrote history so called—poetry so called—or novels—nobody would call a book a novel if he could call it anything else—wrote Charlie o’er the water nonsense; and now that he has been dead nearly a quarter of a century, there are others daily springing up who are striving to imitate Scott in his Charlie o’er the water nonsense—for nonsense it is, even when flowing from his pen. They, too, must write Jacobite histories, Jacobite songs, and Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the scoundrel menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and retailing their masters’ conversation, do they cut as Walter Scotts. In their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, and the pibroch; and in their songs about “Claverse” and “Bonny Dundee.” But though they may be Scots, they are not Walter Scotts. But it is perhaps chiefly in the novel that you see the veritable hog in armour; the time of the novel is of course the ’15 or ’45; the hero a Jacobite, and connected with one or other of the enterprises of those periods; and the author, to show how unprejudiced he is, and what original views he takes of subjects, must needs speak up for Popery, whenever he has occasion to mention it; though with all his originality, when he brings his hero and the vagabonds with which he is concerned before a barricaded house, belonging to the Whigs, he can make them get into it by no other method than that which Scott makes his rioters employ to get into the Tolbooth, burning down the door.

To express the more than utter foolishness of this latter Charlie o’er the water nonsense, whether in rhyme or prose, there is but one word, and that word a Scotch word. Scotch, the sorriest of jargons, compared with which even Roth-Welsch is dignified and expressive, has yet one word to express what would be inexpressible by any word or combination of words in any language, or in any other jargon in the world; and very properly; for as the nonsense is properly Scotch, so should the word be Scotch which expresses it—that word is “fushionless,” pronounced “fooshionless;” and when the writer has called the nonsense fooshionless—and he does call it fooshionless—he has nothing more to say, but leaves the nonsense to its fate.

VIII

On Canting Nonsense

The writer now wishes to say something on the subject of canting nonsense, of which there is a great deal in England. There are various cants in England, amongst which is the religious cant. He is not going to discuss the subject of religious cant: lest, however, he should be misunderstood, he begs leave to repeat that he is a sincere member of the old-fashioned Church of England, in which he believes there is more religion, and consequently less cant, than in any other Church in the world; nor is he going to discuss many other cants; he shall content himself with saying something about two—the temperance cant and the unmanly cant. Temperance canters say that, “it is unlawful to drink a glass of ale.” Unmanly canters say that “it is unlawful to use one’s fists.” The writer begs leave to tell both these species of canters that they do not speak the words of truth.

It is very lawful to take a cup of ale, or wine, for the purpose of cheering or invigorating yourself when you are faint and downhearted; and likewise to give a cup of ale or wine to others when they are in a similar condition. The Holy Scripture sayeth nothing to the contrary, but rather encourageth people in so doing by the text, “Wine maketh glad the heart of man.” But it is not lawful to intoxicate yourself with frequent cups of ale or wine, nor to make others intoxicated, nor does the Holy Scripture say that it is. The Holy Scripture no more says that it is lawful to intoxicate yourself or others, than it says that it is unlawful to take a cup of ale or wine yourself, or to give one to others. Noah is not commended in the Scripture for making himself drunken on the wine he brewed. Nor is it said that the Saviour, when He supplied the guests with first-rate wine at the marriage feast, told them to make themselves drunk upon it. He is said to have supplied them with first-rate wine, but He doubtless left the quantity which each should drink to each party’s reason and discretion. When you set a good dinner before your guests, you do not expect that they should gorge themselves with the victuals you set before them. Wine may be abused, and so may a leg of mutton.

Second. It is lawful for anyone to use his fists in his own defence, or in the defence of others, provided they can’t help themselves; but it is not lawful to use them for purposes of tyranny or brutality. If you are attacked by a ruffian, as the elderly individual in Lavengro is in the inn yard, it is quite lawful, if you can, to give him as good a thrashing as the elderly individual gave the brutal coachman; and if you see a helpless woman—perhaps your own sister—set upon by a drunken lord, a drunken coachman, or a drunken coalheaver, or a brute of any description, either drunk or sober, it is not only lawful, but laudable to give them, if you can, a good drubbing; but it is not lawful because you have a strong pair of fists, and know how to use them, to go swaggering through a fair, jostling against unoffending individuals; should you do so, you would be served quite right if you were to get a drubbing, more particularly if you were served out by someone less strong, but more skilful than yourself—even as the coachman was served out by a pupil of the immortal Broughton—sixty years old, it is true, but possessed of Broughton’s guard and chop. Moses is not blamed in the Scripture for taking part with the oppressed, and killing an Egyptian persecutor. We are not told how Moses killed the Egyptian; but it is quite as creditable to Moses to suppose that he killed the Egyptian by giving him a buffet under the left ear, as by stabbing him with a knife. It is true that the Saviour in the New Testament tells His disciples to turn the left cheek to be smitten, after they had received a blow on the right; but He was speaking to people divinely inspired, or whom He intended divinely to inspire—people selected by God for a particular purpose. He likewise tells these people to part with various articles of raiment when asked for them, and to go a-travelling without money, and take no thought of the morrow. Are those exhortations carried out by very good people in the present day? Do Quakers, when smitten on the right cheek, turn the left to the smiter? When asked for their coat, do they say, “Friend, take my shirt also?” Has the Dean of Salisbury no purse? Does the Archbishop of Canterbury go to an inn, run up a reckoning, and then say to his landlord, “Mistress, I have no coin?” Assuredly the Dean has a purse, and a tolerably well-filled one; and, assuredly, the Archbishop, on departing from an inn, not only settles his reckoning, but leaves something handsome for the servants, and does not say that he is forbidden by the gospel to pay for what he has eaten, or the trouble he has given, as a certain Spanish cavalier said he was forbidden by the statutes of chivalry. Now, to take the part of yourself, or the part of the oppressed, with your fists, is quite as lawful in the present day as it is to refuse your coat and your shirt also to any vagabond who may ask for them, and not to refuse to pay for supper, bed and breakfast, at the Feathers, or any other inn, after you have had the benefit of all three.

The conduct of Lavengro with respect to drink may, upon the whole, serve as a model. He is no drunkard, nor is he fond of intoxicating other people; yet when the horrors are upon him he has no objection to go to a public-house and call for a pint of ale, nor does he shrink from recommending ale to others when they are faint and downcast. In one instance, it is true, he does what cannot be exactly justified; he encourages the priest in the dingle, in more instances than one, in drinking more hollands and water than is consistent with decorum. He has a motive indeed in doing so; a desire to learn from the knave in his cups the plans and hopes of the Propaganda of Rome. Such conduct, however, was inconsistent with strict fair dealing and openness; and the author advises all those whose consciences never reproach them for a single unfair or covert act committed by them, to abuse him heartily for administering hollands and water to the Priest of Rome. In that instance the hero is certainly wrong; yet in all other cases with regard to drink, he is manifestly right. To tell people that they are never to drink a glass of ale or wine themselves, or to give one to others, is cant; and the writer has no toleration for cant of any description. Some cants are not dangerous; but the writer believes that a more dangerous cant than the temperance cant, or as it is generally called, teetotalism, is scarcely to be found. The writer is willing to believe that it originated with well meaning, though weak people; but there can be no doubt that it was quickly turned to account by people who were neither well meaning nor weak. Let the reader note particularly the purpose to which this cry has been turned in America—the land, indeed, par excellence, of humbug and humbug cries. It is there continually in the mouth of the most violent political party, and is made an instrument of almost unexampled persecution. The writer would say more on the temperance cant, both in England and America, but want of space prevents him. There is one point on which he cannot avoid making a few brief remarks—that is, the inconsistent conduct of its apostles in general. The teetotal apostle says, it is a dreadful thing to be drunk. So it is, teetotaller; but if so, why do you get drunk? I get drunk? Yes, unhappy man, why do you get drunk on smoke and passion? Why are your garments impregnated with the odour of the Indian weed? Why is there a pipe or a cigar always in your mouth? Why is your language more dreadful than that of a Poissarde? Tobacco-smoke is more deleterious than ale, teetotaller; bile more potent than brandy. You are fond of telling your hearers what an awful thing it is to die drunken. So it is, teetotaller. Then take good care that you do not die with smoke and passion, drunken, and with temperance language on your lips; that is, abuse and calumny against all those who differ from you. One word of sense you have been heard to say, which is, that spirits may be taken as a medicine. Now you are in a fever of passion, teetotaller: so, pray take this tumbler of brandy; take it on the homoeopathic principle, that heat is to be expelled by heat. You are in a temperance fury, so swallow the contents of this tumbler, and it will, perhaps, cure you. You look at the glass wistfully—you say you occasionally take a glass medicinally—and it is probable you do. Take one now. Consider what a dreadful thing it would be to die passion drunk; to appear before your Maker with intemperate language on your lips. That’s right! You don’t seem to wince at the brandy. That’s right!—well done! All down in two pulls. Now you look like a reasonable being!

If the conduct of Lavengro with regard to drink is open to little censure, assuredly the use which he makes of his fists is entitled to none at all. Because he has a pair of tolerably strong fists, and knows to a certain extent how to use them, is he a swaggerer or oppressor? To what ill account does he turn them? Who more quiet, gentle and inoffensive than he? He beats off a ruffian who attacks him in a dingle; has a kind of friendly tuzzle with Mr. Petulengro, and behold the extent of his fistic exploits.

Ay, but he associates with prizefighters; and that very fellow, Petulengro, is a prizefighter, and has fought for a stake in a ring. Well, and if he had not associated with prizefighters, how could he have used his fists? Oh, anybody can use his fists in his own defence, without being taught by prizefighters. Can they? Then why does not the Italian, or Spaniard, or Afghan use his fists when insulted or outraged, instead of having recourse to the weapons which he has recourse to? Nobody can use his fists without being taught the use of them by those who have themselves been taught, no more than anyone can “whiffle” without being taught by a master of the art. Now let any man of the present day try to whiffle. Would not anyone who wished to whiffle have to go to a master of the art? Assuredly! but where would he find one at the present day? The last of the whifflers380 hanged himself about a fortnight ago on a bell-rope in a church steeple of “the old town,” from pure grief that there was no further demand for the exhibition of his art, there being no demand for whiffling since the discontinuation of Guildhall banquets. Whiffling is lost. The old chap left his sword behind him; let anyone take up the old chap’s sword and try to whiffle. Now much the same hand as he would make who should take up the whiffler’s sword and try to whiffle, would he who should try to use his fists who had never had the advantage of a master. Let no one think that men use their fists naturally in their own disputes—men have naturally recourse to any other thing to defend themselves or to offend others; they fly to the stick, to the stone, to the murderous and cowardly knife, or to abuse as cowardly as the knife, and occasionally more murderous. Now which is best when you hate a person, or have a pique against a person, to clench your fist and say “Come on,” or to have recourse to the stone, the knife, or murderous calumny? The use of the fist is almost lost in England. Yet are the people better than they were when they knew how to use their fists? The writer believes not. A fisty combat is at present a great rarity, but the use of the knife, the noose, and of poison, to say nothing of calumny, are of more frequent occurrence in England than perhaps in any country in Europe. Is polite taste better than when it could bear the details of a fight? The writer believes not. Two men cannot meet in a ring to settle a dispute in a manly manner without some trumpery local newspaper letting loose a volley of abuse against “the disgraceful exhibition,” in which abuse it is sure to be sanctioned by its dainty readers; whereas some murderous horror, the discovery for example of the mangled remains of a woman in some obscure den, is greedily seized hold on by the moral journal, and dressed up for its readers, who luxuriate and gloat upon the ghastly dish. Now, the writer of Lavengro has no sympathy with those who would shrink from striking a blow, but would not shrink from the use of poison or calumny; and his taste has little in common with that which cannot tolerate the hardy details of a prizefight, but which luxuriates on descriptions of the murder dens of modern England. But prizefighters and pugilists are blackguards, a reviewer has said; and blackguards they would be provided they employed their skill and their prowess for purposes of brutality and oppression; but prizefighters and pugilists are seldom friends to brutality and oppression; and which is the blackguard, the writer would ask: he who uses his fists to take his own part, or instructs others to use theirs for the same purpose, or the being who from envy and malice, or at the bidding of a malicious scoundrel, endeavours by calumny, falsehood, and misrepresentation to impede the efforts of lonely and unprotected genius?

One word more about the race, all but extinct, of the people opprobriously called prizefighters. Some of them have been as noble, kindly men as the world ever produced. Can the rolls of the English aristocracy exhibit names belonging to more noble, more heroic men than those who were called respectively Pearce, Cribb and Spring? Did ever one of the English aristocracy contract the seeds of fatal consumption by rushing up the stairs of a burning edifice, even to the topmost garret, and rescuing a woman from seemingly inevitable destruction? The writer says no. A woman was rescued from the top of a burning house; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce, not Percy, who ran up the burning stairs. Did ever one of those glittering ones save a fainting female from the libidinous rage of six ruffians? The writer believes not. A woman was rescued from the libidinous fury of six monsters on ——— Down; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce not Paulet, who rescued the woman, and thrashed my Lord’s six gamekeepers—Pearce, whose equal never was, and probably never will be, found in sturdy combat. Are there any of the aristocracy of whom it can be said that they never did a cowardly, cruel or mean action, and that they invariably took the part of the unfortunate and weak against cruelty and oppression? As much can be said of Cribb, of Spring, and the other; but where is the aristocrat of whom as much can be said? Wellington? Wellington indeed! a skilful general, and a good man of valour, it is true, but with that cant word of “duty” continually on his lips. Did he rescue Ney from his butchers? Did he lend a helping hand to Warner?

In conclusion, the writer would advise those of his country-folks who read his book to have nothing to do with the two kinds of canting nonsense described above, but in their progress through life to enjoy as well as they can, but always with moderation, the good things of this world, to put confidence in God, to be as independent as possible, and to take their own parts. If they are low spirited, let them not make themselves foolish by putting on sackcloth, drinking water, or chewing ashes, but let them take wholesome exercise, and eat the most generous food they can get, taking up and reading occasionally, not the lives of Ignatius Loyola and Francis Spira,381 but something more agreeable; for example, the life and adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell,382 the deaf and dumb gentleman; the travels of Captain Falconer in America,383 and the journal of John Randall,384 who went to Virginia and married an Indian wife; not forgetting, amidst their eating and drinking, their walks over heaths, and by the seaside, and their agreeable literature, to be charitable to the poor, to read the Psalms and to go to church twice on a Sunday. In their dealings with people, to be courteous to everybody, as Lavengro was, but always independent like him; and if people meddle with them, to give them as good as they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners were in the habit of doing; and it will be as well for him to observe that he by no means advises women to be too womanly, but bearing the conduct of Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, and if anybody strikes them, to strike again.

Beating of women by the lords of the creation has become very prevalent in England since pugilism has been discountenanced. Now the writer strongly advises any woman who is struck by a ruffian to strike him again; or if she cannot clench her fists, and he advises all women in these singular times to learn to clench their fists, to go at him with tooth and nail, and not to be afraid of the result, for any fellow who is dastard enough to strike a woman, would allow himself to be beaten by a woman, were she to make at him in self-defence, even if, instead of possessing the stately height and athletic proportions of the aforesaid Isopel, she were as diminutive in stature, and had a hand as delicate, and foot as small, as a certain royal lady, who was some time ago assaulted by a fellow upwards of six feet high, whom the writer has no doubt she could have beaten had she thought proper to go at him. Such is the deliberate advice of the author to his countrymen and women—advice in which he believes there is nothing unscriptural or repugnant to common sense.

The writer is perfectly well aware that, by the plain language which he has used in speaking of the various kinds of nonsense prevalent in England, he shall make himself a multitude of enemies; but he is not going to conceal the truth or to tamper with nonsense, from the fear of provoking hostility. He has a duty to perform and he will perform it resolutely; he is the person who carried the Bible to Spain; and as resolutely as he spoke in Spain against the superstitions of Spain, will he speak in England against the nonsense of his own native land. He is not one of those who, before they sit down to write a book, say to themselves, what cry shall we take up? what principles shall we advocate? what principles shall we abuse? before we put pen to paper we must find out what cry is the loudest, what principle has the most advocates, otherwise, after having written our book, we may find ourselves on the weaker side.

A sailor of the Bounty waked from his sleep by the noise of the mutiny, lay still in his hammock for some time, quite undecided whether to take part with the captain or to join the mutineers. “I must mind what I do,” said he to himself, “lest, in the end, I find myself on the weaker side;” finally, on hearing that the mutineers were successful, he went on deck, and seeing Bligh pinioned to the mast, he put his fist to his nose, and otherwise insulted him. Now, there are many writers of the present day whose conduct is very similar to that of the sailor. They lie listening in their corners till they have ascertained which principle has most advocates; then, presently, they make their appearance on the deck of the world with their book; if truth has been victorious, then has truth their hurrah! but if truth is pinioned against the mast, then is their fist thrust against the nose of truth, and their gibe and their insult spurted in their face. The strongest party had the sailor, and the strongest party has almost invariably the writer of the present day.

IX

Pseudo-Critics

A certain set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked Lavengro with much virulence and malice. If what they call criticism had been founded on truth, the author would have had nothing to say. The book contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by the by, wilful ones, as the writer will presently show; not one of these, however, has been detected and pointed out; but the best passages in the book, indeed whatever was calculated to make the book valuable, have been assailed with abuse and misrepresentation. The duty of the true critic is to play the part of a leech, and not of a viper. Upon true and upon malignant criticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte.385 The viper says to the leech, “Why do people invite your bite, and flee from mine?” “Because,” says the leech, “people receive health from my bite, and poison from yours.” “There is as much difference,” says the clever Spaniard, “between true and malignant criticism, as between poison and medicine.” Certainly a great many meritorious writers have allowed themselves to be poisoned by malignant criticism; the writer, however, is not one of those who allow themselves to be poisoned by pseudo-critics; no! no! he will rather hold them up by their tails, and show the creatures wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws. First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections. “The book isn’t true,” say they. Now one of the principal reasons with those who have attacked Lavengro for their abuse of it is, that it is particularly true in one instance, namely, that it exposes their own nonsense, their love of humbug, their slavishness, their dressings, their goings out, their scraping and bowing to great people; it is the showing up of “gentility nonsense” in Lavengro that has been one principal reason for the raising the above cry; for in Lavengro, is denounced the besetting folly of the English people, a folly which those who call themselves guardians of the public taste are far from being above. “We can’t abide anything that isn’t true!” they exclaim. Can’t they? Then why are they so enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposes of humbug, which tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings, with their own nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, to become more alive to their own failings, and less sensitive about the tyrannical goings on of the masters, and the degraded condition, the sufferings, and the trials of the serfs in the star Jupiter? Had Lavengro, instead of being the work of an independent mind, been written in order to further any of the thousand and one cants, and species of nonsense prevalent in England, the author would have heard much less about its not being true, both from public detractors and private censurers.

“But Lavengro pretends to be an autobiography,” say the critics; and here the writer begs leave to observe, that it would be well for people who profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in every assertion which they make a most profligate disregard of it; this assertion of theirs is a falsehood, and they know it to be a falsehood.386 In the preface Lavengro is stated to be a dream; and the writer takes this opportunity of stating that he never said it was an autobiography; never authorised any person to say that it was one; and that he has in innumerable instances declared in public and private, both before and after the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an autobiography: but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms on books, hating the author for various reasons—amongst others, because, having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in the year ’43, choose to permit himself to be exhibited and made a zany of in London, and especially because he will neither associate with, nor curry favour with, them who are neither gentlemen nor scholars—attack his book with abuse and calumny. He is, perhaps, condescending too much when he takes any notice of such people; as, however, the English public is wonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take part against any person who is either unwilling or unable to defend himself, he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet with those who assail him. The best way to deal with vipers is to tear out their teeth; and the best way to deal with pseudo-critics is to deprive them of their poison-bag, which is easily done by exposing their ignorance. The writer knew perfectly well the description of people with whom he would have to do, he therefore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which he could at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless, in his hand. Critics, when they review books, ought to have a competent knowledge of the subjects which those books discuss.

