LAVENGRO. 5 ° P -SI :i i It L A V E N G R O : Xlbe Scbolac— tbe (Bt>ps^— tbc iprtcst. GEORGE BORROW, AUTHOR CF " THE ROMANY RYE," " THE BIBLE IN SPAIN," ETC. WITH AN INTRODUCTION By THEODORE WATTS DUNTON. LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, NEW VOFK AND MELBOURNE, 3 r NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. I, Borrow as a Splendid Literary Amateur. THERE are some writers who cannot be adequately criticised— who cannot, indeed, be adequately written about at all — save by those to whom they are personally known. I allude to those writers of genius who, having only partially mastered the art of importing their own indi- vidual characteristics into literary forms, end their life-work as they began it, remaining to the last amateurs in literary art. Of this class of writers George Borrow is generally taken to be the very type. Was he really so ? There are passages in " Lavengro " which are unsurpassed in the prose literature of England — unsurpassed, I mean, for mere perfection of style —for blending of strength and graphic power with limpidity and music of flow. Is " Lavengro " the work of a literary amateur who, yielding at will to every kind of authorial self-indulgence, fails to find artistic expression for the life moving within him — fails to project an individuality that his friends knew to have been unique? Of other writers of genius, admirable criticism may be made by those who have never known them in the flesh. Is this because each of those others, having passed from the stage of the literary amateur to that of the literary artist, is able to pour the stream of his personality into the literary mould and give to the world a true image of himself? It has been my chance of life to be brought into person..! relations with many men of genius, but I feel that there are others who could write about them more adequately than I. Does Borrow stand alone ? The admirers of his writings seem generally to think he does, for ever since I wrote my brief and hasty obituary notice of him in 1881, I have been urged to enlarge my reminiscences of him— urged 849=300 viii AOT£S VPOX CEOkGE BORROW. not only by philologers and gypsologists, but by many others in England, America, and Germany. But I on my part have been for years urging upon tlie friend wlio introduced me to liim, and who knew him years ago. — knew him when he was the comparatively young literary lion ol East Anglia, — Dr. Gordon Hake, to do what others are urging me to do. Not only has the author of " Parables and Tales " more knowledge of the subject than any one else, but having a greater reputation than I, he ran speak with more authority, and having a more brilliant pen than I, he ran give a more vital picture than I can hope to give of our common friend. If he is, as he seems to be, fully determined not to depict Borrow in prose, let me urge him to continue in ver>e tiiat admirable description of him contained in one of the well-known sonnets addressed to myself in " The New Day " : — " And he, the walking lord of gipsy lore ! How often 'mid the deer that grazed the Park, Or in thj fields and heath and wind^' moor, Made musical with many a soaring lark, Have we not held brisk commune with him there. While Lavengro, then towering by your side, With rose complexion and bright silvery hair, Would stop amid his swift and lounging stride To tell the legends of the fading race — As at the summons of his piercing glance. Its storj' peopling his brown eyes and face. While you called up that pendant of romance Ti> Petulengro with his boxing glory. Your Amazonian Sinfi's noble slorj'l " II. Is THERE A Key to "Lavsngro"? Dr. Hake, however, and those others among Borrows friends who are apt to smile at the way in which critics of the highest intelligence will stand baffled and bewildered before the eccentricities of "Lavengro " and The Romany Rye " — some critics treating the work as autobiography spoilt, and some as spoilt fiction — forget that while it is easy to open a locked door with a key, to open a locked door witiioul a key is a very different undertaking. On the subject of autobiographies and the antobioj^raphic method. I had several interestin:; talks with Borrow. I rcmi-mber an especial one that took place on Wimbledon Common, on a ertain autumn morning when I was pointing out to him the spoi NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. ix called Gypsy Ring. He was in a very communicative mocd that day, and more amenable to criticism than he generally was. I had been speaking of certain bold coincidences in " Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye " — especially that of Lavengro's meeting by accident in the neigh- bourhood of Salisbury Plain the son of the very apple-woman of London Bridge with whom he had made friends, and also of such apparently manufactured situations as that of Lavengro's coming upon the man whom Wordsworth's poetry had sent into a deep slumber in a meadow. " Wliat is an autobiography ? " he asked. '• Is it a mere record of the incidents of a man's lite? or is it a picture of the man himself — his character, his soul ? " Now this I think a very suggestive question of Borrow's with regard to himself and his own work. That he sat down to write his own life in ''Lavengro" I know. He had no idea then of departing from the strict line of fact. Indeed, his letters to his friend Mr. John Murray would alone be sufficient to establish this in spite of his calling " Laven- gro" a dream. In the first volume he did almost confine himself to matters of fact. But as he went on he clearly found that the ordinary tapestry into which Destiny had woven the incidents of his life were not tinged with sufficient depth of colour to satisfy his sense of wonder ; for, let it be remembered, that of love as a strong passion he had almost none. Surely no one but Lav6ngro could have lived in a dingle with a girl like Belle Berners, and passed the time in trj-ing to teach her Armenian. Without strong passion no very deeply coloured life- tapestry can, in these unadventurous days, be woven. The manufac- tured incidents of which there are so many in " Lavengro " and " The Romany Rye," are introduced to give colour to a web of life that strong Passion had left untinged. But why ? In order to flash upon the personality of Lavengro, and upon Lavengro's attitude towards the universe unseen as well as seen, a light more searching, as Borrow considered, than any picture of actual experience could have done. In other words, to build up the truth of the character of Lavengro, Borrow does not shrink from manipulating certain incidents and inventing others. And when he wishes to dive %-ery boldly into the " abysmal deeps of personality," he speaks and moves partly behind the mask of some fictitious character, such as the man who touched for the evil chance, and such as the hypochondriac who taught himself Chinese to ward off despair, but could not tell the time of day by looking at the clock. This is not the place for me to enter more fully into this matter, but I am looking forward to a fitting occasion of showing whether or not "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye" form « Notes upon george borrow. a spiritual autobiography; and if they do, whether that autobiography does or does not surpass every other for absolute truth of spiritual representation. Meantime, let it be remembered by those wlio olj^ect to Borrow's method that, as I have just hinted, at the basis ol liis character was a deep sense of wonder. Let it be remembered that he was led to study the first of the many languages he taught himself — Irish — because there was, as he said, '' something mysterious and un- common in its use." Let it be remembered that it was this instinct of wonder, not the impulse of the mere poseur, that impelled him to make certain exaggerated statements about the characters themselves who are introduced into his books. in. ISOPEL BeRNERS. For instance, the tall girl, Isopel Berners — the most vigorous sketch he has given us — is perfect as she is adorable. Among heroines she stands quite alone ; there is none other that is in the least like her. Yet she is in many of her qualities typical of a class. Among the very bravest of all human beings in the British Islands are, or were, the nomadic girls of the high road and the dingle. Their bravery is not only an inherited quality: it is in every way fostered by their mode of life. No tenderness from the men with whom they travel, either as wives or as mistresses, do they get — none of the chivalrj- which girls in most other grades of life experience — and none do they expect. In all disputes between themselves and the men, their associates, they know that the final argument is the knock-down blow. With the Romany girl, too, this is the case, to be sure ; but then, while the Romany girl, as a rule, owing to tribal customs, receives the blow in patience, the English girl is apt to return it, and with vigour. This condition of things gives the English road-girl a frank independence of bearing which distinguishes her from girls of all other classes. There is something of the charm of the savage about her, even to her odd passion for tattoo. No doubt Isopel is an idealisation of the class ; but the class, with all its drawbacks, has a certain winsomeness for men of Borrow's temperament. But, unfortunately, his love of the wonderful, his instinct for exaggera- tion, asserts itself even here. I need give only one instance of what I mean. He makes Isopel Berners speak of herself as being taller than Lavengro. Now, as Borrow gives Lavengro his own character and NOTES UPON GEORGE £ORROU\ xi physique in every detail, even to the silvery hair and even to the somewhat peculiar method of sparring, and as he himself stood six feet two inches, Isopel must have been better adapted to shine as a giantess in a show than as a fighting woman capable of cowing the "Flaming Tinman " himself. It is a very exceptional woman that can really stand up against a trained boxer, and it is, I believe, or used to be, an axiom among the nomads that no fighting woman ought to stand more than about five feet ten inches at the outside. A handsome young woman never looks so superb as when boxing; but it is under peculiar disadvantages that she spars with a man, inasmuch as she has, even when properly padded (as assuredly every woman ought to be) to guard her chest with even more care than she guards her face. The truth is, as Borrow must have known, that women, in order to stand a chance against men, must rely upon some special and surprising method of attack — such, for instance, as that of the sudden "left-hand body blow" of the magnificent gypsy girl of whose exploits I told him that day at " Gypsy Ring" — who, when travelling in England, was attached to Boswell's boxing-booth, and was always accompanied by a favourite bantam cock, ornamented with a gold ring in each wattle, and trained to clap his wings and crow whenever he saw his mistress putting on the gloves— the most beautiful girl, gypsy or other, that ever went into East Anglia. This " left-hand body blow " of hers she delivered so unexpectedly, and with such an engine-like velocity, that but few boxers could " stop it." But, with regard to Isopel Berners, neither Lavengro, nor the man she thrashed when he stole one of her flaxen hairs to conjure with, gives the reader the faintest idea of Isopel's method of attack or defence, and we have to take her prowess on trust. In a word. Borrow was content to give us the Wonderful, without taking that trouble to find for it a logical basis which a literary master would have taken. And instances might easily be multiplied of this exaggeration of Borrow's, which is apt to lend a sense of unreality to some of the most picturesque pages of " Lavengro." IV. Borrow's Use of Patois. Nor does Borrow take much trouble to give organic life to a dramatic picture by the aid oi patois in dialogue. In every conversation between Borrow's gypsies, and between them and Lavengro, the illusion is con- stantly being disturbed by the vocabulary of the speakers. It is hard xii NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. for the reader to believe that characters such as Jasper Petulengro, his wife, and sister Ursula, between whom so much of the dialogue is dis- tributed, should make use of the complex senences and book-words which Borrow, on occasion, puts into their mout*-;. I remember once remarking to him upon the value of patois within certain limits — not only in imaginative but in biographic art. His answer came in substance to this, that if the matter of tlie dialogue be true to nature, the entire verisimilitude of the form is a secondary consideration. " Walter Scott, " said he, " has run to death the method of fmfoix dialogue." He urged, moreover, that tlie gypsies really are extremely fond of uncommon and fine words. And this, no doubt, is true, especially in regard to the women. There is nothing in which the native superiority of the illiterate Romany woman over the illiterate English woman of the road is more clearly seen than in the love of long "book-words" (often mispronounced) displayed by the former. Strong, however, as is the Romany chi's passion for fine words, her sentences are rarely complex like some of the sentences Borrow puts into her mouth. With regard, however, to the charge of idealising gypsy life — a charge which has often been brought against Borrow — it must be remembered that the gypsies to whom he introduces us are the better kind of gryengroes (horse-dealers), by far the most prosperous of all gj-psies. Borrows " gryengroes " are not in any way more prosperous than those he knew. These nomads have an instinctive knowledge of horseflesh — will tell the amount of " blood " in any horse by a lightning glance at his quar- ters — and will sometimes make large sums before the fair is over. Yet, on the whole, I will not deny that Borrow was as successful in f iving us vital portraits of English and Irish characters as of Romany characters, perhaps more so. That hypochondriacal strain in Borrows nature, which Dr. Hake alludes to, perhaps prevented him from sympathising fully with the joyous Romany temper. But over and above this, and charming as the Petulengro family are, they do not live as do the cliaracters of Mr. Groome in his delightful book " In Gypsy Tents " — a writer whose treatises on the gypsies in the " Encyclopaedia Britannica," and in " Chambers' Encyclopedia," are as full of tlie fruits of actual personal contact with the gypsies as of tiie learning to be derived from books. KOTES UPON GEORGE BURROW. nn V. The Saving Grace of Pugilism. Borrou's " Flaming Tinman " is, of course, a brilliant success, but then l,e, though named Bosville, is not a pure gypsy. He is what is called on the roads, I believe, a " half and half ; and in nothing is more clearly seen that " prepotency of transmission," which I have elsewhere attributed to the Anglo-Saxon in the racial struggle, than in hybrids of this kind. A thorough-bred Romany dial can be brutal enough, but the " Flaming Tinman's" peculiar shade of br\itality is Anglo-Saxon, not Romany. The Tinman's ironical muttering while unharnessing his horse, '• Afraid. H'm ! Afraid ; that was the word, I think," is worthy of Dickens at his very best — worthy of Dickens when he created Rogue Riderhood — but it is hardly Romany, I tliink. The battle in the dingle is superb. Borrow is always at his strongest when describing a pugilistic en- counter : for in the saving grace of pugilism as an English accomplish- ment, he believed as devoutly almost as he believed in East Anglia and the Bible. It was this more than anything else that aroused the ire of the critics of '■ Lavengro " when it first appeared. One critical journal characterised the book as the work of a " barbarian." This was in 1851, vvhen Clio seemed set upon substituting Harle- quin's wand for Britannia's trident, seemed set upon crowning her with the cap and bells of Folly in her maudlin mood, — the marvellous and memorable year when England — while every forge in Europe was glowing with expectance, ready to beat every ploughshare into a sword — uttered her famous prophecy that from the day of the opening of the Prince Consort's glass show in Hyde Park, bullets, bayonets, and fists were to be institutions of a benighted past. Very different was the prophecy of this " eccentric barbarian," Borrow, especially as regards the abolition of the British fist. His prophecy v>as that the decay of pugilism would be followed by a flourishing time in England for the revolver and the assassin's knife, — a prophecy which 1 can now recommend to those two converts to the virtues of Pugilism, Mr. Justice Grantham and the present Editor of the Daily News, the former of whom in passing sentence of death (at the Central Criminal Court, on Wednesday, January nth, 1893) upon a labour^^r named Hosier, for stabbing one Dennis Finnessey to death in a quarrel about a pot of beer, borrowed in the most impudent manner from the " eccentric barbarian," when he said, " If men would only use their iiv AVT£S UPON GEORG£ BORROW. fists instead of knives when tempted to violence, so many people would not be hanged '" ; while tlie latter remarked that '' the same thing has been said from the bench before, and cannot be said too often!' When the " eccentric barbarian " argued that pugnacity is one of the primary instincts of man — when he argued that no civilisation can ever eradi- cate this instinct without emasculating itself — when he argued that to clench one's fist and " strike out " is the irresistible impulse of every one who has been assaulted, and that to make it illegal to " strike out," to make it illegal to learn the art to " strike out " with the best effect, is not to quell the instinct, but simply to force it to express itself in other and more dangerous and dastardly ways — when he argued thus more than forty years ago, he saw more clearly than did his critics into the future — a future which held within its womb not only the American civil war and the gigantic Continental struggles whose bloody reek still "smells to heaven," but also the present car- nival of dynamite, the revolver, and the assassin's knife. VI. BoRROw's Gypsies. To those who knew Borrow, the striking thing about "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye " is not that there is so much about the gypsies, but that there is comparatively so little, and that he only introduces one family group. Judged from these two books the reader would conclude that he knew nothing whatever of the Lees, the Stanleys, and the most noticeable of all, the Lovells, and \-et those who knew him are aware that he was thrown into contact with most of these. But here, as in everj-thing else, Sorrow's eccentric methods can never be foreseen. The most interesting of all the gypsies are the Welsh gypsies. The Welsh variety of the Romany tongue is quite peculiar, and the Romanies of the Principality are superior to all others in these islands in intelligence and in their passion for gorgio respectability. Borrow in " Lavengro " takes the reader to the Welsh border itself, and then turns back, leaving the Welsh Romany undescribed. And in the only part of " Wild Wales " where gypsy life is afterwards glanced at, the gypsies introduced are not Welsh, but English. The two great successes amongst Borrow's Romany characters are undoubtedly Mrs. Petulengro's mother (old Mrs. Heme) and her grand- child Leonora, but these are the two wicked characters of the group. It is impossible to imagine anything better told than the attempt of these tu o to poison Lavengro : it is drama of the rarest kind. The NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. xv terrible ironical dialogue over the prostrate and semi-conscious Lavengro, between the child-murderess and the hag-murderess who have poisoned him, is like nothing else in hterature. This scene alone should make " Lavengro " immortal. In no other race than the Romany would a child of the elf-like intelligence and unconscious wickedness of Leonora be possible ; but also it must be said that in no other race than the Romany would be possible a child like her who is made the subject of my sonnet, "A Gypsy Child's Christmas," printed in the "Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society " — a sonnet which renders in verse a real incident recorded by my friend before alluded to : — Dear Sinfi rose and danced along "The Dells," Drawn by the Christmas chimes, and soon she sate Where, 'neath the snow around the churchyard gate, The ploughmen slept in bramble-banded cells: The gorgios passed, half fearing gipsy spells, While Sinfi, gazing, seemed to meditate ; She laughed for joy, then wept disconsolate : " De poor dead gorgios cannot hear de bells." Within the church the clouds of gorgio-breath Arose, a steam of lazy praise and praj-er, To Him who weaves the loving Christmas-stair O'er sorrow and sin and wintry deeps of Death ; But where stood He ? Beside our Sinfi there, Remembeiing childish tears in Nazareth. Perhaps Sorrow's pictures of the gypsies, by omitting to depict the Romany woman on her loftier, her tragic side, fail to demonstrate what he well knew to be the Romany's great racial mark of distinction all over Europe, the enormous superiority of the gypsy women over the gypsy men, not in intelligence merely, but in all the higher human qualities. While it is next to impossible to imagine a gypsy hero, gypsy heroines — women capable of the noblest things — are far from uncommon. The " Amazonian Sinfi," alluded to in Dr. Hake's sonnet, was a heroine of this noble strain, and yet perhaps she was but a type of a certain kind of Romany chi. it was she of the bantam cock and "the left-hand body blow" alluded to above. This same gypsy girl also illustrated another side of the variously en- dowed character of the Romany women, ignored, or almost ignored by Borrow — their passion for music. The daughter of an extremely well-to- do "grvengro," or dealer in horses, this gypsy girl had travelled over nearly x^ AOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. all England, and was familiar with London, where, in the studio of a certain romantic artist, she was in great request as a face-model. But having been brought into close contact with a travelling band of Hungarian gypsy musicians who visited England some years ago, she developed a passion for music that showed her to be a musical genius The gj'psy musicians of Hungary, who are darker than the tented gypsies, are the most intelligent and most widely-travelled of even Hungarian gypsies — indeed, of all the Romany race, and with them Sinfi soon developed into the " Fiddling Sinfi," who was famous in Wales and also in East Anglia, and the East Midlands. After a while she widened her reputation in a curious way as the only performer on the old Welsh stringed instrument called the "crwth," or cruth. I told Borrow her story at Gypsy Ring. Having become, through the good nature of an eminent Welsh antiquarj', the possessor of a crwth, and having discovered the unique ^pabilities of that rarely-seen instrument, she soon taught herself to play upon it with extraordinary effect, fasci- nating her Welsh patrons by the ravishing strains she could draw from it. This obsolete instrument is six-stringed, with two of the strings reaching bejond the key-board, and a bridge placed, not at rfght angles to the sides of the instrument, but in an oblique direction. Though in some respects inferior to the violin, it is in other respects superior to it. Sinfi's performances on this remarkable instrument showed her to be a musical genius of a high order. vir. My First Meeting with Borrow. But I am not leaving myself much room for personal reminiscences of Borrow after all — though these are what I sat down to write. Dr. Hake, in his memoirs of " Eighty Years," records thus the first meeting between Borrow and myself at Roehampton, at the doctor's ou n delightful house, whose windows at the back looked over Richmond Park, and in front over the wildest part of Wimbledon Common. " Later on, George Borrow turned up while Watts was there, and we went through a pleasant trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first fiddle. The reader must not here take metaphor for music. Borrow made himself very agreeable to Watts, recited a fairy tale in the best style to him, and liked him." There is, however, no doubt that Borrow would have run away from DiC had I been associated in his mind with the literary calling. But at NOTES UPON GEORGE BORRO]V xvli that time I had written nothing at all save poems, and a prose story or two of a romantic kind, and even these, though some of the poems have since appeared, weie then known only through private circulation. About me there was nothing of the literary flavour : no need to flee away from me as he fled from the writing fraternity. He had not long before this refused to allow Dr. Hake to introduce the late W. R. S. Ralston to him, simply because the Russian scholar moved in the literary world With regard to newspaper critiques of books his axiom was that " whatever is praised by the press is of necessity bad," and he refused to read anything that was so praised. After the "fairy tale" mentioned by Dr. Hake was over, we went, at Borrows suggestion, for a ramble through Richmond Park, calling on the way at the " Bald-Faced Stag " in Kingston Vale, in order that Borrow should introduce me to Jerry Abershaw'j sword, which was one of the special glories of that once famous hostelrj'. A divine summer day it was I remember — a day whose heat would have been oppressive had it not been tempered every now and then by a playful silvery shower falling from an occasional wandering cloud, whose slate-coloured body thinned at the edges to a fringe of lace brighter than any silver. These showers, however, seemed, as Borrow remarked, merely to give a rich colour to the sunshine, and to make the wild flowers in the meadows on the left breathe more freely. In a word, it was one of those uncertain summer days whose peculiarly English charm was Borrow's special delight. He liked rain, but he liked it falling on the green umbrella (enormous, shaggy, like a g)-psy-tent after a summer storm) he generally carried. As we entered the Robin Hood Gate we were confronted by a sudden weird yellow radiance, magical and mysterious, which showed clearly enough that in the sky behind us there was gleaming over the fields and over Wimbledon Common a rainbow of exceptional brilliance, while the raindrops sparkling on the ferns seemed answering every hue in the magic arch far away. Borrow told us some interesting stories of Romany superstitions in connection with the rainbow — how, by making a " trus'hul " (cross) of two sticks, the Romany chi who "pens the dukkerin can wipe the rainbow out of the sky," etc. Whereupon Hake, quite as original a man as Borrow, and a humourist of a still rarer temper, launched out into a strain of wit and whim, which it is not my business here to record, upon the subject of the ''Spirit of the Rainbow" which a certain child went out to find. Borrow loved Richmond Park, and he seemed to know every tree. xviii NOTES UPOS GEORGE BORROW. I found also tliat lie was extremely learned in deer, and seemed familiar with every dappled coat which, washed and burnished by the showers, seemed to shine in the sun like metal. Of course, I obser\ed him closely, and I began to wonder whether I had encountered, in the silvery-haired giant striding by my side, with a vast umbrella under his arm, a true " Child of the Open Air." " Did a true Child of the Open Air ever carry a gigantic green umbrella that would have satisfied Sarah Gamp herself?" I murmtired to Hake, while Borrow lingered under a tree and, looking round the Park, said, in a dreamy way, "Old England! Old England!" VIII. A Child of the Open Air under a Green Umbrella. Perhaps, however, I had better define what Hake and I meant by this phrase, and to do this I cannot do better than quote the definition of Nature-worship, by H. A. the "Swimming Rye," which we had both been just discussing, and which I quoted not long after this memorable walk in a literary journal : — " With all the recent cultivation of the picturesque by means of water- colour landscape, descriptive novels, ' Cook's excursions,' etc., the real passion for Nature is as rare as ever it was, — perhaps rarer. It is quite an affair of individual temperament: it cannot be learned ; it cannot be lost. That no writer has ever tried to explain it shows how little it is known. Often it has but little to do with poetry, little with science. The poet, indeed, rarely has it at its very highest ; the man of science as rarely. I wish I could define it: — in human souls— in one, perhaps, as much as in another — there is always that instinct for contact which is a great factor of progress; there is alwa^'S an ii resistible yearning to escape Irom isolation, to get as close as may be to some other conscious thing. In most individuals this yearning is simply for contact with other human souls ; in some few it is not. There are some in every country of whom it is the blessing, not tlie banc, tliat, owing to some exceptional power, or to some exceptional infirmitj', they can get closer to ' Nalura Beiiigua ' herself, closer to her whom we now call ' Inani- mate Nature,' than to the human mother who bore them — far closer than to father, brother, sister, wife, or friend. Darwin among P'.nglish siaraitfx, and Kmily Bronte among English poets, and Sinfi Lovell among English gypsies, showed a good deal of tiie characteristics of tiie 'Ciiildrcn of the Open Air.' But in tiie case of the first of these, besides the strcngtii of his family ties the pedantic inquisitivcncss, the methodising pedantry of the man of science; NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. XIX in the second, the sensitivity to human contact ; and in the third, subjection to the love passion — disturbed, and indeed partially stifled, the native instinct with which they were undoubtedly endowed. " Between the true ' Children of the Open Air ' and their fellows there are barriers of idiosyncrasy, barriers of convention, or other barriers quite in- definable, which they find most difficult to overpass, and, even when they succeed in overpassing them, the attempt is not found to be worth the making. For, what the Nature-worshipper finds in intercourse with his fellow-men is, not the unegoistic frankness of Nature, his first love, inviting him to touch her close, soul to soul — but another ego enisled like his own — sensitive, shrinking, like his own — a soul which, love him as it may, is, nevertheless, and for all its love, the central ego of the universe to itself, the very Alcyone round whom all other Nature-worshippers revolve like the rest of the human constellations. But between these and Nature there is no such barrier, and upon Nature they lavish their love — ' a most equal love,' that varies no more with her change of mood than does the love of a man for a beautiful woman, whether she smiles, or weeps, or frowns. To them a Highland glen is most beautiful ; so is a green meadow; so is a mountain gorge or a barren peak; so is a South American savannah. A balmy summer is beautiful, but not more beautiful than a winter's sleet beating about the face, and stinging every ner\'e into delicious life. " To the ' Child of the Open Air ' life has but few ills ; poverty cannot touch him. Let the Stock Exchange rob him of his Turkish bonds, and he will go and tend sheep in Sacramento Valley, perfectly content to see a dozen faces in a j'ear ; so far from being lonelj', he has got the sky, the wind, the brown grass, and the sheep. And as life goes on, love of Nature grows both as a cultus and a passion, and in time Nature seems ' to know him and love him' in her turn." It was the umbrella, green, manifold and bulging, under Borrow's arm, that made me ask Dr. Hake, as Borrow walked along beneath the trees, "Is he a genuine Child of the Open Air"? And then, calling to mind "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye," I said, "He went into the Dingle, and lived alone — went there not as an experiment in self- education, as Thoreau went and lived by Walden Pond. He could enjoy living alone, for the ' horrors ' to which he was occasionally sub- ject did not spring from solitary living. He was never disturbed by passion as was the nature-worshipper who once played such selfish tricks with Sinfi Lovell, and as Emily Brontg would certainly have been had she been placed in such circumstances as Charlotte Bronte placed Shirley." "But the most damning thing of all," said Hake, "is that umbrella, gigantic and green : a painful thought that has often occurred to me." B XX NOTES UPOh GEORGE BORROW. " Passion has certainly never disturbed his natur3-\vorship," said I. "So devoid of passion is he that to depict a tragic situation is quite beyond his powers. Picturesque he always is, powerful never. No one reading an account of the privations of Lavengro during the ' Joseph Sell' period finds himself able to realise from Borrow's description the misery of a young man tenderly reared, and witli all the pride of an East Anglian gentleman, living on bread and water in a garret, with starvation staring him in the face. It is not passion," I said to Hako, " that prevents Borrow from enjoying the peace of tlie nature-worshipper. It is Ambition ! His books show that he could never cleanse his stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff of ambition. To become renowned, judging from many a peroration in ' Lavengro,' was as great an incentive to Borrow to learn languages as to Alexander Smith's poet-hero it was an incentive to write poetry." " Ambition and the green gamp," said Hake. " But, look, the rainbow is fading from the sky without the interx-ention of gypsy sorceries, and see how the ferns are changing colour with the change in the light.' But I soon found that if Borrow was not a perfect Child of the Open Air, he was something better : a man of that deep sympathy v.