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Title: Lavengro

Author: George Borrow

Release Date: March, 1996  [EBook #452]
[This file was first posted on January 11, 1996]
[Most recently updated: August 18, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, LAVENGRO ***




Transcribed from the 1900 Macmillian and Co. Edition by David
Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk




LAVENGRO
THE SCHOLAR, THE GYPSY, THE PRIEST




PREFACE



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 title-page, 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
baptized, and to which my forefathers belonged.  Its being the
religion in which I was baptized, 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 cat-like 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 amongst
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.



CHAPTER I



Birth--My father--Tamerlane--Ben Brain--French Protestants--East
Anglia--Sorrow and troubles--True peace--A beautiful child--Foreign
grave--Mirrors--Alpine country--Emblems--Slow of speech--The Jew--
Strange gestures.

On an evening of July, in the year 18-, at East D-, a beautiful
little town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first saw the
light.

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, gentillatres, for they were not very
wealthy; they had a coat of arms, however, and lived on their own
property at a place called Tredinnock, 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 gentillatre by birth
with Cornish blood 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 gentillatre 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
gentillatre, 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, 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
manly combats, expired in the arms of my father, who read the Bible
to him in his latter moments--Big Ben Brain.

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 captain in the militia regiment of the Earl of -,
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, 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, 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 blessest 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 age
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 Hopkins 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, 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 some one in the vestibule, and now the door of thy
apartment opens, there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee, a
travelling hat, a gray 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 bye, 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.  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 premisses 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 had 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 have 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 pedlery,
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.



CHAPTER II



Barracks and lodgings--A camp--The viper--A delicate child--
Blackberry time--Meun and tuum--Hythe--The Golgotha--Daneman's
skull--Superhuman stature--Stirring times--The sea-bord.

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, gray-
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 gray
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 pigmies; 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?--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 Stamford
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, 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 to-day,
and perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel-window upon
the streets of old Winchester, 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
these 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 top-gallant 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 frigate
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.



CHAPTER III



Pretty D---The venerable church--The stricken heart--Dormant
energies--The small packet--Nerves--The books--A picture--Mountain-
like billows--The footprint--Spirit of De Foe--Reasoning powers--
Terrors of God--Heads of the dragons--High-Church clerk--A journey-
-The drowned country.

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 market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here
and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-
aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful--she, the
generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her
gold-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.

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 death-like face is no longer occasionally seen
timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane
upon thy market-place, 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, inclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built and
devoted to some saint, 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
calf-skin.  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 for ever.
'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 rhymer 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, and with the most perfect indifference had heard
the divine name proceeding from the mouths of 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.  Thou didst divide the sea, through thy power:  thou
brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters.

Philoh.  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 gray-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 adorn 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, 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.



CHAPTER IV



Norman Cross--Wide expanse--Vive l'Empereur--Unpruned woods--Man
with the bag--Froth and conceit--I beg your pardon--Growing timid--
About three o'clock--Taking one's ease--Cheek on the ground--King
of the vipers--French king--Frenchmen and water.

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 place 'strawplait-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
warw-hoop 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,' 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 briers, and the unpruned woods were so
tangled 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 aren'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
daresay 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.



CHAPTER V



The tent--Man and woman--Dark and swarthy--Manner of speaking--Bad
money--Transfixed--Faltering tone--Little basket--High opinion--
Plenty of good--Keeping guard--Tilted cart--Rubricals--Jasper--The
right sort--The horseman of the lane--John Newton--The alarm--
Gentle brothers.

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 waggons, 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 caldron; 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 out 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 horse-tails
half-way 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?  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 gorgeous 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 daresay, however far you may have come from.

The serpent sank 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 loth to encourage.  I therefore
answered boldly, 'Ah! who indeed!'

'Certainly,' said the man; 'who should know better than yourself,
or 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 gorgeous, 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 could 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, aren'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.  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, ain'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 new-comer 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
gray 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 gray,
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 new-comer.  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; gray 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 reined 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, 'Good-bye,
Sap, I daresay 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; 'wonder who
they can be?'



CHAPTER VI



Three years--Lilly's grammar--Proficiency--Ignorant of figures--The
school bell--Order of succession--Persecution--What are we to do?--
Northward--A goodly scene--Haunted ground--Feats of chivalry--
Rivers--Over the brig.

Years passed on, even three years; 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 intrusted for
the acquisition of Latin was an old friend of my fathers, 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, 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 sing-song 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 barn-yard.  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
story; 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 school-room.  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; every one, 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
than 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 selfsame 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, northward, northward! 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 of 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.  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 race-horse 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 Hill 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; some as replete
with wild and wizard force as Finland's runes, singing of
Kalevala's moors, 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, and Magyar!  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's 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 bare-legged, 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 onybody 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!'



CHAPTER VII



The Castle--A father's inquiries--Scotch language--A determination-
-Bui hin Digri--Good Scotchman--Difference of races--Ne'er a
haggis--Pugnacious people--Wha are ye, man?--The Nor Loch--Gestures
wild--The bicker--New Town champion--Wild-looking figure--Headlong.

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-waggons 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 the
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 daresay the language is now what
it was then.'

'I don't know,' said my father; 'though I daresay 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, the hero of
northern song--the Jomsborg Viking who clove Thorsteinn Midlangr
asunder in the dread sea battle of Horunga Vog, 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 warm-hearted 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 south-
western 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 were 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, man? 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, man, 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 half-way 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 bare-headed and bare-footed '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 gray 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 cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom
Hickathrift of old in his encounter with the giant of the
Lincolnshire fen.  Protected by a piece of wicker-work 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 half-way 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 grace,--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 bare-headed, 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, who, incensed at his
inaptitude, had threatened him with his 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 wheel-
spoke, 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 wheel-spoke and
wicker shield, fairly cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom
they drove down headlong into the morass.



CHAPTER VIII



Expert climbers--The crags--Something red--The horrible edge--David
Haggart--Fine materials--The greatest victory--Extraordinary
robber--The ruling passion.

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 northern 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 northern 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 wadna 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 nae wish to be drum-major; it were nae 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?' I 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 race-course, 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'Hanlon 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.