Lavengro is a philological book, a poem if you choose to call it so. Now what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished to vilify the book and its author, provided they could have detected the latter tripping in his philology—they might have instantly said that he was an ignorant pretender to philology—they laughed at the idea of his taking up a viper by its tail, a trick which hundreds of country urchins do every September, but they were silent about the really wonderful part of the book, the philological matter—they thought philology was his stronghold, and that it would be useless to attack him there; they of course would give him no credit as a philologist, for anything like fair treatment towards him was not to be expected at their hands, but they were afraid to attack his philology—yet that was the point, and the only point in which they might have attacked him successfully; he was vulnerable there. How was this? Why, in order to have an opportunity of holding up pseudo-critics by the tails, he wilfully spelt various foreign words wrong—Welsh words, and even Italian words—did they detect these misspellings? not one of them, even as he knew they would not, and he now taunts them with ignorance; and the power of taunting them with ignorance is the punishment which he designed for them—a power which they might but for their ignorance have used against him. The writer besides knowing something of Italian and Welsh, knows a little of Armenian language and literature; but who knowing anything of the Armenian language, unless he had an end in view, would say, that the word for sea in Armenian is anything like the word tide in English? The word for sea in Armenian is dzow, a word connected with the Tibetian word for water, and the Chinese shuy, and the Turkish su, signifying the same thing; but where is the resemblance between dzow and tide? Again, the word for bread in ancient Armenian is hats; yet the Armenian on London Bridge is made to say zhats, which is not the nominative of the Armenian noun for bread, but the accusative: now, critics, ravening against a man because he is a gentleman and a scholar, and has not only the power but also the courage to write original works, why did not you discover that weak point? Why, because you were ignorant, so here ye are held up! Moreover, who with a name commencing with Z, ever wrote fables in Armenian? There are two writers of fables in Armenian—Varthan and Koscht, and illustrious writers they are, one in the simple, and the other in the ornate style of Armenian composition, but neither of their names begins with a Z. Oh, what a precious opportunity ye lost, ye ravening crew, of convicting the poor, half-starved, friendless boy of the book, of ignorance or misrepresentation, by asking who with a name beginning with Z ever wrote fables in Armenian; but ye couldn’t help yourselves, ye are duncie. “We duncie!” Ay, duncie. So here ye are held up by the tails, blood and foam streaming from your jaws.

The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, Messieurs les Critiques? Were ye ever served so before? But don’t you richly deserve it? Haven’t you been for years past bullying and insulting everybody whom you deemed weak, and currying favour with everybody whom you thought strong? “We approve of this. We disapprove of that. Oh, this will never do. These are fine lines!” The lines perhaps some horrid sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so. To have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this manner, and by whom? A gypsy! Ay, a gypsy was the very right person to do it. But is it not galling, after all?

Ah, but we don’t understand Armenian, it cannot be expected that we should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or ———. Hey, what’s this? The mighty we not understand Armenian or Welsh, or ———. Then why does the mighty we pretend to review a book like Lavengro? From the arrogance with which it continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty we is omniscient; that it understands every language; is versed in every literature; yet the mighty we does not even know the word for bread in Armenian. It knows bread well enough by name in English, and frequently bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that the mighty we, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorry creature, who, instead of saying nous disons, should rather say nous dis: Parny in his Guerre des Dieux, very profanely makes the three in one say, Je faisons; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would suggest that critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics, should commence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant of the conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent of the critic’s information. The we says its say, but when fawning sycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains? Why a blank, a void, like Ginnúngagap.387

As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes of his book—a task, which a competent critic ought to have done—he will now point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, not altogether blinded with ignorance, might have done, or not replete with gall and envy would have been glad to do. The book has the merit of communicating a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages of the multitude of books was never previously mentioned—the mysterious practice of touching objects to baffle the evil chance. The miserable detractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habit being common: well and good; but was it ever before described in print, or all connected with it dissected? He may then vociferate something about Johnson having touched: the writer cares not whether Johnson, who, by the by, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people having become ultra Tory mad from reading Scott’s novels and the Quarterly Review, has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who were in the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool—touched, or whether he did or not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing that he did perform it? Again, the history gives an account of a certain book called the Sleeping Bard, the most remarkable prose work of the most difficult language but one, of modern Europe—a book, for a notice of which, he believes, one might turn over in vain the pages of any review printed in England, or, indeed, elsewhere. So here are two facts, one literary and the other physiological, for which any candid critic was bound to thank the author, even as in The Romany Rye there is a fact connected with Iro-Norman Myth, for the disclosing of which, any person who pretends to have a regard for literature is bound to thank him, namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal of Ossian’s Poems is one and the same person as the Sigurd Fafnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and the Siegfried Horn of the Lay of the Niebelungs.

The writer might here conclude, and, he believes, most triumphantly; as, however, he is in the cue for writing, which he seldom is, he will for his own gratification, and for the sake of others, dropping metaphors about vipers and serpents, show up in particular two or three sets or cliques of people, who, he is happy to say, have been particularly virulent against him and his work, for nothing indeed could have given him greater mortification than their praise.

In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals who call themselves men of wit and fashion—about town—who he is told have abused his book “vaustly”—their own word. These people paint their cheeks, wear white kid gloves, and dabble in literature, or what they conceive to be literature. For abuse from such people, the writer was prepared. Does anyone imagine that the writer was not well aware, before he published his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should be attacked by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence enough to procure the insertion of a scurrilous article in a magazine or newspaper! He has been in Spain, and has seen how invariably the mule attacks the horse; now why does the mule attack the horse? Why, because the latter carries about with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does not possess.

They consider, forsooth, that his book is low—but he is not going to waste words about them—one or two of whom, he is told, have written very duncie books about Spain, and are highly enraged with him, because certain books which he wrote about Spain were not considered duncie. No, he is not going to waste words upon them, for verily he dislikes their company, and so he’ll pass them by, and proceed to others.

The Scotch Charlie o’er the water people have been very loud in the abuse of Lavengro—this again might be expected; the sarcasms of the priest about the Charlie o’er the water nonsense of course stung them. Oh! it is one of the claims which Lavengro has to respect, that it is the first, if not the only work, in which that nonsense is, to a certain extent, exposed. Two or three of their remarks on passages of Lavengro, he will reproduce and laugh at. Of course your Charlie o’er the water people are genteel exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low. Gypsyism they think is particularly low, and the use of gypsy words in literature beneath its gentility; so they object to gypsy words being used in Lavengro where gypsies are introduced speaking—“What is Romany forsooth?” say they. Very good! And what is Scotch? has not the public been nauseated with Scotch for the last thirty years? “Ah, but Scotch is not”—the writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch what Scotch is and what it is not; he has told them before what it is: a very sorry jargon. He will now tell them what it is not—a sister or an immediate daughter of the Sanskrit, which Romany is. “Ay, but the Scotch are”—foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes, even like the gypsies—the difference between the gypsy and Scotch fox being that the first is wild, with a mighty brush, the other a sneak with a gilt collar and without a tail.

A Charlie o’er the water person attempts to be witty, because the writer has said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh High-School porter, of the name of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a Northern Kemp who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay.388 A pretty matter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman! Why, is there a beggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland, who does not pretend to be somebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman descended from some king, kemp or cow-stealer of old, by his own account at least? Why, the writer would even go so far as to bet a trifle that the poor creature, who ridicules Boee’s supposed ancestry, has one of his own, at least as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee’s of the High School.

The same Charlie o’er the water person is mightily indignant that Lavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William Wallace; Lavengro, when he speaks of that personage, being a child of about ten years old, and repeating merely what he had heard. All the Scotch, by the by, for a great many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace, particularly the Charlie o’er the water people, who in their nonsense-verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of William, Willie, or Wullie, Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that he by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannot help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie, Wallace was such a particularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certain renowned southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to be hanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed over the gates of certain towns? They got gold, it is true, and titles, very nice things, no doubt; but, surely, the life of a patriot is better than all the gold and titles in the world—at least Lavengro thinks so—but Lavengro has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not betray their brothers. It would be some time before a gypsy would hand over his brother to the harum-beck,389 even supposing you would not only make him a king, but a justice of the peace, and not only give him the world, but the best farm on the Holkham estate;390 but gypsies are wild foxes, and there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way of thinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvy kennel creature who has lost his tail.

Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o’er the water people, will say, “We didn’t sell Willie Wallace, it was our forbears who sold Willie Wallace—If Edward Longshanks had asked us to sell Wullie Wallace, we would soon have shown him that—” Lord better ye, ye poor trumpery set of creatures, ye would not have acted a bit better than your forefathers; remember how ye have ever treated the few amongst ye who, though born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of the wood. Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite as honest and patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an English minister, to be chained and transported for merely venturing to speak and write in the cause of humanity, at the time when Europe was beginning to fling off the chains imposed by kings and priests. And it is not so very long since Burns, to whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher than he deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and misery, because he would not join with them in songs of adulation to kings and the trumpery great. So say not that ye would have acted with respect to William Wallace one whit better than your fathers—and you in particular, ye children of Charlie, whom do ye write nonsense-verses about? A family of dastard despots, who did their best, during a century and more, to tread out the few sparks of independent feeling still glowing in Scotland—but enough has been said about ye.

Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defamation of Lavengro, have been your modern Radicals, and particularly a set of people who filled the country with noise against the King and Queen, Wellington, and the Tories, in ’32. About these people the writer will presently have occasion to say a good deal, and also of real Radicals. As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of those who delight to play the sycophant to kings and queens, to curry favour with Tories, and to bepraise Wellington, he begs leave to state that such is not the case.

About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories, simply that he believes them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however, it will be necessary for him to say a good deal, of mixed import, as he will subsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in connection with what he has to say about pseudo-Radicals.

X

Pseudo-Radicals

About Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the present day to be infinitely overrated. But there certainly was a time when he was shamefully underrated. Now what time was that? Why the time of pseudo-Radicalism, par excellence, from ’20 to ’32. Oh, the abuse that was heaped on Wellington by those who traded in Radical cant—your newspaper editors and review writers! and how he was sneered at then by your Whigs, and how faintly supported he was by your Tories, who were half ashamed of him; for your Tories, though capital fellows as followers, when you want nobody to back you, are the faintest creatures in the world when you cry in your agony, “Come and help me!” Oh, assuredly Wellington was infamously used at that time, especially by your traders in Radicalism, who howled at and hooted him; said he had every vice—was no general—was beaten at Waterloo—was a poltroon—moreover a poor illiterate creature, who could scarcely read or write; nay, a principal Radical paper said boldly he could not read, and devised an ingenious plan for teaching Wellington how to read. Now this was too bad; and the writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke up for Wellington, saying, that as for vice, he was not worse than his neighbours; that he was brave; that he won the fight at Waterloo, from a half-dead man, it is true, but that he did win it. Also, that he believed he had read Rules for the Manual and Platoon Exercises to some purpose; moreover, that he was sure he could write, for that he the writer had once written to Wellington, and had received an answer from him; nay, the writer once went so far as to strike a blow for Wellington; for the last time he used his fists was upon a Radical subeditor, who was mobbing Wellington in the street, from behind a rank of grimy fellows. But though the writer spoke up for Wellington to a certain extent when he was shamefully underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was about being hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome sycophantic nonsense which it has been the fashion to use with respect to Wellington these last twenty years. Now what have those years been to England! Why the years of ultra-gentility, everybody in England having gone gentility mad during the last twenty years, and no people more so than your pseudo-Radicals. Wellington was turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals got in, and then commenced the period of ultra-gentility in England. The Whigs and Radicals only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of the country was in his hands, none of which they were tolerably sure he would bestow on them; but no sooner did they get it into their own, than they forthwith became admirers of Wellington. And why? Because he was a duke, petted at Windsor and by foreign princes, and a very genteel personage. Formerly many of your Whigs and Radicals had scarcely a decent coat on their backs; but now the plunder of the country was at their disposal, and they had as good a chance of being genteel as any people. So they were willing to worship Wellington because he was very genteel, and could not keep the plunder of the country out of their hands. And Wellington has been worshipped, and prettily so, during the last fifteen or twenty years. He is now a noble fine-hearted creature; the greatest general the world ever produced; the bravest of men; and—and—mercy upon us! the greatest of military writers! Now the present writer will not join in such sycophancy. As he was not afraid to take the part of Wellington when he was scurvily used by all parties, and when it was dangerous to take his part, so he is not afraid to speak the naked truth about Wellington in these days, when it is dangerous to say anything about him but what is sycophantically laudatory. He said in ’32,391 that as to vice, Wellington was not worse than his neighbours; but he is not going to say in ’54, that Wellington was a noble-hearted fellow; for he believes that a more cold-hearted individual never existed. His conduct to Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney, showed that. He said in ’32, that he was a good general and a brave man; but he is not going, in ’54, to say that he was the best general, or the bravest man, the world ever saw. England has produced a better general—France two or three—both countries many braver men. The son of the Norfolk clergyman was a brave man;392 Marshal Ney was a braver man. Oh, that battle of Copenhagen! Oh, that covering the retreat of the Grand Army! And though he said in ’32 that he could write, he is not going to say in ’54 that he is the best of all military writers. On the contrary, he does not hesitate to say that any Commentary of Julius Caesar, or any chapter in Justinus, more especially the one about the Parthians, is worth the ten volumes of Wellington’s Despatches; though he has no doubt that, by saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a certain newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals imaginable—with a slight tendency to liberalism, it is true, but perfectly genteel—which is nevertheless the very one which, in ’32, swore bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write and devised an ingenious plan for teaching him how to read.

Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if the writer should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he would be influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry favour with Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of Wellington; but the writer is not going to declaim against Radicals, that is, real Republicans, or their principles; upon the whole, he is something of an admirer of both. The writer has always had as much admiration for everything that is real and honest as he has had contempt for the opposite. Now real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much finer thing than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is nevertheless far better than Whiggism393—a compound of petty larceny, popular instruction, and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, and your real Radicals and Republicans are certainly very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows, for the Lord only knows where to find them at the present day—the writer does not. If he did, he would at any time go five miles to invite one of them to dinner, even supposing that he had to go to a workhouse in order to find the person he wished to invite. Amongst the real Radicals of England, those who flourished from the year ’16 to ’20, there were certainly extraordinary characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but honest and brave—they did not make a market of the principles which they professed, and never intended to do so; they believed in them, and were willing to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out. The writer wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both of whom perished on the scaffold—their names were Thistlewood and Ings.394 Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier and had served with distinction as an officer in the French service; he was one of the excellent swordsmen of Europe; had fought several duels in France, where it is no child’s play to fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword for single combat, but in defence of the feeble and insulted—he was kind and openhearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared and never returned him a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, of very low stature, but amazing strength and resolution; he was a kind husband and father, and though a humble butcher, the name he bore was one of the royal names of the heathen Anglo-Saxons. These two men, along with five others, were executed, and their heads hacked off, for levying war against George the Fourth; the whole seven dying in a manner which extorted cheers from the populace, the most of them uttering philosophical or patriotic sayings. Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the most calm and collected of all, just before he was turned off, said, “We are now going to discover the great secret.” Ings, the moment before he was choked, was singing “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.” Now there was no humbug about those men, nor about many more of the same time and of the same principles. They might be deluded about Republicanism, as Algernon Sidney was, and as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave as either Brutus or Sidney, and as willing to die for their principles. But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a very different description; they jobbed and traded in Republicanism, and either parted with it, or at the present day are eager to part with it, for a consideration. In order to get the Whigs into power, and themselves places, they brought the country by their inflammatory language to the verge of a revolution, and were the cause that many perished on the scaffold; by their incendiary harangues and newspaper articles they caused the Bristol conflagration, for which six poor creatures were executed; they encouraged the mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and then rushing into garrets looked on. Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower is a second Bastile; let it be pulled down. A mob tries to pull down the Tower; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob; he is not peeping from a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at Lisbon. Thistlewood and Ings say to twenty ragged individuals, Liverpool and Castlereagh are two satellites of despotism; it would be highly desirable to put them out of the way. And a certain number of ragged individuals are surprised in a stable in Cato Street, making preparations to put Castlereagh and Liverpool out of the way, and are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers, and are hacked at with cutlasses by Bow Street runners; but the twain who encouraged those ragged individuals to meet in Cato Street are not far off, they are not on the other side of the river, in the Borough, for example, in some garret or obscure cellar. The very first to confront the Guards and runners are Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood whips his long thin rapier through Smithers’ lungs, and Ings makes a dash at Fitzclarence with his butcher’s knife. Oh, there was something in those fellows! honesty and courage; but can as much be said for the inciters of the troubles of ’32? No; they egged on poor ignorant mechanics and rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and burning, whilst the highest pitch to which their own daring ever mounted was to mob Wellington as he passed in the streets.

Now, these people were humbugs, which Thistlewood and Ings were not. They raved and foamed against kings, queens, Wellington, the aristocracy, and whatnot, till they had got the Whigs into power, with whom they were in secret alliance, and with whom they afterwards openly joined in a system of robbery and corruption, more flagitious than the old Tory one, because there was more cant about it; for themselves they got consulships, commissionerships, and in some instances governments; for their sons clerkships in public offices; and there you may see those sons with the never-failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, the gilt chain at the waistcoat-pocket; and there you may hear and see them using the languishing tones, and employing the airs and graces which wenches use and employ, who, without being in the family way, wish to make their keepers believe that they are in the family way. Assuredly great is the cleverness of your Radicals of ’32, in providing for themselves and their families. Yet, clever as they are, there is one thing they cannot do—they get governments for themselves, commissionerships for their brothers, clerkships for their sons, but there is one thing beyond their craft—they cannot get husbands for their daughters, who, too ugly for marriage, and with their heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed from gentility-novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters in fusty convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude’s “chapelle,” seek for admission at the establishment of mother S——, who, after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making them pluck off their eyebrows, hair by hair, generally dismisses them on the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return to their papas to eat the bread of the country, with the comfortable prospect of eating it still in the shape of a pension after their sires are dead. Papa (ex uno disce omnes) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true, being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very sightly appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in particular, whose Despatches, bound in red morocco, you will find on his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind, with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionise, exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from downtrodden but scowling Italy, “Confound the revolutionary canaille, why can’t it be quiet!” in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the Walpurgis Nacht. The writer is no admirer of Goethe, but the idea of that parvenu was certainly a good one—yes, putting one in mind of the individual who says:—

“Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm,
Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten;
Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um,
Und eben da wir’s fest erhalten wollten.”

We were no fools, as everyone discern’d,
And stopp’d at nought our projects in fulfilling;
But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn’d,
To keep it quiet just when we were willing.

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for Lavengro and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both. It is true that such hatred is by no means surprising. There is certainly a great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one thinking of independence and philology, whilst he is clinking away at kettles, and hammering horseshoes in dingles; the others stuck up at public offices with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving themselves the airs and graces of females of a certain description. And there certainly is a great deal of difference between the author of Lavengro and themselves—he retaining his principles and his brush; they with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their republicanism and their tails. Oh, the writer can well afford to be vituperated by your pseudo-Radicals of ’32!

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself.

XI

The Old Radical395

“This very dirty man, with his very dirty face,
Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place.”

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but before he relates the manner in which they set upon him, it will be as well to enter upon a few particulars tending to elucidate their reasons for so doing.