-ith human kind, which the " Child of the Open Air " must needs lack. IX. The Gypsies of Norman Cross. Knowing Borrow's extraordinary shyness and his great dislike of meeting strangers, Dr. Hake, while Borrow was trying to get as close *o the deer as they would allow, expressed to me his surprise at the terms of cordial friendship that sprang up between us during that walk. But I was not surprised : there were several reasons why Borrow should at once take to me — reasons that had nothing whatever to do with any inherent attractiveness of my own. By recaUing what occurred I can throw a more brilliant light upon Borrow's character than by any kind of analytical disquisition. Two herons rose from the Ponds and flew away to where t'ney probably had their nests. By the expression on Borrow 6 face as he stood and gazed at them, I knew that, like myself, he had a passion for herons. "Were there many herons aiound VVhittlesca Mere before it v/as drained ? " I said. NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. xxi " I should think so," said he, dreamily, " and every kind of water bird." Then, suddenly turning round upon me with a start, he said, " But how do you know that I knew Whittlesea Mere?" " You say in ' Lavengro ' that you played among the reeds ol Whittlesea Mere when you were a child." "I don't mention Whittlesea Mere in 'Lavengro,' ' he said. " No," said I, "but you speak of a lake near the old State prison at Norman Cross, and that was Whittlesea Mere." " Then you know Whittlesea Mere ? " said Borrow, much interested. " I know the place that was Whittlesea Mere before it was drained," I said, " and I know the vipers around Norman Cross, and I think I know the lane where you first met Jasper Petulengro. He was a generation before my time. Indeed, I never was tl rown much across the Petulengroes in the Eastern Counties, but I knew some of the Hemes and the Lees and the Lovells." I then told him v.'hat I knew about Romanies and vipers, and also gave him Marcianus's story about the Moors being invulnerable to the viper's bite, and about their putting the true breed of a suspected child to the test by setting it to grasp a viper — as he, Borrow, when a child, grasped one of the vipers of Norman Cross. " The gypsies," said Borrow, " always believed me to be a Romany. But surely you are not a Romany Rye ? " "No," I said, "but 1 am a student of folk-lore; and besides, as it has been my fortune to see every kind of life in England, high and low, I could not entirely neglect the Romanies, could I ?" " I should think not," said Borrow, indignantly. " But I hope you don't know the literary class among the rest." " Hake is my only link to that dark world," I said ; " and even you don't object to Hake. I am purer than he, purer than you, from the taint of printers' ink." He laughed. " Who are j'ou ? " " The very question I have been asking myself ever since I was a child in short frocks," I said, " and have never yet found an answer. But Hake agrees with me that no well-bred soul should embarrass itself with any such troublesome query." This gave a chance to Hake, who in such local reminiscences as these had been able to take no part. The humorous mystery of Man's personality had often been a subject of joke between him and me m many a ramble m the Park and elsewhere. At once he threw himself mto a strain of vhimsica! rhilosophy which partly amused and partly vexed Borrow xxii NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW who stood \va ting to return to the subject of the gj'psics and East Anglia. "You are an Englishman ? " said Borrow, "Not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman," I said, using a phrase of his own in "Lavengro" — "if not a thorough East Anglian an East MiJIander-; who, you will admit, is nearly as good." " Nearly," said Borrow. And when I went on to tell him that I onre used to drive a genuine '• Shales mare," a descendant of that same famous Norfolk trotter who could trot fabulous miles an hour, to whom he with the Norfolk farmers raised his hat in reverence at the Norwich horse fair, and when I promised to show him a portrait of this same East Anglian mare with myself behind her in a dogcart — an East Anglian dogcart — when 1 praised the stinging saltness of the sea water off Yarmouth, Lowestoft, and Cromer, the quality which makes it the best, the most buoyant, the most delightful of all sea water to swim in — when 1 told him that the only English river in which you could see reflected the rainbow he loved was " the glassy Ouse " of East Anglia, and the only place in England where you could see it reflected in the wet sand was the Norfolk coast, and when I told him a good many things showing that I was in very truth not onlj' an Englishman, but an East Englisliman, my conquest of the " Walking Lord of Gj'psy Lore "was complete, and from that moment we became friends. Hake meanwhile stood listening to the rooks in the distance. He turned and asked Borrow whether he had never noticed a similarity between the kind of muffled rattling roar made by the sea-waves upon a distant pebbly beach and the sound of a large rookery in the di-tauce. '■ It is on sand alone," said Borrow, " that the sea strikes its true music — Norfolk sand : a rattle is not music." "The best of the sea's lutes," I said, '-is made by the sands ol Cromer." I have read over to my beloved old friend Dr. Hake, the above meagre account of that my first delightful ramble with Borrow. He whose memory lets nothing escape, has reminded me of a score of interesting tilings said and done on that memorable occasion. But in putting into print any record of one's intercourse with a famous man, there is always an unpleasant sense of lapsing into egotism. And besides, the reader has very likely had enough now of talk between Borrow and me. NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. xxiii The Future of Bor row's Works. He whom London once tried hard, but in vain, to Honise, lived during some of the last years of his life in Hereford Square, unknown to any save about a dozen friends. At the head of them stood Mr. John Murray, whose virtues, both as publisher and as English gentleman, lie was never tired of extolling. Afterwards he went down to East Anglia — that East Anglia he loved so well — went there, as he told me, to die. But it was not till one day in 1881 that Borrow achieved, in the Cottage by the Oulton Broads which his genius once made famous, and where so much of his best work had been written, the soul's great conquest over its fleshly trammels, the conquest we call death, but which he believed to be life. His body was laid by the side of that of his wife at Brompton. When I wrote his obituary notice in the Athenixum no little wonder was expressed in various quarters that the " Walking Lord of Gypsy Lore " had been walking so lately the earth. And yet his " Bible in Spain " had still a regular sale. His " Lavengro " and ''Romany Rye" were still allowed by all competent critics to be among the most delightful books in the language. Indeed, at his death, Borrow was what he now is, and what he will continue to be long after Time has played havoc with nine-tenths of the writers whose names are week by week, and day by day, " paragraphed " in the papers as " literary celebrities " — an English classic. Apart from Borrow's undoubted genius as a writer the subject-matter of his writings has an interest that wall not wane but will go on growing. The more the features of our " Beautiful England," to use his own phrase, are changed by the multitudinous effects of the railway system, the more attraction will readers find in books which depict her before her beauty was marred — books which depict her in those antediluvian days when there was such a thing as space in the island — when in England there was a sense of distance, that sense without which there can be no romance — when the stage-coach was in its glory — when the only magician who could convey man and iiis belongings at any rate of speed beyond man's own walking rate was the horse — the beloved horse whose praises Borrow loved to sing, and whose ideal was reached in the mighty " Shales " — when the great high roads were alive, not merely with the bustle of business, but with real adventure for the traveller — days and scenes which Borrow better than any one xxtv NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW. else could paint. A time will come, I say, when not only books full ol descriptive genius, like "Lavengro," but even such comparatively tame descriptions of England as the "Gleanings in England and Wales" of the now forgotten East Midlander, Samuel Jackson Pratt, will be read with a new interest. But why was Borrow so entirely forgotten at the moment of his death ? Simply because, like many another man of genius and many a scholar, he refused to figure in the literary arena — went on his way (juietly influencing tlie world, but mi.ving only with his private friends. Theodore Watts, AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 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 thy- self 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 XX vi PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. as for the Priest, thougli there may be something in him both of scholarship and gyi)syism, neither the Scholar nor the Gypsy would feci 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 en- couragement 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 be- longing 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 conmiunion of this Church, and with the religious con- solation 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 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. xxvii 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 pro- strate 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 xxviii PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. approach any but the remnant of those of the eikonolatry — representatives of worm-eaten houses, their debased dependants, and a few poor cra/y creatures amongst tlic middle classes — he jilayed 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 n)ixed 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 ; lightening with the loudness of its voice the weak, the timid, and the ailing; perpetrating, \\henever 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 (iocs 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 vi])er which it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom. i5ut thanks. Popery, you have done all that the friends of enlightenment and religious liberty could wish ; but if ever there v»erc 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 h.irmless as a lamb. \\c\\, we shall sec how the trick — "the old trick " — will serve you. CONTENTS. 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 i CHAPTER II. Barracks and Lodgings — A Camp — The Viper — A Delicate Child — Blackberry Time— Meum and Tuum- Hythe— The Golgotha — Daneman's Skull — Super- - human Stature — Stirring Times — The Sea-Board -^7 CHAPTER III. Pretty D The Venerable Church— The Stricken Heart— Dormant Energies — The Small Packet— Nerves— The Books —A Picture- Mountain-like Billows— The Foot-Print— Spirit of De Foe— Reason- ing Powers— Terrors of God— Heads of the Dragons — High Church Clerk — A Journey— The Drowned Country . ii CHAPTER IV. Norman Cross — Wide Expanse — Vive I'Empereur — l^npruned 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 i7 CHAPTER V. rhe 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 . . 23 CHAPTER VI. Three Vears — Lilly's Grammar — Profi- ciency— 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 . 29 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 ve, Mon?— The Nor - Lech— Gestures Wild- The Bicker- New Town Cfiampiojt— Wild-Lo'^king Figure - —Headlong . . . ... .34 CHAPTER VHI. Expert Climbers— The Crags— Somethiiig Red— The Horrible Edge— David Hag- gart — Fine Materia, s — The Greatest Victory — Extraordinary Robber— The Ru ing Passion 39 CHAPTER IX. Napoleon — The Storm — The Cove— Up the Countrv — The Trembling Hand— Irish — 'Tough "Battle— Tipperarv Hills— Elegant Lodgings — A Speech — fair Specimen — Orangemen 42 CHAPTER X. Protestant Young Gentlemen— The Greek Letters — Open Chimney — Murta^h — Paris and Salamanca— Nothing to Do - To Whit, to Whoo !— The Pack of Cards — Before Christmas • . • •47 CHAPTER XI. Templemore— Devil's Mountain— No Com- panion—Force of Circumstance— Way of the World— Ruined Castle— Grim and Desolate— The Donjon— Old WomaH— My Own House . . . .50 CONTEMS. CHAPTER XII. A Visit — Figure of a Man — The Dog of Peace— The Raw Wound— The Guard- Room— Bov Soldier— Person in Authonty —Never S6liar^— Oergxinan and Family —Slill-Hunting— Fairy Man— Near bun- set— Bagg— Lef:-handed Hitter — Irish and Supernatural — At Swanton Mor- ley S3 CHAPTER XIII. Groctn and Cob— Strensth and Symmetry -Where's the Saddle?— The First Ride —No more Fatigue- Love for Horses- Pursuit of Woras— Philologist and Pe- gisus-The Smith -What More, Agrah? Sassanach Ten Pence . . . • 59 CHAPTER XIV. A F;ne Old Ctv- Norman Master -W^k | Lollards' Hole— Gcod Blood — The Spaniard s Sword— Old Retired OfiBcer— i Writing to a Duke— God Help the Child —Nothing like lacob— Insh Brigades- Old Sereeant Meredith— I Have been ; Young- Idteness— Onlv Course Open— | The BookstaU-A Portrait- A Banished j Pnest 63 CHAPTER XV. I Monsieur Dante— Cor.demned Musket— | Sportingj- Sweet Ri\-ulet — The Earls Home— The Pool— Tne Sonorous \ oice— What Dost Thou Read ?— Man of Peace— ! Zcharand Mishna— Money Changers 69 CHAPTER XVI. Fair o<" Horses— Looks of Respect— The Fast Trotter— Pair of Eyes— Strange Men— Jasper, Your Pal- horce of Blood — Younj Lady with Diamonds — Not Quite so Beautiful . . . • 73 CHAPTER XVII. The Tents— Pleasant Discourse— I am Fharaoh— Shifting for Ones Self— Horse- Shoes— This is Wonderful— Bless your Wisdom— A Picttv Manoeuvre- lU Day to the Romans — Slv Name is Heme— Singular People— An Onpiral Speech— Woru Master- Speaking komanly . 77 CH.^PTER XVI II. What Profession ?— Not Fitted for a Church- mar.— Erralx Course- The Bitter Draught -Principle of Woe— Thou Wouldst be lovoas— What Ails You ?— Poor Child of Uijr *» CHAPTER XIX. Agreeable Delusions —Youth — A Profes- «joB— Ab Gwiljm— Glorious English Law -There Thev Pass-My Dear Old Master —The Deal Desk-Language of the fenta — Where is Morfydd?-bo To -Only One *S CHAPTER XX. Silver Grav-Good Word for Everybodv— A Remarkable Youth— Qients— Grades in Society— The Archdeacon-Readanst the Bible 9° CHAPTER XXI. The Eldest Son— Savins 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 o! England- Persist and Wrestle — The Little Dark Man 9^ CHAPTER XXII. Desire for Noveltv— Lives of the lawless— Countenances-Old Yeoman and Dame— We Live Near the Sea— Un'-o^m-looking Volume— The 0;her Condition — Uraoi- theac- A Di'.emma— The Antinomian— Lodowi k .Muggleton — Almost Blind — Anders Vedel 9* CH.\PTER XXIII. The Two Indi\-idjals— The Long Pipe— The Germans- Werther — The Female Quaker— Suicide— Gibbon— lesuscl Beth- lehem— FUl Your Glass— Shakespeare- English at Minden-Melancholy :;\vavne Vonved-The Fifth Dinner— Strange Doc- trines—Are You Happy ?— Improve Your- self 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 Gtntleman —The Flattened Nose — Lend us that Pighile— The Surly Nod . . ">7 CHAPTER XXV. Doubts— Wise King of Jerusalem— Let Me Soe-.A Thousand Years- .Noth rg New — ■fhe Crowd— I'he Hvmn— Faith-Charl. s Weslev — There He Stood - Farewell, Brother- Death— Sun, Moon, and SUrs— Wind on the Heath . . . . "" CHAPTER XXVI. The Flower of the Grass- Days of Pugi- hsm— The Rendezvous— lews-Bruise s of England — Winter, Spring— Well- earned Bays-The Fight-Huge Black Cloud— Fraire of Adamant— The Storm — Dukkeripens— The Barouche— The Rain Gushe« . - . • . . 117 COyTEiXTS. CHAPTER XXVII. My Father — Premature Decay — The Easy Chair — A Few Questions — So You Told Me — A Difficult Language — They Call it Ftaik — Misused Oppoitunities — Saul — Want of Candour — Don't Weep — Heaven Forgive .Me — Dated from Paris — I Wish He Were Here — A Father's Reminis- cences — Farewell to Vanities . . uz CHAPTER XXVIII. My Brother's Arrival — The Interview — Kight— A Di'in^ Father — Christ . 127 CHAPTER XXIX. The Greeting — Queer Figure — Cheer Up — The Cheertul Fire— It \\ ill Do— The Sally Forth — Trepidation — Let Him Come In 129 CHAPTER XXX. The Sinister Glance — Excellent Correspon- der.t — Quite Original — My System — A Losing Trade — Merit — Starting a Review — What Have You Got? — Stop: — Dairy- man's Daughter — Oxford Principles — More Conversation — How is This? . 131 CHAPTER XXXI. The Walk— London's Cheape — Street of the Lombards — Strtnge Bridge — Main Arch — The Roaring Gulf —The Boat — Cly-Faking — A Com:ort— The Book — The Blessed Woman— No Trap .... 136 CHAPTER XXXII. The Tanner — The Hotel — Drinking^Claret — London Journal — New Field — Common- pUceness — The Three Indiviauals — Botheration — Frank and Ardent . . 140 CHAPTER XXXIIL Dine with the Publisher— Religions— No Animal Food — Unprofita'ole Discussions — Principles of Criticism— The Book Mar- ket— Newgate Lives— Goethe a Drug- German Acquirements — Moial Dignity 144 CHAPTER XXXIV. The Two Volumes — A Young Author — Intended Editor — Quintilian — Loose Money 147 CHAPTER XXXV. Francis Ardry— Certain Sharpers — Brave and Eloc|ueni— Opposites — Hinging the Bones— Strange Places— Dog Fighting — Learning and Letters— Batch of Dogs- Redoubled Application. . . . 149 CHAPTER XXXVI. Occupations — Traduttore Traditore — Ode to the Mist — Apple and Pear — Reviewing — C'jrrent Literature — Oxford-like Man- ner — A Plain Story — 111 regulated Mind — Unsnuffed Candle — Strange Dreams 1^2 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 156 CHAPTER XXXVIII. Painter of the Heroic — I'll Go I — .\ Modest Peep — Who is This? — .A Capital Pharaou Mean?— Mi^k of the P.ains — Hengist Spared It— No Pre- sents 223 CIIAPIER LXT. The River — Arid Downs— A Prospect 326 CHAPTER LXII. The Hostelry — Life Uncertain — Open Countenance— The Grand Point— Thank You, Master — A Hard Mo:her — Poor Dear !— Considerable OdJs— I'he Better Country — English Faslurn — Landlord- looking Person 227 CHAPTER LXHI. Frimiti-.-e Habits — Rosy-faced Damsel — .A P!e2«inr Moment— Suit of Black— rht lursi.e Glance-Jhc Mighty Round'*- CONTENTS. Degenerate Times — The Newspaper — The Evil Chance — 1 Congratulate You 231 CHAPTER LXIV. New Acquaintance — Old French Stvie — The Portrait — Taciturnity — The Ever- green Tree— The Dark Hour— The tlash —Ancestors— A Fortunate Man— A Pos- thumous Child— Antagonistic Ideas— The Hawks— Flaws— The Pony— Irresistible Impulse- Favourable Crisis — The Top- most Branch— Twenty Feet— Heartily Ashamed -34 CHAPTER LXV. Maternal Anxiety — The Baronet — Little Zest — Country Life — Mr. Speaker !— The Craving — Spirited Address —An Author 241 CHAPTER LXVI. Trepidations— Subtle Principle— Pen'erse Imagination— Are they Mine?— Another Book— How Hard !— Agricultural Dinner — Incomprehensible Actions — Inmost Bosom— Give it up— Chance Resemblance —Rascally Newspaper. . . .244 CHAPTER LXVII. Disturbed Slumbers— The Bed-Post— Two Wizards— What can I Do ?— Real Library —The Rev. Mr. Platitude— Toleration to Dissenters— Parados— Sword of St. Peter —Enemy to Humbug— High Principles- False Concord— The Damsel— What Re- ligion? — Farther Conversation — That would never Do !— May You Prosper ! 248 CHAPTER LXVIII. Elastic Step— Disconsolate Party— Not the Season — Mend Your Draught — Good Ale —Crotchet— Hammer and Tongs— Schcol- master— True Eden Life— Flaming Tin- man—Twice My Size— Hard at Work— Mv 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 . . . .254 CHAPTER LXIX. Effects of Corn— One Night Longer— The Hoofs — A Stumble — Are you Hurt ?— V.Tiat a Difference- Drowsy — Maze ot Bushes — Housekeepirg — Sticks^ and Furze— The Driftway— Account of Stock —Anvil and Bellows— Twenty Years ;6i CHAPTER LXX, NeT Profsssion- Beautiful Night — Jv.pitsr -Sharp and Shrill— The Rommany Chi —All Alone— Three and Sixpence— What is Rommany ?— Be Civil— Parraco Tute— Slight Start— She Will Be Gratelul— The Rusthng ^66 CHAPTER LXXI. Friend of Slingsby— All Quiet— Dan^er- The Two Cakes— Children in the Wi od —Don't be Angrv— In Deep Thought — Temples Throbbing — Deadly Sick — Another Blow— No Answer— How Old are You ?— Plav and Sacrament— Heavy Heart— Song of Poison— Drow of Gypsies —The Dog— Ely's Church— Get L'p, bebee —The Vehicle— Can you Speak?— 1 he Oil 27' 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 -279 CHAPTER LXXIII. Morning Hymn— Much Alone— John Bun- yan— Beholden to Nobody— Sixty-five— Sober Greeting— Early Sabbaths— Finny Brood— The Porch— No Fortune - teliirg —The Master's Niece— Doing Good— Two or Three Things— Groans and Voices— Pechod Ysprydd Glan . . . .282 CHAPTER LXXIV. The Following Day — Pride — Thriving Trade— Tylwyth 'leg— Ellis Wyn— Sleep- ing Bard — Incalculable Good — Feailul Agony— The Tale 2^7 CHAPTER LXXV. Taking a Cup— Getting to Heaven— After Breakfast— Wooden Gallery— Mechanical Habit — Reser\-ed and Gloomy — Last Words— A Long Time— From the Clouds —Ray of Hope— Momentary ChiU— Pleas- ing Anticipation 291 CHAPTER LXXVI. Hasty Farewell— Lofty Rock— Wrestlings offacob— No Rest— Ways of Providence — Two Females — Foot of the Cro'^s — Enemy of Souls— Perplexed— Lucky Hour —Valetudinarian — Methodists — I erveiit in Pcayer- You Saxons— Weak Creatures —Very Agreeable— Almost Happy— Kind- ness and Solicitude .... 255 CHAPTER LXXVII. Gettine Late— Seven Years Old— Cha^ten- ing-^Go Forth — London Bridge— Sam? Eves — Common Occurrei5:e — Ver/ Sleepy 5^^ XXXIV CONTENTS. CHAPTER LXXVIII. Low and Calm— Much Better — Blessed Effect — No Answer— Such a Sermon 304 CHAPTER LXXIX. Deep Interest— Goodly Country — Two Man- sions — Welshman's Candle — Beautiful Universe— Godly Discourse— Fine Church — Points of Doctrine — Strange Adven- tures-Paltry Cause — Roman Pontiff — Evil Spirit 306 CHAPTER LXXX. The Border— Thank you Both— Pipe and Fiddle — Taliesin 310 CHAPTER LXXXI. At a Funeral- Two Days Ago— Very Coolly — Roman Woman— Well and Hearty- Somewhat Dreary— Plum Pudding-- Ro- man 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 311 CHAPTER LXXXn. Offence and Defence— I'm Satisfied— Fond of Solitude — Possession of Property — Chal Devlehi— Winding Path CHAPTER LXXXIII. Highly Poetical— Volundr— Grecian Mytho- logy—Making a Petul— Tongues of Flame — Hammering — Spite of Dukkerin — Heaviness 320 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 . .322 CHAPTER LXXXV. Free and Independent— I Don't See Why — Oats — A Noise — Unwelcome Visitors — What's the Matter ?— Good Day to Ye— 'Jhe lall Girl— Dovrefeld- Blow on the Face— Civil Enough— What's This ?— Vul- gar Woman — Hands Off — Gasping for Breath— Long Mclford— A Pretty Man- oeuvre— A Long Draught— Sgns of Ani- mation— It Won't Do— No Malice— Bad People 326 CHAPTER LXXXVI, At Tea — Vapours— Isnprl Berners — Softly and Kindly — Sweet Pretty Creature — Bread and Wa*er— Two Sailors— Truth and Constancy — Very Strangely . . 334 CHAPTER LXXXVII. Hubbub of Voices— No Offence— Noddinp — The Guests 337 CHAPTER LXXXVIII. A Radical— Simple-Look'ng Man— Church of England— The President — Aristocracy — Gin and Water — Mending the Roads — Persecuting Church— Simon de Montford —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 . 339 CHAPTER LXXXIX. The Dingle— Give them Ale— Not over Com- plimentary — America — Many People — vVa'ihington — Promiscuous Company — Language of the Roads— The Old Women —Numerals— The Man in Black , . 345 CHAPTER XC. Buona Sera- Rather Apprehensive— The Steep Bank— Lovely' Virgin— Hospitality —Tory Minister— Custom of the Country — Sneering Smile — Wandering Zigan — Gypsies' Lioaks— Certain Faculty— Acute Answer — Various Ways — Addio— Best Hollands 349 CHAPTER XCI. Excursions- Ad venturous English-Opaque Forests— The Greatest Patience . . 354 CHAPTER XCII. The Landlord— Rather Too Old— Without a Shilling— Reputation— A Fortnight Ago — Liquids— The Main Chance— Respecta- bility — Irrational Beings — Parliament ( Cove— My Brewer 356 CHAPTER XCIII. Another Visit— ^ h Afargiit/e—Oc\-er Man — Napoleon's Estimate — Another Sta- tue 359 CHAPTER XCIV. Prerogative — Feelinp of Gratitude — A Long Hij-tory —Alliterative Style — Advantage- ous Specimen — Jesuit Benefice — Not Sufficient — Queen Stork's Tragedy — Good Sense— Grandeur and Gentility- Iron- monger's Daughter — Clan Mac-Sycophant — Lick-Spittles — A Curiosity— Newspaper Editors — Charles theSimple — High-flying Ditty — Dissenters — Lower Classes — Priestley's House — Saxon Ancestors- Austin — Renovating Glass — Money — (Juitc- Original 361 CONTENTS. XXXV CHAPTER XCV. Wooded Retreat— Fresh Shoes— Wood Fire —Ash, when Green— Queen of China- Cleverest People— Declensions— Armen- ian— Thunder — Deep Olive — What Do You Mean?— Koul Adonai— The Ihick Bushes— Wood Pigeon— Old Goethe 371 CHAPTER XCVI. A Shout— A Fire Ball— See to the Horses- Passing Awaj'— Gap in the Hedge— On Three Wheels— Why Do You Stop?— No Craven Heart— The Cordial- Across the Country— Small Bags . . .376 CHAPTER XCVn. 