CHAPTER IX



Napoleon--The storm--The cove--Up the country--The trembling hand--
Irish--Tough battle--Tipperary hills--Elegant lodgings--A speech--
Fair specimen--Orangemen.

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 well have dispensed with them; we returned to
England, where the corps was disbanded, 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 for ever, 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 sea-sickness 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 land-locked, 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 half-way 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 wicker-work; 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 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 bare-
footed.  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
amongst 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 every one, 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 true-hearted 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.



CHAPTER X



Protestant young gentlemen--The Greek letters--Open chimney--
Murtagh--Paris and Salamanca--Nothing to do--To whit, to whoo!--The
pack of cards--Before Christmas.

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 eclat
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 story-books of Hickathrift
and Wight Wallace, pretending to be conning the lesson all the
while.

And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the
landlord, with the Papist 'gossoons,' as they were called, the
farmers' sons from the country; and of these gossoons, of whom
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, Shorsha 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 saggart 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
gossoons, "Get up, I say, and let's be doing something; tell us the
tale of Finn-ma-Coul, 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 own self and the snake ye carried about wid ye.  Faith,
Shorsha dear! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian
Boroo, 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
into 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 gossoons 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, 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 ma vourneen?--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! 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.



CHAPTER XI



Templemore--Devil's Mountain--No companion--Force of circumstance--
Way of the world--Ruined castle--Grim and desolate--The donjon--Old
woman--My own house.

When Christmas was over, 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 Allen, 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,
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 which 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 cut-
throat 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:


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
south-east; 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 castle 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 gun-shot 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
copse-wood and a few evergreen oaks.  I passed through the gateway,
and found myself within a square inclosure 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 among 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 foot-steps.  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 broken-hearted.'

'Any other person's house?' I demanded.

'My own house, the beggar's house--the accursed house of Cromwell!'



CHAPTER XII



A visit--Figure of a man--The dog of peace--The raw wound--The
guardroom--Boy soldier--Person in authority--Never solitary--
Clergyman and family--Still-hunting--Fairy man--Near sunset--Bagg--
Left-handed hitter--Irish and supernatural--At Swanton Morley.

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,
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?'

'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, good-bye 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 parish 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 bye, 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 half-way 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, 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
some one?" 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 daresay 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 cock-pit, 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.



CHAPTER XIII



Groom and cob--Strength and symmetry--Where's the saddle?--The
first ride--No more fatigue--Love for horses--Pursuit of words--
Philologist and Pegasus--The smith--What more, agrah?--Sassannach
tenpence.

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 a 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 daresay--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.  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 cross-road,
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?' said the fellow, desisting from his work, and
staring at me.

'Oh yes, I have money,' said I, 'and of the best'; and I pulled out
an English shilling.

'Tabhair chugam?' 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 its 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'--and here
he uttered another word 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 equine endearment;
then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, he
said, 'And now ye will be giving me the Sassannach tenpence,
agrah?'



CHAPTER XIV



A fine old city--Norman master-work--Lollards' Hole--Good blood--
The Spaniard's sword--Old retired officer--Writing to a duke--God
help the child--Nothing like Jacob--Irish brigades--Old Sergeant
Meredith--I have been young--Idleness--Only course open--The
bookstall--A portrait--A banished priest.

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 city 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 gray 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?  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 stem.  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, won in bloodiest fray off Saint 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 Michael Angelo 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 first-born; 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 first-born.  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 first-born,' 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 first-born.  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 a une grande
envie de se desennuyer; 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 book-stall, 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 tessaraglot 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 any one 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 any one
would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss a tawny
and ungloved hand.  At certain hours of the day be 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 priest.  I came
into England twenty-five year ago, "my dear."'



CHAPTER XV



Monsieur Dante--Condemned musket--Sporting--Sweet rivulet--The
Earl's Home--The pool--The sonorous voice--What dost thou read?--
Man of peace--Zohar and Mishna--Money-changers.

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
difference entre moi et ce sacre 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, it 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 south-west, 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 is it 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; 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, 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 beside 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, Zohar and Mishna, Toldoth Jesu and
Abarbenel.  '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!



CHAPTER XVI



Fair of horses--Looks of respect--The fast trotter--Pair of eyes--
Strange men--Jasper, your pal--Force of blood--Young lady with
diamonds--Not quite so beautiful.

I was standing on the castle hill 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 show-place 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.

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 ribanded 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 over-grown 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 nor
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 some one had just slipped away from the
direction to which I turned, like the figure in a magic lanthorn.
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.

'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!'



CHAPTER XVII



The tent--Pleasant discourse--I am Pharaoh--Shifting for one's self
--Horse-shoes--This is wonderful--Bless your wisdom--A pretty
manoeuvre--Ill day to the Romans--My name is Herne--Singular
people--An original speech--Word-master--Speaking Romanly.

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 horse-shoe 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 horse-shoes?'

'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 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-gorgeous.  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 amongst 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 the 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 broken-hearted--I can't keep you company; ye
are no longer Rommany.  To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good
mother.'



CHAPTER XVIII



What profession?--Not fitted for a Churchman--Erratic course--The
bitter draught--Principle of woe--Thou wouldst be joyous--What ails
you?--Poor child of clay.

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 any one 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 premisses
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 gossoon, 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 upward, 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 flood-gates 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.'
Alas, alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast
thou born to sorrow--Onward!



CHAPTER XIX



Agreeable delusions--Youth--A profession--Ab Gwilym--Glorious
English law--There they pass--My dear old master--The deal desk--
Language of the tents--Where is Morfydd?--Go to--only once.

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 every one 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 after-life 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
Gwilym--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 cowydds 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 Bach--generally
terminating with the modest request of a little private parlance
beneath the greenwood 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, 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 considerable, 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 prayer-book 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 gray eyes replete with catlike expression, whose
grizzled hair is cut close, and whose ear-lobes are pierced with
small golden rings?  Oh! that is not my dear old master, but a
widely different personage.  Bon jour, Monsieur Vidocq! expressions
de ma part a Monsieur Le Baron Taylor.  But here he 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 intrusted 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 cross-bow, 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 non-appearance 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; 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.