The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure, a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair of spectacles. This person, who had lately come from abroad, and had published a volume of translations,396 had attracted some slight notice in the literary world, and was looked upon as a kind of lion in a small provincial capital. After dinner he argued a great deal, spoke vehemently against the Church, and uttered the most desperate Radicalism that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he hoped that in a short time there would not be a king or queen in Europe, and inveighing bitterly against the English aristocracy, and against the Duke of Wellington in particular, whom he said, if he himself was ever president of an English republic—an event which he seemed to think by no means improbable—he would hang for certain infamous acts of profligacy and bloodshed which he had perpetrated in Spain. Being informed that the writer was something of a philologist, to which character the individual in question laid great pretensions, he came and sat down by him, and talked about languages and literature. The writer, who was only a boy, was a little frightened at first, but, not wishing to appear a child of absolute ignorance, he summoned what little learning he had, and began to blunder out something about the Celtic languages and their literature, and asked the Lion who he conceived Finn Ma Coul to be? and whether he did not consider the “Ode to the Fox,” by Red Rhys of Eryry,397 to be a masterpiece of pleasantry? Receiving no answer to these questions from the Lion, who, singular enough, would frequently, when the writer put a question to him, look across the table, and flatly contradict someone who was talking to some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages and literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny thing that Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have married the daughter of Prester John?398 The Lion, after giving a side-glance at the writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed about to reply, but was unfortunately prevented, being seized with an irresistible impulse to contradict a respectable doctor of medicine,399 who was engaged in conversation with the master of the house at the upper and farther end of the table, the writer being a poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the bottom. The doctor, who had served in the Peninsula, having observed that Ferdinand the Seventh was not quite so bad as had been represented, the Lion vociferated that he was ten times worse, and that he hoped to see him and the Duke of Wellington hanged together. The doctor, who, being a Welshman, was somewhat of a warm temper, growing rather red, said that at any rate he had been informed that Ferdinand the Seventh knew sometimes how to behave himself like a gentleman—this brought on a long dispute, which terminated rather abruptly. The Lion having observed that the doctor must not talk about Spanish matters with one who had visited every part of Spain, the doctor bowed, and said he was right, for that he believed no people in general possessed such accurate information about countries as those who had travelled them as bagmen. On the Lion asking the doctor what he meant, the Welshman, whose under jaw began to move violently, replied, that he meant what he said. Here the matter ended, for the Lion turning from him, looked at the writer. The writer, imagining that his own conversation hitherto had been too trivial and commonplace for the Lion to consider it worth his while to take much notice of it, determined to assume a little higher ground, and after repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling a little Arabic, asked the Lion what he considered to be the difference between the Hegira and the Christian era, adding, that he thought the general computation was in error by about one year; and being a particularly modest person, chiefly, he believes, owing to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely blushed at finding that the Lion returned not a word in answer. “What a wonderful individual I am seated by,” thought he, “to whom Arabic seems a vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy of an answer!” not reflecting that as lions come from the Sahara, they have quite enough of Arabic at home, and that the question about the Hegira was rather malapropos to one used to prey on the flesh of hadjis. “Now I only wish he would vouchsafe me a little of his learning,” thought the boy to himself, and in this wish he was at last gratified; for the Lion, after asking him whether he was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian languages, and being informed that he was not, absolutely dumbfoundered him by a display of Sclavonian erudition.

Years rolled by—the writer was a good deal about, sometimes in London, sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad; in London he occasionally met the man of the spectacles, who was always very civil to him, and, indeed, cultivated his acquaintance. The writer thought it rather odd that, after he himself had become acquainted with the Sclavonian languages and literature, the man of the spectacles talked little or nothing about them. In a little time, however, the matter ceased to cause him the slightest surprise, for he had discovered a key to the mystery. In the meantime the man of spectacles was busy enough; he speculated in commerce, failed, and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound; published translations, of which the public at length became heartily tired; having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those translations were got up. He managed, however, to ride out many a storm, having one trusty sheet-anchor—Radicalism. This he turned to the best advantage—writing pamphlets and articles in reviews, all in the Radical interest, and for which he was paid out of the Radical fund; which articles and pamphlets, when Toryism seemed to reel on its last legs, exhibited a slight tendency to Whiggism. Nevertheless, his abhorrence of desertion of principle was so great in the time of the Duke of Wellington’s administration, that when S—— left the Whigs and went over, he told the writer, who was about that time engaged with him in a literary undertaking, that the said S—— was a fellow with a character so infamous, that any honest man would rather that you should spit in his face than insult his ears with the mention of the name of S——.400

The literary project401 having come to nothing—in which, by the by, the writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all the credit, provided any credit should accrue from it—the writer did not see the latter for some years, during which time considerable political changes took place; the Tories were driven from, and the Whigs placed in, office, both events being brought about by the Radicals coalescing with the Whigs, over whom they possessed great influence for the services which they had rendered. When the writer next visited his friend, he found him very much altered; his opinions were by no means so exalted as they had been—he was not disposed even to be rancorous against the Duke of Wellington, saying that there were worse men than he, and giving him some credit as a general; a hankering after gentility seeming to pervade the whole family, father and sons, wife and daughters, all of whom talked about genteel diversions—gentility-novels, and even seemed to look with favour on high Churchism, having in former years, to all appearance, been bigoted Dissenters. In a little time the writer went abroad; as, indeed, did his friend; not, however, like the writer, at his own expense, but at that of the country—the Whigs having given him a travelling appointment, which he held for some years, during which he is said to have received upwards of twelve thousand pounds of the money of the country, for services which will, perhaps, be found inscribed on certain tablets, when another Astolfo shall visit the moon.402 This appointment, however, he lost on the Tories resuming power—when the writer found him almost as Radical and patriotic as ever, just engaged in trying to get into Parliament, into which he got by the assistance of his Radical friends, who, in conjunction with the Whigs, were just getting up a crusade against the Tories, which they intended should be a conclusive one.

A little time after the publication of The Bible in Spain, the Tories being still in power, this individual, full of the most disinterested friendship for the author, was particularly anxious that he should be presented with an official situation, in a certain region a great many miles off. “You are the only person for that appointment,” said he; “you understand a great deal about the country, and are better acquainted with the two languages spoken there than anyone in England. Now I love my country, and have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in Parliament, and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the Ministry, I shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be to secure your services. It is true they are Tories, but I think that even Tories would give up their habitual love of jobbery in a case like yours, and for once show themselves disposed to be honest men and gentlemen; indeed, I have no doubt they will; for, having so deservedly an infamous character, they would be glad to get themselves a little credit, by a presentation which could not possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism.” The writer begged his friend to give himself no trouble about the matter, as he was not desirous of the appointment, being in tolerably easy circumstances, and willing to take some rest after a life of labour. All, however, that he could say was of no use, his friend indignantly observing that the matter ought to be taken entirely out of his hands, and the appointment thrust upon him for the credit of the country. “But may not many people be far more worthy of the appointment than myself?” said the writer. “Where?” said the friendly Radical. “If you don’t get it, it will be made a job of, given to the son of some steward, or, perhaps, to some quack who has done dirty work; I tell you what, I shall ask it for you, in spite of you; I shall, indeed!” and his eyes flashed with friendly and patriotic fervour through the large pair of spectacles which he wore.

And, in fact, it would appear that the honest and friendly patriot put his threat into execution. “I have spoken,” said he, “more than once to this and that individual in Parliament, and everybody seems to think that the appointment should be given to you. Nay, that you should be forced to accept it. I intend next to speak to Lord A——.”403 And so he did, at least it would appear so. On the writer calling upon him one evening, about a week afterwards, in order to take leave of him, as the writer was about to take a long journey for the sake of his health, his friend no sooner saw him than he started up in a violent fit of agitation, and glancing about the room, in which there were several people, amongst others two Whig members of Parliament, said: “I am glad you are come, I was just speaking about you. This,” said he, addressing the two members, “is so-and-so, the author of so-and-so, the well-known philologist; as I was telling you, I spoke to Lord A——404 this day about him, and said that he ought forthwith to have the head appointment in ———;405 and what did the fellow say? Why, that there was no necessity for such an appointment at all, and if there were, why ——— and then he hummed and ha’d. Yes,” said he, looking at the writer, “he did indeed. What a scandal! what an infamy! But I see how it will be, it will be a job. The place will be given to some son of a steward or to some quack, as I said before. Oh, these Tories! Well, if this does not make one—” Here he stopped short, crunched his teeth, and looked the image of desperation.

Seeing the poor man in this distressed condition, the writer begged him to be comforted, and not to take the matter so much to heart; but the indignant Radical took the matter very much to heart, and refused all comfort whatever, bouncing about the room, and, whilst his spectacles flashed in the light of four spermaceti candles, exclaiming: “It will be a job—a Tory job! I see it all, I see it all, I see it all!”

And a job it proved, and a very pretty job, but no Tory job. Shortly afterwards the Tories were out, and the Whigs were in. From that time the writer heard not a word about the injustice done to the country, in not presenting him with the appointment to ———;406 the Radical, however, was busy enough to obtain the appointment, not for the writer, but for himself and eventually succeeded, partly through Radical influence, and partly through that of a certain Whig lord, for whom the Radical had done, on a particular occasion, work of a particular kind. So, though the place was given to a quack, and the whole affair a very pretty job, it was one in which the Tories had certainly no hand.

In the meanwhile, however, the friendly Radical did not drop the writer. Oh, no! On various occasions he obtained from the writer all the information about the country in question, and was particularly anxious to obtain from the writer, and eventually did obtain, a copy of a work written in the court language of that country,407 edited by the writer, a language exceedingly difficult, which the writer, at the expense of a considerable portion of his eyesight, had acquired, at least as far as by the eyesight it could be acquired. What use the writer’s friend made of the knowledge he had gained from him, and what use he made of the book, the writer can only guess; but he has little doubt that when the question of sending a person to ——— was mooted in a Parliamentary Committee—which it was at the instigation of the Radical supporters of the writer’s friend—the Radical on being examined about the country, gave the information which he had obtained from the writer as his own, and flashed the book and its singular characters in the eyes of the Committee; and then of course his Radical friends would instantly say: “This is the man! there is no one like him. See what information he possesses; and see that book written by himself in the court language of Serendib.408 This is the only man to send there. What a glory, what a triumph it would be to Britain, to send out a man so deeply versed in the mysterious lore of ———, as our illustrious countryman; a person who with his knowledge could beat with their own weapons the wise men of—! Is such an opportunity to be lost? Oh, no, surely not; if it is, it will be an eternal disgrace to England, and the world will see that Whigs are no better than Tories.”

Let no one think the writer uncharitable in these suppositions. The writer is only too well acquainted with the antecedents of the individual, to entertain much doubt that he would shrink from any such conduct, provided he thought that his temporal interest would be forwarded by it. The writer is aware of more than one instance in which he has passed off the literature of friendless young men for his own, after making them a slight pecuniary compensation and deforming what was originally excellent by interpolations of his own. This was his especial practice with regard to translation, of which he would fain be esteemed the king. This Radical literato is slightly acquainted with four or five of the easier dialects of Europe, on the strength of which knowledge he would fain pass for a universal linguist, publishing translations of pieces originally written in various difficult languages; which translations, however, were either made by himself from literal renderings done for him into French or German, or had been made from the originals into English, by friendless young men, and then deformed by his alterations.

Well, the Radical got the appointment, and the writer certainly did not grudge it him. He, of course, was aware that his friend had behaved in a very base manner towards him, but he bore him no ill-will, and invariably when he heard him spoken against, which was frequently the case, took his part when no other person would; indeed, he could well afford to bear him no ill-will. He had never sought for the appointment, nor wished for it, nor, indeed, ever believed himself to be qualified for it. He was conscious, it is true, that he was not altogether unacquainted with the language and literature of the country with which the appointment was connected. He was likewise aware that he was not altogether deficient in courage and in propriety of behaviour. He knew that his appearance was not particularly against him, his face not being like that of a convicted pickpocket, nor his gait resembling that of a fox who has lost his tail; yet he never believed himself adapted for the appointment, being aware that he had no aptitude for the doing of dirty work, if called to do it, nor pliancy which would enable him to submit to scurvy treatment, whether he did dirty work or not—requisites, at the time of which he is speaking, indispensable in every British official; requisites, by the by, which his friend, the Radical, possessed in a high degree; but though he bore no ill-will towards his friend, his friend bore anything but goodwill towards him; for from the moment that he had obtained the appointment for himself, his mind was filled with the most bitter malignity against the writer, and naturally enough; for no one ever yet behaved in a base manner towards another, without forthwith conceiving a mortal hatred against him. You wrong another, know yourself to have acted basely, and are enraged, not against yourself—for no one hates himself—but against the innocent cause of your baseness; reasoning very plausibly, “But for that fellow, I should never have been base; for had he not existed, I could not have been so, at any rate against him;” and this hatred is all the more bitter, when you reflect that you have been needlessly base.

Whilst the Tories are in power the writer’s friend, of his own accord, raves against the Tories because they do not give the writer a certain appointment, and makes, or says he makes, desperate exertions to make them do so; but no sooner are the Tories out, with whom he has no influence, and the Whigs in, with whom he, or rather his party, has influence, than he gets the place for himself, though, according to his own expressed opinion—an opinion with which the writer does not, and never did, concur—the writer was the only person competent to hold it. Now had he, without saying a word to the writer, or about the writer with respect to the employment, got the place for himself when he had an opportunity, knowing, as he very well knew, himself to be utterly unqualified for it, the transaction, though a piece of jobbery, would not have merited the title of a base transaction; as the matter stands, however, who can avoid calling the whole affair not only a piece of—come, come, out with the word—scoundrelism on the part of the writer’s friend, but a most curious piece of uncalled-for scoundrelism? and who, with any knowledge of fallen human nature, can wonder at the writer’s friend entertaining towards him a considerable portion of gall and malignity?

This feeling on the part of the writer’s friend was wonderfully increased by the appearance of Lavengro, many passages of which the Radical in his foreign appointment applied to himself and family—one or two of his children having gone over to Popery, the rest become members of Mr. Platitude’s chapel, and the minds of all being filled with ultra notions of gentility.

The writer, hearing that his old friend had returned to England, to apply, he believes, for an increase of salary, and for a title, called upon him, unwillingly, it is true, for he had no wish to see a person for whom, though he bore him no ill-will, he could not avoid feeling a considerable portion of contempt; the truth is, that his sole object in calling was to endeavour to get back a piece of literary property which his friend had obtained from him many years previously, and which, though he had frequently applied for it, he never could get back. Well, the writer called; he did not get his property, which, indeed, he had scarcely time to press for, being almost instantly attacked by his good friend and his wife—yes, it was then that the author was set upon by an old Radical and his wife—the wife, who looked the very image of shame and malignity, did not say much, it is true, but encouraged her husband in all he said. Both of their own accord introduced the subject of Lavengro. The Radical called the writer a grumbler, just as if there had ever been a greater grumbler than himself until, by the means above described, he had obtained a place; he said that the book contained a melancholy view of human nature—just as if anybody could look in his face without having a melancholy view of human nature. On the writer quietly observing that the book contained an exposition of his principles, the pseudo-Radical replied, that he cared nothing for his principles—which was probably true, it not being likely that he would care for another person’s principles after having shown so thorough a disregard for his own. The writer said that the book, of course, would give offence to humbugs; the Radical then demanded whether he thought him a humbug—the wretched wife was the Radical’s protection, even as he knew she would be; it was on her account that the writer did not kick his good friend; as it was, he looked at him in the face and thought to himself, “How is it possible I should think you a humbug, when only last night I was taking your part in a company in which everybody called you a humbug?”

The Radical, probably observing something in the writer’s eye which he did not like, became all on a sudden abjectly submissive, and, professing the highest admiration for the writer, begged him to visit him in his government; this the writer promised faithfully to do, and he takes the present opportunity of performing his promise.

This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its author; were the writer on his deathbed he would lay his hand on his heart and say, that he does not believe that there is one trait of exaggeration in the portrait which he has drawn. This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its author; and this is one of the genus, who, after having railed against jobbery for perhaps a quarter of a century, at present batten on large official salaries which they do not earn. England is a great country, and her interests require that she should have many a well-paid official both at home and abroad; but will England long continue a great country if the care of her interests, both at home and abroad, is in many instances entrusted to beings like him described above, whose only recommendation for an official appointment was that he was deeply versed in the secrets of his party and of the Whigs?

Before he concludes, the writer will take the liberty of saying of Lavengro that it is a book written for the express purpose of inculcating virtue, love of country, learning, manly pursuits, and genuine religion, for example, that of the Church of England, and for awakening a contempt for nonsense of every kind, and a hatred for priestcraft, more especially that of Rome.

And in conclusion, with respect to many passages of his book in which he has expressed himself in terms neither measured nor mealy, he will beg leave to observe, in the words of a great poet, who lived a profligate life, it is true, but who died a sincere penitent—thanks, after God, to good Bishop Burnet—

“All this with indignation I have hurl’d
At the pretending part of this proud world,
Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise
False freedoms, formal cheats, and holy lies,
Over their fellow fools to tyrannise.”

—Rochester.

Complete List of English Gypsy Words Scattered Through Lavengro and Romany Rye

Common European Gypsy forms are in parenthesis.

Abri

(Avrí), out, forth.

Adré / Adrey

(André), in, into.

Ambról

A pear.

Andé

In, into.

Angár

Charcoal, coal.

Apopli

Again, once more.

Ava / Ávali

Yes.

Avella

(3rd singular of aváva), he comes; gorgio avella, some one is coming. [Avava, avesa, avela.]

Ballúva

(Baló), pork.

Baló

Hog.

Baró

Feminine barí, plural baré, big, great.

Bátu

Father.

Baulo

See baló.

Bawlor

(Plural of baló), swine.

Bebee

(Bibí), aunt; (in George Borrow grandmother, with and without grand).

Beng

Toad; dragon, devil.

Bengui

(Spanish Gypsy Bengue), i.q. beng.

Besh

(Beshava), to sit.

Beti

A little, a bit of.

Bitchadey

(Bichavdé; plural of bichavdó), sent. With pawdel, transported.

Bokht

(Bakht), fate, luck, fortune.

Boró

See (baró).

Borodromengro

Highwayman.

Boshom

(Bashava, I sing or play), violin, fiddle.

Boshomengro

Fiddler.

Bovaló

(Barvaló), rich.

Bute

(But), much. Bute dosta, a good many, plenty of.

Cafi

(καρφἱ), horseshoe nail.

Caloró / Calorí

A Spanish Gypsy. Diminutive of caló; see kaló.

Cambrí

(Kamní), with child.

Camomescro

(From kamama, I love), a Lovell (Gypsy tribe-name).

Cana

(Kánna), when.

Caulor

(Collor), plural shillings.

Chabé

Plural of Chabó.

Chabó

(Tchavó), child, lad; Gypsy.

Chachipen

(Tchatchipé), truth.

Chal

[Noun] (Chabál or chavál, still existant in Spain), lad; Gypsy. Romany chal, Gypsy; Romany chi, Gypsy (lass).

[Verb] (For jal, from java). Chal Devléhi (ja Devlésa), go with God, farewell.

Chavó

I.q. Chabó.

Chi

(Tchái), girl, lass, child; Gypsy.

Chibándo

(Spanish Gypsy, see chive), tossing; preaching (a sermon).

Chick

(Tchik), dirt, mud.

Chie

I.q. Chi.

Chiknó

(Tiknó), a youth. Tawno Chiknó, “Shorty.”

Chinomescro

(From tchinava, I cut), chisel, parer.

Chipe

(Tchip), tongue.

Chive

(Tchivava), to throw; to pass (false coin).

Chívios

Is cast (he).

Chong

(Tumba), hill. Chong gav, Norwich, town of the Castle hill.

Choomer

(Tchumi), a kiss.

Chore

(Tchorava), to steal.

Chories

Thieves.

Chovahanee

(Tchovekhaní), a witch.

Chovahanó

(Tchovekhanó), a wizard.

Churi

(Tchorí), knife.

Coin

(Kon), who?

Coko

(Káko), uncle.

Colikó

((kalikó), Spanish Gypsy calicaste, on the morrow), on the morrow, in the morning (B.’s “early” is a mistake).

Coor

(Curava, I strike), to strike, to hammer.

Cooromengro

Boxer.

Covántza

Anvil.

Covar

(Ková), a thing.

Cral / Crállis

(Krális), king.

Cukkerin

(Merely alliterative with dukkerin).

Curomengro

Boxer.

Czigány

(Hungarian), Gypsy—tsigáñ.

Dearginni

(Hungarian, dörŏg, thunder; dörgeni, to thunder), it thunders.