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 3S0 CHAPTER XCVHL An Exordium— Fine Ships— High Barbary Captains— Free-Born Englishmen— Mon- strous Figure — Swash-buckler — The Grand Coaches— The Footmen— Travel- ling Expedition— Black Jack— Nelson's Cannon— Pharaoh's Butler— A Diligence — Two Passengers— Sharking Priest — Virgilio— Lessons in Italian— Two Opin- ions—Holy Mary— Priestly Confederates —Methodist Chapel— Veturini— Some of Our Party— Like a Sepulchre— All for Themselves 386 CHAPTER XCIX. A Cloister— Half English— New Acquaint- ance—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 394 CHAPTER C. Nothing but Gloom— Sporting Character- Gouty Tory— Servants' Club— Politics— Reformado Footman— Peroration— Good Night 402 LAVENGRO. CHAPTER I. Birth— Mj' 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^ — Stiange Gestures. m. ^N an evening of July, in the j'ear i8 — , 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 gentle- men, or, as some people would call them, gentillatres, for they were not ver}- wealthy ; they had a coat of arms, however, and lived on their own propeity at a place called Tredinnock, which being interpreted mi an^ the house on the kill, 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 tliat the public will read my pages with more zest from being told that 1 am a gentillatre by bir:h 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 m.onths before the birth of his youngest son. The bov, 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 himselt, were rather jealous of him. 1 never heard, however, that they * " In Cornwall are ihe best gentlercsn." — Co^f, Prot*. 2 TAMLRLANL.~BEN BRAIN. treated him u ith any marked unkindness ; and it will be as well to observe here tliat 1 nm ^y no means well acquainted with his early history, of which, indeed r^s 1 am not writing his lile, it is not necessary to say much. Shortly after his mother's death, which occurred when he wa" eighteen, he ^dop»^ed the iirotession ot arms, which he followed duTiPg the rvniaivider of his iiJe, and in which, had circumstances per- mitted, 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- marslial 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 ougiit rather to say very seldom ; certain it is, that my father, with all his high military qualifications, never became emperor, field-marslial, rr even general ; indeed, he had never an opportunity ot distinguishing himself save in one battle, and that took place neitlier 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, sc ieuce, and bravery have been displayed as evi r achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus. In such a combat as that to which 1 allude 1 opine that even Wellii'gton or Napoleon would have been he:irtily glad to cry for quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and even the Blacksmitli Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk fmm the opponent with wiiom, alt 'r having had a dispute with him, my father engaged in single combat for one liour, at the end of which time tlie champions siiook hands and retired, each ha\ing 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 Fn^land, having conquered the heroic Johnson. Honorr 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 mj' father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments — Big Ben Brain. Yon no longer smile, even von have heard of Big Ben. I have already hinted tiiat my father never rose to any very exalted rank in his profession, notwithstanding his pro\ve=s and other (|ualiti- cations. After serving for many years in the line, he at last arents were under continual apprehension of losing him ; his beauty, liowever, was periiaps surpassed by the quickness of his parts. He mastered his letters in a few hours, and in a day or two could decipher t'le nan -s 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 1 may say of him, that with resj)ect to cveryt!iing which he took in hand he did it better and more spe-dly tlian 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 gwift, nor the battle for the strong. Aud now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, painted MIRRCRS.— ALPINE COUNTRY EMBLEMS. 5 in the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive himself justified in expecting a full-length one of mj'self, as a child, for as to my present appearance, I suppose he will be tolerably content uith that flitting glimpse in the mirror. But he must excuse me ; I have no intention of drawing a portrait of mj'self in childhood ; indeed it would be difficult, for at that time I never looked into mirrors. No attempts, however, were ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that my parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by the hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that people were in the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more than at my brother ; from which premises the reader may form any conclusion with respect to my appearance which seemeth good unto him and reasonable. Should he, being a good-natured person, and always inclined to adopt the charitable side in any doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that I have no objection whatever to his enter- taining that idea ; moreover, that I heartily thank him, and shall at all times be disposed, vmder 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 sirgular ; 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 moralizer ; but the gay and rapid river and the dark and silent lake were, of a verity, no bad emblems of us two. So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able to rival the literary feat which I have recorded of him, many years elapsed before I was able to understand the nature of letters, or to connect them. A lover of nooks and retired corners, I was as a child in the habit of Cccing f.-o:n society, and of sitting for hours together with my 6 SLOIV OF SPEECH.— THE JEW. 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, 1 took no pleasure in conversation, nor in hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures. When people addressed me 1 not unfiequently, especially if they were strangers, turned away my head from tliem, and if they persisted in their notice burst into tears, which singularity of behaviour by no means tended to dispose people in my favour. 1 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 farm- house 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 1 was quite able to speak, I returned no answer. On the door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably relating to pedlary, demanded who the child was, sitting in the sun ; the maid replied that I was her mistress's youngest son, a child weak here, pointing to her forehead. The Jew looked at me again, and then said, '• Ton 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 1 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 ning 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, 1 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 wlirte 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 sometliing 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 brigliter hopes of her youngest-bom than she had ever before ventured to foster. Barracks and lodgings.-the viPer. CHAPTER II. Barracks and Lodgings — A Camp— The Viper — A Delicate Child — Blackberr)' Time — Meum and Tuiun— Hythe — The Golgotha — Daneman's Skull — Superhuman Stature — Stirring Times — Tlie Sea-Board. I HAVE been a wanderer the greater part of my life ; indeed Irememl er 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 snfficient 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. Some- times we lived in barracks, sometimes in lodgings, but generally in tl;e 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 woi 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 plaj'ing 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 pos- sessed. "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 furiouslj', made off, and disappeared. The whole scene is now before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday — the 8 A DELICATE CHILD.— BLACKBERRY TIME. gorgeous viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a frightened hen clucking under the bushes : and yet I was not three j-ears 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 1 have witnessed, and, indeed, borne a share in, connected with the taming of brutes and reptiles. 1 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 uncoutli, wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed lace, and an iron hook supplying the place of his right arm, one whom the animal had never seen before, playfully bite his hair and cover his face with gentle and endearing kisses ; and 1 have already stated how a viper would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up in his hand, whilst it siiovved its dislike to the ap|iroach of another by the fiercest hissings. Philosopiiy 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 wliich occurred about this time but for a singular effect which it produced upon my constitu- tion. Up to this period I had been rather a delicate cliild ; whereas almost immediately alter the occurrence to wliich 1 allude I became both hale and vigorous, to the great astonishment of my parents, who natur- ally 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 black- berry time, and the two children wandered under tlie hedges, peering anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of tlieir 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, tiiought I, how fortunate ! yet have I a right to gather it ? is it mine ? for the observance of tiie law of meum and tuitm iiad 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 ot eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the favour was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously. How long I continued eating I scarcely know. One tiling is certain, that I never left the field as I entered it, being carried home liYTHE.— THE GOLGOTHA. 9 in the arms of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which t continued for several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, wliilst 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 con- siderable 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, oir 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, lookmg on the walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead. 1 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 ihe faded tints of an ancient banner. And now on.e 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 l}iug in layers; so.me. 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 se.xton ; "skulls of the old Danes! Long ago they came pirating into these parts : and then there chanced a mighty ship- wreck, f jr God was angry with them, and He sunk them ; and their skulls, as they came ashore, were placed here as a memorial. There v.-ere many more when I wasyoun^, but now they are fast disappearing. Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, madam. Only see that one; why, the two young ger.try can scarcely 1. ft it ! " And, indeed, my brother and m\-self had entered the Golgotha, and com- menced handhng 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 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 conclu- sion 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 who-e 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 doAn by Latin dragomans. A brave old book is that of Snorro, containing the histories and adventures of old 10 DANEMAWS SKULL.-STIRRING TIMES. 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 Haardraadc, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became King of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stanford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. Now, 1 have often thought tliat the old Kemj), whose mouldering skull in the Golgotha at Hythe my brother and myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least this Harald, whom Sno;ro describes as a great and wise ruler and a determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence, and measuring in height ]\isi Ji7Je 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 aft t, u hen 1 became a student, I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Dani-h 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 imagina- tion. 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, tiiank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Sa.xon 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 laud ; there u as the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre ; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling of the drum wire heard in the streets of country towns, and the lojal shouts of t'-.e 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-board ; there is a sight for yuu upon the billows ! A dozen men-of-war are gliduig majestically out of port, * Norwegian ells — about eight feet. THE SEA-BOARD.— PRETTY D . u 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 gal- lantr}' and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood. CHAPTER III. Pretty D The Venerable Church — The Stricken Heart — Dormant Ener- gies — The Small Packet — Nerves — The Books — A Picture — Mountain- like Billows — The Foot-print^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 j'ears of age we were once more at D , the place of my birth, whither my father had been de- spatched 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 quiot 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 liad 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. Doubt- less 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 th^ 12 THE STRICKEN HEART.— DORMANT ENERGIES. withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might Iiavc ter minatcd in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; tlie deathlike face is no longer occnsionaily se'en timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through tie 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 hgurc moving beneath the hazels and alders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuiing trout streams; and no longer at early dawn does the Sf xfon of the old church reverently dofi' his hat as, supported by some kind friend, the deatli-stiicken creature totters along the church path to that mouldtring edifice with the low roof, inclosi: g a spring of sanatory waters, built and devcted to some saint — if tlie legend over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king. But to return to my ou n history. I had now attained tlie age of six : shall I state wliat 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 corre- sponded 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, some- times by 1 1 rents, sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant rn^ rgies of my nature, and to bend my wishes to the acqui- .'•ition of the rudimei ts 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 1 may safely say that I harboured neither wishes nor hopes; I had as yet seen no object calculated to call them forth, and y< t I took pleasure in many things which perhaps unfortiuiately 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 as- tonished and delighted his preceptors, 1 took no pleasure in books, whose use, indeed, I could scarcely comprehend, and bade fair to be as airant 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 boiuid 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 brotlier, drove up to the house in which we dwelt ; she staid 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 oi.e is a History of England, which I intend for my godson THE SMALL PACKET.— THE BOOKS. 13 when he returns from srhool, 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 youngest yonder," pointing to myself; she then departed, and, my mother going out shortly after, I was left alone. 1 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 singuLir blending of curiosity, awe, and pleasure, the remembrance of whicii, even at this distance of time, produces a remarkable effect upon my nervous system. Wliat 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 j^ou will, has its habitation ; how tliey occasion- ally tingle and vibrate before any coming event closely connected vvitli 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 com- pulsion ; 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 m.ore tlian 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 con- sidered 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 some- times as ready as a grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is inclined to do. But whether the action was right or wrong, and I am afraid it was not altogether right, I undid the packet: it con- tained three books ; two fi om their similarity seemed to be separate parts of one and the same work ; they were handsomely bound, and to them 1 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 UD 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 ; 14 A PICTURE.—MOUNTAIN-LIKE BILLOWS. it was exceedingly well executed, at least the scene which it repre- sented made a vivid impression upon me, which would hardly have been the case had the artist not been faitliful to nature. A wild scene it was — a heavy sea and rocky shore, with mountains in the back- ground, 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 dnw 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 \\ as 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 U])on 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. 1 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 again>t it ; there was a human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, dad 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 ui)on a mark on the sand — a large diitinct mark — a human footpiint ! Reader, is it necessary to name the book wliicli 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 wliich lias exerted over the minds of Englishmen an influence certainly greater than any other of modern times, which has been in most people's hanc's, and with the contents of which even tjiose who cannot read are to fi certain extent acquainted ; a book from I SPIRIT OP- DE FOE.— TERRORS OF GOD. ig which the most luxuriant and fertile of our modern prose vviiters have drunk inspiration ; a book, moreover, to which, Irom the liardy deeds which it narrates, and the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise whirh it tends to awaken, England owes many of her astonishing dis- coveries 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 1 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 respe(t to the contents of the volume, whose engravings had fascinated my eye, burned within me, and I never rested until I had fully satished 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 ac- quainted 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 ot the nature and properties of God, and w'ith 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 1 now never heard it without a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable being, the rnaker of all things ; that we were His children, and that we, by our sins, had juitly 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, 1 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 fasci- nated 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 move- ment 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. i6 HIGH CHURCH CLERK. Rector. " Thou didst divide the sea, through Thy power : TIioii brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters." Philoh. " Thou smotest the licads of Leviatlian in i)icces : and gavest him to be meat for tlie people in tlic wiUlerness." Rector. "Thou brouglitest out fountains and waters out of tlie hard rocks : Thou driedst up mighty waters. ' Philoh. "The day is Tliine, and the night is Thine: Thou iiast prepared the light and the sun." Peace to yoiir memories, digiiifud rector, and j-ot more dignified clerk! By this time ye are probablj' gone to your long homes, and your voices are no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the venerable • hurch ; 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, wiiilst the rifles of the sturdy Yankees were seii'ling the leaden h:iil -■^harp and thick amidst the red-coated ranks; fur Philoh had not always been a man of peace, nor an exiiorter to tuin 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 vete- ran retired, after a long peregrination, to his native town, to enjoy ease and respectability on a pension of " eigliteenpence a day ; " and well (lid his fellow-townsmen act when, to increase tiiat ease and respecta- Ijility, and with a thougiitful ret;ard 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, dcspiser of dissent- ers, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and high-church clerk ; if thou art in thy gra\ e the better for thee ; thou wei t fitted to adorn a nygone 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 philosophical latitudinarian doctrine, universal toler- ism, and half-concealed rebellion — rare times, no doubt, for papists and dissenters, but which would assuredlj' 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 1 am not writing the history of others. At length my father was recalled to his rrgiment. which at that time was stationed at a place called Norman Cross, in Lincolnshire, or rather Huntingdon- shire, at some distance from the old town of Peterborough. For this place he departed, leaving my mother and myself to follow in a few tlays. Our journey was a singular one. On the second day we reached a marshy and ft-nny country, which, owing to immense quantiti'^s of xain which had luiely fallen, was eompl-Jtely submerged. At a large A jovrS'ev.-normas' Cross. 17 town we got on board a kind of passage-boat, crowded with people ; il Iiad neither sails nor oars, and those were not the days of steam- vessels ; it was in a treck-schuyt, and was drawn by horses. Yonng as I was, there was much connected with tiiis journey whitli highly surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance particular scenes described in tiie 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 \vhich case the boys or urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, sometimes knelt, upon the saddle and pillions. No accident, liowever, either to the quadrupeds or bipeds, who appeared respectively to be quite au fait in their business, and extricated thpm?elves witii the greatest ease from places in whicli Pharaoh and all his hosts would have gone to the bottom. Nightfall brougiit ns to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow in reaching the place of our destination. CHAPTER IV. Norman Cross — Wide Exp-in-se — Vive rEinpereur—Unpruned Woods — Man with the Bag — Froth and Conceit — I beg your Pardon— Growhig 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 1 am spe^k'ng, a sad cross to many a Norman, being what was then styled a French prison, that is, a receptacle for cap- tives made in the Prcn.ch war. It consisted, if I remember right, of some five or six ca«ernes, very long, and immensely high ; each standmg isolated from the rest, upon a spot of gnmnd which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round with lofty pali- sades, the whole being compassed about by a towering wall, beneath which, at intervals, on both sides, sentin.els were stationed, whilst out- side, upon tlie field, stood commodious wooden barracks, capable of containing two regiments of infantry, intended to serve as guards upon tlie 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 miglity 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 pr 'truded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height. Ah ! tliere was much misery in those casernes ; and from those roofs, doubtless. l8 t^jTE LEMPEREUk !-U}^PRUNED ttVODS. many a wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France. Much had the poor inmates to enduri^, 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 1 have seen the very hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy ei.tcrta-nment even for the most ruffian enemy, wlien helpless and a captive ; and sn h, alas! was the fare in those casernes. And then, those visits, or rather ruthless inroads, called in the slang of the place "straw-plait hunts," when in pursuit of a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of making, red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with the bayonet's point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endea- vouring to raise around it ; and then the triumphant exit with the miserable booty ; and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire, on the barrack parade, of the plait contraband, beneath the view of the glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above like a tempest-shower, or in the terrific war-whoop of " JVrr l EjJipereur .' " 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 verj' thickly inhabited. I soon became will acquainted with it. At the distance of two miles from thest ition 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 pioprietor, and only inhabited by a rustic ser\ant or two. A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be imagined ; the gard^-n and walks were overgrown with weeds and briars, and the unpruned woods were so tangled as to be almost impervious. About this domain I would wander till overtaken by fatigue, ajd 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 MAN WITH THE BAG.—FROTH AND CONCEIT. 19 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, childerknew how to behave themselves; but the childer of these days are full of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper ; " and with his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of foam from the jaws of the viper down upon the road. " The childer of these days are a generation of — God forgive me, what was I about to say ! " said the old man ; and opening his bag he thrust the reptile into it, which appeared far from empty. I passed on. As I was returning, towards the evening, I overtook the old man, who was wending in the same direction. " Good evening to you, sir," said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my head. " Good evening," said the old man ; and then, looking at me, " How's this ? " said he, '' you ar'n't, sure, the child I met in the morning ? " " Yes," said I, " I am ; what makes you doubt it?" "Wh)', 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 j'ou." " I'hank 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 ftr them." " And what do you do with them ? " said I ; "do you carry them home and play with them ! " "1 sometimes pla}' with one or two that I tame," said the old man ; "but 1 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 li\ ing 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 wiio 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?" 1 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 beeu in this neighbourhood till lately for some years," 20 GROW IX G TIMID.- TJKiyG ONES EASE. From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaintance ; I often accompanied him in his wanderings about the neigiibourhood, 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 langs ; it would dance and perform various kinds of tricks. He was fond of telling me anecdotes connected with his adventures \vith the reptile species " But," said he one day, sighing, " 1 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 lie had better leave off, as it is quite clear his virtue is leaving him. 1 got a fright some years ago, which 1 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 liad 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." " 1 don"t csre," said I ; "I dont intend to follow the business : I dare say 1 shall be an officer, like my lather." *' Well,"' said the old man, " I once saw the king ot 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?' paid I. "1 will tell you," said the old man, ''though 1 don't like talking a' nut the matter. It may be about seven years ago that 1 happened t<> 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 da)', 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 har\-est 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 determuied to have a sleep, and I laid myself down, my head just on the lidge 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 fiom my face ; the creatures were struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more comfortably off 1 was than they; I was faking 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 tiiat 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 s'.cep. .something like a tiling moving, very faint,, however, far away ; then it died, ancl CHEEK ON THE GROUND.- KIXG OF THE VIPERS. 21 then it came again upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if 1 heard crackle, crackle ; then it died again, or 1 became yet more dead asleep than before, I know not which, bat I certainly lay some time without hearing it All of a sudden I became awake, and there was 1, 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, among 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 1 rolled myself on my be'h', 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 toot and a half above the ground, the dn,' stuoble ciackling 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. 1 lay quite still, for I was stupified 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 j'ou think ? — it lifted its head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as 1 looked up, flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at m}- face. Child, what 1 felt at that moment 1 can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for all the sins I ever committed ; and there wc 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 kind- ness of God that saved me : all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a iowler was shooting at a covey of b rds, 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 th.e 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 olten struck me that he was angry with me, and came upon me un- awares for presuming to meddle with his people, as 1 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 betweea 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 tlie king, provided King George ■" " Haven't tlie French a king ? " I demanded. "Yes," said tlie 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 ? " 22 FRENCHMEN AND WATER.