CHAPTER XX



Silver gray--Good word for everybody--A remarkable youth--Clients--
Grades in society--The archdeacon--Reading the Bible.

'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 red
coats, 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-.  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 that 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 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 arm-chair, 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 bye, 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 seven thousand
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.'

'You make me uneasy too,' said my mother; 'but I really think you
are too hard upon the child; he is not a bad child, after all,
though not, perhaps, all you could wish him; 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, it is now getting
late; 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?'



CHAPTER XXI



The eldest son--Saying of wild Finland--The critical time--Vaunting
polls--One thing wanted--A father's blessing--Miracle of art--The
Pope's house--Young enthusiast--Pictures of England--Persist and
wrestle--The little dark man.

The eldest son!  The regard and affection which my father
entertained for his first-born 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 at 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 resemblance 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.'

'And where are you going?'

'Where? to the great city; to London, 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; every one
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, and it is said to be
the greatest work of the greatest painter whom 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 Foxe'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 Correggio; 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 dust 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.'
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
amongst the proudest pictures of England--and England against the
world!--thy master, my brother, thy, at present, all too little
considered master--Crome.



CHAPTER XXII



Desire for novelty--Lives of the lawless--Countenances--Old yeoman
and dame--We live near the sea--Uncouth-looking volume--The other
condition--Draoitheac--A dilemma--The Antinomian--Lodowick
Muggleton--Almost blind--Anders Vedel.

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 Latroon--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 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 that 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 Lav-engro, 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 grisly,
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 was I 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 kind-hearted 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, 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 that 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 I 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
maybe 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, 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, 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.



CHAPTER XXIII



The two individuals--The long pipe--The Germans--Werther--The
female Quaker--Suicide--Gibbon--Jesus of Bethlehem--Fill your
glass--Shakespeare--English at Minden--Melancholy Swayne Vonved--
The fifth dinner--Strange doctrines--Are you happy?--Improve
yourself in German.

It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that
two individuals 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 a 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 which 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 gray.  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 daresay 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 every one
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 ever 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 any one,
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
is 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 pigmies.  You will pardon the
liberty I perhaps take in saying so.'

'I like that every one 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, who goes by night to the grave-hill
of his father to seek for counsel.  And then, again, that strange
melancholy Swayne Vonved, 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 Mousha
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
some one 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
any one, 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!'



CHAPTER XXIV



The alehouse-keeper--Compassion for the rich--Old English
gentleman--How is this?--Madeira--The Greek Parr--Twenty languages-
-Whiter's health--About the fight--A sporting gentleman--The
flattened nose--Lend us that pightle--The surly nod.

'Holloa, master! can you tell us where the fight 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
the 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 Parr 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.'

'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 prize fight:  I saw the Game Chicken 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, 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 gray, with an expression in which there was sternness blended
with something approaching to feline; his complexion was
exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain pock-marks, 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 like 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.'

'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?'



CHAPTER XXV



Doubts--Wise king of Jerusalem--Let me see--A thousand years--
Nothing new--The crowd--The hymn--Faith--Charles Wesley--There he
stood--Farewell, brother--Death--Sun, moon, and stars--Wind on the
heath.

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
blamable 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 fish-pools, 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--Spinoza's doctrine!  Dear reader, I had
at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinoza.  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 Buddh; and Buddh lived
thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his
arbours, beside his sunny fish-pools, 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 half-way 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 a 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 mellowest tones in presence of Batuschca 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 Priberjensky 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 sea-side, that I saw the preacher
again.  He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as
a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one,
abounding in rocks and quick-sands.  There he stood on the
monticle, preaching to weather-worn 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 ande 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 a 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 for ever!'

'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 for ever.  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!'



CHAPTER XXVI



The flower of the grass--Days of pugilism--The rendezvous--Jews--
Bruisers of England--Winter, spring--Well-earned bays--The fight--
Huge black cloud--Frame of adamant--The storm--Dukkeripens--The
barouche--The rain-gushes.

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 recall 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 blast 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 bull-
fighters 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 the 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 hundred and eleven 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 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, under-sized, 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, 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,
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
good-will, 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 overhead, 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 thunder-cloud 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, prize-fighters 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 will 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 some one 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 thundreth.  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 thundreth, 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 postilions in scarlet jackets and leather
skull-caps.  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 after life--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!



CHAPTER XXVII



My father--Premature decay--The easy-chair--A few questions--So you
told me--A difficult language--They can it Haik--Misused
opportunities--Saul--Want of candour--Don't weep--Heaven forgive
me--Dated from Paris--I wish he were here--A father's
reminiscences--Farewell to vanities.

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 hearth-rug 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 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 modem 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 farther 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.'

'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 horse-shoes.'

'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
horse-shoes?'

'No,' said my father; 'as you kept it a secret so long, it may as
well continue so still.  Had you been a frank, open-hearted 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 every one 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 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 appeared to prey upon his mind.  'I wish he were
here,' he would frequently exclaim; 'I can't imagine what can have
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; 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.'



CHAPTER XXVIII



My brother's arrival--The interview--Night--A dying father--Christ.

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 forbore; 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 forbore 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
in 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.



CHAPTER XXIX



The greeting--Queer figure--Cheer up--The cheerful fire--It will
do--The sally forth--Trepidation--Let him come in.

'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, 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,
hostlers, 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
counter-sign!'  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.

'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 a while.  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 maid-servant 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 hand-maid, 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.



CHAPTER XXX



The sinister glance--Excellent correspondent--Quite original--My
system--A losing trade--Merit--Starting a Review--What have you
got?--Stop!--Dairyman's Daughter--Oxford principles--More
conversation--How is this?

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 principal 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, 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,' 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 snuff-box, 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 non-existence 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 Magazine
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?'

'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 to-morrow.  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- 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 to-morrow.'

'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 any one 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 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.'

'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.  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 some one 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.'



CHAPTER XXXI



The walk--London's Cheape--Street of the Lombards--Strange bridge--
Main arch--The roaring gulf--The boat--Cly-faking--A comfort--The
book--The blessed woman--No trap.

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 daresay 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--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, 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 for ever, 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 first 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 stand-still.
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 burly-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 fruit-stall, 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, 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 Maelstrom 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 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 water-way, 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 any one 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 cut-purse; 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.'