Dick

(Dikava), to see.

Dinelo

(Deniló or diniló), a fool.

Divvus

(Divés), day.

Dloovu

(Error for lovó).

Dook

[Noun] (Slavic), spirit, soul, divining spirit, demon, ghost. Russian dux.

[Verb] To spirit away, to bewitch.

Dosta

Enough.

Dove odoy

(From odová), that there; up yonder.

Drab

[Noun] Herb, drug; poison, see drow.

[Verb] To poison.

Drabengro

Seller of medicines, apothecary. Drabengro ker, apothecary’s shop.

Drom

(δρόμος), road, way.

Drow

I.q. Drab; often plural drugs; poison.

Dúi

Two.

Duk

(Borrow’s dook).

Dukker

(From duk, spirit or demon, and ker, to make, to evoke), to tell any one’s fortune, to tell fortunes.

Dukkerin dook

The fortune-telling or divining spirit.

Dukkerin

(The in is English “ing”), any one’s fortune or fortunes, fate; fortune-telling. “To pen” a dukkerin is incorrect.

Dukkeripen

Fortune-telling.

Dumo

(Dumó), the back.

Duvel

(Devél), God.

Duvelskoe

(Devlesko), divine.

Dye

(Daï), mother.

Engro

(A mere adjectival ending, er, ing), Borrovian for “master,” “fellow,” “chap.”

Erajái

(Rashaï), priest, in Spanish Gypsy.

Eray

See rye.

Farm-engro

Farmer.

Fino

English fine.

Fóros

(φόρος = ἀγορά), city, town.

Gav

Village, town.

Gil

To singular.

Gillie

(Ghili), song, ditty.

Gitáno

A (Sp.) Gypsy.

Gorgikie

Feminine of gorgiko.

Gorgiko

Feminine of gorgio, non-gypsy.

Gorgio

(Gadjó), non-gypsy, stranger, somebody, policeman.

Gorgious

Adjective formed from gorgio.

Grandbebee

Grandmother. See bebee.

Grasní

Mare; jade.

Grondinni

(From Romanian), it hails.

Gry

(Graï), horse. Pellengog, stallion.

Gudló / Gudlí

Sweet; gudló pesham, honeycomb.

Gul eray

(Hungarian G.?), sweet gentleman.

Habben

(Khabé, from khavava, I eat), food, victuals; feast.

Harkomescro

(Arkíchi, tin), tinker.

Hatch

To cook (evidently from pekava, rather than atchava).

Hinjirí

(Feminine of hinjiró, from djandjir, a chain), executioner.

Hir mi devlis

(Or diblis), by G—.

Hokkawar

(Khokhavava), to lie, to cheat.

Hokkeripen

Falsehood, deception.

Hors-worth

Pennyworth. (Hors, from grosch?)

Iuziou

(Shuzó), clean.

Jaw

(Java), to go. See chal.

Jawing

Going.

Jib

(Chib) tongue, language.

Juggal

(Jukél), dog.

Juva / Juwa

(Young) woman.

Kair

See ker.

Kaló

Feminine kalí, plural kalé, black, dark.

Kauley

Feminine of kaulo.

Kaulo

See kaló.

Kaulomescro

Blacksmith.

Ke

To.

Kek

None.

Kekaubi / Kekkauvi

(Kakkávi), kettle.

Kekauviskoe saster

Kettle iron or hook.

Kekkenó

No, not one.

Ker

[Noun] House.

[Verb] (Kerava), to make, to do.

Kerdó

Made (he).

Kil

(Kelava), to play.

Kin

(Kinava), to buy.

Kistur

(Klisava), to ride.

Kitchema

Tavern, alehouse.

Kosko

I, good.

Kral / Krallis

King, see cral.

Lachipen

Goodness.

Laki / Lakie

(Lake), her, to her.

Lavengro

Word-master, philologist.

Lel

(Lava, lesa, lela), to take; to buy.

Len

I.q. Lende.

Lende

Their, to them.

Leste

Him.

Levinor

(Levina), ale.

Lil

Paper, book.

Lirí

Law.

Lis

It.

Lolló

(Loló), red.

Loovu

See.

Lovó

Coin; plural lové, money.

Lubbeny

(Lubní), harlot.

Lundra

London.

Luripen

Theft, robbery.

Mailla

Donkey.

Man

Me.

Mande

To me.

Mang

(Mangava), to beg.

Manriclí

(Manrikló), cake.

Manró

Bread.

Manus

(Manush), man.

Marél

(Error for merel): merava, meresa, merela—he dies.

Mek

(Mukava), to leave, to let; mek lis, drop it.

Men

We.

Mensar

(Mensa), with us.

Mer

(Merava), to die.

Mi

(Me), I.

Miduveleskoe lil

Divine or godly book.

Miró

F, my, mine.

Miry

(Mirí), my.

Morro

Bread.

Muchtar

(Muktar), box, toolbox.

Mullo

(Muló), dead.

Nashkadó / Nashkadí

(Nashavdó), lost, ruined; hanged (George Borrow).

Nashky

Gallows (George Borrow).

Nav

Name.

O

The.

Odoi / Odoy

There, here.

Opré

On, upon, up.

Pa

Over, for.

Pal

(Pral), brother; friend, mate.

Palor

(Pralá), brothers.

Parraco

(L.L. Paracrow; Zinc. parauco), I thank.

Patteran

(Patrín), leaf of a tree, Gypsy trail.

Pawdel

(Perdál), on the other side, across.

Pellengo

(Pelengro, from pelé, testicles), with gry, a stallion.

Pen

(Penava), to say, to tell.

Peshotá

Plural of peshót pishót, bellows.

Petúl

(Pétalo), horseshoe.

Petulengro

Head of the clan “Smith.”

Pindró

(Pinró), foot, hoof.

Pios

(From piava, I drink), health, in toasting.

Piramus

MS. “Priamus.”

Plaistra

(Klashta), pincers, tongs.

Plastramengro

Runner, detective.

Poggadó / Poggadí

(Panghiardó), broken.

Poknees

(Paknís, a man of trust), magistrate.

Prala

Vocative of pal or pral, brother.

Pré

(Opré), on, upon.

Pudamengro

(From purdava or pudava, I blow), bellows.

Puró

Feminine purí, plural puré, old, ancient.

Pus

Straw.

Puv

(Or phuv) earth, ground.

Ran

Stick, rod, cane.

Ráni

Lady, wife.

Rarde

(Ratt), night.

Rat

Rate and rati, blood, race.

Rawnie

See ráni.

Rig

(?) to carry.

Rin

A file.

Rinkenó

í, pretty, fine.

Rom

Husband; Gypsy.

Roman

Borrovian tor Gypsy.

Romaneskoenaes

In Gypsy fashion.

Romanies

Gypsies.

Romanly

In Gypsy, Gypsy-like.

Romanó

í, Gypsy.

Romany Chal

Gypsy.

Romany Chi

Gypsy (girl).

Romany Rye

Gypsy gentleman.

Romany

(Anglicised form of Romanó, Romaní), Gypsy.

Rome and dree

(Rom andré? Gypsy at heart).

Romí

Wife.

Rommanis

In Gypsy, also wife (George Borrow).

Rommany

I.q. Romany.

Rové

(Third person singular of rovava), he weeps.

Rup

Silver.

Rye

(Ráï), gentleman.

Sanpriel

Sanspareil.

Sap

Snake.

Sapengro

Snake-catcher.

Sar shan

How art thou?

Sas

It was, were it.

Saster / Sastra

Iron.

Sastramescro

Worker in iron, smith.

Saulo

(MS. sorlo), morning; early (?)

Savó

What kind of a man? who?

Scoppelo

Ninny.

Se

(Isi), is, are.

Shan

(Isán), thou art.

Sherengro

(From sheró, the head), head man, chief.

Shom

(Isóm), I am.

Shoon

(Shunava), to hear, to listen.

Shukaro

(Tchokanó), hammer.

Shunella

(Shunéla, 3rd singular of shunava), is listening.

Si

(Isí), is, are; si men, are we; si mensar (mensa), is or are with us.

Sinaba

(Spanish Gypsy), was.

Sore

(Saré), plural all, all who.

Sos

[Verb](Isás), was.

[Pronoun] Who.

Sove

(Sovava), to sleep.

Swety

(Plural of Russian sviet), people, folks.

Synfye

Cinthia (Slavic th is pronounced ph).

Ta

And.

Tachó

í, true.

Tan

Place, tent.

Tasaulor

(Read ta-sorlo), tomorrow.

Tatchenó

í, modest, chaste.

Tatchipen

Truth.

Tawnie

Feminine of.

Tawnó / Tawní

(Tarnó), little, short.

Tove

(Tovava), to wash.

Trin

Three.

Truppo

(Trupo), body.

Tu

Thou.

Tute

(Tut), thee, to thy.

Vagescoe

Adjective of yag.

Vassavie

Feminine of.

Vassavó

í, vile.

Villaminni

(Hungarian villám), it lightens.

Wafodo

I, bad, raise.

Wel

(Corrupted from avella), to come, to go.

Welling

Coming.

Wendror

(Connected with andró, within?), the insides.

Wesh

(Vesh), forest.

Wust

To throw (better the first MS. form, chiv).

Yag

Fire.

Ye

The.

Yeck

(Yek), one.

Yov

(Ov), be.

Zigeuner

(Ger.), Gypsy.

Zingaro

(It.), Gypsy.

Endnotes

1. We are all relations, all alike; all who are with us are ourselves.

2. Chal is simply the contraction of chavál, a form cognate with chavoró the diminutive of chavó, a lad. Chavál is still common in Spain, both among the Gypsies and the lower orders of Spaniards. —Knapp

3. East D——: East Dereham, a small town in Norfolk, 16 miles west of Norwich, and 102 northeast of London. Here Capt. Thomas Borrow, the father of George, was often stationed from 1792 to 1812. —Knapp

4. East Anglia: This Anglo-Saxon kingdom comprised the present counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridge. —Knapp

5. MS., “On the fifth day of July, 1803, at East D——, a beautiful little town in the western division of Norfolk, I first saw the light.” —Knapp

6. Tredinnock, read “Trethinnick;” Parish of St. Cleer, Cornwall. —Knapp

7. “In Cornwall are the best gentlemen.” —Corn. Prov.

8. MS., “after being insulted by him.” —Knapp

9. So in MSS.; “manly,” an erratum. —Knapp

10. Big Ben: Benjamin Brain or Bryan was born in 1753. Some of his most severe “battles” were fought between 1780 and 1790—one on the 30th of August in the latter year, with Hooper at Newbury, Berks. A few days after this exploit, he picked a quarrel with Sergeant Borrow of the Coldstream Guards, which resulted in the Hyde Park encounter. Some four months later, i.e., 17th January, 1791, the decisive fight for the championship came off between Brain and Johnson. It was an appalling spectacle, and struck dumb with horror, even in that day, the witnesses to the dreadful conflict. Big Ben was the victor, and remained champion of England from that date until his death three years (not “four months”) later—8th April, 1794. “Lavengro,” carried away by the enthusiasm of early reminiscence, allowed himself to declare that his father read the Bible to Brain in his latter moments. But in 1794 Thomas Borrow was busy recruiting soldiers in Norfolk, one hundred miles from the scene of the dying pugilist. However, the error was probably one of date merely, and during the year 1791 Thomas doubtless read the Bible to him in London, since we learn from Pierce Egan that “Ben derived great consolation from hearing the Bible read, and generally solicited those of his acquaintance who called upon him to read a chapter to him.”409 —Knapp

11. Captain: The West Norfolk Militia was raised in 1759 by the third Earl of Orford.He died in December, 1791, when the regiment was reorganised (not “raised”) under the new Colonel, the Hon. Horatio Walpole, subsequently the sixth Earl of Orford. Thus in February, 1792, Thomas was transferred from the Guards to be Sergeant-major in the W.N.M., and stationed at East Dereham. He married the following year, became Quartermaster (with the rank of Ensign) in 1795, and Adjutant (Lieutenant) in February, 1798. This his final promotion doubtless gave him the honorary rank of Captain, since in the Monthly Army List for 1804 we read: “Adjutant, Thomas Borrow, Capt.” But a letter before me dated 18th April, 1799, from his Major, is officially addressed to him as “Lieut. Borrow, Adjutant,” etc., etc. —Knapp

12. MS., “Orford.” —Knapp

13. Petrement: Our author knew very well that his mother’s maiden name was Ann Perfrement, pronounced and written Parfrement at the present day by those of the family we have met. The correct spelling is found on the tombstone of her sister, Sarah, at Dereham (1817), and on that of her brother, Samuel, at Salthouse near Holt (1864). —Knapp

14. Castle of De Burgh: A fanciful Borrovian epithet applied to Norwich Castle. Nor did the exiles build the Church of St. Mary-the-Less, in Queen Street, Norwich; it was a distinct parish church long before Elizabeth’s reign, and in her time the parish was consolidated with the neighbouring one of St. George’s, Tombland, while the church became municipal property. But the French exiles of the Edict of 1685 did worship there, even as did the Dutch refugees from Alva’s persecution a century before (1565–70). —Knapp

15. Middle Age: Borrow’s father was thirty-four, and his mother twenty-one, at the date of their marriage. John was born seven years after the marriage, and George ten. The mother was, then, thirty-one at George’s birth. —Knapp

16. Bishop Hopkins: Sermons. —Knapp

17. Angola: More correctly “Angora.” —Knapp

18. Foreign grave: Lieut. John Thomas Borrow died at Guanajuato, Mexico, 22nd November, 1833. —Knapp

19. “Snorro” Sturleson: Poet and historian of Iceland (1178–1241). Harald (not “Harold”) III, called “Haardraade.” Battle of Stamford Bridge, 1066 AD, same year as Norman Conquest. See Mallet’s Northern Antiquities, pp. 168–71 and 194; Snorro’s Heimskringla, II, p. 164, and his Chronica, 1633, p. 381, for the quotation. —Knapp

20. Norwegian ells—about eight feet.

21. Winchester: Rather “Winchelsea,” according to the Regimental Records. —Knapp

22. A gallant frigate: A reminiscence of Norman Cross gossip in 1810–11. “Ninety-eight French prisoners, the crew of a large French privateer of eighteen guns called the Contre-Amiral Magon, and commanded by the notorious Blackman, were captured 16th October, 1804, by Capt. Hancock of the Cruiser sloop, and brought into Yarmouth. They marched into Norwich, 26th November, and the next morning proceeded under guard on their way to Norman Cross barracks”—Norwich Papers, 1804. —Knapp

23. Lady Bountiful: Dame Eleanor Fenn (1743–1813). —Knapp

24. Bard: William Cowper (1731–1800). —Knapp

25. Some Saint: Withburga, daughter of Anna, king of the East Angles, was the “saint” and the “daughter” at the same time. —Knapp

26. Hunchbacked rhymer: Alexander Pope. —Knapp

27. Properties of God, read “attributes.” —Knapp

28. Rector: The Rev. F. J. H. Wollaston. —Knapp

29. Philoh: James Philo (1745–1829). —Knapp

30. Tolerism, read “toleration.” —Knapp

31. MS., “in regimental slang.” —Knapp

32. Mere: Whittlesea Mere, long since drained. —Knapp

33. Bengui: See the glossary for all Gypsy words. —Editor

34. MS., “Ambrose” throughout the book.410 —Knapp

35. Three years: Included in the subsequent narrative, not excluded from it as his Norwich school days (1814–15, 1816–18) were. They extend from July, 1811, to April, 1813—from Norman Cross to Edinburgh. The chronology, according to the Regimental Records, was as follows: George was at East Dereham from 22nd July to 18th November, 1811, at J. S. Buck’s (“Dr. B.’s”) school; 30th November, 1811, to February, 1812, at Colchester; 28th February to 5th March, 1812, at Harwich; 15th to 19th March, at Leicester; 21st to 30th March, at Melton Mowbray; 2nd to 25th April, at Leicester again; 28th April to 3rd May, at Tamworth; 8th to 26th May, at Macclesfield; 28th May to 2nd August, at Stockport; 3rd to 23rd August, at Ashton; 24th August to 15th December, at Huddersfield; 16th December, 1812, to 19th March, 1813, at Sheffield; 20th and 21st March, 1813, at Leeds; 22nd March, at Wetherby; 23rd March, Boroughbridge; 24th March, Allerton; 25th March, Darlington; 26th March, Durham (Wild Wales, pp. 258–59); 27th and 28th March, Newcastle; 29th March, Morpeth; 30th March, Alnwick; 3rd and 4th April, at Berwick-upon-Tweed; 6th April, 1813, Edinburgh Castle. —Knapp

36. William Lilly: A Shorte Introdvction of Grammar, generally to be vsed in the Kynges Maiesties dominions, for the bryngynge up of all those that inteade to atteyne the knowlege of the Latine tongue (1549). —Knapp

37. Bank of a river: The Tweed. The scene here described occurred on a Sunday, 4th April, 1813, near Berwick, where they “arrived the preceding night” —Knapp

38. Elvir Hill: See Borrow’s Romantic Ballads, Norwich, 1826, pp. 111–14. This piece entitled “Elvir Hill,” one of the old Danish ballads of Vedel’s collection, 1591, represents the dangers attending a youth who “rested” his “head upon Elvir Hill’s side” where he was so charmed in his sleep by a brace of seductive fairies, that:

“If my good luck had not managed it so
That the cock crew out then in the distance,
I should have been murder’d by them on the Hill,
Without power to offer resistance.

“ ’Tis therefore I counsel each young Danish swain
Who may ride in the forest so dreary,
Ne’er to lay down upon lone Elvir Hill
Though he chance to be ever so weary.”

—Knapp

39. Skaldaglam: The barditus of Tacitus, or the “din” made by the Norse “bards” (skalds) on shields and with shouts as they rushed into battle. It is not in Molbech, but Snorro frequently uses it in his Chronica, 1633. —Knapp

40. Kalevala: Title of the great Finnish epic, of which the hero is Woinomöinen. —Knapp

41. Polak: Polander or Pole. —Knapp

42. Magyar (pronounced “Mädjr”): Hungarian. —Knapp

43. Batuscha: An erratum of the author for his “Batuschca” (161)—better “Batyushca,” “father Tsar”—but generally applied by Borrow to his friend the Pope. —Knapp

44. Bui hin Digri: The Jomsburg Viking, 994 AD. See Borrow’s Romantic Ballads, p. 136, and Once a Week, IX, p. 686. The account is given in Snorro’s Chronica, 1633, p. 136 (see Snorre Sturlesøns Norake Kongers Chronica. Vdaat paa Danske / aff H. Peder Claussøn. Kiöbenhavn, 1633), but a more accessible version of it is found in Mallet’s Northern Antiquities (Bohn’s edition), pp. 144–45. —Knapp

45. Horunga Vog, read “Hjörúnga Vâgr” in Icelandic, or “Vaag” in Danish. In Romany Rye it is Englished as “Horinger Bay.” —Knapp

46. Hickathrift: A Norfolk worthy of the eleventh century, whose prodigious exploits with the axle of his cart as an offensive weapon, and the wheel as a shield, are handed down in the chap-books of the last three centuries. —Knapp

47. Elzigood: William E., of Heigham, Norwich, enlisted October, 1789, became Drum-major in the regiment, 22nd October, 1802; called facetiously or maliciously “Else-than-gude” [a few pages later]. —Knapp

48. O’Hanlon: Redmond O’Hanlon (died 1681), a proprietor of Ulster, dispossessed under the Cromwellian settlement, and afterwards leader of a band of outlaws. —Knapp

49. See Life, Writings, and Correspondence of George Borrow, London, 1899, I, pp. 39–43. —Knapp

50. Disbanded: The W.N.M. regiment left Edinburgh in July, 1814, and was disembodied at Norwich, 19th July. It was again called out, 10th July, 1815, and sent to Ireland. John Borrow was appointed Ensign, 29th May, 1815, and Lieutenant, 13th December of the same year. The regiment sailed from Harwich (“port in Essex”) 31st August, reaching Cork harbour (“the cove”) about 9th September, 1815. —Knapp

51. Wight Wallace: The Life and Acts of Sir William Wallace, of Ellerslie. By Henry the Minstrel. (Published from a MS. of 1488 with Notes by Dr. Jamieson.) Edinburgh, 1820. This rhymed “Storybook of Wight Wallace” is in twelve parts or books. —Knapp

52. Shorsha: The Irish for “George,” properly written “Seors,” but the author usually wrote his Irish by sound. —Knapp

53. Saggart, read “sagart:” (Lat. sacerdos), a priest. —Knapp

54. Finn-ma-Coul: In Irish Fionn-mac-Cumhail, the father of Ossian. —Knapp

55. Brian Boroo: In Irish, Brian Boroimhe, a king of Ireland (926–1014). —Knapp

56. Saggarting: Studying with reference to the priesthood. —Knapp

57. Mavourneen: Properly “mo mhuirnin,” my darling. —Knapp

58. Hanam mon Dioul: Wrongly given for “M’anam o’n Diabhal” [God preserve] my soul from the devil! See Romany Rye, where it is quite correct—from sound. —Knapp

59. Christmas over: 1816. Regiment quartered at Templemore. John, now a lieutenant (not “ensign”), is sent with a detachment to Loughmore, three miles away. Sergeant Bagg, promoted to that rank, 10th July, 1815, accompanies him. —Knapp

60. Mountain: Called locally, “Devil’s Bit,” and not Devil’s Hill or Mountain, as in the text. —Knapp

61. Fine old language:

“A labhair Padric ’nninsè Fail na Riogh
’San faighe caomhsin Colum naomhtha ’n I.”