— THE TENT. " Suppose he should come to Normau 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 tlie 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 'vas 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 1 had never seen before ; at first it was rather narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider ; in the middle was a drift-way 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 belore 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 whicli, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a caldron ; my advance had been so noiseless as not to alarm the iinnates, who con- sisted 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, peiceiving me, uttered a strange kind of cry, and (lie MAN AND WOMAN.—MANNER OF SPEAKING. 23 next moment both the woman and himself were on their feet and rushing out upon me. I retreated a few steps, 3'et 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 boddice, below which she were 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 tliat of the woman, it 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 asso- ciating. It was quite as strange as his appearance, and yet it nothing resembled the foreign English which 1 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 tlie man, " drown him anon in the mud ! " " Drown me, wi.l you ? " said I ; " I should like to see you ! What's all this about ? Was it because I saw you with j'our hands full of straw plait, and my mother there " " Yes," said the woman ; "what was I about ?" Myself. How should I know ? iVIaking 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 bejdame, dashing at me. " I3ad mpney, is it ? " 24 TRANSFIXED.— FALTERING TONE. " Leave him to me, wifelkin," said the man, interposing; "you shall DOW 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. Majt. What do you mean, ye Bengui's bantling? I never heard surli discourse in all my life: playman's speech or Frenchman's talk — which, I wonder? Your fatiier! tell the mumping villain that if he comes near my fire 111 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 \ iper understood ; and now, parth' dis- engaging 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 ej-es. 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 j-ellow, 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 f ^r 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 tlie like of this here ? But tl.e 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 some- what 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 rot French. At last the man, in a somewhat lo ider 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 uf the tent, first rubbii g it with his sleeve, as if for the purpose of polishing its surface. Alan. 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. IVomaii. Yes, my geo-geous angel, sit down by the poor bodies' fire, and eat a sweatmeat. We want to ask you a question or two ; only first put that serpent away. Myself. 1 can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleeji, that's easy enough ; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that ? I have nut got one, and where am I to get it ? Woman. Never fear, my tiny tawny, we can give you one, suc'i as you never ate, I dare say, however far you may have cumc from, LITTLE BASKET.— PLENTY OF GOOD. 25 The serpent sunk into his 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 rp?n with a knife, she held it to me, and I saw, to my surprise, that it contained candied fruits of a dark green hue, tempting enough to one of my age. " There, my tiny," said she ; " taste, and tell me how you like them." ■" Very much," said I ; " where did you get them ?" The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding her head thrice, with a knowing look, said, " Who knows better than yourself, my tawny ? " Now, I knew nothing about the matter ; but I saw that these strange people had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities of their visitor, which I was nothing loath to encourage. I therefore answered boldly, " All ! who indeed ! " " Certainly," said the man; "who should know better than j-ourself, or so well ? And now, vr.y tiny one, let me ask you one tiling — you didn't come to do u • any harm ? " ''No," said I, "I had no dislike to you; though, if you were to mf d 'le with me " Man. Of course, my gorgeous, of course j'ou would ; and quite rieht t'o. Meddle with you! — what right have we? I should say, it would n( t 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 thf-m — 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, wifel- kin, only think that we should see one of them there when we least tiiouglit about it. Well, 1 iiave heard of such things, though I have never thought to see one ; however, seeing is believing. Well ! now you are come, and are not going to do us any mischief, 1 hope you will stay; you can do us plenty of good if you will. Myself. What good can I do you ? Man. What good ? plenty ! Would j-ou not bring us luck ? I have heard say, that one of them there always does, if it will but settle d'nvn. 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 yoa every morning ! Myself. Tliat would be nice; and if you were to give me plenty of the.'-e 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 j-ou 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 witliout him. Mo.71. Mis regiment ! What arc 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, keephig guard over the French prisoi;ers. 26 TILTED CART.-RUBRICALS.-JASPER. Afan. 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— hi " 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 tiie 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 sapengro, a chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them 1 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, 1 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 togetlier ; 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 accom- plishments, 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 month of which was overgrown with brushwood, and how he was nearly frightened to death in that cave by something which he saw. " That will do," said the man ; " that's the kind of prayers for me and my family, ar'n't they, wifelkin ? I never heard more delicate prayers in all my life ! Why, they beat the rubricals hollow !— and here comes my son Jasper. I say, Jasper, here's a young sap-engro that can read, and is more fly than yourself. Shake hands with him ; 1 wish ye to be two brothers." With a swift btit stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from the fartiier part of tiie lane ; on reaching the tent he stood still, and looked fi.xediy upcn me as 1 sat upon the stool; I looked lixi^dly upon him. A queer look iiad Jasper; he was a lad of some twelve or tliirteen years, with long arms, unlike tiie singular being who called himself his father; his complexion was ruddy, but his face was seamed, though it did not bear the peculiar scar wliich disligurwd the countenance of the other ; nor, though roguish enough, a certain evil expresijan which Tilt: RiGiit SORT. -The Horseman oe the Lane:. 5? that of the otlier 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 lrge with drum and drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, ere a wctk had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major Elzigood HEADLONG.— EXPERT CLIMBERS. 39 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 Hberation, 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 com- pared, which, at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with head, hands, feet and body, all together, upon the champion of the New Town, tumbling him to the earth amain. And now it was the turn of the Old Town to triumph. Our late discomfited host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen champion with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher who had assumed his arms, namely, the wheelspoke and wicker siiield, fairly cleared the brae of their adver- saries, whom they drove down headlong into the morass. CHAPTER VIII. Expert Climbers — The Crags — Something Red — Tlie Horrible Edge — David Haggart — Fine Materials — The Greatest Victory — Extraordmary Robber — 1 he 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 on 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 \\ ith the chamois and the goat m agility and sureness of foot. To scale the rock was merely child's play for the Edinbro' callarits. It was my own favourite diver- sion. 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 chmber, if so disposed, could stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought ; for capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation. The boldest features of the rock are descried on the southern side, where, after shelving down 40 THE HORRIBLE EDGE. gently from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet at least, as it 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 r'ay upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the westtrn crags, and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch tower, I found myself on the southern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the castle, when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me ; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of led 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 slighte- t notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. " I shoul 1 never have thought of going near that edge," said I to myself; " how- ever, 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, m,j' nerves were tinghng, and my brain was somewhat dizzy — and now I had arrived wiihin 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 tlie 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 Hag:Jart. 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 Haod i condition, not so their under garments. On their heads were broad slouchi ig hats: the generality of tiiem were bare-footed. As they passed, the soldiers jested wit'.i them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed, and appeared to jest with the soldi.-rs ; but what they said who knows, it be'hg in a ro'igti 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 th.^ Irish live — at least all tlie worst of them — and thire they hatch their villanies to speak this tongue ; it is that which keeps tliem together and makes them dangerous : 1 was oiire sent there to seize a couple of deserters — Irish — who had taken refuge amongst tlieir companions ; we found them in what was in my time called a ken, that is, a hou.se wl ere onl)' thimes and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kin i of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party ; it was well I did so. Wc found the deserters in a large room, wit!i at It^ast thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long talile, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, [ remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it be>t to be (|uiet; but the rest, with an ubbuhhoo, like the blowing up of a ])owd(r-magazine, s|)rang up, brandi-liing their sticks ; for these fellows always carry sticks with them even to bed, and not unfreqiiently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right." "Did you take the deserters?" said the officer. " Yes," said my father; "for we formed at the end o the room, and charged with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield ELEGANT LODCL\'GS.-A SPEECH. 45 notwithstanding their numbers ; but tlie worst was when we got out into the street ; the wliole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon us — men, women, and children. Women, did I sa}'!— they looked fiends, half-naked, with their hair han:;ing down over their bosoms ; they tore up the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and Irish — I liked tiie Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially as I did not understand it. It's a bad language." " A cjueer tongue," said I, " I wonder if I could learn it ? " "Learn it!" said my father ; " what should you learn it for ? — how- ever, 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 Tipperarv ; along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, tlie 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 inliabitants — 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 intenst, 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, a genteel company ; a}-, 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-locking 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 London- derry, ' 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 Londonderrj', 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, 46 ORANnEMF.N and how 1 shook your honoiir by the hand, sayuig, 1 am glad to see your honour, and your honour's son, and your Iionour's royal mihtary Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, and right proud I am to have ye one and all ; one, tuo, three, four, true Protes- tants 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 well 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 hi:^h 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 !" 0!i, 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 civilization and religious truth ; they were sent as colonists, few- in number, into a barbarous and unhappy countrj-, 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 san- guinary," it is said. A)-, 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 energ)', 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. PROTESTANT YOUNG GENTLEMEN, ,fj CHAPTER X. Protestant Young Gentlemen — The Greek Letters — Open Chimney — Muilagh — 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 Enghsh 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 ins'ght into the Greek letters, which is desirable ; and where, moreover, he will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Pro- testant 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 tliere— 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 school-room 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 occa- sional 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 land- lord, with the Papist " gasoons," as they were called, the farmers' sons frojn the country ; and of these gasoons, of which there were three, two F ^8 MURTAGIL-FARIS AND SALAMANCA. might be reckoned as nothing at all ; in the third, however, I soon dis- covered that there was something extraordinary. He was about sixteen years old, anr} 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 plenti- fully 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 move- ments with his thumbs and fore-fingers, 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 tha.i 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 Iiave been doing nothing all day that I rare for ; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, till I become friglited ; and then 1 shouts to my brother Denis, or to the gasoons, 'Get up, I say, and let's be doing something ; tell us a tale of Fiiin-ma-Coul. and how he lay down in the Shsnnon's bed, and let the river flow down his jaws !' Arrah, Shorsha, THE PACK OF CARDS. 49 I wish you would coire and stay with us, and tell us some o'j-our sweet stories of your ownself and tlie snake ye carried about wid 3'e. Faith, Shorsha dear ! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-CouI or Biian 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 1 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, 1 heard a voice above my head singing out 'To whit, to whoo ! ' and then up I starts, and runs into the house, and falls over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire. 'What's that for?' says he. 'Get up, you thief!* says I, 'and be helping me. I have been out in the barn, and an owl has crow'd at me ! ' " " And what has this to do with playing cards ? " "Little enough, Shorsha dear! — If there were card-playing, I should not be frighted." " And wh)' do you not play at cards ? " " Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away the pack ? If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gasoons would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, and play cards with me for ha'pence, or eggs, or nothing at all ; but the pack is gone — bad luck to the thief who took it ! " " And why don't you buy another ? " "Is it of buying you are speaking? And where am I to get the money ? " " Ah ! that's another thing ! " " Faith it is, honey ! — And now the Christmas holidays is coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and then what am I to do? Since I have been a saggarting, I have been good for nothing at all — neither for work nor Greek — only to play cards ! Faith, its 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 j'ou'll be lending them to me, I'll 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?" 50 DEVILS MOUNTAIN. •'Yes, you speak Irish ; I heard you talking it the other day to the cripjile. You thall 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— Kuine 1 Castle— Grim and Desolate— The Donjon — Old Woman — My Own House. When Christmas was over, and tlie 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. Ex- tensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected with the huge bog of Allan, the Palus Maeotis of Ireland. Here and there was seen a ruined castle looming tlrorgh the mists of winter ; whilst, at the dis- tance of seven miles, rce 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 w^hich, 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 wear>', dropped it in the vicinity of Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a WAd 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 stnt on a detachment to a village at about ten miles' distance. He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large-limbed for my age; but there was a spirit in him that would not have disgraced a general ; and, nothing daunted at the considerable responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of twenty light-infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected expressly by my father, for the soldier-like qualities which he possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition. So out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my dear brother, his single drum and fife plaj ing the inspiring old melody, " Marlbrouk is gone to the wars, He'll never return no morel" I soon missed my brother, for I was now alone, with no being, at all assimilating in age, with whom I cnuM 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 I FORCE OP CmCUMSTANCE. ^\ 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, 1 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, some- times 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 whi h 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 chance, I speedily, as the reader will perceive, learnt others, some of which were widely different from Irish. Ah, that Irish I 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. 1 frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish, when I hear it in the street ; yt.t I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language; "A labhair Padruic n'inscfail nan rioffh." 52 WINED CASTLE, One ol the most peculiar features ol tliis part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous tliat the lace 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 ol the times of Eli/'abeth 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. 1 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 wao about to venture upon its 1 lack surface, and to pick my way amongst its innumerable holes, yauning horribly, and half hlled with water black as snot, 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, alter following the road for some three miles, seemingly in the di.eciion of the Devil's Mountain, 1 suddenly beheld the caslle 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 1, 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 adven- ture, and moved on towards the castle across the green plain, occasion- ally casting a startled glance around me ; and now I was close to it. it was surroiuided by a quadrangular wall, about ten feel 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 lufiy gateway with a touer 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 grouth of copsewood, and a few evergreen oaks. I passed through the gateway, and found myself within a stpiare enclosure of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep, or donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strewing the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, oa i MY OWN HOUSE. 53 the other side, stood the remains ol 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 lime to have raged out of the window- holes, for the outside about them was black, portentously so. " I wonder what has been going on here ! " I exclaimed. There were echoes along the walls as I walked about the court. I entered the keep by a low and frowning doorway : the lower floor consisted of a large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted roof ; on the left hand was a winding staircase in the thickness of the wall ; it looked anything but inviting ; yet I stole softly up, my heart beating. On the top of the first flight of stairs was an arched doorway, to the left was a dark passage, to the right, stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but higher. There was an object at the farther end. An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth ; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps. I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face. " Is this your house, mother ? " I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand. " Yes, my house, my own house ; the house of the broken-hearted." "Any other person's house?" I demanded. " My own house, the beggar's house — the. accursed house of Cromwell I " CHAPTER XII. A Visit — Figure of a Man — The Dog of Peace — The Raw Wound — The Guard-room — Boy Soldier — Person in Authority — Never Solitary — • Clergyman and Family — Still-Hunting — Fairy M.nn — Near Sun-set — 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 consider- ably more than half of the journey. The weather had 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 snow-storm came on ; the road then lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides ; I was making 54 THE DOG OF PEACE. the best of mj' 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 tlie 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 dj'ke, 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 fang-^. " 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 ; liis 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 Sassanach," and forthwitli I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric. The man looked upon me for a moment, fi.vedly, then, bending his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of BOY SOLDIER. 55 convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound something resembhng 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 j'e." 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 snow-flakes. 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 guard-room ; 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 ad- mirable. I have read of a remarkable Welshman, of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, t'lat 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 tliat 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 re- member 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 $6 PERSON IN AUTHomry. 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 hea\'y on your hands ; this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitarj-?" " 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-bom 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 I am treated by them hke a son and 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 tlie 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 FAIRY MAN. S7 does Bagg ; though without it, we sliould not see much active service, lor the neighbourhood is quiet; save tl.e pour 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 daresjy ; 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; occasion- all}' he quarters himself in the peasants' houses, wl;o let him do just what he pleases ; he is free of his money, and olten does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, so ^ney don't dislike him. Then he is what they call a fairj' man, a person iii league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much harm by supernatural means, on whicli 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, with- out saying a word to me — for which, by the bye, I ought to put h'lm imder ariest, though what I should do without Bagg 1 have no iidea 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 ac- customed 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 moviiig 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 cant 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 — verj' well dressed in a blue coat and buff breeches for all the world like a squire when 58 LEFT-HAI^DED HITTER. 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 ! 1 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 ?' says he. 'I believe I do, sir,' said Bagg, ' and in that belief will hold you fast in the name of King George, and the qnarter 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 gut up and put himself on his guard. The fellow laughed again more strangely and awkwardly tlian before ; then, bending his body and moving his head from one si ie to the other as a cat does before slie 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 witli 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 tliere 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 f. cm 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 pot 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 sive the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but somctliing Irish and supernatural. Myself. I dare say he's right. I have read of witchcraft in the Bible. John. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doutt that GROOM AND COB. 59 he could master liim, and hand him over to i\\t quarter sessions. He saj's 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 Xni. Groom and Cob— Strength and Sj-mmetr}-— Where's the Saddle — The First Ride — No more Fatigue — Love for Horses— Pursuit of Words — Philolo- gist and Pegasus — The Smith — What more, Agrah ? — Sassanach Ten Pence. And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one ol the grooms came out to me, saying, " I say, young gentle- man, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning." " Why do you wish me to mount him?' said 1; "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, 1 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, flunking I was en 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 ri Je.'' "Then you are all riglit, master ; there's no fear. Trust him li>r 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 j-ou to ride, if you leave tlie matter with him. He's the best riding master in all Ireland, and the gentle-t. ' The cob was led forth ; what a tremendous creature ! I had fre- quently 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 6o THE FIRST RIDE, his legs, which were somewhat short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish cob, a species atone time not uncommon, but at the present day nearly extinct. " There ! " said the groom, as he looked at him. hail-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 ; b'lt 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, von 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 pa'r 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, however, for so inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal per- ceived 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 j-et saved man from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it's his sides you must cling to with your calves and feet, till j-ou learn to balance yourself. That's it, now abroad with you ; 111 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 tlie rate of sixteen miles an hour. Oh, that ride ! that first ride ! — most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret. People may talk of first love — it is a very agreeable event, I dare say — b^rt give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of .» first ride, lik« mine on the mighty cob \ My j< hole frame^was shaken, it is true ; LOVE FOR HORSES. 6! 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 com- menced 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 Penl's Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on every side ; that ride, amongst other thing?- taught me that a lad with the-^vj and sirews was intended by nature for 62 THE SMITH. something better tlian mrre 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 7iiagnum 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 bra\e song ! — I return to the brave cob. On a certain day 1 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 tjiis 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 fiom his work, and staring at me. " O yes, I have money," said I, "and of the best ; " and I pulled out an English shilling. '• Tabhair chugam ? " 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 tf 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 wrj- mouth. " You deserve better handling," said L 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 ! " " Its at you, then ! — I don't fear him ; " and thereupon I passed under the horse, between his hind legs. " And is that all you can do, agrah 'i " said the smith. " No," said L " 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 \vall, and what more, agrah ?" JI'IIJ T MORE, A GRA II ? 