'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 scores 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.'



CHAPTER XXXII



The tanner--The hotel--Drinking claret--London journal--New field--
Commonplaceness--The three individuals--Botheration--Frank and
ardent.

'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
Petulengres, 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; 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 case 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 some one 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.  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.



CHAPTER XXXIII



Dine with the publisher--Religions--No animal food--Unprofitable
discussions--Principles of criticism--The book market--Newgate
lives--Goethe a drug--German acquirements--Moral dignity.

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 ain'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, beside the publisher and myself, were present his wife
and son with his newly-married bride; 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 of 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
Mahometan 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.'

'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 which 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 farther, 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.  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.'



CHAPTER XXXIV



The two volumes--A young author--Intended editor--Quintilian--Loose
money.

'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 by-
streets 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.  To-night you will receive my book
of philosophy, and likewise books for the Review.  And, by the bye,
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 co-operate, 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.

'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.



CHAPTER XXXV



Francis Ardry--Certain sharpers--Brave and eloquent--Opposites--
Flinging the bones--Strange places--Dog-fighting--Learning and
letters--Batch of dogs--Redoubled application.

One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis
Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house.  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 abbe 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 abbe,
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 open-hearted; I, neither
fiery, enthusiastic, nor open-hearted;--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.

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 cock-pit,
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,' 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 to-night, 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.



CHAPTER XXXVI



Occupations--Traduttore traditore--Ode to the Mist--Apple and pear-
-Reviewing--Current literature--Oxford-like manner--A plain story--
Ill-regulated mind--Unsnuffed candle--Strange dreams.

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 Kaempe
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.  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 Foxe'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.



CHAPTER XXXVII



My brother--Fits of crying--Mayor-elect--The committee--The Norman
arch--A word of Greek--Church and State--At my own expense--If you
please.

One morning I arose somewhat later than 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 Prayer-book 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, 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, 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 any one 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, 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 farm-houses, 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, [Greek text]" 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.

'"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.'
Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street.



CHAPTER XXXVIII



Painter of the heroic--I'll go!--A modest peep--Who is this?--A
capital Pharaoh--Disproportionably short--Imaginary picture--
English figures.

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 maid-servant, 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 gray eye--his hair was dark
brown, and cut a-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is,
there was little before and much behind--he did not wear a neck-
cloth; but, in its stead, a black riband, 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.  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 first-born; 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 water scape 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 bye, 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, and with whiffler, quart pot, and
frying-pan, Billy Blind and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and
Pakomovna;--then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or
any one 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?



CHAPTER XXXIX



No authority whatever--Interference--Wondrous farrago--Brandt and
Struensee--What a life!--The hearse--Mortal relics--Great poet--
Fashion and fame--What a difference--Oh, beautiful--Good for
nothing.

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 Konigsmark 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?' 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 Simms--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
whom, 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,' 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 doated 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 what not,
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 a 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.'

'Yes,' said I, 'a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so--
what a destiny!  What a difference in the fate of men; but 'tis
said he was unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?'

'Oh, beautiful!'

'But did he look happy?'

'Why, I can't say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two . . .
very fair ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy
or not?  Come, where shall we go--to Joey's?  His hugest bear--'

'Oh, I have had enough of bears, I have just been worried by one.'

'The publisher?'

'Yes.'

'Then come to Joey's, three dogs are to be launched at his bear:
as they pin him, imagine him to be the publisher.'

'No,' said I, 'I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to
London Bridge.'

'That's too far for me--farewell.'



CHAPTER XL



London Bridge--Why not?--Every heart has its bitters--Wicked boys--
Give me my book--Such a fright--Honour bright.

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 was 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 far 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 an intention of returning home; just
half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to 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 any one, 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 some one 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.



CHAPTER XLI



Decease of the Review--Homer himself--Bread and cheese--Finger and
thumb--Impossible to find--Something grand--Universal mixture--Some
other publisher.

Time passed away, and with it the Review, 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 fourteenpence.  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 per cent, 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 a half 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.



CHAPTER XLII



Francis Ardry--That won't do, sir--Observe my gestures--I think you
improve--Better than politics--Delightful young Frenchwoman--A
burning shame--Magnificent impudence--Paunch--Voltaire--Lump of
sugar.

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 badger gray, 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 Ardry 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 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 -, 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--'

'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 had 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, 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 money-lenders--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, 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- himself, as I have been told, when
anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the
habit of calling in--for a 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.'



CHAPTER XLIII



Progress--Glorious John--Utterly unintelligible--What a difference.

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!



CHAPTER XLIV



The old spot--A long history--Thou shalt not steal--No harm--
Education--Necessity--Foam on your lip--Apples and pears--What will
you read?--Metaphor--The fur cap--I don't know him.

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 frequent 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 beef-steaks 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, and
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 at 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 ain'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 farther 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 bye, 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 calf-
skin.'

'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 scrutinisingly 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.'



CHAPTER XLV



Bought and exchanged--Quite empty--A new firm--Bibles--Countenance
of a lion--Clap of thunder--A truce with this--I have lost it--
Clearly a right--Goddess of the Mint.

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 intrusted 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
title-page, 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 intrusted 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.

'Oh, 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.



CHAPTER XLVI



The pickpocket--Strange rencounter--Drag him along--A great
service--Things of importance--Philological matters--Mother of
languages--Zhats!

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 pocket-book in your bosom.'  'No, I have not,' said the other;
and, struggling more violently than before, the pocket-book 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 pocket-book,
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 pocket-book,--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 pocket-book;--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 pocket-book, 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, if 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 horse-shoe master:  for
example, bread, in Hebrew, is Laham, 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?'



CHAPTER XLVII



New acquaintance--Wired cases--Bread and wine--Armenian colonies--
Learning without money--What a language--The tide--Your foible--
Learning of the Haiks--Old proverb--Pressing invitation.

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 to me to sit 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, every one studies languages;
that is, every one who is fit for nothing else; philology being the
last resource of dulness 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, 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 Englishwoman,
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 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 pocket-book the
other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see
hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that
pocket-book 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?'