[which] “Patrick spoke in Innisfail to heathen chiefs of old,
And Columb, the mild prophet-saint, spoke in his island-hold.”

So Borrow gives the Irish and his version in Romantic Ballads, p. VIII. The Erse lines were taken from Lhuyd’s Archaeologia Britannica, Oxford, 1707.

—Knapp

62. The Castle: Loughmore Castle. —Knapp

63. Figure of a man: Jerry Grant, the Irish outlaw. See the Newgate Calendars subsequent to 1840—Pelham. Griffith, etc. —Knapp

64. “Sas” and “Sassanach,” of course mean Englishman or English (Saxon). —Knapp

65. Clergyman of the parish: The Rev. Patrick Kennedy, vicar of Loughmore. His name is also on the list of subscribers to the Romantic Ballads, Norwich, 1826, as J. Kennedy, by mistake. —Knapp

66. Swanton Morley: A village near East Dereham. —Knapp

67. MS., “like the philologist Scaliger, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Latin language, could see no beauty in the ‘Enchantments of Canidia,’ the masterpiece of the prince of Roman poets. What knew he,” etc. —Knapp

68. Arrigod yuit (Irish), read “airgiod dhuit:” Have you any money? —Knapp

69. Tabhair chugam (pronounced “tower khoogam”): Give (it) to me. —Knapp

70. Is agam an’t leigeas (read “an t-leigheas”): I have the remedy. —Knapp

71. Another word: deaghbhlasda: See Romany Rye, p. 266, and Notes and Queries, 5th May, 1855, p. 339, article by George Métivier. —Knapp

72. Old city: Norwich. The regiment having returned to headquarters, 11th May, 1816, was mustered out 17th June. The author describes the city from the “ruined wall” of the old Priory on the hill to the east. —Knapp

73. The Norman Bridge: is Bishop’s Bridge. —Knapp

74. Sword of Cordova, in Guild Hall, is a mistake for the sword of the Spanish General Don Xavier Winthuysen. —Knapp

75. Vone banished priest: Rev. Thomas d’Éterville. The MS. gives the following inedited account of D’Éterville. I omit the oft-recurring expletive sacré (accursed):—

Myself. Were you not yourself forced to flee from your country?

D’Éterville. That’s very true. … I became one vagabond—nothing better, I assure you, my dear; had you seen me, you would have said so. I arrive at Douvres; no welcome. I walk to Canterbury and knock at the door of one auberge. The landlord opens. “What do you here?” he says; “who are you?” “Vone exiled priest,” I reply. “Get you gone, sirrah!” he says; “we have beggars enough of our own,” and he slams the door in my face. Ma foi, il faisoit bien, for my toe was sticking through my shoe.

Myself. But you are no longer a vagabond, and your toe does not stick through your shoe now.

D’Éterville. No, thank God, the times are changed. I walked and walked, till I came here, where I became one philologue and taught tongues—French and Italian. I found good friends here, those of my religion. “He very good man,” they say; “one banished priest; we must help him.” I am no longer a vagabond—ride a good horse when I go to visit pupils in the country—stop at auberge—landlord comes to the door: “What do you please to want, sir?” “Only to bait my horse, that is all.” Eh bien, landlord very polite; he not call me vagabond; I carry pistols in my pocket.

Myself. I know you do; I have often seen them. But why do you carry pistols?

D’Éterville. I ride along the road from the distant village. I have been to visit my pupil whom I instruct in philology. My pupil has paid me my bill, and I carry in my purse the fruits of my philology. I come to one dark spot. Suddenly my bridle is seized, and one tall robber stands at my horse’s head with a very clumsy club in his hand. “Stand, rascal,” says he; “your life or your purse!” “Very good, sir,” I respond; “there you have it.” So I put my hand, not into my pocket, but into my holster; I draw out, not my purse, but my weapon, and—bang! I shoot the English robber through the head.

Myself. It is a bad thing to shed blood; I should be loth to shoot a robber to save a purse.

D’Éterville. Que tu es bête! mon ami. Am I to be robbed of the fruits of my philology, made in foreign land, by one English robber? Shall I become once more one vagabond as of old? one exiled priest turned from people’s doors, my shoe broken, toe sticking through it, like that bad poet who put the Pope in hell? Bah, bah!

By degrees D’Éterville acquired a considerable fortune for one in his station. Some people go so far as to say that it was principally made by an extensive contraband trade in which he was engaged. Be this as it may, some twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, he departed this life, and shortly before his death his fellow-religionists, who knew him to be wealthy, persuaded him to make a will, by which he bequeathed all his property to certain popish establishments in England. In his last hours, however, he repented, destroyed his first will, and made another, in which he left all he had to certain of his relations in his native country;—“for,” said he, “they think me one fool, but I will show them that they are mistaken. I came to this land one banished priest, where I made one small fortune; and now I am dying, to whom should I leave the fruits of my philology but to my blood-relations? In God’s name, let me sign. Monsieur Boileau left the fruits of his verses to his niece; eh bien, I will bequeath the fruits of my philology to my niece and nephew. There, there! thanks be to God, it is done! They take me for a fool; I am no fool. Leave to the Pope the fruits of my philology! Bah, bah! I do no such thing. I do like Monsieur Boileau.”

—Knapp

76. Earl’s Home: Earlham Hall, the residence of Joseph John Gurney (1788–1847), the Norwich banker and famous Quaker. The “tall figure” mentioned on the next page was Mr. Gurney, then twenty-eight years of age. —Knapp

77. Only read Greek: This is a mistake. Mr. Gurney was an early student of Italian. See Braithwaite’s Life, I. —Knapp

78. Zohar: Very correct. Braithwaite, I. —Knapp

79. Abarbenel, read Abarbanel or Abrabanel: A Spanish Jew driven from Spain in 1492. —Knapp

80. Castle Hill: Norwich. —Knapp

81. Fair of horses: Tombland Fair, held on Maundy Thursday every year. —Knapp

82. Heath: Mousehold Heath, near Norwich. —Knapp

83. Gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai, (compare Dante, Inferno, III, 8: “Quivi sospiri, pianti, e alti guai.”): Groans, sighs, and deep lamentations. —Knapp

84. MS. note: “Written in 1843.”

85. Barddoniaeth Dafydd ab Gwilym. O grynhoad Owen Jones, a William Owen. [The Poetical Works of David ap Gwilym (son of William), edited by O. J. and W. O.] Llundain, 1789.

Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym, a Welsh Bard of the Fourteenth Century by Arthur J. Johnes. London, 1834. —Knapp

86. Cowydd: A species of Welsh poetry. —Knapp

87. Bwa Bach: The “little hunchback.” —Knapp

88. Narrow Court: Tuck’s Court, St. Giles, Norwich. —Knapp

89. Old master: William Simpson of the law firm of Simpson & Rackham, Norwich. —Knapp

90. Bon jour: read Bonjour … ! bien des chases de ma part à Monsieur Peyrecourt or Pierrecourt. “Expressions” in this sense (kind regards) is the Spanish expresiones, disguised as French. —Knapp

91. MS., “à Monsieur Peyrecourt” or “Pierrecourt.” —Knapp

92. Parkinson the poet: This character, who appears for the first time among the inedited episodes of Lavengro, was a real one, although his true name (Parkerson) is given somewhat veiled, as usual with Mr. Borrow. He seems to have been the poet-laureate of farmers, corn-merchants, drovers and publicans, selling his muse to the highest bidder, at first in printed sheets of eight pages, and subsequently gathered into pamphlets of thirty or more pages which he offered for one or two shillings each. They were printed by R. Walker, “near the Duke’s Palace, Norwich,” and sold by “Lane and Walker, St. Andrew’s.” They are without date, but cannot range far from 1818. Here are some specimens of his style: “The Norwich Corn Mart. By J. Parkerson, Junior.”

At one o’clock the busy scene begin,
Quick to the hall they all are posting in;
The cautious merchant takes his stand,
The farmer shows the produce of his land,

etc., for sixty-six lines. “On Mr. L … taking leave of his wife and children, who was sentenced to transportation for fourteen years” (!):—

Hannah, farewell, I’m bound to go,
To taste the bitter draught of woe,

134 lines. “A Description of the Pineapple at Trowse:”—

Both Beauty and Art have exerted their skill,
You will find on a spot near the brow of a hill;
The hill is near Norwich and call’d Bracondale,
I stepped into Vince’s myself to regale,

etc., four pages of that. —Knapp

93. Mr. C.: Thomas William Coke, Esq., of Holkham, Earl of Leicester in 1837, and died in 1842. —Knapp

94. MS., “Simpson.” —Knapp

95. Freya: The Venus of the North was the sister of Frey, according to Mallet (p. 94), and the original sources. —Knapp

96. The Wake of Freya: This incident must have occurred to Mrs. Borrow at her home, Dumpling Green, East Dereham, on a Friday night, 5th December, 1783, when she was twelve (not “ten”) years old. Her eldest sister, Elizabeth, would be in her seventeenth year. Friday was then, as now, market day at Dereham. The place was the Blyth farm about one and a half miles (not “three”) from “pretty D.” The superstition referred to in this episode is, or was, a very common one in Norfolk, and even other countries. See the Norfolk Chronicle for 14th May, 1791; Glyde’s Norfolk Garland, pp. 13–14, and George Borrow in the Quarterly Review for January, 1861, p. 62. —Knapp

97. To London: Crome (John’s teacher) died at Norwich, 22nd April, 1821; but John could not leave until after the Regimental Training, which closed that year on 26th June; hence his departure may be set down for the last of June, 1821. —Knapp

98. Rafael: Note inconsistent spelling with “Raphael” later in the book. —Editor

99. Corregio, read “Correggio.” —Knapp

100. Klopstock.

101. Murray and Latroon, the Scotch outlaw and the “English Rogue.” English Rogue: Life of Meriton Latroon, a Witty Extravagant. Being a Compleat History of the Most Eminent Cheats of Both Sexes. London, 1665–80. —Knapp

102. Draoitheac, magic, read “draoidheachd” —Knapp

103. Muggletonians: Evidently a Borrovian slip here. See Notes and Queries for 3rd April, 1852, p. 320. —Knapp

104. Vedel: Anders Sörensen Vedel, first collector of the Kiaempeviser, or Heroic Ballads of the Danes, Copenhagen, 1591. —Knapp

105. Interview between William Taylor (21 King Street, Norwich) and George Borrow. —Knapp

106. Orm Ungarswayne: “Orm the youthful Swain,” Romantic Ballads, p. 86. But see the Danish ballad “Birting” in Borrow’s Targum, St. Petersburgh, 1835, pp. 59–61, commencing:—

“It was late at evening tide,
Sinks the daystar in the wave,
When alone Orm Ungarswayne
Rode to seek his father’s grave.”

—Knapp

107. Swayne Vonved: See this piece in Romantic Ballads, pp. 61–81. —Knapp

108. Mousha, read “Muça,” in Arabic or “Moshé” in Hebrew; both represent our “Moses.” But the Jew’s name was Levi, according to the MS. —Knapp

109. The Fight: Between Painter and Oliver, near North Walsham, 17th July, 1820. This chapter XXIV relates the author’s call on Mr. Petre of Westwick House, which must have been after 20th May, when it was decided that the “battle” should take place within twenty miles of Norwich. —Knapp

110. Parr: There were two Parrs, one, Thomas, called “English” or “Old” Parr (1483–1635) who lived 152 years, and Samuel, called the “Greek” Parr (1747–1825,) who had been Head Master of the Norwich Grammar School from 1778 to 1785. This Dr. Samuel Parr was the one referred to by Mr. Petre. —Knapp

111. Whiter: Rev. Walter Whiter, author of the Commentary on Shakespeare, London 1794, and Etymologicum Magnum, Cambridge, 1800. —Knapp

112. Game Chicken: Henry Pierce, nicknamed Game Chicken, beat Gulley, 8th October, 1805 (Egan’s Boxiana, I, p. 145). —Knapp

113. Sporting Gentlemen: John Thurtell and Edward Painter (“Ned Flatnose”). —Knapp

114. Harmanbeck: Slang for “constable”—word taken from the English Rogue. —Knapp

115. MS., “John Thurtell.” —Knapp

116. Batuschca (read “Bátyooshca”) —Knapp

117. Priberjensky, read “Préobrazhenski:” Crack regiment of the Russian Imperial Guard, so called from the barracks situated near the Church of the Transfiguration (Préobrazhenïe). —Knapp

118. The Fight of 1820, chapter XXVI. We will here give a condensed portion of a chapter which we suppressed from the Life.

On the 20th of May, 1820, an eager crowd might have been seen pressing up to a card displayed in the Castle Tavern, Norwich. The card was signed “T. C.” and “T. Belcher;” but every one knew that the initials stood for the Champion of England, Thomas Cribb. The purport of the notice was that Edward Painter of Norwich was to fight Thomas Oliver of London for a purse of 100 guineas, on Monday, the 17th of July, in a field within twenty miles of the city.

A few days after this announcement, George Borrow was charged by his principals to convey a sum of money to a country gentleman by the name of John Berney Petre, Esq., J.P., residing at Westwick House, some thirteen and a half miles distant on the North Walsham road. The gentleman was just settling the transfer of his inheritance, his father having died eight months before. Borrow walked the entire distance, and while he tarried with the magistrate, the interview took place between him and Thurtell who desired to secure a field for the fight. Mr. Petre could not accommodate them, and they drove on to North Walsham. There they found the “pightle” which suited them in the vicinity of that town, on the road leading to Happisburgh (Hazebro).

Norwich began to fill on Saturday, the 15th of July, as the stagecoaches rolled in by the London (now Ipswich) and Newmarket roads. The Inn attached to the Bowling Green on Chapel-Field, then kept by the famous one-legged ex-coachman Dan Gurney, was the favourite resort of the “great men” of the day. Belcher, not old Belcher of 1791, but the “Teucer” Belcher, and Cribb, the champion of England, slept at the Castle Tavern, which like Janus had two faces—backed on the Meadows and fronted on White-Lion. The Norfolk in St. Giles and the Angel on the “Walk,” housed other varieties of the sporting world.

At an early hour on Monday, the 17th, the roads were alive with pedestrians, equestrians, Jews, Gentiles and Gypsies, in coaches, barouches and vehicles of every sort. From Norwich they streamed down Tombland into Magdalen street and road, out on the Coltishall highway, and thence—sixteen and one half miles in all—to North Walsham and the field. One ancient MacGowan (the Scotch for Petulengro) stood on Coltishall bridge and counted 2,050 carriages as they swept past. More than 25,000 men and thieves gathered in concentric circles about the stand.

I do not propose to attempt the description of this celebrated pugna or “battle with the fists.” Those who crave such diversions will find this one portrayed fittingly in the newspapers of the time. The closing passage of one of them has always seemed to me to be a masterpiece of grim brutality: “Oliver’s nob was exchequered, and he fell by heavy right-handed blows on his ears and temple. When on his second’s knee, his head dangled about like a poppy after a shower.”

A second fight, this time between Sampson, called the “Birmingham boy,” and Martin the “baker,” lost much of its interest by reason of the storm described in Lavengro. “During the contest,” says the Norfolk Chronicle, “a most tremendous black cloud informed the spectators that a rare sousing was in preparation for them.” And the Mercury states that “the heavy rain drenched the field, and most betook themselves to a retreat, but the rats were all drinkled.” Thus the “cloud” was no fiction, by which the Gypsy foretold the dreadful fate awaiting John Thurtell before Hertford gaol, 9th January, 1824. Ned Painter never fought again. He was landlord of the White Hart Inn from 1823 to 1835. The present proprietor still shows his portrait there, with the above fact duly inscribed on the back of the frame.

—Knapp

119. Public: The Castle Tavern, Holborn, kept by Tom Belcher—the “Daffy Club.” —Knapp

120. “Here’s a health to old honest John Bull:” The verses were taken from a rare old volume entitled: The Norwich Minstrel, p. 30:—

Honest John Bull

Here’s a health to “Old honest John Bull”;
When he’s gone we shan’t find such another;
With hearts and with glasses brim full,
We’ll drink to “Britannia, his mother”;
For she gave him a good education,
Bade him keep to his God and his King,
Be loyal and true to the nation,
And then to get merry and sing.

For John is a good-natured fellow,
Industrious, honest and brave;
Not afraid of his betters when mellow,
For betters he knows he must have.
There must be fine lords and fine ladies,
There must be some little, some great;
Their wealth the support of our trade is,
Our trade the support of the State.

Some were born for the court and the city,
And some for the village and cot;
For it would be a dolorous ditty,
If we were born “equal in lot.”
If our ships had no pilots to steer,
What would come of poor Jack on the shrouds?
Or our troops no commanders to fear,
They would soon be arm’d robbers in crowds.

The plough and the loom would stand still,
If we were made gentlefolks all;
If clodhoppers—who then would fill
The parliament, pulpit or hall?
“Rights of Man” makes a very fine sound,
“Equal riches” a plausible tale;
Whose labourers would then till the ground?
All would drink, but who’d brew the ale?

Half naked and starv’d, in the streets
We should wander about, sans culottes;
Would Liberty find us in meats,
Or Equality lengthen our coats?
That knaves are for levelling, don’t wonder,
We may easily guess at their views;
Pray, who’d gain the most by the plunder?
Why, they that have nothing to lose.

Then away with this nonsense and stuff,
Full of treason, confusion and blood;
Every Briton has freedom enough
To be happy as long as he’s good.
To be rul’d by a glorious king,
To be govern’d by jury and laws;
Then let us be happy and sing,
“This, this, is true Liberty’s cause.”