63 " Notliing more," said I ; " what more would you have ?" " Can you do this, agrali ? " said the smith ; and he uttered a word \vhich I had never heard before, in a sliarp 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 1, 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 j^e 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 plain- tive : 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, coa.xed and patted it, making use of various sounds of equal endearment, then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, he said, "And now ye will be giving me the Sassanach ten pence, 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 — [ Have Been Young — Idleness — Onlj' 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, over- looks 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 fpot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique Q 64 NORM AX MASTER-WORK. bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city; the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand, and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a grey old castle upon the top of that mighty mound ; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work, that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatrj- ! 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 witnessi 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 tiie sea to found hearthstcads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture ol 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 supersti- tion, 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 beat in tliose regions, and there ye will find, if anj'where, old nortliern 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 witiiin 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 I U'RITIXG TO A DUKE. 65 humbled banner of France in trinmph at his stern. He was born yonder, towards the west, and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town ; in its dark flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a epecies 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 ivorj' and mothcr-ol-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 Bword is to be seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall : manj* other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's sword. Such was the place to wiiich, wlicn the war was over, my father retired : it was here that the old tired soldier set himself down with his little famil)'. 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 vcr\' ample ; fortunate it was that his desires corre- sponded with them : with a small fortune of his own, and with his half- pay as a roj-al 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 tiiem upon the wide ocean of the world ? This was, perhaps, the only tliouglit which gave him uneasiness, and I be- lieve 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 tliose who were in some degree connected with that privileged order, an advantage which few of these old officers could boast of; they had sliglit 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 tha' eldest boy of ours. He, however, affords me no hopes ; he says thai 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 mer- chants 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 tliis 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 \evy respectable j lijs mind seems cjiite turned that 66 NOTHING LIKE JACOB. way, and I heard him say the other day that he would sooner be a Micliael Angelo than a general officer. i3ut you are always talking of him ; what do you tiiink 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 ! 1 bear him no ill-will, on the contrary, all love and affection ; but 1 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. " 1 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 1 am always thinking 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 l.ke Jacob ; he is neither smooth nor sleek, and, though my second-born, he is already taller and larger than his brother.' "Just so," said my mother, "his brother would make a far b2tter 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 1 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 uneasi- ness — 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 imdeistand me, a regular Irish look, just such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence and sim- plicity, 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 tiie Irish brigades kept by the French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever oppor- tunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me, that in the time / IlAt'E BEEN youNG. 67 bf the Pretender there were a'waj-s, 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 w'omen 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 ? Tlie 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 Davids own words, ' I have been young and now am grown old, yet never liave 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, 2nd both mind and body are con- tinually 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 fror^ 68 THE BOOKSTALL books and school ? Many people go to sleep to escape f.om idleneSS ; the Spaniards do; and, according to tlie French account, Jolin Bull, the 'inquire, hangs himself in the month of November ; but the French, who are a very sensible people, attribute the action, " d une grande envte de se desetinuyer ;'' he wishes to be doing something-, say they, and havii.g 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 1 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, 1 migiit have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues of any kind ; but, having nothing to do, I followed the o;i!y 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 stop|jing, commenced turning over the books ; I took up at least a dozen, and almost instantly flung them down. What were they to me ? At last, coming to a thick volume, I opened it, and after inspecting its contents for a few minutes, I paid for it what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home, It was a tessara-glot grammar; a strange old book, printed some- where in Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to the acquire- rient 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 mj* 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 f-ixty, 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 ; ;;dd to these articles an immense frill, seldom of the purest while, 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 recognizing any one would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss a tawny and ungloved hand. At ccriaiu MONSIEUR DANTE. 69 hours of the day he might be seen entering the doors of female boarding- schools, generally with a book in his hand, and perhaps another just peering from the orifice of a capacious back pocket ; and at a certain season of the year he might be seen, dressed in white, before the altar of a certain small popish chapel, chanting from the breviary in very intelligible Latin, or perhaps reading from the desk in utterly un- intelligible English. Such was my preceptor in the French and Italian tongues. " Exul sacerdos ; vone banished priest. I came into England twenty-five years 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 Itahan under the tuition of the banished priest, to wh.ose house 1 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 sefes icn jojir toi grand philologne, 7non 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. 'VS'^hat would you wish to be ? " " Manj'^ things sooner than that ; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book." " Ouot, 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. // est vrai que la France sera toitjours la France ; but all are dead there who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic, 70 SPORTING.—SIVEET RIVULET. tliat 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. Mafoi, il y a beaucoiip dc difference entre mot 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; 1 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 studtr,t. 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 with- out 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 honey-combed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces. But the winter, alas ! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more than three or four months ; so, during the rest of the year, when not occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other diver- sions. 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 citj', behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the south-we.st, is a small river, the waters of which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its course from its spring-head, Jn'gh 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 sj)ot, 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 tlie pool is deep, and they appear to THE EARL'S HOME. 71 have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallovi^. 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 vvliich, 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 hail. It has a stately look, that old building, indis- tinctly 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, tliat on one hot summer's day, after bathing in the pool, I passed along the meadow till 1 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 j-ears — 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 stri\e to lemember a couplet or two of poor Monsieur Boileau. "Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all these fibh out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in tliC sun V" 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 ; 72 tVHAT DOST THOU READ? at least 1 thought so, though tliey were somewhat shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves. " Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgcst, my jx)ung 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 profes- sion dost thou make? — 1 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 liturg>'. Dost thou read aught beside the Scriptures ? " "Sometimes." '• What dost thou read besides ? " " Greek, and Dante." " Indeed ; then thou hast the advantage over myself; I can only read tlie former. Well, I am rejoiced to find that thou hast other pursuits beside thy fishing. Dost thou know Hebrew?" '• No." " Thou shouldest study it. Why dost thou not undertake the study?" " I have no books." *' 1 will lend thee books, if thou wish to undertake the stud)'. I live yonder at the hall, as perhaps thou knowest. 1 have a library there, in which are many curious books, both in Greek and Hebrew, wliich I will show to thee, whenever thou mayest find it convenient to come and see me. P^arewell ! I am glad to find that thou hast pursuits more satis- factory 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 inclina- tion to the sport, I know not, but from tliat day 1 became less and less a practitioner of that "cruel fishing." I rarely flung linj 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. 1 say singular, for the extraordinary, imder 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 bashfulncss, or timidity, feelings to which I had long been an entire stranger. Am I to regret this ? perhaps, for 1 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 1 might have derived MoNeV-chan6erB.-Pa!R OF' horses. 73 from him. When manj^ years had rolled on, long after I had attained manhood, and had seen and suffered much, and when our first inter- view 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. 1 do not like this last author, this Abarbenel, the worse for having been a money-changer. I am a banker myself, as thou knowfist." 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 1 CHAPTER XVT. 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 w.\s standing on the castle hill in the midst of a fair of horses. 1 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 liill ; " 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 mo.e 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 74 THE FAST TROTTER. 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 sua above and a burning sand below. There were — oh, the gallant crea- tures ! I hear their neigh upon the wind ; there were — goodliest sight of all — ceitain enormous quadrupeds only seen to perfection in our native isle, led about by dapper grooms, thcT manes ribauded 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 tht-y 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 care- lessly, but presently with something like interest ; " he is old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. You wont live long, my swain ; tall and overgrown ones like thee never does ; yet, if you should chance to reach my years, you may boast to thy great grand boys, thou hast seen Marshland Shales." Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl or baron, doffed my hat ; yes ! I doffed my hat to the wondrous horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England ; and I, too, drew a deep ah ! and repeated the words of the old fellows around. '' Such a horse as this we shall never see again ; a pity that he is so old." Now during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I had been the object of some person's observation ; that eyes were fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I thought myself watched from before, sometimes from behind ; and occasionilly me- thought 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 macic lanthorn. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of eyes glaring over my right slioulder; my attention, how- ever, was so fully occupied with the objects wliich 1 have attempted to JASPER, YOUR PALI 75 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 miglit 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 browTi 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 strip- lings, 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 tlieir 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 v.'ild 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 dis- appeared, 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 recognized you." " Xot so strange as you may think, brother ; there is something in yP4f face whicli would prevent people from forgetting you, even though ?« YOUNG LADY WITH DIAMONDS. 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 SUTQ 1 dodged about, inspecting you. I believe you felt mo, though I never touched you ; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui paloi;— 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 111 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 j-oung 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 any- thing 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 oue of the tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman supported on 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, address- ing 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 'AW hour, flnd she's jealotis ajreadj'r PLEASANT DISCOURSE. 77 Well," he continued, "what do you think of her? j-ou have seen her now, and can judge for yourself— that 'ere woman is Tawno Chiknos wife I " CHAPTER XVII. The Tents — Pleasant Discourse — I am Pharaoh — Shifting for One's Self- Horse Shoes — This is Wonderful— Bless Your Wisdom — A Pretty Manoeuvre — 111 Day to the Romans — My Name is Heme — 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, lam 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," 78 / AM PHARAOH. " Perhaps ; but you are of the Gorgios, and I am a Rommany Chal. Tauiio Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro !" " Is that your name ?" '■ Dcn"t you like it?" " Ver)' 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." " 1 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 th'ngs, brother: mother sense, and gentle Rommany ? " " What makes you think that 1 want sense ? " " That, being so old, you can't yet guide yourself I" " I can read Dante, Jasper." " Anan, brother." " I ran charm snakes, Jasper." " 1 know you can, brother." "Yes, and horses too; bring me tlie most vicious in the laid, if I whisper he'll be tame." "Then the more shame for j'ou — a snakr-fellow — ahorsr-w'tch — and a lil-reader — yet you can't shift for yourself. I la''gh at ytu, bro hsr ! " '• Then you can shift for yourself? '' " For myself and for others, brother." " And what does Chikno ? " " Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horsi s o i the cl o g 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 bitchadf y 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 1 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 h-" is, he has not a hcse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it dowu to his wife, \\\\q cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw." "And you are what is cgllcd a Gypsy King?" " A)', ay ; a Rommany Krai." Bless yoor wisdom. 79 " Are there other kings ? " "Those who call themselves so ; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro. " Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?" " The fiist who ever did, brother." " Pharaoh Uved 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 1 " 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, rnyself 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 1 heard you say just now to the little boy ? ' 'I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and, to save trouble, I said it in our own language.' ' Where did you get that language ? ' says the Poknees. ' 'Tis our own language, sir,' 1 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 met a parson. •Good woman,' he says, '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 I " " She called you her son, Jasper? " •' I am her son, brother." •' I thought you said your parents were " "Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. Tliis is my wife's mother." jj So ILL DAY TO THE ROMANS. "Then you arc married, Jasper?" " Ay, truly ; 1 am husband and latlier. You will see wile 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 sorelj\" " Would you teach it mc ?" "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 mananivre, truly ; and what would be the end of it ? 1 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 1 savs to my sister, speaking Rommany, ' Do so and so,' says I ; which tiie 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, witli perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister tome, when we have got fairly ot^", ' 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?' savs mv 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 1 says that, I pens a true dukkerin." "What do you call Goil, Jasper?" "You had better be jawing," said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream ; " you had better be moving otT, my gorgio ; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face. Do you knjw whom you have to deal witli ? Do you know that 1 am dangerous ? My name is Heme, and 1 comes of the hairy ones ! " And a hairy one she looked ! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened witii many strings and ligatures ; but now, tearing these otV, her locks, originally ji-t black, but now parti.illy gri/zled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far down as hiT knees. No she-bear from Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, as, standing in the open jKut of the tent, witli her head bent down, and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself upon mc, she repeated, again and again, — AN OklGlS'AL SPEECH. 8l " iSiy name is Heme, and I comes of the hair)- ones I " " 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." " Wliat are you thinking of, brother ? "' " Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devi'.ish 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 peo;ile, whose habits and pursuits awakened within me the highest interest. Of all connected with them, iiovvever, their language was doubtLss that which exercised the greatest influ- ence over my imagination. I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a mere made-up gibberish. But I w;is 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 hii;li name r.nd 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 aflorded any clue. I thought I could now cljar up by means of this strange broken tongue, spoken by people who dwelt among thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the generality of mankind desig- nated, 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, confesi-ed his inabihty 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 Kommany Glials ! " "Rommany dials! 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 bui'.t by vagabonds, who knows but that some tribe of the kind settled down tliereabouts, and called the town which they built after t oir name; but whence did they come originally? ah! there is the di faculty." But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far too profound for me, 1 went on studying the language, and at the same tim ' the characters and manners of these stra-ge people. My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, J.isper, " We'll 82 SPEAkINC WOMANLY.- What PROFESSION. no longer call you Sap-etigro, brotlier," said he ; " but rather Lav-ennfo, which in the language of the gorgios meaneth Word Master." " Na)', brother," said Tawno Chikno, with uliom I had become very intimate, " you had better call him Cooro-meugro, I iiave put ou the <;/otcs with him, and find him a pure fist master ; I like him for that, lor I am a Cooro-meiigro myself, and was born at Brummagem." " 1 likes him for his modesty," said Mrs. Chikno ; " I never hears any ill words come fiom his mouth, but, on the contrarj', much swet-t language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my eldest to say liis prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never the grace to do." " He is the pal of my rom." said Mrs. Pctulengro, who was a very hand- some woman, "and therefore I likes him, and not less for his Ixiug a rye ; folks calls me high-minded, and perhaps I have reason to be so ; before 1 married Pharaoh I had an offer from a lord — I likes the young rye, and, if he cliooses 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. Heme, placing a bundle upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property ; " 1 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 mi.x a little poison with his waters. And now go to Lundra, my children, 1 goes to Yoiksliire. Take my blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie to cheer your hearts with wlien 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 lo.-t a good mother." CHAPTER XVni. What Profession — Not Fitted for a Churchman — Erratic Course — The B tter Draught — Principle of Woe — Thou Wouldst bejuyous — What Ai!s You? — Poor Child of Clay. So the gypsies departed : Mrs. Heme to Yorkshire, and the rest to London : as for myself, I contiiuud in the house of my parents, jiassing my time in much the same manner as I have already described, prnicipally in pliilological pursuits : but I was now sixteen, and it was highly necessary that I should adopt some profession, unless I intended to fritter away my e.xistence, and to be a useless burden to those who had given me biith : but what profession was I to choose ? there being none in the wide world perhaps for w hich 1 was suited ; nor was there any one for which I felt any decided imlination, though perhaps tlure existed witiiin me a lurking penchant for the profession of arms, which was natural enougli, as. from my earliest infancy, I had been accus- tomed to militaiy siglits and sounds; but this profession was then closed, as 1 have already liiuted, and, as I believe, it has since coa- THE BITTER DRAUGHT. 83 tinued, to those who, hke myself, had no better claims to urge than the services of a father. Rly 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 recollec- tion. 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, bnth in his premises and the conclusion at which he arrived. I had un- doubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant divine for those of a Papist gassoon, the card-fancying Murtagh ; and of late, though I kept it a strict secret, I had abandont d in a great measure the study of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation of the sonorous terzets of the Divine Comedy, ni 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 mergi-d all minor points of solicitude in anxiety of my life. My strength and appetite suddenly {"eserted 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 \\ orse 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 an i 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. Put how rnuch more quickly does strength desert the humao frame Si ' nil AT AILS YOU? than return to it I 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 piiysiology 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 I Art thou, as leeches say, tlie concomitant of disease — the result of shattered nerves ? Nay, rather the principle of woe itself, the fountain head of all sorrow co- e.vistent 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 flv upward, so is man born to trouble, and woe doth he bring witli him into the world, even thyself, dark one, terrible one, causeless, unbegotten, without a father. Oh, liow inifrequently dost thou break down the barriers which divide thee from the poor soul of man, and overcast its sunshine with thy gloomj' sliadow. In the brightest daj's of prosperitj' — in tlie midst of health and wealth — liow sentient is the poor human creature of thy neighbourhood ! how instinctively aware that the floodgates of horror may be cast open, and the dark stream engulf him for ever and ever! Then is it not lawful for man to exclaim, "Better that I had never been born!" Fool, for thyself thou wast not born, but to fulfil tiie inscrutable decrees of thy Great' r ; and how dost thou know that this dark princip'e is not, after all, thy best friend ; that it is not that which tampers the who!e mass of thy corruption ? It may be, for what tiiou kuowest, the mother of wisdom, and of great works : it is the dread of the horror of the nigiit 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 ii'ging 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, tlie puny one ? \\'ho 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 fo A ; and wliose notes arc sweetest, those of the nightingale, or of the silly lark ? • ••••• " W^hat 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 lear is upon me. Mother. But of what? there is no one can harm you; of what are you apprehenj-ive ? Jioy. Of nothing that I can express ; I know not what I am afraid of, but afraid I am. Mother. I\'rhaps you see siglits 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 that would cause me any fear. Did au armed man threaten me, I would get up and AGREEABLE DELUSIONS. 85 fight him ; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I sliould 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 now where jou 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 hy 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 carrj' 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, j'e 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 djd time flow 86 AB GIVILYM. 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 ; 1 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 lavvj'er 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 Cambriin chieftains — more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa Bach — generally ter- minating with the modest request of a little private parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no other witness than the eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be believed, rather a doubtful point, was seldom, very seldom, denied. And by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so exceedingly different, been thus brought togetiier? 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 otiicr profession within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company witii Ab Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lav-en gro. So I sat behind a desk many hours in a day, ostensibly engaged in transcribing documents of various kinds; the scene of my labours was a strange old house, occupying one side of a li)ng 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, wlio, ntoyeTtnant unr donrcvr considerable, had consentf^d to instruct my father's youngest son in the mysteries of plorioijs English law, Ali I MY DEAR OLD MASTER. 87 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 arainst 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 hfe 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 ej'e ; 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 great-coat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes ; that man with the bull neck, and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering upward like a pear ; the man with the bushy brows, small grey eyes, replete with cat-like 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 .' ex- pressions de ma part a Mofisieur Le Baron Taylor. But here comes at last my veritable old master ! A more respectable-looking individual was never seen ; he really looked what he was, a gentleman of the law— there was nothing of the pettifogger about him : somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in person, he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long enough to become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without keenness ; but the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of h's 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 io the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining M THE DEAL DESK'. ones, there were others, some of them 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 mi'self, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which, as our principal obser\ed, was but reasonable, foras- much as we not un frequently 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, 1 sometimes indulged in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both mv hands, and my elbows planted on the desk ; or, opening the desl- 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 j'our mind at this moment, have an ilea 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 halY- 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 ver>- 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 mj'head, and I soon found that they were cognate diilects, 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 arid then, whilst studying this Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain, encountered words which, according to the lexico- graphers, were venerable words, highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of the Welsh, in which, however, thuy 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 WHERE IS MORFYDD? 