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; whereas 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.
Petulengo--'

'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 he
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.



CHAPTER XLVIII



What to do--Strong enough--Fame and profit--Alliterative euphony--
Excellent fellow--Listen to me--A plan--Bagnigge Wells.

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
re-read 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 intractable 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.'



CHAPTER XLIX



Singular personage--A large sum--Papa of Rome--We are Christians--
Degenerate Armenians--Roots of Ararat--Regular features.

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 stock-jobbers 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 daresay,' 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
mole-hills 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, I 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 every one'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.'



CHAPTER L



Wish fulfilled--Extraordinary figure--Bueno--Noah--The two faces--I
don't blame him--Too fond of money--Were I an Armenian.

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.  'Adelante!' 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!'

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! senor, 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; 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; 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 akhades wine is janin.'

'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 Janinoso 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 Goyims and
Epicouraiyim 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 every one 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.



CHAPTER LI



The one half-crown--Merit in patience--Cementer of friendship--
Dreadful perplexity--The usual guttural--Armenian letters--Much
indebted to you--Pure helplessness--Dumb people.

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 every one
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 stock-jobbers 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 stock-jobbers.  '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.  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 knock-down 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 knock-down
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 that 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 another say, when I was
a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better.



CHAPTER LII



Kind of stupor--Peace of God--Divine hand--Farewell, child--The
fair--Massive edifice--Battered tars--Lost! lost!--Good-day,
gentlemen.

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 good-bye.  '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 south-east.  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 south-east.  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 ere 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 vying 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 bye, 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--
' 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 present' y 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 south-east 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 any one in my life, my lord--all fair-
-all chance.  Them that finds, wins--them that can't finds, 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, not to wish to play any
more, I shall take myself off with my table; so, good-day,
gentlemen.'



CHAPTER LIII



Singular table--No money--Out of employ--My bonnet--We of the
thimble--Good wages--Wisely resolved--Strangest way in the world--
Fat gentleman--Not such another--First edition--Not very easy--
Won't close--Avella gorgio--Alarmed look.

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 finds, 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 finds, 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 ain'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.'

'I 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
cly-fakers 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 every one.  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, ain'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 pocket-book?'

'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 pocket-book; 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' ends; 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
pocket-book 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 title-page, 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
ain'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 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 ain'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 with 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.



CHAPTER LIV



Mr. Petulengro--Rommany Rye--Lil-writers--One's own horn--Lawfully-
earnt money--The wooded hill--A great favourite--The shop window--
Much wanted.

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.

'Eighteenpence,' 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 ain'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 eighteenpence 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 every one 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 dock 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 highway-men.  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.



CHAPTER LV



Bread and water--Pair play--Fashion--Colonel B---Joseph Sell--The
kindly glow--Easiest manner imaginable.

'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 a 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 eighteenpence 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 that 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 some
one.  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; some one like--like Colonel B-.  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 partizan 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.



CHAPTER LVI



Considerably sobered--Power of writing--The tempter--Hungry talent-
-Work concluded.

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
a while, 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.  'To-morrow for the bookseller,' said I, as my head
sank on the pillow.  'Oh me!'



CHAPTER LVII



Nervous look--The bookseller's wife--The last stake--Terms--God
forbid!--Will you come to tea?--A light heart.

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 lady-like 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 intrust 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 to-morrow 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 some one
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 back room, 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.



CHAPTER LVIII



Indisposition--A resolution--Poor equivalents--The piece of gold--
Flashing eyes--How beautiful--Bon jour, Monsieur.

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 that 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, 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 south-west:  when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year
before, I had entered the city by the north-east.  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 curb-stone
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 jument 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 turn
out.'

'Qu'est ce qu'il dit?' I said the lady again.

'Il dit que tout l'equipage est en assez bon gout.'

'Allons, c'est un ours,' said the lady; 'le cheval meme 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 etes belle comme un ange,' said Francis Ardry,
emphatically.

'Mais, a la bonne heure! arretez, mon ami,' said the lady to
Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; 'je voudrais bien causer
un moment avec lui; arretez, il est delicieux.--Est-ce bien ainsi
que vous traitez vos amis?' said she passionately, as Francis Ardry
lifted up his whip.  'Bon jour, Monsieur, bon jour,' said she,
thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry
drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour.



CHAPTER LIX



The milestone--The meditation--Want to get up?--The off-hand
leader--Sixteen shillings--The near-hand wheeler--All right.

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 ain'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
ain't, ain'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--'; 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.



CHAPTER LX



The still hour--A thrill--The wondrous circle--The shepherd--Heaps
and barrows--What do you mean?--Milk of the plains--Hengist spared
it--No presents.

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 gray.  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 round 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 browsing 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 ain'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 drunk 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 south-east.  '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.'

'Ain'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.



CHAPTER LXI



The river--Arid downs--A prospect.

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.

And after I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I
hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the cause-way, regained
the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the
city of the spire.



CHAPTER LXII



The hostelry--Life uncertain--Open countenance--The grand point--
Thank you, master--A hard mother--Poor dear!--Considerable odds--
The better country--English fashion--Landlord-looking person.

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 north-west, it led over downs where corn was
growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was 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 -,' 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 intrusted 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 every one; 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 fivepence that you will see your mother within a week.
Now, friend, five shillings to fivepence--'

'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 north-west.  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?'



CHAPTER LXIII



Primitive habits--Rosy-faced damsel--A pleasant moment--Suit of
black--The furtive glance--The mighty round--Degenerate times--The
newspaper--The evil chance--I congratulate you.

'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 table-
cloth.  '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 stranger, laconically, looking at me for the first
time.

'Would you like to see the newspaper?' said I, taking up one which
lay upon 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 table-
cloth 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 farther 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.'



CHAPTER LXIV



New acquaintance--Old French style--The portrait--Taciturnity--The
evergreen tree--The dark hour--The flash--Ancestors--A fortunate
man--A posthumous child--Antagonist ideas--The hawks--Flaws--The
pony--Irresistible impulse--Favourable crisis--The topmost branch--
Twenty feet--Heartily ashamed.