—Knapp

121. Haik, read “Haïk:” Armenian. —Knapp

122. Conqueror of Tippoo Sahib: General Harris (1791). —Knapp

123. March: The exact date was discovered by me in private letters in Norwich. See Life, I, p. 91. George left Norwich on the evening of 1st April, 1824, and consequently reached London early on the morning of 2nd April. —Knapp

124. Lodging: No. 16 Millman Street, Bedford Row. —Knapp

125. The publisher: Sir Richard Phillips. —Knapp

126. Mr. so-and-so: Taylor of Norwich. —Knapp

127. MS., “Bartlett.” —Knapp

128. The Magazine: The Monthly Magazine; or, British Register. —Knapp

129. MS., “Saviour.” —Knapp

130. MS., “High Tory principles.” —Knapp

131. The Oxford Review: The Universal Review; or, Chronicle of the Literature of All Nations. No. 1, March, 1824, to No. 6, January, 1825. —Knapp

132. Red Julius, called elsewhere by Borrow Iolo Goch: A Welsh bard of the fifteenth century. —Knapp

133. Caesar’s Castle: The Tower of London. —Knapp

134. Blessed Mary Flanders: Defoe’s “Moll Flanders:” The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, etc., Who Was Born in Newgate, and during a Life of continu’d Variety for Threescore Years, besides her Childhood, Was Twelve Year a W——, five Times a Wife ———, Twelve Year a Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon in Virginia, at Last Grew Rich, liv’d Honest, and Died a Penitent. Written from her Own Memorandums. London, 1721. —Knapp

135. Booksellers’ shop: The shop was a depository of the Religious Tract Society, the publishers of Legh Richmond’s Annals of the Poor, of which the first section was the Dairyman’s Daughter. —Knapp

136. MS., “Arden” throughout. —Knapp

137. Newly married: Richard, Jr., married Feb., 1823. —Knapp

138. “Newgate Lives:” The true title was: Celebrated Trials, and Remarkable Cases of Criminal Jurisprudence, from the Earliest Records to the Year 1825, London, 1825 (February). —Knapp

139. Translator of “Faustus:” Faust, a Drama by Goethe, and Schiller’s Song of the Bell; translated by Lord Francis Leveson Gower, London, J. Murray, 1823 —Knapp

140. Translator of Quintilian: I doubt whether this was John Carey, LL.D. (1756–1826), who published an edition of Quintilian, 1822, but no translation. My information is positive that it was Wm. Gifford, translator of Juvenal, 1802, 3rd ed. 1817. —Knapp

141. The MS. develops this paragraph as follows:—

So Francis Ardry called upon me, and right glad I was that he did so; and after we had sat conversing for some time, he said, “Did you ever see Kean?”

“No,” said I, “but I have heard both of him and of Belcher. I should like to see either, especially the latter. Where are they to be found?”

“I know nothing of the latter,” said Frank, “but if you wish to see Kean, you had better come with me where he will appear tonight after a long absence. The public are anxiously waiting for him, intending to pelt him off the stage.”

“And what has he done,” said I, “to be pelted off the stage?”

“What is very naughty,” said Frank; “breaking one of the commandments.”

“And did he break the commandment on the stage?”

“No,” said Frank, “I never heard that he broke it on the stage, except in the way of his profession.”

“Then, what have the public to do with the matter?”

“They think they have,” said Frank.

And then we went out together to see Shakespeare’s Richard, or rather we went to see the man who was to personate Shakespeare’s Richard—and so did thousands; we did not see him, however. There was a great tumult, I remember, in the theatre. The man who was to perform the part of Richard, and who it was said was the best hand for interpreting the character that had ever appeared on the stage, had a short time before been involved in a disgraceful affair, and this was to be his first appearance on the stage since the discovery. The consequence was that crowds flocked to the theatre with the firm intention of expressing their indignation. “We will pelt his eyes out,” said a man who sat beside me in the pit—for we sat in the pit—and who bore the breach of all the commandments in his face. The actor in question, however, who perhaps heard the threats which were vented against him, very prudently kept out of the way, and the manager coming forward informed the public that another would perform the part—whereupon there was a great uproar. “We have been imposed upon,” said the individual who sat beside me. “I came here for nothing else than to pelt that scoundrel off the stage.” The uproar, however, at length subsided, and the piece commenced. In a little time there was loud applause. The actor who had appeared in place of the other was performing. “What do you clap for?” said I to the individual by my side, who was clapping most of all. “What do I clap for?” said the man. “Why, to encourage Macready, to be sure. Don’t you see how divinely he acts? why, he beats Kean hollow. Besides that, he’s a moral man, and I like morality.” “Do you mean to say,” said I, “that he was never immoral?” “I neither know nor care,” said the man; “all I know is that he has never been found out. It will never do to encourage a public man who has been found out. No, no! the morality of the stage must be seen after.”

—Knapp

142. MS. “Charlie” and “Charlie’s” throughout. —Knapp

143. Oxford: This constant satirising of the great English university in connection with the publisher’s theory, doubtless grew out of a series of articles printed in the Magazine during the years ’23 and ’24, and which may be summarised by this notice in volume LVI, p. 349: “In a few days will appear a series of Dialogues between an Oxford Tutor and a Disciple of the new Commonsense Philosophy; in which the mechanical principles of matter and motion will be accurately contrasted with the theories of occult powers which are at present cherished by the Universities and Royal Associations throughout Europe.” —Knapp

144. Churchyard: St. Giles churchyard where Capt. Borrow was buried on the 4th of March previous. —Knapp

145. A New Mayor: Inexact. Robert Hawkes was mayor of Norwich in 1822. Therefore he was now ex-mayor. —Knapp

146. Man with a Hump: Thomas Osborn Springfield, was not a watchmaker so far as is known in Norwich, but “carried on the wholesale silk business, having almost a monopoly of the market” (Bayne’s Norwich, p. 588). —Knapp

147. Painter of the heroic: Benjamin Robert Haydon (1785–1846). —Knapp

148. The MS. adds: “ ‘It will, perhaps, be as well, first of all, to go to the exhibition of British art, which is at present open. I hear he has a picture there, which he has just finished. We will look at it, and from that you may form a tolerable estimate of his powers.’ Thereupon my brother led the way, and we presently found ourselves in the Gallery of British Art.” —Knapp

149. Norman Arch: The grand entrance and exit to the Norwich Cathedral, west side. —Knapp

150. Snap: The Snapdragon of Norwich is the Tarasque of the south of France, and the Tarasca of Corpus day in Spain. It represents a Dragon or monster with hideous jaws, supported by men concealed, all but their legs, within its capacious belly, and carried about in civic processions prior to the year 1835; even now it is seen on Guy Fawkes’ day, the 5th of November. —Knapp

151. Whiffler: An official character of the old Norwich Corporation, strangely uniformed and accoutred, who headed the annual procession on Guildhall day, flourishing a sword in a marvellous manner. All this was abolished on the passage of the Municipal Reform Act in 1835. As a consequence, says a contemporaneous writer, “the Aldermen left off wearing their scarlet gowns, Snap was laid up on a shelf in the ‘Sword Room’ in the Guildhall, and the Whifflers no longer danced at the head of the procession in their picturesque costume. It was a pretty sight, and their skill in flourishing their short swords was marvellous to behold.” —Knapp

152. Billy Blind and Owlenglass: Till Eulenspiegel: The German Rogue; or, the Life and Merry Adventures, Cheats, Stratagems, and Contrivances of Tiel Eulespiegle. Made English from the High-Dutch. London, 1720. —Knapp

153. Brandt and Struensee: For High-Treason in Denmark, 1772. See Celebrated Trials, IV, p. 465; and for Richard Patch (“yeoman Patch”), 1805, volume V, p. 584. —Knapp

154. Lord Byron: The remains of the poet lay in state from Friday 9th July, 1824, in Sir Edward Knatchbull’s house, Great George Street, to Monday the 12th when they were conveyed to Hucknall-Torkard in Nottinghamshire. On that day (12th July) Borrow witnessed the procession as described in the text. —Knapp

155. “Arden” throughout the MS. —Knapp

156. The text is: “Malheur, as the French say, that it is so choked.” —Knapp

157. Carolan’s Receipt: Torlough (i.e., Charles) O’Carolan, the celebrated Irish harper and bard, was born at Nobber, Co. Meath, in 1670, and died in 1738. See Alfred Webb’s Compendium of Irish Biography, Dublin, 1878, p. 372; J. C. Walker’s Irish Bards, 1786, App., pp. 86–87, and Dictionary of National Biography, XLI, p. 343. The “Receipt” in Irish is in Walker, and at the end of Vallancey’s Irish Grammar, second ed., Dublin, 1781.411 Here is the translation given in Walker:—

“When by sickness or sorrow assail’d,
To the mansion of Stafford I hie’d
His advice or his cordial ne’er fail’d
To relieve me—nor e’er was denied.

“At midnight our glasses went round,
In the morning a cup he would send;
By the force of his wit he has found
That my life did on drinking depend.

“With the spirit of Whiskey inspir’d,
By my Harp e’en the pow’r is confess’d;
’Tis then that my genius is fir’d,
’Tis then I sing sweetest and best.

“Ye friends and ye neighbours draw near,
Attend to the close of my song;
Remember, if life you hold dear,
That drinking your life will prolong.”

Curiously enough among the subscribers to the Romantic Ballads, Norwich, 1826, we find these names: (p. 185) “F. Arden, Esq., London, five copies,” “T. G. O’Donnahoo, Esq., London, five copies;” (p. 187) “Mr. J. Turner, London.”

—Knapp

158. “Bishop Sharpe,” a pugilist of that name and time. —Knapp

159. “Three are after my death.” —Knapp

160. The Review: The Review actually ceased January, 1825, with its sixth number. —Knapp

161. MS. (apparently) “L——,” but [later, T——]. —Knapp

162. MS., “is quite as rational an amusement as politics.” —Knapp

163. “Le Noir” in MS. A, and in Romany Rye, appendix. —Knapp

164. MS., “L——,” or “T.” —Knapp

165. MS., “Canning.” —Knapp

166. MS., “L——,” or “T——.” —Knapp

167. Laham: In Hebrew bread is lèhem; but our author probably wrote it by sound. Z’hats is the accusative of hats, the Armenian for bread; for as Borrow’s source, old Villotte (1714), says: “Accusativus praefigit nominativo literam z.” —Knapp

168. Mesroub, read “Miesrob,” who, about 450 AD introduced the Armenian alphabet. —Knapp

169. Sea in Armenian is dzow. —Knapp

170. Adelánte (Spanish): Come in. —Knapp

171. Bueno (Spanish): Good. This sound of the word bueno, heard in 1825 from the Jew Manasseh, was brought to Borrow’s memory in 1836 when he met the Jew Abarbanel on the roads in Spain. —Knapp

172. Una vez, etc. (Spanish): On one occasion when he was intoxicated. —Knapp

173. Goyim (Hebrew): Nations, Gentiles. —Knapp

174. Lasan akhades, read “Lâshôn haqqôdesh:” Sacred language, i.e., Hebrew. —Knapp

175. Janin: Wine in Hebrew is “yâyim” (not “yânin”), but our author quoted correctly from the Dialoghi di Amore composti per Leone Medico, Vinegia, 1541, and the Spanish edition (which I use): Los Dialogos de Amor de mestre Leon Abarbanel medico y Filosofo excelente, Venetia, 1568. The passage is: “And he (Noah), after the flood, was called Janus on account of his invention of wine, for Janin in Hebrew signifies wine, and he is represented with two faces turned in opposite directions, because he saw before the flood and after it.”412 George Borrow always writes Abarbenel for Abarbanel. His true name was Leo Abrabanel. —Knapp

176. Janinoso (Judaeo-Spanish) meaning vinosus, intoxicated. —Knapp

177. Epicouraiyim: Christians, as below, the “Epicureans,” for so the rabbis of the East call us in the West—properly, “unbelievers.” But Borrow’s form is not found in Buxtorf (1869)—read [unknown Hebrew text] Epikûrôsîn and (pop.) Epikûrîn. —Knapp

178. Sephardim: Spanish and Portuguese Jews, as the Ashkenazim are the German Jews. —Knapp

179. I am at ———: Greenwich, Blackheath and Shooter’s Hill. —Knapp

180. Colonel B. … : Colonel Blood. See Celebrated Trials, volume II, pp. 248–354: “Thomas Blood, generally called Colonel Blood, who stole the crown from the Tower of London, 1671.” —Knapp

181. Got fare to ———, read Amesbury, Wiltshire. —Knapp

182. City of the Spire: Salisbury. —Knapp

183. From ———, read Bristol. —Knapp

184. Stranger: Could not be William Beckford (1759–1844) of Fonthill Park, three miles from Hinton, a dozen or fifteen miles from Salisbury. Besides the place was sold in 1822 and George Mortimer occupied it in 1825. Borrow had been walking five days in a N.W. direction from Salisbury, and all his narrative harmonises with the places and dates that bring him to Horncastle in August, 1825. —Knapp

185. MS., “The Times.” —Knapp

186. Abedariums, read “abecedariums.” —Knapp

187. Flaming Tinman: He is also called by Borrow, Blazing Tinman, Flying Tinker, Blazing Bosville or Boswell, and finally Anselo Herne, his true clan-name. —Knapp

188. Ten years ago, i.e., thirteen, when he was at Tamworth in April or May, 1812. —Knapp

189. The Romany chi, etc. [the translation appears later in the book]:

The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl,
Tomorrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
The farmer’s steed.

—Knapp

190. Answer to the gillie: The Rommany churl and the Rommany girl love thieving and spaeing and lying and everything but honesty and truth. —Knapp

191. Peth yw, etc. (Welsh): What is that lying there on the ground? Yn wirionedd, in truth, surely. —Knapp

192. Gwenwyn: Poison! Poison! the lad has been poisoned! —Knapp

193. Hanged the mayor: The suppressed name of the Welshman and the whole account of the affair is given in Wild Wales, p. 7 (chapter III). —Knapp

194. Bardd Cwsg: The Sleeping Bard, by Ellis Wynn: The Sleeping Bard; or Visions of the World, Death, and Hell. By Elis Wyn. Translated from the Cambrian British by George Borrow. London, 1860. —Knapp

195. Merddin Wyllt (“Myrddin”): i.e., Wild Merlin, called the Wizard. —Knapp

196. Found written: See Moll Flanders by Defoe, p. 188, ed. 1722: “Oh! what a felicity is it to mankind,” said I, “that they cannot see into the hearts of one another!” I have carefully reread the whole volume of Moll Flanders, and find no such passages as those referred to here, save the one above. Hence, we may justly infer that Borrow quoted the spirit, rather than the words, of his author. —Knapp

197. Catraeth, read “Cattraeth.” The reference is to Aneurin’s book, the Y Gododin. A poem on the Battle of Cattraeth, by Aneurin, a Welsh Bard of the Sixth Century. With an English translation by J. Williams ab Ithel. Llandovery, 1852. —Knapp

198. Fish or flesh: See Borrow’s Targum, St. Petersburg, 1835, p. 76, under the “History of Taliesin,” ending:—

“I saw the end with horror
Of Sodom and Gomorrah!
And with this very eye
Have seen the [Trinity];
I till the judgment day
Upon the earth shall stray:
None knows for certainty
Whether fish or flesh I be.”

The original Welsh of the “Hanes Taliesin” is in the Gorchestion Beirdd Cymru, 1773. —Knapp

199. Take this: This Bible, with Peter Williams’ name in it, was sold in London in 1886 out of George Borrow’s collection. —Knapp

200. Mumpers’ Dingle: Near Willenhall, Staffordshire. The place is properly Momber or Monmer Lane, and is now occupied by the “Monmer Lane Ironworks,” hence totally obliterated. —Knapp

201. Volundr (Völundr): The Wayland Smith of Northern legends. Wayland Smith.—A Dissertation on a Tradition of the Middle Ages. From the French of G. B. Depping and Francisque Michel. London, 1847. —Knapp

202. Ingeborg: The lines are from the Romantic Ballads of 1826, p. 58, entitled the “Heroes of Dovrefeld. From the old Danish.” —Knapp

203. “As I was jawing:” Text and translation of the whole eight lines are found on pp. 182–83 of the Lavo-Lil, 1874:—

As I to the town was going one day
My Roman lass I met by the way.

The MS. is somewhat different—“Rommany” instead of “Roman,” and the last line, “If you will share my lot with me.” —Knapp

204. The man in black: This priest seems to have been a Fraser of Lovat. See The Life, Adventures, and many and great Vicissitudes of Fortune of Simon, Lord Lovat, the Head of the Family of Frasers. From his birth at Beaufort, near Inverness, in the Highlands of Scotland, in 1668, to the time of his being taken by Capt. Millar, after three days search, in a hollow tree, on the coasts of Knoidart and Arisaig. By the Rev. Archibald Arbuthnot, London, 1746. —Knapp

205. Armenian: It must be remembered that Borrow’s Armenian was limited to the Introduction, Grammar and Latin-Armenian Dictionary of the Jesuit Joseph Villotte, 1714, which he picked up at Norwich in 1822–23. Hence all his examples are taken from that book—mi, one; yergou, two; yerek, three, and those in Romany Rye. —Knapp

206. Buona sera (Italian): Good evening. —Knapp

207. Per far visita, etc.: To pay your lordship a call, that is my motive. —Knapp

208. MS. “Lord A[berdeen].” —Knapp

209. Che io non, etc., read ch’ in, etc.: That I do not believe at all. —Knapp

210. Addio: Farewell. —Knapp

211. Pulci: See Morgante Maggiore di Luigi Pulci Firentino, etc. Venetia, 1546. This version is rather free and local. Here is the original (canto XVIII, f. 97, ed. 1546):—

Rispose allhor Margutte: “A dirtel tosto,
Io non credo piu al nero ch’ a l’azzurro,
Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o, vuogli, arrosto,
E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro,
Nella cervogia, e, quando io n’ho, nel mosto,
E molto pui nell’ aspro che il mangurro,
Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede,
E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede.”

—Knapp

212. O Cavaliere, etc.: Oh, Sir Walter, ye have wrought much in behalf of the Holy See! —Knapp

213. Poveri frati: Poor friars! —Knapp

214. One fellow I met: See the postillion’s story [later]. —Knapp

215. Master in Armenian is d’yèr; of a master, d’yearn; plural, d’yeark. —Knapp

216. Koul Adonai, read “Kôl Adonai.” The next quotation is from part of verse 4 of the XXIX Psalm, which he gives according to the prayerbook version. —Knapp

217. The one sole emendation consists in substituting the masculine cheval for the feminine jument, [in chapter XVIII]. Le jument est beau was a solecism that could not longer be tolerated. —Knapp

218. MS., “ ’49.” —Knapp

219. MS., “execrated by every unmanly scoundrel, every sycophantic lackey, and every political and religious renegade in Britain.” —Knapp

220. The man in black: This priest seems to have been a Fraser of Lovat. See The Life, Adventures, and many and great Vicissitudes of Fortune of Simon, Lord Lovat, the Head of the Family of Frasers. From his birth at Beaufort, near Inverness, in the Highlands of Scotland, in 1668, to the time of his being taken by Capt. Millar, after three days search, in a hollow tree, on the coasts of Knoidart and Arisaig. By the Rev. Archibald Arbuthnot, London, 1746. —Knapp

221. Barbarini, read “Barberini:” Urban VIII, Pope 1623–44. —Knapp

222. Nipotismo di Roma: Il Nipotismo di Roma: or, the History of the Popes Nephews. From the time of Sixtus IV anno 1471, to the death of the late Pope, Alexander VII anno 1667. In Two Parts. By Gregorio Leti. Written originally in Italian, and Englished by W. A., Fellow of the Royal Society. London, 1673.