89 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 every-day 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 thai I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gvvilym. 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, solitarj' nature — her mountains and cascades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with tliy 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- messnge to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By wliom dost thou send it, 1 would know? by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts tlie rushing stream ! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well d.^scribest — 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 above the jaw ; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and dis- appears 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 thj^ bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest an op- portunity to speak of Reynard ; and who has described him like thee ? the brute with the sharp shrill cr}', 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 thao thou wouldst fain have had people believe, 90 SILVER GRAY. But enough of thee and thy songs ! Those times passed rapidly ; with Ab Guilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I experienced sensations aliin to those I had felt of j-ore whilst spelling my way through the wonderful book — the delight of my chil 1- hood. 1 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 Everybod}' — 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 bj' 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 cliin 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 ahmg, I overtook the boy's master, Mr. S . We shook hands, and, alter walking a little way farther, we turned back together, talking about this and tiiat ; tlie state of tlie 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 boj' ; 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 liesitated 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 yoii 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 alto- gether satisfied with him ; I was afraid you would not be, for, though A REMARKABLE YOUTH. 91 he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his impeffections : 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 liim, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a remark* able youth, an extraord nary youth, only ' — As I told j^ou 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 wliom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last 1 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 he is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders ; only the other day, Mr. S told me, as he was engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell him that a person wanted parti- cularly 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?' " 1 wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with," said my motlier. " 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 : dis- crimination is the very key-stone ; 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 behavioir, else there would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid tiiat the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don't believe that would do in the world ; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who, by the by, is a verj- 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 gri at 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, 92 READING The bible. ulio is seventy jxars of age, and lias seven thousand a year, took snuft' and turned away. Mrs. S turned up her eyes, Mr. S , however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feeling*) tliat he rather enjoyed the thing, and thouglit 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 estab- lished 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. 1 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 e.xpect but to be cut down ? 1 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 ; after all, though not, perhaps, all you could wish him ; he is always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in ; he is ill the room above us ; at least he was two hours ago, I leit him there bending over his books; 1 wonder what he has been doing all this time, it is now petting late ; let us go in, and he shall read to us." "1 am getting old," said my father ; "and 1 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 1 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— Sayins: of Wild Finland— The Critical Time— Vaunting Polls— One Thing Wanted— A Father's Blessing— Miracle of Art— The Pope's House— Y^oun? Enthusiast— Pictures of England— Persist and Wrestle— The Little Dark Man. Tme eldest son! The regard and affection which my father enter- tained for his first-born- were natural enough, and ai>i.earcd to none i; ore so than myself, who cherished the same feelin;,'s towards him. \\ iiat he was as a boy the reader already knows, for tl'.e 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 ou^hl to be an THE ELDEST SON. . 93 easy one, for how frequently does his form vii;it Jtty mind's eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of day, and in the night watches ; but last night 1 saw him in \u$ beauty and his strength ; he was about to speak, and my ear was on tiie stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was 1 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 1 had 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 b' other 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 tlie very image of myself, the day I took off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben," said my fatlier, on meet- ing his son wet and diipping, 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 thoa 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 cr 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 IMalplaquct, to the confusion vast of the eternal foes of the English land. I, who was so little like thee that thou under- stoodest me not, and in whom with justice thou didst feel so little pride, had yet perception enough to see all thy wo.th, and to feel it an honour to be able to call myself thy son ; and if at some no distar.t time, when the foreign enemy ventures to insult our shore, I be per- mitted to break some vaunting poll, it will be a triumph to me to thir.k 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 m}' 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 enduri g monument of his powers, for he had an imagination to conceive, and that yet rarer endowment, a hand capable of giving life, body, and 94 ^ Fathers blessing. 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 — per:?everance, dopged perseverance, in his prop r calling ; otherwise, though the grave had closed over him, he might still be living in the admiration of his fellow-creatures. O ye giltcd ones, follow your calling, for, however various your talents may be, ye ran 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 j-ou can ; if not, on hands and knees follow it, perish in it, if needful ; but ye m ed 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 s^omething 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 j-ou do there? But dont be discouraged, I dare say 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, how- ever, a plan in my head, which I should wish first to e.xecute ; indeed, I do not think I can rest till I have done so ; every one talks so mucli about Italy, and the wondrous artists which it has produced, and tJie won,irous picture s 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 rcom 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 which the world has ever known. I suppose it is because everjbody says so, that I have such a strange desiie to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its locality, and tiiink that I could almost find my way to it blindlold. 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 tiiey 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, oiie on either YOUNG ENTHUSIAST. 95 side, casting up water in showers ; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk, brought from Eg}'pt, and covered with mysterious writing ; on your right rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading-strings, calls the Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God's Lieutenant-General upon earth." " Ay, ay," said I, " I have read of him in Fox's Book of Mart>Ts." '' 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 par- ticularly large, communicating with another room, into which, however, I do not go, though there are noble things in that second room — immortal things, by immortal artists ; amongst others, a grand piece of Corregio ; I do not enter it, for the grand picture of the world is not there : but I stand still immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before me, neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things both on the right and left, for immediately before me at the farther end, hanging against the wall, is a picture which arrests me, and I can see nothing else, for that picture at the farther end hanging against the wall is the picture of the world . . . ." Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London town or to old Rome, may success attend thee ; yet strange fears assail me and misgivings on thy account. Thou canst not rest, thou say'st, till thou hast seen the picture in the chamber at old Rome hanging over against the wall ; ay, and thus thou dost exemplify thy weakness — thy strength too, it may be — for the one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee, could only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if thou must go ; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy native land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, with straining eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made excellence thine own ; thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at the picture over against the door in the high chamber of old Rome. Seekest thou inspiration ? thou needest it not, thou hast it already ; and it was never j-et 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, may be, but Enghsh names — and England against the world ? A living master ? • Klopstock, , 96 THE LITTLE DAliK MAN. wliy, there he comes! tliou hast had Iiim long, he has long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet far from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou siiouldst persist and wrestle, even as lie 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 fac*^ 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 little 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 rity, 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 tlie 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 Mug- gleton — Almost Blind— Anders Vedel. But to proceed with my ov\'n 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 ? Const tutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty? Both it is probable liad some influence in the matter, but I rather think that the lattrr leeling 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 1 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 ena')le me to make any successful figure on its stage. coontenanceb. ^7 And tVien I again sought up the book which had so Captivated me in iny infancy, and I read it tlirough ; 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 pru- rient 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 le't me more listless and unsettled than before, and 1 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 1 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 counten- ance ?" 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 con- fidence 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 1 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 phiiology seems to have been brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in which had I not indulged, the event which 1 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 r.nswer'ng 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 98 UNCOUTH-LOOKING VOLUME. 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 mj'self have shown it to can make anything out of it; so as we are told that you are a fine young gontleman, who can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, we tliought, 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 ?" " VVe 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 tliat there was a fea ful storm, and a ship was driven ashore durini; 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 tl-.ey were Danes." Danes ! thought I, Danes ! and instantaneously, huge and grizzly, 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 churcii to which, with my mother and my brotiier, I iiad waudereci on the memo- rable 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 tlie pages were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and resembled those gcner;illy termed Gotiiic. "It is certainly a curious book," said I ; "and I siiould like to have it, but I can't tiiink 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, may be, 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 clicck to my old dame, she has taken an affection to you." " I shall be wry glad to siiake 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 tlie North .Sea." DRAOITHEAC. 99 •'Oh, that alters the ca:e altogether," said I, "and of course I can have no objecticn." And now, at once, I shook off my listlessness, to enable me to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than the above event. The Danes, the Danes ! And I was at last to become ac- quainted, 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 tra- ditionary lore, connected with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing common- place, 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 wonder- ful things, they knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mys'erious in- terest, whi^h I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by mv sojourn in Ireland. And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from its appearance, m ght 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 i- true, but I did not understand the language, and how was 1 to over- come that di -Acuity ? hardly by poring over the book ; yet I did pore over the boo':, daily and nightly, till my eyes were dim, and it appeared to me every now and then I encountered words which I understood — hriglish wo ds, though strangely disguised; and I said to myself, courage ! Eiglish and Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come v.Iien I shan understand this Danish ; and then I pored over the book aj^ain, but with all my poring I could not understand it ; and then I becarne 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 wTitten in rhyme— a circumstance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the lines not differing 100 THE ANTINOMIAN. from that which is employed in prose; and its being written in rhj-me made me only the more eager to understand it. But I toiled in vain, for 1 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 1 cannot obtain a dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in tins 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 1 persevere, I shall m time acquire the language of the Danes ; and I was pleased with the thought, which 1 considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my lips, or tore my hair, but took my hat, and, going forth, I flung my hat into the air. And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and commenced running, directing my course to the house of the Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little library, dusting his books ; and the Antinomian clergj-man was a tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad biim and a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly nasal; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, " Have you a Danish Bible?" and he replied, "What do you want it for, friend?" and I answered, "to learn Danish by;" "and may be to learn thy duty," replied the Antinomian preacher. " Truly, I have it not ; but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire." And wlien 1 heard these words of the old man, I was very glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter intocon\-ersation 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 designat.on." "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 tlie 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 tiien that he was the founder of our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though opprobriously, termed Mngi^ktonians, for we are Christians. Here is his book, wlii. h, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase, you are fond of rare books, and this is both ci.rious 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 1 commenced my task ; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the volume which h.ad excited my cunosity, saying, " Out of this closet thou comest not till I deem myself cocnpetent to read thee, ' and then I sat doun in right earnest, comparing every line in the one version with th;; corresponding ANDERS VEDEL.—THE TWO INDIVIDUALS. loi 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 re- assured 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 1 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 1 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 Cattc gat. 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 Vonvcd — 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 the fire-place, beside a table, on which were fruit and wine ; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited nothing remarkable. Over the mantel-piece, how- ever, 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 102 THE GERMANS. 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 tiling singular connected with this last, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming grey. He had very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been somewhat below the usual height. " No, I can't smoke," said the youth in reply to the observation of the other. " I have often tried, but could never succeed to my satisfaction." " Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?" said the senior, half speaking to himself. "I daresay not," said the youth; "but I shan't break my heart on that account." "As for breaking j-our 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 t'le most philosophic people in the world, ami tbe greatest smokers : now 1 trace their philosophy to their smoking." " I l>ave he-ird say their philosophy is all smoke — is that your opinion?" " Wh}', no ; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nen-es, and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which every one his 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 Wertiier in Germany, he did not smoke. W^erther, as you very justly observe, was a poor creatire." " 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 THE FEMALE QUAKER. 103 fcis house in a crowded city, for he bums 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 tl.at nice sense of sweetness for which Quakers are distinguished. I have always had a respect for that woman's memoiy." 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 r spectable 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 his- toric truth, requires cool dispassionate investigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been famous. We are ourselves not famous fur it, for we are a passionate people ; the Germans are not — they are not a passionate people — a people celeb'^ated 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 uTiter — one sui generis — uniting the perspicuity of the English — for we are perspicuous — with the cool dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after the truth, found it, and made it clear." '• Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer?" '• Why. yes ; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood ? Many people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood ; they have followed him in his researches, and have never found him once tripping. Oh, he's a wonderful wTiter ! 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 wars ; or, to 104 JESUS OF BETHLEHEM. speak metaphorically, ' he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto.' " *' But \\ as not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith ? " "Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and V hen 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 civilized people — the worship of spirits is s} nonymous 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 bene- factors, 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 civili- zation than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to ttach men to behave decently and decorously under all circum- stances ; 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 unphilo- sophic weapon ; and who tinally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy, lie mutt be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha." " But he was something more tlian a hero ; he was the son ot 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 iiis own," said the elderly individual ; " and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they liear said ; 1 at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, wlinm I have not r^ad for thirty years, is he not rdther given to bombast, 'crackling V.ombast,' as I think I ha\ e said in one of my essays ? ENGLISH AT Mh\DEN. 10$ " 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 rascalitj-. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer." " You almoht 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. 1 have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can't much be 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 tlie 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 Vvith them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book v.'hich I came so strangelv by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen lay to the present." " All, the Koempe Viser ? '' said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during tiie 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 makii g me acquainted with you." " That Mousha was a strange customer," said the youth, collecting himself. " He ivas 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 d^/'a? lend him five pounds. After the fifth dinner, he asked me to lend him fifty pounds ; I did no^ 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 ic6 ARE YOU HAPPY? town where he did net find sufficient encouragement ; and, at tl'.e same time, expressed regret at being obliged to abandon a certain extraor- dinary pupil, lor whom he had a particular regard. Now I, who have taught many people German from the love which I bear to it, and the oesire which I feel tliat it should be generally diffused, instantly said, that I should be happy to take his pupil off his hands, and afford him what instruction 1 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, 1 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, perliaps you are right." " Not so, not so," said the young man eag'^rly ; " 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 m s- conduct. He says tliat 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 whifT. " I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and 1 would fain have cultivated his acquaintance ; the feeling, however, has not been recip- rocated. 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. 1 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, 1 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 derencies 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 " OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. 107 " 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 V " Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick fellow, in brown top-boots, and bare-headed, 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 shine 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 astonish- ing 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, j'oung 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." io8 MADEIRA. I found his worsliip a jolly red-faced gentleman, of about fifty-five ; lie was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fasliioned leather sofa, with two small, thorough-bred 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 potmds "; and I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had ceased their barking, which is natural to all such dogs at tlie siglit 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 bcnignantly at me, exclaimed, — "And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, perhaps you can tell me v.here the fight is to take place ? " "I am sorry, sir,'' said I, "that I can't in.'"orm you ; but everybody seems to be anxious about it" ; and tlien I told him what had occurred to me on the road witli tlie alehouse keeper. " I know him," said his worship ; " he's a tenant oi 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 I why, it is si.xteen miles," " I sha'n't be tired when I have walked back." " You can't ride, I suppose ? " " Better than I can walk." " Then why do you walk ? " " 1 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 sliall it be ?" " Madeira! " The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee; "I like j-our taste," said he; "lam fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can give you such a one as you will not drink every day. Sit down, your.g 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 notliing which promised me much amusement, I sat down, and IVll again into my former tiam of thought. "Wiiat is truth?" said I. " Here it is," said the magistrate, returning at the end of a quarter of an hour, fulloucd by the servant, with a tray; " here's the true thing, or 1 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?" WHITER' S HEALTH. 109 " !t is very good," said I. " Did you ever taste better Madeira ?" " 1 never before tasted Madeira." " Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is ? " '• 1 ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is." "Well, there is logic in that, as Parr would say ; you have lieard ol 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." " I'erhaps 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 1 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, 1 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 soundman, though he can talk Greek nearly as fast as Parr." " Is he a round man ? " " Ay, boy, rounder than Parr ; 111 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 stud}', 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 lor a hundred j-ears, for death 1 would not call.' Here's to W'hiter's health— so you know nothing about tlie fight ?" " No, sir ; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, other\vise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information — boxing is a noble art." " Can you box ?" "A little." I to ABOUT THE FIGHT. " 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 ? " " 1 don't know, sir," said the ser\'ant ; '' 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 thirt}', 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 liis 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 Lroad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were grey, with an expression in which there was sternness blended with something approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain 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 sliarp. You might have supposed him a bruiser ; his dress was that of one in all its minutiae ; something was wanting, how- ever, in his manner — the quietness of the professional man ; he rather looked like one performing the part — well — very well — -but still perform- ing a part. His companion ! — there, indeed, was the bruiser — no mistake about him : a tall massive man, w ith a broad countenance and a flattened nose ; dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into tlie ring ; he wore white topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. As the first advanced towards the table, beliind which the magistrate LEND US THAT PIGHTLE. ill 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 1 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 Hke my friend here. However, a time may come— we are not yet buried ; and whensoever my hour arrr\'es, I hope 1 shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high — ' Like a 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 tovyn. 