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 toilet.  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 toilet 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 latter 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 has 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 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 fourscore thousand pounds, built
upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of welcoming you to-
day, 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 antagonist 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 flyaway, 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 any one, and was at all times highly solicitous that
no one should observe my weakness.'



CHAPTER LXV



Maternal anxiety--The baronet--Little zest--Country life--Mr.
Speaker!--The craving--Spirited address--An author.

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 showed 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; to-morrow 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, that 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.'



CHAPTER LXVI



Trepidations--Subtle principle--Perverse imagination--Are they
mine?--Another book--How hard!--Agricultural dinner--
Incomprehensible actions--Inmost bosom--Give it up--Chance
resemblance--Rascally newspaper.

'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 practise 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 the 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.  To-day, 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 of 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, every one 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--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 bye, what a rascally newspaper that is!'

'A very rascally newspaper,' said I.



CHAPTER LXVII



Disturbed slumbers--The bed-post--Two wizards--What can I do?--Real
library--The Rev. Mr. Platitude--Toleration to Dissenters--Paradox-
-Sword of St. Peter--Enemy to humbug--High principles--False
concord--The damsel--What religion?--Further conversation--That
would never do!--May you prosper.

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 shrank 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 bed-post.

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
banister.  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 for ever
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 up that portrait 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 Rafael.  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 serio-comic 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?' said I.

'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 any one 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 Reverend 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 proselytise 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 any one.  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.'



CHAPTER LXVIII



Elastic step--Disconsolate party--Not the season--Mend your
draught--Good ale--Crotchet--Hammer and tongs--Schoolmaster--True
Eden life--Flaming Tinman--Twice my size--Hard at work--My poor
wife--Grey Moll--A Bible--Half-and-half--What to do--Half inclined-
-In no time--On one condition--Don't stare--Like the wind.

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 a 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 sun-burnt, 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 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 up 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, '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 horse-shoe.  Success to
the hammer and tongs.

Tinker.  Well, I shouldn't have thought you had been 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 copy-books, 'Evil communication
corrupts good manners,' or 'You cannot touch pitch without
defilement,' or to spell out of Abedariums, 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 hedgerows, 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.

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 Gloster.  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--as 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 farther
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 that 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 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 hard-hearted 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 some one 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, 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.'



CHAPTER LXIX



Effects of corn--One night longer--The hoofs--A stumble--Are you
hurt?--What a difference--Drowsy--Maze of bushes--Housekeeping--
Sticks and furze--The driftway--Account of stock--Anvil and
bellows--Twenty years.

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 north-west 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.  'Some one 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 some one was robbing you,' said I; 'don't think I shall
come till he is gone away.'  'Then you ben't he?' said the voice.
'Aren'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.  'Aren'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; aren'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 feted in
the hall of a rich genius, and to-night 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 tinder-box 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 rummaged 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.



CHAPTER LXX



New profession--Beautiful night--Jupiter--Sharp and shrill--The
Rommany chi--All alone--Three-and-sixpence--What is Rommany?  Be
civil--Parraco tute--Slight start--She will be grateful--The
rustling.

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-brier; 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 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.'


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; '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 gray hair on the young?'

'Never!  I have heard it is true of a gray 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, 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.


Good-bye, brother, I must be going.'

'Good-bye, 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 -


'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.  'Gray, 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 to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, gray-haired
brother--you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?'

'Nor the next day,' said I, 'only to take a stroll to see if I can
sell a kettle; good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy
sister.'

'Good-bye, 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 gray hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it
had disappeared.



CHAPTER LXXI



Friend of Slingsby--All quiet--Danger--The two cakes--Children in
the wood--Don't be angry--In deep thought--Temples throbbing--
Deadly sick--Another blow--No answer--How old are you?--Play and
sacrament--Heavy heart--Song of poison--Drow of gypsies--The dog--
Ely's church--Get up, bebee--The vehicle--Can you speak?--The oil.

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 slumber 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, gray-
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, gray-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, gray-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, gray-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; good-bye, 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, gray-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 the like result; 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 gray, 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 gray-haired nor
wrinkled.  It is not the nature of the Hernes to be gray 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 gray 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, ain'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 gray,
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
To-morrow 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, to-day a tinker, to-morrow 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?'

'Some one 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
dock 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?' 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, some one 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 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.  The oil!
Winifred, the oil!'



CHAPTER LXXII



Desired effect--The three oaks--Winifred--Things of time--With
God's will--The preacher--Creature comforts--Croesaw--Welsh and
English--Mayor of Chester.

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 to-night,
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--to-morrow, with
God's will, we shall hear you.'  'And to-night, 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,' sail 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.'
'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
the 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.'



CHAPTER LXXIII



Morning hymn--Much alone--John Bunyan--Beholden to nobody--Sixty-
five--Sober greeting--Early Sabbaths--Finny brood--The porch--No
fortune-telling--The master's niece--Doing good--Two or three
things--Groans and voices--Pechod Ysprydd Glan.

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 dust 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 horse-shoe,' 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 poison-monger.'  '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 for ever,'
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 though
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 honey-bee, 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
farm-house; 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.



CHAPTER LXXIV



The following day--Pride--Thriving trade--Tylwyth Teg--Ellis Wyn--
Sleeping hard--Incalculable good--Fearful agony--The tale.

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.'

'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 bye, 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 any one 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 of 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--
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 hand 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 to-night; 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.



CHAPTER LXXV



Taking a cup--Getting to heaven--After breakfast-- Wooden gallery--
Mechanical habit--Reserved and gloomy--Last words--A long time--
From the clouds--Ray of hope--Momentary chill--Pleasing
anticipation.

'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 I
presently 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, 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, 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.



CHAPTER LXXVI



Hasty farewell--Lofty rock--Wrestlings of Jacob--No rest--Ways of
Providence--Two females--Foot of the Cross--Enemy of souls--
Perplexed--Lucky hour--Valetudinarian--Methodists--Fervent in
prayer--You Saxons--Weak creatures--Very agreeable--Almost happy--
Kindness and solicitude.

'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 thou 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; over-weening 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 any one 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 every one 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, every one 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 shouldest
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--O
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 mid-winter 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."'



CHAPTER LXXVII



Getting late--Seven years old--Chastening--Go forth--London Bridge-
-Same eyes--Common occurrence--Very sleepy.