This was the edition used by Mr. Borrow, and purchased by me. —Knapp

223. Ganganelli: Clement XIV, Pope, 1769–74. —Knapp

224. Mezzofanti: So here and elsewhere in Romany Rye; Mezzofante in Lavengro—Cardinal Giuseppe, 1774–1849, the celebrated linguist. —Knapp

225. Leon the Isaurian: Reigned at Constantinople from 717–741. —Knapp

226. Ignacio: Spanish form of Ignatius. —Knapp

227. Omani batsikhom: Manchu Tartar form of prayer given elsewhere by Borrow as Oum-ma-ni-bat-mi-houm. See Life, I, p. 176. —Knapp

228. Bellissima Biondina (Italian): Fairest of blondes. —Knapp

229. Sono un Prete, etc. (Italian): I am a Roman Catholic Priest. —Knapp

230. Zamarra (Spanish): A sheepskin jacket with the wool outside. —Knapp

231. Scotch blood: He was, then, a Fraser of Lovat, of whom Simon Lord F. was a supporter of the last Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, 1746. —Knapp

232. Puta (Spanish): The most offensive word for harlot. —Knapp

233. Alcoran des Cordeliers, i.e., “the Franciscans’ Coran:” A blasphemous work written in 1399 in Latin by Bartolommeo Albizzi (Albitius); first published in printed form at Milan in 1510, then by Luther in 1542 with his peculiar comments, and finally in French at Geneva, 1556. —Knapp

234. Bible: The price of the old apple-woman’s Bible was, it will be remembered, one half-crown (Lavengro). —Knapp

235. Alexander VI.: Pope 1492–1503. He was a Spaniard of Valencia, and his family name was Rodrigo Borja, in Italian, Borgia. —Knapp

236. L’opere sue, etc.: His deeds were not those of lions, but of foxes—a slight alteration of Dante’s “L’opere mie,” etc. See L’inferno, XXVII, stanza 25. —Knapp

237. Oimè (Italian): Alas! —Knapp

238. To ———, read “Rome.” —Knapp

239. There is at ———, read “Rome.” —Knapp

240. Yes, per Dio (Italian): By Heaven! —Knapp

241. Parsons and Garnet: Two English Jesuits—Robert Parsons (1547–1610), superior to the Catholic Missions in England, and Henry Garnet (1555–1606), hanged because he refused to reveal the secrets of the confessional in connection with the Gunpowder Plot. —Knapp

242. No hay remedio (Spanish): There is no help for it. —Knapp

243. Inserted it: In volume IV, p. 330. —Knapp

244. Calañés: A Spanish hat worn by the lower classes, having the rim turned up against the crown. —Knapp

245. There’s a chovahanee, etc.: The full ditty runs thus in one of Borrow’s MSS.:—

The Petulengres

“There’s a chovahanee and a chovahanó,
The nav se lendè Petulengro;
Sore the chavès ’dré their ten
Are chories and labbenies—tatchipen,”

which reading corrects that of the text. —Knapp

246. Flaming Bosville: Anselo Herne. He is also called by Borrow, Flaming Tinman, Blazing Tinman, Flying Tinker, Blazing Bosville or Boswell. —Knapp

247. Gentleman Cooper and White-headed Bob: i.e., George Cooper and Ned Baldwin, who fought on the 5th of July, 1825, according to Pearce Egan’s Boxiana, V, pp. 61 and 80. Observe that the date harmonises perfectly with the chronology of the expedition. —Knapp

248. Brynhilda the Valkyrie, or Amazon, was the wife of Gunnar and friend of Sigurd. Sigurd, called Fafnisbane or the Slayer of Fafnir, was a heroic character frequently mentioned in the Edda, the Wilkina Saga, Snorro’s Heimskringla, and Saxo-Grammaticus. In the Wilkina he is Sigurdr Sveinn, in the old Danish Heroic Ballads (Kiaempeviser) he is Sigurd Snaresvend (Borrow’s “Snareswayne”), and Siegfrid in the Lay of the Nibelungs. Sivard or Sivord is a German variety of the same name. —Knapp

249. Feasting: This rustic banquet was offered to Sylvester and Ursula who were married that day, although our “rye” was not aware of the fact till later. —Knapp

250. Piramus: In MS. also “Priamus.” —Knapp

251. Gipsy song: The song was built up by our author from a very slender prose draft, which I find in its earliest form given thus:—

“1. Drabbing the Baulo

“We jaws to the drab-engro and lels dui or trin hors-worth of drab, and when we wels to the sweti we pens we can have a drab at a baulo. Then we kairs it opré, and jaws to a farm-ker to mang a bit of habben, and then we pens: ‘Chuva lis acai and dov-odoy baulo will lel it, and tomorrow sorlu we’ll wel apopli and mang it.’ And so we kairs, and on the sorlu when we’ve got it, we toves it well; we kins levinor at the kitchema, and have a kosko habben. The boshom-engro plays (kils), and the tawni juva gils, a kosko puro Rommany guillie.”

Then follows the gillie nearly as in the text.

“2. Drabbing the Baulo

“To mande shoon ye Rommany Chals
Who besh in the pus about the yag
I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.

“We jaws to the drab-engro ker
Trin hors-worth there of drab we lels
And when to the swety back we wels
We pens we’ll drab the baulo.

“And then we kairs the drab opré,
And then we jaws to the farming ker
To mang a beti habben,
A beti poggado habben.

“A rinkeno baulo there we dick,
And then we pens in Rommany jib:
‘Chiv lis odoy oprey the chick,
The baulo he will lel lis,
The baulo he will lel lis.

“ ‘Apopli on the sorlo we
Will wel and mang him mullo,
Will wel and mang his truppo.’

“And so we kairs, and so we kairs,
We mang him on the sorlo,
And rig to the tan the baulo.

“And then we toves his wendror well
Till sore the wendror iuziou sie,
Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis,
Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.

“And then his truppo well we hatch,
Kin levinor at the kitchema,
And have a kosko habben,
A kosko Rommano habben.

“The boshom-engro kils, he kils,
The tawni juva gils, she gils,
A puro Rommany gillie,
Now shoon the Rommany gillie.”

3. The third and last MS. is complete, but varies considerably from the printed text. “Romany” is written with two m’s, as in Lavengro throughout; in the fourth verse it reads: “In Rommany chib: chiv lis odoy opré the chik;” fourth line omits “and;” in the fifth and sixth verses it gives “sorlo” properly, instead of “saulo;” in seventh verse it reads “his wendror,” and in the last, “boshom-engro” and “tawni.”

From all these variants it results that MS. No. 3 furnishes a better reading than the printed text. —Knapp

252. The apothecary.

253. Ursula’s Song: By the aid of the Gypsy list [the Glossary] at the end of this volume, the translation can be easily made out by the curious reader. —Knapp

254. MS., see Life, I, 34, n. —Knapp

255. Sanpriel: Corrupt form of “Sanspareil,” unrivalled. —Knapp

256. Synfye: Slavonic form of “Cynthia”—th in Russian is pronounced ph or f; Thomas, Fómas. —Knapp

257. Life, I, 34, n. —Knapp

258. Life of Charles: Add “XII” —Knapp

259. The church: Mentioned as three miles from the dingle, has not yet been discovered. —Knapp

260. The Edda: Early Icelandic literary monuments, consisting of the Elder or Poetic Edda collected by Saemund, and the later or Prose Edda collected by Snorro Sturleson. See Mallet’s Northern Antiquities, Bohn’s Edition. —Knapp

261. Sagas: Early historical tales handed down by oral tradition. —Knapp

262. Anselo Herne: His clan-name. —Knapp

263. Pulci: Luigi Pulci (1432–87). See Morgante Maggiore di Luigi Pulci Firentino, etc. Venetia, 1546. —Knapp

264. Ingravidata (Italian): With child. —Knapp

265. E nacquene, etc.: “And of her a son was born, says story, who subsequently gave great victory to Charlemagne.” —Knapp

266. Fortiguerra: Niccolò Fortiguerra (1674–1735). He did not live to print his voluminous poem entitled Ricciardetto, having died in 1735, just “ninety years” from the date 1825, as our text declares. —Knapp

267. Slammocks, etc.: Norwich worthies, I suppose; at least I do not find them in the Boxiana at my command. —Knapp

268. The Armenian in this chapter I find correct. “Hramahyel” should have been given hramaïyel, “hntal,” etc., khntal (χντάλ), and “madagh,” madag.

See The Latin-Armenian Dictionary, with a Grammar Prefixed. By Jacobus Villotte, from which Borrow drew the Haïkian words and forms displayed in Lavengro and Romany Rye. —Knapp

269. Hard-mouthed jade: This favourite expression of Mr. Borrow’s proceeds, I opine, from his readings in the quaint eighteenth century literature with which his library abounded. In Defoe’s Moll Flanders, p. 301, edition of 1722, we read: “The witnesses were the two wenches, a couple of hard mouth’d jades indeed.” And on p. 323: “A hard mouth’d man.” —Knapp

270. The “daffodil” poet: William Wordsworth (1770–1850). —Knapp

271. Carlo Borromeo: The Cardinal saint, born 1538, died 1584. —Knapp

272. Bricconi abbasso (It.): “Down with the rogues!” —Knapp

273. Friar Bacon: The celebrated scientist Roger Bacon (1214–94) was fated, like Virgil, to be popularly metamorphosed into a magician and conjuror. Hence the “Friar Bacon” series of chap-books, extending (so far as we know them) from the sixteenth century to the present. I will give the passage referred to by Mr. Borrow, so that it may be seen that the myth had no reference to the railway. No. 3 in The History of Frier Bacon. London, 1683, leaf 8:—

“Chapter V: How Miles watched the Brazen-head, and in the end went away from his master.

“Fryer Bacon, having performed many wonderful things by his curious Art, was now sifting out how he might wall England with brass; wherefore he and Fryer Bungy, when they had raised the devil, bound him to a tree, for to make him tell them how it might be performed. He told them that they should make a Brazen-head, which (if they could watch it till it spoke) would tell them how it might be done. The head was made, and they watched till they could watch no longer. At last Fryer Bungey persuaded Fryer Bacon to let his man Miles watch while they slept; to which the Fryer agreed. Then Miles was called, who undertook to awake them when the Head would speak. So to sleep they went, and Miles expected some great speech to come from the Head. At last the Head cryed, ‘Time Is’; at which Miles fell into a great laughter, and made his scoffs and jears thereat. Then it said, ‘Time Was’; but yet he would not awake his master, counting them but silly and frivolous words. Lastly, the Head said, ‘Time Is Past’; at which words down it fell, and in falling made such a noise that it awakened the two Fryers, and had almost affrighted poor Miles out of his senses,” etc.

—Knapp

274. L——, read Liverpool. —Knapp

275. C——, read Chester. —Knapp

276. Brooke of Borneo: Sir James Brooke, Rajah of Sarawak (1803–68), George Borrow’s schoolmate at Norwich in 1816–18. —Knapp

277. “Vails:” He means, of course, “vale.” —Knapp

278. Romanvile: London. See The English Rogue, the Life of Meriton Latroon, a Witty Extravagant. Being a Compleat History of the Most Eminent Cheats of Both Sexes. London, 1665–80. —Knapp

279. The chi she is kaulo (read “kauley”), etc.: “The lass she is black, she sleeps upon her back.” —Knapp

280. Sivord: Or Sivard, the same as Sigurd, called the Snaresvend (“Snareswayne” on the next page). See Romantic Ballads, 1826, pp. 83 and 90. For the reason of Borrow’s changing the Danish svend into “swayne,” see Life, II, p. 269. —Knapp

281. The horse Grayman: i.e., the “Skimming gray” of p. 96, Romantic Ballads —Knapp

282. The Maugrabin sorcerer: The “African Magician” in Lane’s translation. There is in this passage of The Romany Rye evidently a confusion of two of the tales in the Arabian Nights—those of Aladdin and Sindbad, fifth voyage. —Knapp

283. Isten (pronounced “ishten”): Hungarian for God. —Knapp

284. Magyar (pronounced “mädjr”): A Hungarian. —Knapp

285. L’Eau de la Reine d’Hongrie, read “de Hongrie,” h being aspirate in this word. —Knapp

286. Tékéli (1658–1705). —Knapp

287. Pigault Lebrun (Charles), 1753–1835; Les Barons de Felsheim, Paris, 1822. —Knapp

288. Ersebet, read “Erszebet,” Elisabeth. —Knapp

289. Florentius of Buda: Flourished 1790–1805. See Magyar Ország Poigári Históriá-járá való Lexicon. Nagy-Varad (Gross-Wardein), by Budai Ferencz, 1804–5. —Knapp

290. Álmus, or Álmos (“älmosh”), died 889. The Hungarian scholar Vámbéri, has exploded the “dream” (or rather “sleep”) theory heretofore entertained with regard to the origin of the name Almos; he says it is an epithet, meaning the Great, the Sublime, the Noble, the Glorious (Ursprung, pp. 62, 156). —Knapp

291. Dunau, read “Donau,” German for Danube. —Knapp

292. Király and Ház: The former comes from the Serbian Králj (lj like Spanish ll or Portugese lh), which the Hungarian lengthened into kir-ály, not finding it convenient to pronounce kr.413 As for haz, from haus (Austrian popular pronunciation hôs), we are told by Vámbéri that the ancient form was not ház, but hos (Ursprung, p. 556). —Knapp

293. Janos (pronounced “Yánosh”): John. —Knapp

294. Szava (Hungarian): The Save. —Knapp

295. Laszlo: Ladislaus. —Knapp

296. Cilejia: The Roman Claudia Celleia, now Cilly, in Carinthia. —Knapp

297. Matyas: In English “Matthias.” —Knapp

298. Huz, read “husz” (Hungarian): Twenty. Vámbéri questions this etymology of “hussar” (p. 283), but unsatisfactorily, we think. —Knapp

299. Ulazslo: Wladislaus. —Knapp

300. Tché Drak: The Romanian cé dracŭ, but pronounced as in the text, and equivalent to the exclamation que diable! —Knapp

301. Mohacs Veszedelem, read “Mohacsi Veszedelem:” The Disaster of Mohács, the title of a poem by Baron Liszti. —Knapp

302. Lajos (“laï-osh”), Louis or Lewis. —Knapp

303. Bátory: A mere epithet, the “valiant.” —Knapp

304. Mufti: The ulémas or Doctors of the (Mahomedan) law. —Knapp

305. Coloscvar, read “Koloszvár,” in German, “Klausenburg.” —Knapp

306. Budáï Ferencz: Flourished 1790–1805. See Magyar Ország Poigári Históriá-járá való Lexicon. Nagy-Varad (Gross-Wardein), by Budai Ferencz, 1804–5. —Knapp

307. Rysckie Tsar, read “Russki Tsar:” The Russian Emperor. —Knapp

308. Plescova, now Pskov. —Knapp

309. Iván Basilowitz, read “Vasiliévitch,” known as Iván the Terrible. —Knapp

310. Izbushka (Russian): Hut. —Knapp

311. Tyzza, read “Tisza:” The river Theiss. —Knapp

312. Kopacs Teto, read “Kopász Tetö.” —Knapp

313. Kassau, read “Kaschau.” —Knapp

314. Eljen edes, etc. (pronounced “elyen edesh tsigáñ oor, elyen gool eraï”): “Long live the sweet Gypsy gentleman, long live the gudlo Rye.” —Knapp

315. Roth-Welsch: The German for Thieves’ Slang. —Knapp

316. Tzernebock, read “Tchernobog” (g like German ch): Black god, evil principle. —Knapp

317. Bielebock, read “Bielbog:” White god, the good principle. —Knapp

318. Saxo-Gramaticus, read “Grammaticus.” —Knapp

319. Fekete (Hungarian): Black. —Knapp

320. Erik Bloodaxe (Danish Blodöxe): King of Norway [c. 947–948]. —Knapp

321. Regner Lodbrok: “Regnar” in Icelandic; Borrow gives the Danish term of this king’s name. See his famous “Death Song” in Mallet, Northern Antiquities; or, an Historical Account of the Manners, Customs, Religion and Laws, Language and Literature of the Ancient Scandinavians. London: Bonn, 1859, pp. 383–85. —Knapp

322. Halgerdr, read “Halgerda,” Mallet, Northern Antiquities; or, an Historical Account of the Manners, Customs, Religion and Laws, Language and Literature of the Ancient Scandinavians. London: Bonn, 1859, pp. 340–41. —Knapp

323. Biorn, read “Björn” and Ivarr, “Ivar.” —Knapp

324. Verdammt (German): Confounded. —Knapp

325. “Wife selling:” A very common practice among a certain class, it seems, in England; and, as this will hardly be credited in America, I will append some extracts from the newspapers. The Norfolk Chronicle of 5th May, 1894, says:

“The belief formerly prevailed, especially among the rural population, that a man had a perfectly legal right to sell his wife to another, provided he observed two indispensable formalities. One was that he placed a halter about her neck, and the other that he led her into the market and publicly transferred her to the purchaser. Numerous instances of these strange transactions have been recorded. Our columns, on the 9th of February, 1805, contained an account of the sale of a wife at Norwich. A Kentish tailor, the affections and person of whose amiable spouse had been jockeyed away by a neighbouring horsedealer, caparisoned her neck with a halter and surrendered all right and title to his virtuous rib, in consideration of the sum of £5. On the 2nd of May, 1823, a similar sale was effected in this city. A man named Stebbings disposed of his wile to a person named Turner for the sum of £6 10s. The latter paid £4 on account, took the woman home, and brutally turned his lawful wife out of doors.”

The London Daily Mail of 1st March, 1899, prints the following:—

“Very few people are aware that wives are literally sold today in England. A very common error of the vulgar is that a man by selling his wife releases himself from the marriage contract as surely as if he were legally divorced. In March, 1796, The Times announced the sale of a wife at Sheffield for sixpence. A short time afterwards the same journal calmly stated that the price of wives has risen in Smithfield Market from half a guinea to three guineas and a half! In 1803 a man led his wife, by a halter round her neck, into the cattle market at Sheffield, and sold her for a guinea, the purchaser leading away the woman to his home. In 1820 a man named Brouchet hired a cattle-pen in the Canterbury market, placed his wife in it, and ultimately sold her for 5s. Then wives began to increase in value, for soon afterwards one was sold for £15. This was followed by a ‘slump.’ In 1855 a man led his wife with a halter round her waist into Derby marketplace and offered her for sale, but all be could get for her was eighteen pence and a quart of ale. In 1873 a husband left his home and creditors in Belper for the liberty of America. The week after his flight all his goods were put up for auction to satisfy his debts. His wife claimed part of the money, and this being refused she insisted on being offered for sale as part of her husband’s assets. There was no sale, however, for ‘Lot 29.’ In even more recent days wife sales were common, and are even being effected in this present year of grace. In 1882 John Wilson, a collier of Alfreton, Derbyshire, sold his wife in a public-house for fourpence. Sheffield knife-grinders have long been noted for their transactions in the wife trade. Within quite recent times many a Sheffield wife has been sold by her husband for a gallon of beer, which has been drunk on the spot. Sometimes these sales assume a more formal aspect. In 1887, in the Sheffield County Court, a man admitted that he had bought another man’s wife for 5s. Most of these discreditable ‘deals’ escape notice, but a case has come to light where a man agreed to sell his wife to a collier, and the trio, with the woman’s father and mother and two family friends, assembled to arrange terms. Thirty shillings was the price finally agreed on. Four years ago, at Leeds, a man charged with bigamy pleaded that, as he had sold his wife for 3s. 6d. to another man, he could marry again legally! Eighteen months’ imprisonment was what he got, and more than deserved. A police court case in 1896 at Doncaster revealed the fact that John Tart sold his wife to Enoch Childs, on the understanding that the latter reared the vendor’s four children. In a Durham court in 1894 it transpired that a man named Shaw sold his daughter, a girl of sixteen, to a collier called Cudman, for 1s. Many a wife is at present sold in the East End of London, as well as in Yorkshire, for a quart of beer or an ounce of thick twist. It is the poor man’s method of divorce, and such is popular ignorance that there are scores of people who imagine that selling a wife is as legal a separation as a decree nisi pronounced by a bewigged and berobed judge.”