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 reason to you, sir, nor to any man." " Let me beg of you to alter your decision," said the man, in a tone ot 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 ? " [12 IVJSE KING OF JERUSALEM 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, which- ever 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 ever>'thing 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 1 In what did I not doubt ? With respect to crime and virtue I was in doubt ; I doubted that the one was blameable and the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity ? Assuredly ; time and chance govern all things : yet how can this be ? alas ! Then there was myself ; for what was I born ? Are not all things born to be forgotten? That's incomprehensible: j-et is it not so? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a butterfly? Ail then is born to be forgotten. Ah ! that was a pang in- deed ; 'tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fishpools, saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun ? If so, of wliat 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 neces- sarily 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 tlie beach into corresponding English metre. Good ! h.ive 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 i NOTHING NEIV. ^ 113 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 per- haps, 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. 1 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 cir- cumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well ! but what's a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years ? Woe is me ! I may just as well sit still. "Would I had never been born !" I said to myself; and a thought would occasionally intrude. But was I ever born ? Is not all that I see a lie — a deceitful phantom ? Is there a world, and earth, and sky ? Berkeley's doctrine — Spinosa's doctrine ! Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinosa. I have still never read them ; who are they, men of yesterday ? " All is a lie — all a deceit- ful phantom," are old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those who, casting aside that choicest shield against madness, sim- plicity, would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the " universal all " is most coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called, was early sought after. AlHs a lie — a deceitful phantom — was said when the world was yet young ; its sur- face, 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 fishpools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, "There is nothing new under the sun ! * One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting on the ground ; there was a crowd about it, which extended halfway up the side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half-a-dozen men ; some sitting, others standing — they were dressed in sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in a plain and rather uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust ; their hair was short, and seemed to have been smoothed down by the applica- tion of the hand ; all were bare-headed— sitting or standing, all were bare-headed. One of them, a tall man, v.^as speaking as I arrived ; are, 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 every- 114 THE HYMN.-FAITH. body joined in it : there were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and ol 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 merhnnics, and their wives and children — dusty people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over — and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious solemnity was being done — in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their melodious tones in presence of 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 tiie mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running be- low 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 loiirl nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a prac- tised 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 tiling 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 my- self, and the son of a poor man : but are the rich better off? not so, ])rethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too : I am not rich myself, but I have seen tlie rich with careworn countenances; I have h!so seen them in mad-houses ; from which you may learn, brethren, t'lat 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 bare-footed 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 ehall find ourselves sometimes at fault ; but with faith never — for faith FAREWELL, BROTHER! US 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 VVebley— he was my country- man, brethren. * Jesus, I cast my soul on thee, Might}' and merciful to save ; Thou Shalt to death go down with me, And lay me gently in the grave. This body then shall rest in hope, This body which the worms destroy ; For thou shalt surely raise me up, To glorious life and endless joy.'" Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm serious look ! I saw thee once again, and that was lately — only the other day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the seaside, that I saw the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quicksands. 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, per- sist in carrying the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian Eng- land. I should have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might speak to him and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to his re- collection, 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 1 departed, I waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, "Farewell, brother! the ii6 DEATH 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 Ul'e had been like his — even like that man's."* I now wandered along the heath, until J came to a place where, beside a thick furze, sat a man. his eyes fixed iutently on the red ball of the setting sun. " Thats not you. Jasper ? " *' Indeed, brother ! " *• I've not seen you for yea*^' " 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. Heme ? "* " Shes 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 graudam sing — Canra marel o manus chi\-ios ande puv, Ta revel 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 supfwse; 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 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 I — There's night and day, brother, both sweet things ; sun. moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things ; there's likewise a wind on ti'.e heath. Life is ver^- 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 Kommany Chal would wish to live for evu^ I" " In sickness, Jasper ?" DAYS OF PUGILISM. 1 17 " There's the sun and stars, brother." " In blindness, Jasper ? " " There's the wind on the heath, brother ; if I conld only feel that, I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we'll now go to tlie tents and put on the gloves ; and I'll try to make you feci what a sweet thing it is to be alive, bi otiier I " CHAPTER XXVI. The Flower of the Grass— Days of Pugilism — The Rendezvous — Jews — Bruisers of England — Winter Spring — Well-earned Ba3's — 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 them- selves upon the mind. Many years have not passed over my head, yet, during those which I can call to remembrance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the liglit of a national affair ; when tens of thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided. But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is ; all I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward — and that in the days of pugilism it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a matcii 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 1 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 tl;ey might chance to 118 BRUISERS OF ENGLAND. be at tlie 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 demi- gods, 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 restora- tion 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 greai coat, thin genteel figure, springy step, and keen, determined eye, Crr?<=es him, what a contrast! grim, savage Shelton, who has a civil word fur 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 stnjlls about witii his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under-sized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the liglit weights, so called — Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in iiis 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 slicntlcman," in which he is quite right, for he is a THE FIGHT. 119 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 geld 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 tl.e 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 uhose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the fiattened 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 dil 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," 120 FRAME OF ADAMANT.— THE STORM. 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 j'okel, but he comes from Brummagem, 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 V'apour; the face of the boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock ; but there is a rush and a roar over head, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break loose; there's wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion ? yes I 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, 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 water-spout 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 liurry in one DUKKERIPENS. I2t direction, through mud and mire ; there's a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble ; but there's another town farther on — the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what's that! who'll stay here? onward to the old town. Hurry skurry. a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in" the direction of the old town ; and, in the midst of ail that mad throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular fur)-, and the artillerj' 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 ^Ir. Petulengro. "I can't hear you, Mr. Petulengro," said I ; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering. " Dearginni," I heard Mr. Petulengro say, " it thundereth. I was asking, brother, whetlier 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 duk- keripens, brother." "And who has more right," said I, "seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible." " Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni ! It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth," said Mr. Petulengro. " Look up there, brother ! " I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded — the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green ; others of the brightest orange ; others as black as pitch. The gipsy's finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky. "What do you see th.ere, 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 tliC left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking steeds, with postillions 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 g\'psy, 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 ! laa ilY FATHER. -PREMATURE DECAY. CHAPTER XXVII. My Father— Premature Decay— The Easy Chair— A Few Questions— So You lold Me— A Difficult Language — They Call it Haik— Misused Oppor- tunities — Saul— Want of Candour— Don't Weep— Heaven Forgive Me - Dated from Paris— 1 Wish lie were Here — A Father's Reminiscences^ Farewell to Vanities. My fiithcr, 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. Hut, be that as it may, the healtii of my father, some few years after I. is retirement from tiie service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable cliange ; his constitution appeared to be breaking uji; 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 sympatiiized entirely with him, pining as he pined, im- proving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his com- pany ; 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 iiis re- covery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstandit)g its severity, it never confined l.im to liis 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 ills master wistfully in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in |)rayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the S< riptures. 1 frequently sat with him, though, as I enter- tained a great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as sometimes iiappened, I found myself alon*; with him. " I wish to ask y()\i a few questions," said he to me, one day, after my mothi-r had kit the room. " I will answer anytiiing 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. ' ji FEW QUESTIONS. ~ ' 123 •' 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 ether side of Asia Minor." "Well!" " A region abounding with mountains." "Well!" " Amongst which is Mount Ararat." " Well ! " " Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested.^' "Well!" " It is the language of the people of those regions." "So you told me." " And I have been reading the Bible in their language." " Well ! " " Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people ; from which I am told the modern Armenian differs considerably." •' Well ! " "As much as the Italian from the Latin." " Well ! " " So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian," " You told me so before." " I found it a highly difficult language." " Yes." " Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am acquainted." " Yes." " Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them." " Yes." " And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild speech with which I became acquainted " '■•Irish?" "No, father, not Irish — with which I became acquainted by the greatest chance in the world." '■ Yes." " But of which I need S3.y nothing further at present, and which I should not have mentioned but for that fact. " Well ! '• " Which I consider remarkable." " Yes." " The Armenian is copious." "Is it?" " With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and gijttural." 124 MISUSED OPPORTUNITIES. "Yes." "Like tlie language ol 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 lo be found, like the Jews, all over the world." " Well ! " '• Well, father, that's all I can tell you about 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, lather." "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 fliiiging 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. 1 have ever observed about you a want of frank- ness, which lias distressed me ; you never speak of what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself w ith mysterj'. I never knew till tlie present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian." " Because you never asked me, father ; there's nothing to conceal in the matter — 1 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 counten- ance put her in mind of Alfieri's Saul." "And do you still visit her?" " No, she soon grew tired of mc. 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 on^y too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, andbrovigiit IVAIVT OF CANDOUR. 125 down on liis lirad the vengeance of Heaven — l.e became a nia-iiac, proplicsicd, and flimg weapons about him." " He was, indeed, an awful character — 1 hope 1 shan't turn out Uke him." " God forbid !" said my father solemnly ; "but in many respects j-ou 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 un- divided attention. This, however, j'ou 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 historj', 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 am 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 \veary. 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 3'ou 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 1 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 126 DATED FROM PARIS. your conduct a punishment for mj' 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 sen-ed 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 ; tliey 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 si.x months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no farther 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. 1 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 MY BROTHER'S ARRIVAL, '" 127 terms of familiarity— with good old George. He had known the con- queror 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 XXVni. 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 I. 128 A DYING FATHER.-CHRIST. 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. What- ever 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 1 also knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for 1 was for the moment paralyzed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motion- less — 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, 1 sprang from the bed and rushed down stairs. My mother was running wildly about the room ; she had woke 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 drop- ping 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 me- thought it moved. Yes, I was right, there was a heaving of tlie 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 1 had often heard him mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupified, 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 cU-arly, distinctly — it was tlie name of Christ. With that name upon his Hjjs, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clas])cd, yielded up his soul. THE GREETING. 129 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, ostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on anything but myself, with the exception of one individual, whose business appeared to lie with me, and who now confronted me at the distance of about two yards. I looked hard at the man — and a queer kind of individual he was to look at — a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle size, dressed in a coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight pantaloons of blue stuff, tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings, and thin shoes, like those of a dancing-master ; his features were not ugly, but rather haggard, and he appeared to owe his complexion less to nature than carmine ; in fact, in every respect, a very queer figure. " One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away from you ! " he said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer to me. I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word answered. Our eyes met ; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy impudent air which he before wore. He glanced, for a moment, at my fist, which I had by this time clenched, and his features became yet more haggard ; he faltered ; a fresh " one-and-ninepence," which he was about to utter, died on his lips ; he shrank back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him. " One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from me ! " said I to myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom I had delivered my scanty baggage ; "am I to expect many of these greetings in the big world ? Weil, never mind I I think I know the couuter-sign I " 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 I " 130 IT WILL DO. And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been pre- pared 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 — everj'thing seemed so cold and dingy. Yet how little is required to make a situation — however cheerless at first sight — cheerful and com- fortable. 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 tl:e coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his horses, as tliey 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 witii 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 mantel-piece, 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 sgve my own p^prtiops ; " ^nd LET niM COME IN. 131 tlien 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 down stairs ; 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 trepida- tion, looking anxiously at the aoor ; I then slowly passed on till I came to the end of the square, where I stood still, and pondered for awhile. Suddenly, however, like one who has formed a resolution, 1 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 handmaid, having opened another door on the right hand, went in, and said something which 1 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 1 — 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 oi 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 132 EXCELLENT C0RRE3P0XDENT. engaged with an account-book; he took no manner of notice of rrtg, never once lilting Iiis eyes from the page before him. "Well, sir, what is )-our 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 1, "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 coriespondent 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 rejoictd to see you in London. I have been long anxious for the pleasure — we are old friends, thougli we have never before met. Taggart," said he to the man who sat i-t tlie desk, "tiiis is our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our other excellent correspondent." Tiie pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately raised his head from the account-book, and surveyed me for a moment or two ; not tlie slightest emotion was observable in his countenance. It ap- peared 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 liead 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 any- thing 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 jiroductions. I inserted them all, and wished there had been more of tliem— quite original, sir, quite : took witli 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 1 have published. Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy — no such thing as matter — impossible that tiiere should be — ex tiihilo — what is the Greek ? I have forgot — very pretty indeed ; very original." " 1 am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to \vrite such trash, and yet more to allow it to be published." " Trash ! not at all ; a very jjretty piece of speculative philosophy ; of course you were wrong in saying thtre is no world. The world must exist, to have tiie shape of a pear ; and that tlie world is shaped like a pear, and not like an apple, as the fools of Oxford say. I have satis- factorily proved in my book. Now. if there were no world, what would l»ctuujc of ijiy sy-ituui ? But what tlo you propose to do in London ? " A LOSING TRADE. ' 133 " Here is the letter, sir," said I, "of our good friend, uliich 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 it ? " "Well, sir!" said I, rising, "as you cannot assist me, I will now take my leave ; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, and will trouble you no longer." " Oh, don't go. I wish to have some further conversation with you ; and perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you, I honour merit, and always make a point to encourage it when I can ; but, Taggart, go to the bank, and tell them to dishonour the bill twelve months after date for thirty pounds which becomes due to-morrow. I am dissatisfied with tl;at 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 sen- sation 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, 1 honour my good friend." " So you have renounced publishing, sir," said I, " with the excep- tion of the Magazine ? " "Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coach- 134 WHAT HAVE YOU GOT 7-STOP I man, you know, likes toliear llie whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am'tliinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original lirinciple ; and it jnst struck mc that you might be of high utiHty in the undertaking — what do you think of tiie matter ? " " I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications tlian 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 1 had hoped by your assistance " " Ah I 1 see, ambition 1 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 1 hope to derive from it both profit and reputation." " Indeed I 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 en- tirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give tliem 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 lor the answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, to see whetlier 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 j'oung Roland, And round about he groped awhile; Until he found the patii which led Unto the bower of Ellcnlyle. " 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 1 do I What else have you got ? " " The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with notes critical, philological, and historical." " Pass ou— what else ? " DAIRYMAN'S Daughter. 115 " Nothing else," said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, "unless it be a romance in the German style ; on which, I confess, 1 set very little value." "Wild?" " Yes, sir, verv 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 kno v, 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 j'ou 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 mj-self 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 am speaking. He has taken into his head to marr>', 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 conJucted 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 j •36 jjuir la Tins> and nov^ and then, perhaps, a paper on metaphj'sics. Vou understand (ioiman, and pcrliaps it would be desirable that jou should review Kant ; and ni a review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about ex nihilo." He then reverted to the subject of the " Dhiryinuu's Daughter," which I promised to take into considera- tion. 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 uiiat can I dr> ? I am almost without a friend in the world. I wish I could find ^nme one who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gu-ilym. In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, tlit-y 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 ii|) — 1 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 Hoat — C!y-l'"aking— A Comfort — 1 he Book — The Blessed Woman — No Trap. So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as rliance 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 nu'ghty dome, surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself, " That dome must needs be the finest in tlie 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 Clieapside ! 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 1 dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty bo.xes, O thou pride of London's east !— mighty mart of old renown! — for thou art not a place of yesterday: — long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist — a place of throng and bustle — a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen. Centuries ago thou couUlst extort the praises even ol tlie fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes ot England, sang thy praises centuries ago ; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glcndower's bard, had a word of praise STRANGE BRIDGE. 137 for London's " Clieape," for so the bards of Wales stj-Ied thee in their flowing odes. Then, if those wlio 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 allages — mayit be the world's resort for merchandise.world without end." And when I had passed tlirough the Cheape I entered another street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its founders; and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for it bad 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, deliberat- ing within myself whether I should turn to tlie 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 bj' 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 otiier side, and furnished with a semi- circular bench. Though the bridge was wide — very wide — it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pour'ng over the bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and waggons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed the pavement ! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruitstall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her leet, and a book in her hand, ia which she appeared to be reading n8 THE BOAT. intently. There I stood, just above the principal arch, looking through tiie balustrade at the scene that presented itself — and such a scene I 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 Wiiite 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 grimly pool, which, with its super- abundance 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 tlirough 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 appari- tion. 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 tlie swiftnoss 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 strang- ling 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 tiie 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 lling 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 thouglU you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself." " 111 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 1, "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 dou't understand you." THE BLESSED WOMAN. 139 " 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 fling- ing 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 S( ntence ; 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 uhjch puts nae just in ffiin4 of roy de^j- sQn. ^o, dear, \ won't sell you 140 NO TRAP.