'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 sayst 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; 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.
Oh, if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness
would they find there!"'

'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 daresay,' 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 daresay, 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.



CHAPTER LXXVIII



Low and calm--Much better--Blessed effect--No answer--Such a
sermon.

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 to-morrow 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 broken 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.'



CHAPTER LXXIX



Deep interest--Goodly country--Two mansions--Welshman's Candle--
Beautiful universe--Godly discourse--Fine church--Points of
doctrine--Strange adventures--Paltry cause--Roman pontiff--Evil
spirit.

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, to-morrow 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 to-morrow, 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 to-day, 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 bye 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 any one 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 road-side, 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 farther 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 was
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."'



CHAPTER LXXX



The border--Thank you both--Pipe and fiddle--Taliesin.

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.  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, least of all myself.
God bless you both!'

'Take this,' said Peter, and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my
hand.



CHAPTER LXXXI



At a funeral--Two days ago--Very coolly--Roman woman--Well and
hearty--Somewhat dreary--Plum pudding--Roman fashion--Quite
different--The dark lane--Beyond the time--Fine fellow--Such a
struggle--Like a wild cat--Fair Play--Pleasant enough spot--No
gloves.

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. Herne'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 Hernes.  "Aren'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 me 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 Hernes, 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
Hernes 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 night-fall, 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 Hernes, 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.
Herne 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. Herne
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. Herne 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. Herne.'

'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 some one 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 amongst 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. Herne 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 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 the 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 horse-back, "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 night-time, 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 bull-dog, 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;
every one has heard of it; every one 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 those 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
tussle!'

'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.
Herne'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
tussle, 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. Herne's death, I wish to see what you
can do with your mawleys; 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.'



CHAPTER LXXXII



Offence and defence--I'm satisfied--Fond of solitude--Possession of
property--Chal Devlehi--Winding path.

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 tussle 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 mawleys 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. Herne.'

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. Herne, 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 kaulo-mescro.'  'Ah, I have frequently heard you
talk of making horse-shoes,' 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 any one 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.  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.



CHAPTER LXXXIII



Highly poetical--Volundr--Grecian mythology--Making a petul--
Tongues of flame--Hammering--Spite of dukkerin--Heaviness.

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 cross roads!  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 dexterous hand.  Certainly, the
strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a
blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, 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 the 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 horse-shoe.  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 horse-shoe the reader need not be surprised if
I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horse-shoe-
-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 some one 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 of the outline of a petul.

I am not going to enter into farther 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 horse-shoe, 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.



CHAPTER LXXXIV



Several causes--Frogs and eftes--Gloom and twilight--What should I
do?--'Our Father'--Fellow-men--What a mercy!--Almost calm--Fresh
store--History of Saul--Pitch dark.

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, co-operated 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 every one 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.
Herne'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 fore-fingers 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 a
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 the 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?  Oh 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
whinnied, and appeared to sympathise with me.  What a comfort to
have any one, 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 horse-shoe?  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.



CHAPTER LXXXV



Free and independent--I don't see why--Oats--A noise--Unwelcome
visitors--What's the matter?--Good-day to ye--The tall girl--
Dovrefeld--Blow on the face--Civil enough--What's this?--Vulgar
woman--Hands off--Gasping for breath--Long Melford--A pretty
manoeuvre--A long draught--Signs of animation--It won't do--No
malice--Bad people.

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 shall 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 ink-horn, 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 that 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 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; 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 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 its 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 gray 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; 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:-


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 daresay; 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 some one
else may be.  I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo,--for
t'other ain'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 inapopli; 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 night-cap, 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 us 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 up you 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
knock-down 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 mailia 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.'



CHAPTER LXXXVI



At tea--Vapours--Isopel Berners--Softly and kindly--Sweet pretty
creature--Bread and water--Two sailors--Truth and constancy--Very
strangely.

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
some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed
to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself farther
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 maid-
servant; 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.'



CHAPTER LXXXVII



Hubbub of voices--No offence--Nodding--The guests.

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 stifling 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.



CHAPTER LXXXVIII



A Radical--Simple-looking man--Church of England--The President--
Aristocracy--Gin and water--Mending the roads--Persecuting Church--
Simon de Montfort--Broken bells--Get up--Not for the Pope--Quay of
New York--Mumpers' Dingle--No wish to fight--First draught--A poor
pipe--Half-a-crown broke.

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 dogs' 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.  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
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 aren'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
British 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 any one 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 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 one in black; 'I honour you for
what you said about the Church of England.  Every one 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 Foxe's Book of Martyrs?' said I.

'He! he!' tittered the man in black; 'there is not a word of truth
in Foxe'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.  Aren't it all true, young man?  Aren'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.'
'Hear, hear!' 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 daresay; 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.'



CHAPTER LXXXIX



The dingle--Give them ale--Not over complimentary--America--Many
people--Washington--Promiscuous company--Language of the roads--The
old women--Numerals--The man in black.

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 tarpaulins, 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 daresay 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 daresay 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 any one 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 language is
called Haik.'

'I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,' said Belle.

'Why hang upon it?' said I.

'Because the old women 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 any one 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.



CHAPTER XC



Buona sera--Rather apprehensive--The steep bank--Lovely virgin--
Hospitality--Tory minister--Custom of the country--Sneering smile--
Wandering Zigan--Gypsies' cloaks--Certain faculty--Acute answer--
Various ways--Addio--Best Hollands.

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, 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 a sua signoria, ecco il motivo.'

'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 any one 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 -, 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 gray 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.'

'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 any one 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 trespass 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.'

'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.'



CHAPTER XCI



Excursions--Adventurous English--Opaque forests--The greatest
patience.

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 one hundred 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 hoards 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.



CHAPTER XCII



The landlord--Rather too old--Without a shilling--Reputation--A
fortnight ago--Liquids--The main chance--Respectability--Irrational
beings--Parliament cove--My brewer.

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 knows 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 cock-fighting, 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 ain't backed by some of it, it ain'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 to 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 ain'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 a
fighting 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 further.  '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
that 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.

'Ain'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.