—Knapp

326. Herodotus: The story is found in Thalia III, 84–88 (pp. 208–9 of Cary’s English translation). The groom’s name was “Oebares.” —Knapp

327. Deaghblasda, read “deaghbhlasda” (Irish): Sweet-tasted, dainty. This is the soothing word hinted at, but not given, in Lavengro [end of Chapter XIII]. —Knapp

328. At H——, read “Hertford,” where John Thurtell was hanged, 9th January, 1824. —Knapp

329. Ned Flatnose: Edward Painter of Norwich. —Knapp

330. Spring: His true name was Thomas Winter. He died 20th August, 1851. —Knapp

331. ——— Fair, read “Greenwich Fair,” on Easter Monday. See Dickens’ Sketches. —Knapp

332. Oilien (and later, “Oilein”) nan Naomha, read “Oilean na Naomhtha” (Irish): Island of the Saints (Patrick and Columba). —Knapp

333. Finn-ma-Coul: The tale of Finn was first learned by Borrow in January, 1854, from his Irish guide Cronan, while travelling in Cornwall (Life, II, p. 86, and note). This fact shows that Murtagh and his tale are introduced here to exhibit the author’s discovery of the identity between the Finn of Ireland and the Eddaic tradition of Sigurd Fafnisbane (p. 281). For Sigurd in the Wilkina Saga is suckled by a hind (p. 120) and fostered by Mymmer Smed or Mimer the Smith (p. 121) whom he eventually slays (p. 124). In the Eddaic Lay of the serpent-killer we read: “Sigurd took the heart of Fafnir and broiled it on a spit. And when he judged that it was done, he touched it with his finger to ascertain if that were really the case. Having burned his finger in the act, he put it to his mouth, and no sooner had the heart’s blood of Fafnir come in contact with Sigurd’s tongue than he understood the speech of birds,” etc. Here we have the two sides verified, the Irish by Cronan, and the Scandian by the Edda. But Brooke’s Reliques, a favourite work of Borrow’s in his Norwich days, and which he cites in 1832 (Life, I, p. 146), give us certain other fragments of these Finnic fables, whereby we can trace the sources of the text before us. For example, after Jack Dale had stripped Murtagh of all his money he is observed to be sitting “in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his mouth” (p. 278). And a little farther on (p. 282) a verse is cited from “Conan the Bald.” Now all this is found in Miss Brooke, that is, the names and the ideas—Conan the Bald (p. 106), Lochlin (p. 46), and Darmod Odeen (minus Taffy) and the verse with this note (p. 109):—“This strange passage is explained by some lines in the Poem of Dubmac-Dighruibh, where Finn is reproached with deriving all his courage from chewing his thumb for prophetic information.” —Knapp

334. Dungarvon times of old: See Life, I, p. 46, and II, pp. 16–17. Cradock’s letter was dated, 18th August, 1849, and Mr. B.’s answer (I, p. 146) a little after. —Knapp

335. Siol Loughlin, read “Lochlin” (Irish): Literally “the seed of Norway,” i.e., the Danish or Norwegian race. Miss Brooke very properly says (p. 46): “Lochlin is the Gaelic (and Irish) name for Scandinavia in general;” but Borrow limits it to Denmark—the Danish race. And a little below, “the Loughlin songs” are his Danish Ballads which he published the following year. —Knapp

336. Religious house: The story of Murtagh at the Irish College in Rome, and his subsequent wanderings in the South of France and in Spain, mask, as we have said elsewhere, the peregrinations of George Borrow in 1826–27. —Knapp

337. Tipperary.

338. M’anam on Dioul: [God preserve] my soul from the devil! —Knapp

339. Raparees: Irish marauders, [in the time of] James II. See Life, I, p. 146, and Brooke’s Reliques, p. 205. The latter says that the word is from the Irish Réubóir Ri, plunderer, robber, freebooter of the king, from reubaim, I tear. —Knapp

340. Chiviter Vik: Cività Vecchia, the modern seaport of Rome, fifty miles distant. —Knapp

341. Army of the Faith: Spanish frontier corps of observation under Gen. Don Vicente Quesada, 1823–24. —Knapp

342. Prince Hilt: The Duke d’Angoulême, nephew of Louis XVIII, and son of the Count d’Artois (afterwards Charles X). D’Angoulême invaded Spain in 1823 with 100,000 Frenchmen, to restore Ferdinand VII to his absolute throne, against the Liberals of 1820–23. —Knapp

343. To ———, read Rome. —Knapp

344. Educated at ———, read Rome —Knapp

345. Direction of the east, read “south.” He could only have gone south from Horncastle to reach Boston (the “large town on the arm of the sea”) that day. The next he came to Spalding, some fifteen miles farther, where he met the recruiting serjeant, thence on to Norwich by Lynn Regis.

We must not forget that before Lavengro was begun, and fifteen years prior to the publication of The Romany Rye, that is, 26th December, 1842, Mr. Petulengro remarked to George Borrow at Oulton: “I suppose you have not forgot how, fifteen [seventeen] years ago, when you made horseshoes in the dingle by the side of the great north road, I lent you fifty guineas to purchase the wonderful trotting cob of the innkeeper with the green Newmarket coat, which three days after you sold for two hundred.”414 Now, this is a very remarkable statement, and, taken in connection with the fact that so little is said about Horncastle in the book, it seems to me we are justified in proclaiming that Borrow was never in Horncastle at all. The interview with the Magyar and the syllabus of Hungarian history are clearly drawn from his experiences in Hungary and Transylvania in the year 1844, and hence are an anachronism here. It is a pity that the author did not adhere to the chronological facts of his life so strictly in The Romany Rye as he did in Lavengro. Truth and literature would have gained by it. And then that valedictory pledge,415 confirmed in the appendix, drawing a veil over the period of his travails, if not his travels, was an error of judgment which, in an autobiography will, we fear, not easily be condoned. —Knapp

346. Age of nineteen, read “twenty;” he was twenty-one less four months at his father’s death. —Knapp

347. Children of Roma: Borrovian for Gypsies. —Knapp

348. Balm in Mary Flanders: Defoe’s Moll Flanders. —Knapp

349. MS., “Canning” (1827).416 —Knapp

350. Viscount Goderich. —Knapp

351. MS., “Canning” (1827). —Knapp

352. MS., “Canning” (1827). —Knapp

353. MS., “who eventually presented him with a bishopric, had espoused,” —Knapp etc.

354. MS., “He is a small landed proprietor who eats,” etc. —Knapp

355. Vaya! qué demonio es este! (Spanish): Bless me! what demon have we here! —Knapp

356. MS., “the Despatch, of course.” —Knapp

357. The Spanish Revolution of ’54–’56, made by O’Donnell.

358. MS. (corrected):—

Un Erajái
Sinába chibando an sermón;
Y lle falta un balichó
Al chindomá de aquel gáo;
Y chanéla que los calés
Lo habían nicobáo;
Y penelá ’l erajái:
“Chaboró!
Guíllate á tu quer,
Y nicobéla la pirí
Que teréla ’l balichó,
Y chibéla andró
Una lima de tun chaborí,
Chaborí,
Una lima de tun chaborí.”

See also Lavo-Lil, p. 200. —Knapp

359. Sessions of Hariri: Arabic tales in prose interlarded with verse. —Knapp

360. The two languages: Chinese and Manchu. —Knapp

361. Canto I, stanza 53.417 —Knapp

362. Stanza 57.418 —Knapp

363. An obscene oath.419

364. Oberon: A poem by Wieland (1733–1813). —Knapp

365. The father of Anglo-Germanism: Taylor of Norwich. —Knapp

366. Andrew Borde: The Fyrst Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge. “The which doth teache a man to speake parte of all maner of Languages, and to knowe the vsage and fashion of al maner of coũtreys. And for to knowe the most parte of all maner of Coynes of money, ye which is curraunt in euery region. Made by Andrew Borde, of Phisicke Doctor. Dedicated to the right Honorable and gracios lady Mary doughter of our souerayne lord Kyng Henry the eyght.”

The text of the Bodleian copy (1547?) runs as follows—(A 3 verso):—

“I am an Englysh man, and naked I stand here,
Musyng in my mynd what rayment I shall were;
For now I wyll were thys, and now I wyl were that,
Now I wvl were I cannot tel what.
All new fashyons be plesaunt to me,
I wyll haue them, whether I thryue or thee;
Now I am a frysker, all men doth on me looke,
What should I do but set cocke on the hoope;
What do I care yf all the worlde me fayle,
I wyl get a garment shal reche to my tayle;
Than I am a minion, for I were the new gyse;
The yere after this I trust to be wyse,
Not only in wering my gorgious aray,
For I wyl go to learnyng a hoole somers day;
I wyll learne Latyne, Hebrew, Grecke and Frenche,
And I wyl learne Douche sittyng on my benche;
I do feare no man, all men fearyth me,
I ouercome my aduersaries by land and by see;
I had no peere yf to my selfe I were trew,
Because I am not so diuers times I do rew;
Yet I lake nothing, I haue all thyng at wyll
If were wyse and wold holde my selfe styll,
And medel wyth no matters not to me partayning;
But I haue suche matters rolling in my pate,
That I wyl speake and do I cannot tell what.” etc.

—Knapp

367. See Muses’ Library, pp. 86, 87. London, 1738. [Better, the original ed. (1547). —Knapp ]

368. Genteel with them seems to be synonymous with Gentile and Gentoo; if so, the manner in which it has been applied for ages ceases to surprise, for genteel is heathenish. Ideas of barbaric pearl and gold, glittering armour, plumes, tortures, blood-shedding, and lust, should always be connected with it. Wace, in his grand Norman poem, calls the Baron Genteel:—

“La furent li gentil Baron,” etc.

And he certainly could not have applied the word better than to the strong Norman thief, armed cap-a-pie without one particle of ruth or generosity; for a person to be a pink of gentility, that is heathenism, should have no such feelings; and, indeed, the admirers of gentility seldom or never associate any such feelings with it. It was from the Norman, the worst of all robbers and miscreants, who built strong castles, garrisoned them with devils, and tore out poor wretches’ eyes, as the Saxon Chronicle says, that the English got their detestable word genteel. What could ever have made the English such admirers of gentility, it would be difficult to say; for, during three hundred years, they suffered enough by it. Their genteel Norman landlords were their scourgers, their torturers, the plunderers of their homes, the dishonourers of their wives, and the deflowerers of their daughters. Perhaps after all, fear is at the root of the English veneration for gentility.

369. Mr. Flamson: Samuel Morton Peto, M.P., later Sir Morton Peto of Somerleyton Hall, some five miles inland from Lowestoft. See Life, II, p. 52. —Knapp

370. Gentle and gentlemanly may be derived from the same root as genteel; but nothing can be more distinct from the mere genteel, than the ideas which enlightened minds associate with these words. Gentle and gentlemanly mean something kind and genial; genteel, that which is glittering or gaudy. A person can be a gentleman in rags, but nobody can be genteel.

371. Orcadian poet: “Ragnvald, Earl of the Orkney Islands, passed for a very able poet; he boasts himself, in a song of his which is still extant, that he knew how to compose verses on all subjects,” Mallet, [Northern Antiquities] p. 235. The original Runic of the lines translated by Borrow is found in Olaus Wormius. Transliterated into Latin letters they read thus:—

Tafl em eg or at efta
Idrottir kan eg niu
Tum eg tradla Runur
Tid er mer bog og smider
Skrid kann eg a gidum
Skot eg og re so nyter
Hvor tweggia kan ek hyggiu
Harpslatt og bragdattu.

—Knapp

372. Lieut. P——, read “Perry.” The item was taken from a newspaper (which, I know not) published in September, 1854. Mr. Borrow read it at Llangollen in Wales. I loaned the clipping and it was not returned. —Knapp

373. Balaklava: The usual etymon of this famous name is the Italian Bella chiave, beautiful key. —Knapp

374. Companion of Bligh: This was Thomas Hayward. —Knapp

375. Once: See Bligh’s Narrative (A Narrative of the Mutiny on board His Majesty’s Ship Bounty; and the subsequent voyage of part of the crew, in the ship’s boat, from Tofoa, one of the Friendly Islands, to Timor, a Dutch settlement in the East Indies. Written by Lieutenant William Bligh. London, 1790.), p. 55.—336. —Knapp

376. “Malditas sean tus tripas,” etc.: This Borrovian Spanish must be rendered truthfully or not at all. The squeamish may excuse the borracha: “D—— your g——s; we had enough of the stink of your g——s the day you ran away from the battle of the Boyne.” —Knapp

377. Coronach (Gaelic), read “Corránach:” The funeral wail, a dirge; in Irish, coránach. —Knapp

378. The writer has been checked in print by the Scotch with being a Norfolk man. Surely, surely, these latter times have not been exactly the ones in which it was expedient for Scotchmen to check the children of any county in England with the place of their birth, more especially those who have had the honour of being born in Norfolk—times in which British fleets, commanded by Scotchmen, have returned laden with anything but laurels from foreign shores. It would have been well for Britain had she had the old Norfolk man to despatch to the Baltic or the Black Sea, lately, instead of Scotch admirals.

379. Abencerages, read “Abencerrages:” Arabic ibn-serradj; son of the saddle. —Knapp

380. Whiffler: An official character of the old Norwich Corporation, strangely uniformed and accoutred, who headed the annual procession on Guildhall day, flourishing a sword in a marvellous manner. All this was abolished on the passage of the Municipal Reform Act in 1835. As a consequence, says a contemporaneous writer, “the Aldermen left off wearing their scarlet gowns, Snap was laid up on a shelf in the ‘Sword Room’ in the Guildhall, and the Whifflers no longer danced at the head of the procession in their picturesque costume. It was a pretty sight, and their skill in flourishing their short swords was marvellous to behold.” —Knapp

381. Francis Spira: Francesco Spiera, a lawyer of Cittadella (Venice), accepted the doctrines of the Reformation in 1548. Terrified by the menaces of the Church of Rome and the prospective ruin of his family, he went to Venice and solemnly abjured the Evangelical faith in the hands of the Legate, Giovan della Casa (see Dict. de Bayle) who required him to return home and repeat his abjuration before his fellow-townsmen and the local authorities. Having performed this act, he fell into the horrid state of remorse depicted in the Protestant accounts of the time. The report was first brought to Geneva by Pietro Paolo Vergerio, ex-bishop of Pola, who visited Spiera in his last moments at Padua, whence he himself bent his way to the Valtelina, as a fugitive from the Roman Church. —Knapp

382. Duncan Campbell: History of the Life and Adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, a gentleman who, though deaf and dumb, writes down any strangers’ name at first sight, with their future contingencies of fortune; now living in Exeter Court, over against the Savoy in the Strand. By Daniel Defoe. —Knapp

383. Falconer, The Voyages, dangerous Adventures and imminent escapes of Captain Richard Falconer … intermix’d with the Voyages … of T. Randal. London, 1720. —Knapp

384. John Randall: Here is a confusion of John Rolfe and John Randolph of Roanoke (1773–1833). Pocahontas, daughter of the Indian Chief Powhatan, saved the life of Captain John Smith in Virginia and married John Rolfe in 1614. John Randolph of Roanoke claimed to be descended from Pocahontas, but Rolfe is evidently the one referred to in the text.

See The Indian Princess; or, the Story of Pocahontas. By Edward Eggleston and Lillie Eggleston Seelye. London (1880?). —Knapp

385. Iriarte (1750–96): Spanish poet and writer of fables. See Coleccion de Obras en Verso y Prosa de D. Tomas de Yriarte. Madrid, 1787. —Knapp

386. Autobiographical character of Lavengro denied: but see Life, II, pp. 3–27 and 211. —Knapp

387. Ginnúngagap: The “yawning abyss” of Northern Mythology. See Mallet, Northern Antiquities p. 402. —Knapp

388. Horinger Bay: Hjörúnga Vâgr in Icelandic, or Vaag in Danish. —Knapp

389. Harum-beck, read “harmanbeck,” as in Lavengro. —Knapp

390. Holkham Estate: The seat of the Cokes of Norfolk and the Earl of Leicester. See White’s Norfolk. —Knapp

391. He said in ’32: See Life, I, p. 143. —Knapp

392. Son of Norfolk clergyman: Nelson (nom de noms!). —Knapp

393. As the present work will come out in the midst of a vehement political contest, people may be led to suppose that the above was written expressly for the time. The writer therefore begs to state that it was written in the year 1854. He cannot help adding that he is neither Whig, Tory, nor Radical, and cares not a straw what party governs England, provided it is governed well. But he has no hopes of good government from the Whigs. It is true that amongst them there is one very great man, Lord Palmerston, who is indeed the sword and buckler, the chariots and the horses of the party; but it is impossible for his lordship to govern well with such colleagues as he has—colleagues which have been forced upon him by family influence, and who are continually pestering him into measures anything but conducive to the country’s honour and interest. If Palmerston would govern well, he must get rid of them; but from that step, with all his courage and all his greatness, he will shrink. Yet how proper and easy a step it would be! He could easily get better, but scarcely worse, associates. They appear to have one object in view and only one—jobbery. It was chiefly owing to a most flagitious piece of jobbery, which one of his lordship’s principal colleagues sanctioned and promoted, that his lordship experienced his late parliamentary disasters.

394. Thistlewood and Ings: See article in Celebrated Lives and Trials, volume VI, p. 339. —Knapp

395. The old Radical: John Bowring in 1821. —Knapp

396. Volume of translations: See Specimen of the Russian Poets: With Preliminary Remarks and Biographical Notices. By John Bowring, F.L.S. London: Whittaker, 1821. —Knapp

397. Red Rhys: Rhys Goch of Snowdon. See Wild Wales, p. 150, and Neu Flodau Godidowgrwydd Awen. O gasgliad Rhys Jones, o’r Tyddyn Mawr. [Beauties of the Bards of Wales; or, Flowers of Welsh Poetry. Collected by Rhys Jones of Great Farms] Amwythig (Shrewsbury), 1773. —Knapp

398. A fact.

399. The Doctor of Medicine: Dr. Lewis Evans. See Life, I, p. 74. —Knapp

400. S——, read “Southey.” —Knapp

401. Literary project (1829–30): See Life, I, p. 129. —Knapp

402. Astolfo: His journey to the moon mentioned in Pulci, ed. 1546, Canto XXI, f. cxx b:

“Malagigi tagliava le parole,
Astolfo sopra ’l suo caval rimonta;
Cavalcano à la luna tanto e al sole
Che capitorno al castel di Creonta.”

—Knapp

403. MS. “Aberdeen.” —Knapp

404. MS. “Aberdeen.” —Knapp

405. In ———, read “China.” —Knapp

406. To ———, read “China.” —Knapp

407. Copy of a work: Borrow’s edition of the Manchu New Testament, St. Petersburg, 1835. All the dashes mean Canton or China. —Knapp

408. Serendib: (Ceylon) put for China. —Knapp

409. Boxiana—Fights for the Championship, and Celebrated Prize Battles, from the Days of Figg and Broughton to the Present Time. London, 1855, II, 497. —Knapp

410. The change from Ambrose to Jasper was made in pencil in Mrs. Borrow’s transcript at the last moment in 1849, before handing it to the printers. —Knapp

411. Beginning—

Mas tinn no slán atharlaigheas féin,
Do ghluàis me trá, agus bfhéirde mé,
Air cuáirt an Seóin le sócal dfhághail,
“An Stafartach saímh, nach gnáth gan chéill.”

—Knapp

412. “El qual (Noé) despues del diluuio, por su inuencion del uino, fue lhamado lano, porque Ianin en ebràico quiere dezir uino, y lo pintan con dos caras boltadas, porque tuuo uista antes del diluuio y despues” (Foja 71, verso). —Knapp

413. Like Ingilis in Turkish, for English; Beritania (England) in Hawaiian, for Britannia. —Knapp

414. Zincali, 1843, second ed., volume II, p. 146. —Knapp

415. “I think I’ll go there,” p. 301. “He is about to quit his native land on a grand philological expedition,” p. 303. —Knapp

416. Canning: Premier from 24th April to his death, 8th August, 1827; succeeded by Viscount Goderich from September, 1827, to 25th January, 1828.—312. —Knapp

417. Luigi Pulci: Io vo’ tagliar, etc.: I’ll sever the hands of them all and bring them to those holy monks. —Knapp

418. Tu sarai or perfetto, etc.: Now thou wilt be as true a friend to Christ as aforetime thou wert his foe (Morgante Maggiore di Luigi Pulci Firentino, etc. Venetia, 1546, canto I, stanzas 53 and 57). —Knapp

419. Carajo: An oath fit neither to be written nor pronounced, but common to the lower classes of Spaniards, or to ambitious foreign Hispanophiles who cannot know its meaning. See Oudin’s Tesoro, Paris, 1607. —Knapp

Colophon

Lavengro and The Romany Rye
were published in 1851 and 1857 respectively by
George Borrow.

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