CHAPTER XCIII



Another visit--A la Margutte--Clever man--Napoleon's estimate--
Another statue.

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, was 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 tea-cup,
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 a la Margutte,' said I.

'Margutte!' said the man in black, musingly, 'Margutte!'

'You have read Pulci, 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 lymph 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 pen 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.



CHAPTER XCIV



Prerogative--Feeling of gratitude--A long history--Alliterative
style--Advantageous specimen--Jesuit benefice--Not sufficient--
Queen Stork's tragedy--Good sense--Grandeur and gentility--
Ironmonger's daughter--Clan Mac-Sycophant--Lickspittles--A
curiosity--Newspaper editors--Charles the Simple--High-flying
ditty--Dissenters--Lower classes--Priestley's house--Saxon
ancestors--Austin--Renovating glass--Money--Quite original.

'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 forma 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!'

'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
Mac-Sycophant 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 forma
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
lickspittles.'

'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;
all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lickspittles.  And then
in Spain,--'tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most
inordinate lickspittles; 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 were some of the
writers of the picaresque novels.  No, all literary men are not
lickspittles, 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
lickspittles; 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 lickspittles 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 Mahomet, 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 cock-fight, 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?'

'Lickspittles,' said the man in black; 'yes, I admit that you have
had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old class; 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, 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?  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!'



CHAPTER XCV



Wooded retreat--Fresh shoes--Wood fire--Ash, when green--Queen of
China--Cleverest people--Declensions--Armenian--Thunder--Deep
olive--What do you mean?--Koul Adonai--The thick bushes--Wood
pigeon--Old Gothe.

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; to-morrow 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 every one who,
after having made a set of horse-shoes, 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 women 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 daresay 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 bye 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.'

'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
Adonai--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 prayer-book 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
thunder-storm 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 Gothe? -


'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.'



CHAPTER XCVI



A shout--A fireball--See to the horses--Passing away--Gap in the
hedge--On three wheels--Why do you stop?--No craven heart--The
cordial--Across the country--Small bags.

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 postilion 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 axle-tree, the
chaise was overset, and the postilion 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 postilion 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 firebolt, 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
postilion, 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 postilion.  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 postilion, 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 postilion, who had been handling both; 'it is only the
linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I
could but find the linch-pin!--though, perhaps, it fell out a mile
away.'  'Very likely,' said I; 'but never mind the linch-pin, 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 postilion 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 postilion 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, whilst 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 to-night 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 fore-legs, and let them pick
about.'



CHAPTER XCVII



Fire of charcoal--The new-comer--No wonder!--Not a blacksmith--A
love affair--Gretna Green--A cool thousand--Family estates--Borough
interest--Grand education--Let us hear--Already quarrelling--
Honourable parents--Most heroically--Not common people--Fresh
charcoal.

It might be about ten o'clock at night.  Belle, the postilion, 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
postilion smoking his pipe, in his shirt-sleeves 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 new-comer 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
postilion, 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 postilion, '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 postilion 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 postilion,
laughing.

'Then how do you account for my making those shoes?'

'By your not being a blacksmith,' said the postilion; 'no
blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner.  Besides, what did
you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day?  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 postilion.  '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 postilion.  '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 daresay you mean no offence.'

'None in the world,' said the postilion; '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 postilion, '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 horse-shoes?' said I.

'The donkey-shoes you mean,' answered the postilion; '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 postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion was glad to seat himself at your
charcoal fire.'

'Pray,' said I, 'did you ever take lessons in elocution?'

'Not directly,' said the postilion; '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 postilion; 'and now I'm 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
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 postilion.

'Yes,' said the girl, 'and you know it.'

'May my leg always ache, if I do,' said the postilion, 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 postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion full in the face by the light of the charcoal fire,
'for I was bred in the workhouse.'

'Wooh!' said the postilion.

'It is true that I am of good--'

'Ay, ay,' said the postilion, '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 fathers 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
postilion.

'We do not come from Gretna Green,' said Belle.

'Ah, I had forgot,' said the postilion; '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 horse-
shoes, 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 postilion, '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 postilion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I can't be
expected to do much.'

'Who is Mumbo Jumbo?' said I.

'Ah!' said the postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion, '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 postilion; '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.



CHAPTER XCVIII



An exordium--Fine ships--High Barbary captains--Free-born
Englishmen--Monstrous figure--Swashbuckler--The grand coaches--The
footmen--A travelling expedition--Black Jack--Nelson's cannon--
Pharaoh's butler--A diligence--Two passengers--Sharking priest--
Virgilio--Lessons in Italian--Two opinions--Holy Mary--Priestly
confederates--Methodist chapel--Veturini--Some of our party--Like a
sepulchre--All for themselves.

'I am a poor postilion, 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 postilion; '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 free-born 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 Barbadoes, 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 some one 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 play-house, when something of Shakspeare's
was being performed:  some one 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 Shakspeare--I don't;--he's so
confoundedly low, but he won't last long--going down.  Shakspeare
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 sight-
seeing, 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 sight-seeing 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
cannon 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
talk 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 premisses, 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 salt-water
bason, 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 bason, 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, steam-ships 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 bye, 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 sea-sickness, 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
doatingly 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 bye, 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 maid-
servants, 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 summer-house, 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 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 thumb-nails, and fore-nails,
and toe-nails, and hair, and teeth, and a feather or two, and a
mighty thigh-bone, 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, gray 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.



CHAPTER XCIX



A cloister--Half English--New acquaintance--Mixed liquors--Turning
Papist--Purposes of charity--Foreign religion--Melancholy--Elbowing
and pushing--Outlandish sight--The figure--I don't care for you--
Merry-andrews--One good--Religion of my country--Fellow of spirit--
A dispute--The next morning--Female doll--Proper dignity--Fetish
country.

'The day after our arrival,' continued the postilion, '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.  O
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 ascendency
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 die sooner 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 guard-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 fore-finger 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 to-day 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 swashbuckler 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 heart-breaking 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 lady's 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!



CHAPTER C



Nothing but gloom--Sporting character--Gouty Tory--Servants' Club--
Politics--Reformado footman--Peroration--Good-night.

'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 daresay
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
postilion.  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, 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.'





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