— THE TANNER. my book ; but, if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come tliis 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, tlioiigh you say you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with ; I love baccj', dear, more by token tiiatit 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 j'ou were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you th.at 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 tlie tanner ; if I don't spend it, I'll keep it in remembrance of j'our sweet face. What, you are going? — well, first let m.e whisper a word to you. If j-ou have any dies to sell at any time, I'll buy them of you ; all safe with me ; I never 'peach, and scorns a trap ; so now, dear, God bless j'Ou ! 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 — Common-placeness — The Three Individuals — Botheration — Frank and Ardent. " Tanner ! " said I musingly, as I left the bridge ; " Tanner ! what can the man who cures raw skms 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 tlie 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 Cliikno, is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a non- plus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words ? I liave made out crabbed words in ^Eschylus by means of tlic speech of Chikno and Petulengro; and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner — Tawno ! the one is but a modification of the other ; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins ; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengros, though bestowed ujion the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpx*. tation, signifieth a little child. DRINKING CLARET. 141 So 1 left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitlierto been wandering; I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Niglit 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 every- thing is different in London from what it is elsewhere — the people, their language, the horses, the tout C7iscmbh — even the stones of London are different irom others — at least, it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country town as on those of London ; so I continued roving about till niglit came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. " A regular Arabian Nights' entertainment ! " said L 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, nolwitlistanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o'clock to feel myself thoroughly tired ; painfull)' and slowly did I drag my feet along. 1 also felt very much in want of some refresh- ment, 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 tlie door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands Without a moment's hesitation 1 entered a well- lighted passage, and, turning to the left, 1 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 ratlier 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 tlie 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 cork-screw, 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 1 don't know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I'll soon sliow 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 wjiole 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 t42 LONDON JOURNAL, took it up and began penising it. It has been observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading newspapers every day aie 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, v.ho was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of the London journals ! Yes, strange as it maj- 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 ail 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 discover)', 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, cs their verj' name denotes, are ephemeral, are wTitten in a style like tl e article I have bef n 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 \, 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 everj*- day 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 fore- finger — 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 wilh the fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now equally so with its common -place ness and want of originality on ever}- subject ; and it was e\-ident to me that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, translated Kicmpe V'iser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. Petulcngro and Tawno Chikno. And as 1 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 observa- tions, the two eldest commenced a conversation in French, which, bowever, though they spoke it fluently enough, I perceived at once wao THE THREE INDIVIDUALS. Hi lint llicir iKitive language; the young man, however, took no part in tlieir conversation, and when they addressed a portion to iiim, 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 circum- stance caused me to observe him more particularly than I otherwise should have done : his features were landsome 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 ai' if to depart, the young man, how- ever, 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 " bothera- tion," 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, laughmg. 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." "1 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 coettr, as the parasite said to Gil Bias," 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 acquisi- tion ; 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. " W^e shall soon see each other again," said he, as we separated at* the door of my lodging. 144 RELIGIONS. CHAPTER XXXIII. Dine with the Publisher — Religions — No Animal Food— Unprofitable Dis- cussions — Principles of Criticism — The Bo-ik Market— Newgate Lives — Goethe a Drug— German Acquirements— Moral Dignity-. Ox the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the publisher. As 1 hurried along tlie square in which his house stood, my thoughts were fi.\ed so iiitently on the great man, that I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. " Let us take a turn in the square," said he ; " we shall not dine for half an hour " " Well," said he. as we were walking in the square, " what have you been doing since I last saw you ? " " I have been looking about London," said I, " and I have bought the * Dairyman's Daughter'; here it is." '• Pray put it up," said the publisher ; " I don't want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it ?" "I do not," said I. " How is that ? " said the publisher, looking at me. " Because," said I, " the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject ; and, moreover, to write from the heart" " By the subject you mean " " Religion." "And a'n't you acquainted with religion ? " " Very little." " I am sorry for that," said the publisher seriously, " for he who sets lip 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 ' Dairy- man'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 liue, but will communicate to you my intentions after dinner." At dinner, beside the publisher and myselt, 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. •'1 do not, sir," said he; "1 I.a.e fjrsworn it upwards of twenty VNPkOFiTABLE DISCUSSIONS. I4S JTars. In one respect, sir, 1 am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away hl'e — the brutes have as much right to Hve as ourselves." "But," said I, "if tlie brutes were not killed, there would be such a superabundance of them, that the land wor.ld 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 ancthtr, and it is well for them- selves and the world tliat they do so. What would be the state of t! inps if ever}' insect, bird, and worm were left to perish of old age ? " '• We will change the subject," said the publisher ; " I have never teen a friend of unprofitable discussions." I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been ac- customed to be spoken to so magisteiially ; 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 histor}' of IMorocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet ; and then I sighed, for 1 remembered how very much I was in the powtr 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 wou:d willingly have attended them ; he, however, remaiiied seated ; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of winch he handed to myself, and the other to his son ; saving, "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 wme." 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 tatle 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, " uell versed in the principles of criticism ? " " He is not, sir," said the publisher; " and, if I place him at the head of the Review ostensibh', I do it merely in the hope of procuring h.im 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 gfc pe. Will you take another glass?" I looked at the decanter ; but not feeling altogether so sure as the publishers son with respect to the principle of what it contained, I declined taking any more. '' *Su, sir," s;»id liic publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, " be 146 doEtnE A mvG. knows notliit g 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 dif- ferent 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 oeen consideiirg the state of the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the conclusion that, though you might be profitabiy employed upon evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, and consequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives jnd 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 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 tlian 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 necessarj' for the compilation. Such will be one of your employments, sir, — such the terms. In the second place, you will be expected to make yourself useful in the Review — generally useful, sir — doing whatever is required of you ; for it is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers, especially young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments, sir, namely, compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after due consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you no further, sir — at least for tiie present ; but, sir, this miorning 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 ; 1 have, therefore, determined to employ you in German." "Sir," said I, rubbing my hands, ''you are very kind, and so is oc.r mutual friend; I sl.all 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 Fnglish. 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 1 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." MORAL DIGNITY. ' 147 " 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 in- tentions. 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 pub- lisher, 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 necessarj'. 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 tliat 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 vou will receive my book of philosophy, apd likewise bk an 1 rontains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a tiling as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anyt'.iing at all." "Anything at all! Why, a'n't we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my " " Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say — I don't know ; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears j METAPHOR. 179 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 ; it is a nice book — all true ? " " True, true — I don't know what to say ; but if the world be true, and not 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 a 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 maj' 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 sers'e?" " 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 p^ge of doubt'^I seem to thinlj — thesg apples ^.fid peafs seerp to he-^ l8o / DONT KNOW HIM. and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the otlier." 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 some- what 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 w oman a penny ; then, after looking at me scrutinizingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of South- wark. " Do you know who that man is ? " said I to the old woman. " No," said she, "except that he is one of my best custom.ers : 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 meu— 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^l 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 L "Yes," said he, "sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?" "A Bible," said L " Ah," said he, " there's a great demand for Bibles just now ; all kinds of people are becoming 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 laugli. " What do you laugh for?" said I, angrily, and lialf clenching my tist. "Laugh!" said the young fellow ; "laugh! who could help laugiiing?" " I could," said I ; " I see nothing to laugh at ; I want to exchange tiiis book for a Bible." "You do?" said the young fellow; "well, I dare- say there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. 1 wish master were at home ; but that would never do, cither. Master's a family man, the Bible? nT not mine, and master being a BIBLES. i8i 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 had 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 ot 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." l83 CLAP OF THUNDER. " Oh, friend," said the precise-looking man, " if you come here expect- ing to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaicen — 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 1," 1 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 con- victions — 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." " 1 am by no means certain," said I, " that tlie 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 anothe person to offer something in e.xchange for one." " And wiio 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 whetlier 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 Iiolders 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 whicii would make a valuable addition to our collection. Wtll, yonng man, wh-it's the matter with you V GODDESS OF THE MINT. 183 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, notwithstand- ing all that 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 ; tliere 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 hira anxiously. " The purcliase 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 lest the book ? " The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door ; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, " Dear me," said I, " it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good." No answer. " Yes," I repeated, " I have clearly a right to make it good ; how glad I am ! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost " and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket. The prim-looking man smiled: "I suppose," said he, "that he has lost his money as well as book." "No," said I, "I have not ; " and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns. " O, noble goddess of the Mint!" as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, "great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man's character ! " " Only half-a-crown for this Bible ? " said I, putting down the money, " it is worth three ; " and bowing to the man of 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. l84 THE PICKPOCKET. 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 neighbour- hood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a great coat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatrli something from the pocket of the other ; whereupon, darting into tlie 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 tliese, he now wore a hat and great coat. "Well," said I, at last, "what am I to do with this gentleman oi 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 1 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 1 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 onc-aud-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London." " I doij't doubt it," said the other; "a confirmed thief ;" and here A GREAT SERVICE. 185 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 counte- nance 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, con- tains 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 some- thing 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. l86 MOTHER OF LANGUAGES. " You mean tlie language of tliose who bring me things to buy, or who did ; for, as I told you before, I sha'n't buy any more , it's no language of mine, dear — they call bread pannam in their language." " Pannam ! " said 1, *' pannam ! evidently connected with, if not de- rived from, tlie Latin panis ; even as the word tanner, which signifieth a sixpence, is connected with, if not derived from, the L.atin 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 coni.ection 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 ? 1 don't know — 1 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 betw-een 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, notwith- standing those languages, in many other points, exhibit a close affinity to the language of the horse-shoe master: for example, bread, iu Hebrew, is Laiiam, 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 Tiirce Holy Churches, this is wonderful ! How came you to know aught of Armenian ?" CHAPTER XLVII. New Acquaintance — Wired Cases — Bread and Wine — Armenian Colonies — Learnmg 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 wliom 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 liim. After the lapse of a few days, I called at the house, v/hich he had in- dicated. 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 {he next day, however, I met him BREAD AND U'tNE. ^^^ at the door as he was about to enter ; he shook me uairnly by tlie hand. " I am glad to see you," said he," " follow me, I was just think- ing 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 acquaint- ance 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 com- mencement 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 m.ind 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 com- panion, "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 :he celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly ifter the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik n swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most Darts of the eastern and western world. In Ispahan he passed the ^eater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with consider- ible success. Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the iespot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to lee, leaving most of his property behind. Travelling in the direction m LEAkNiNG Without Money. of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and eventually died, leaving behind a large property and myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian English woman, who did not survive my birth more than three months." The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most matters, from buying silks of Lascars to speculating in the funds, and that he had considerably increased the property which his father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonderfully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a person respectability and con- sideration 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 1 gave him the outline of my history, concluding with saying, " I am now a poor author, or rather a philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world." " Learning without money is anything but desirable," said the Arme- nian, "as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends ; I confess to you that your under- standing 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 maybe — 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 Arine- nian 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 tl;e English resembles the Armenian." " You walk on London Bridge," said L " 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 L "Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?" '' Much," said I ; " what is the tide ? " " The ebb ana flow of iue sea," said the Armenian. " The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?" The Armenian gave a strong gasp ; then, nodding his head thricCi " you are right," said he, " the English word tid^ is the Arm^oian for LEARNlh'G OP THE HA IKS. 189 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 indus- trious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expres- sive, 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 1 told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. Tlie Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. " Don't speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro," said I, " nor of any- thing belonging to him. He is a dark, mysterious personage ; all con- nected with him is a mystery, especially his language ; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem — Mr. Petulengro " " You appear agitated," said the Armenian ; " take another glass of wine ; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject ; I feel much interested in you, aud would fain be of service to you. Can you cast accounts ?" I shook my head. " Keep books 1" " 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 tlie 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 master- pieces of Haik learnmg." " No," said I, "all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their trans- lation 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 . 190 PRESSING INJ^ITATIO.V lire.' I liave burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate piiilosophy, 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 re- ceived ; " and who knows," said I, " but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences." The Armenian smiled. "You would find me very different from the publisher." " In many points I have no doubt I should," I replied ; "but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk? " " He is a Moldave," said the Armenian ; " the dog (and here his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually making mistakes." The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z , which I again refused, as 1 felt but Httle 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 in- vitation 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 enoogh, 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 pos- sibility 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 some- thing 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 s*"' '" "^ 1 was ta'l enouch ; but something fAME AND PROFIT. 191 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, whicii would 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 some- thing 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 preser\'ing 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 pub- lishers as untractable as ever, and to this day the public has never had an opportunity of doing justice to the glowing fire of my ballad versifi- cation, 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 oratorfcal exercises, also in escorting the young Frenchwoman about to places of public amuse- ment ; he then again questioned me as to the reason of my not having been to see hirr« 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 192 LISTEN TO ME-A PLAN Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neighbourhood, to the impu- tation of having a shabby acquaintance. I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow ; but, on that very account, 1 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. 1 told him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed against their blind- ness to their own interest in refusing to publish my translations. " The last that I addressed myself to," said 1, "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 beUeve, above my capacity. At present 1 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, lor she is a truly fascinating creature, although somewhat diifering 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 dare say, 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." A LARGE SUM. I93 CHAPTER XLLX. 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 mj'self of tlie permission whicli 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 1 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 struc- ture of the Haik language, or whoever 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. "1 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 twd." ~ '■ - ■ ■ ■ "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 ? 1 have heard say that the fulfilment of one's wishes is invariably the precursor of extreme miser>', and forsooth I can scarcely conceive a more horrible state of existence than to be without a hope or wish." " It is bad enough, I dare say," said the Armenian ; " it will, however, be time enough to think of disposing of the money when I have pro- cured it. I still fall short by a vast sura 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, v;hilst 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, i^ DEGENERATE ARMENIANS. persuading thorn that tlie liillocks of Rome are higher than tlie ridges of Ararat ; that the Koman 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 pre- pared 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, '' 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 contrarj- opinion." "Ha! ha!" — here tlie 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 I*apa 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 Caiaplias, 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 trans- lation 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. (Dn 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, " Per- haps, 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 foimdation 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 mer- REGULAR FEATURES— WISH FULFILLED. 195 chant'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 ej-e 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 forg< t 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 previo\isly 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. 1 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 am- bition ; 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 196 THE TWO FACES. 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 ! j'ou know my knock — 1 bring you money — bucno!" 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 1 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 noL But you are merry; bueno, you have a right to be so." " Ex'cuse me," said I ; "but does Noah ever appear as Janus ? " " He — he — he ! " said the Rabbi, " he only appeared as Janus once — ima 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, \'inum ; but do you tliink 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 tlicy were onlv hall enlightened, like you and the rest of the Goyim. Yet they were right in carving hnn with two faces looking from each other — they were right, though they knew not why ; there was a tradition among them that the Jai^noso had two faces, but they knew not that one was for the \sorld 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 Diving TOO FOND OF MONEY. 197 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, thej'^ 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 ; bueito, 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 I " said the Armenian. THE ONE HALF-CROWN. CHAPTER LI. The One Half-Crown — Merit in Patience — Cementer of Friendship — Dread- ful 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 everyone of the booksellers' writers of London who wa5 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 tiie 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 rudi- ments 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 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 would accept a seat at tlie 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 in- fliction 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 THE USUAL GUTTURAL. 199 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 woke 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 ; where- upon 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 borne 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 side-long 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 occu- pation. 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 hnes also written in the letters of Mesroub, the Cadmue 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 some- what in this style : — "My dear friend, — " The words which you uttered in our last conversation nave 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 200 PURE HELPLESSNESS. attack the Persians. When these lines are deHvered 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 trans'.Ttion 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 realizing, 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 what to do or saj', 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 1 knew not what to do, and in pure help- lessness thought I might as well ask; so I went up to tlie 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 whetiier he thought it would be two months or my tongue filtered — two years ; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet more unintelligible ; as I persisted, however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth, moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw ; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained. a horror of dumb people, having once heard my mother say, when I was a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better. DIVINE HAND. 201 CHAPTER Lir. Kind of Stupor — Peace of God — Divine Hand — Farewell, Child — The Fair Massive Edifice — Battered Tars — Lost 1 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 my- self, 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 com- fortable in her life ; that her trade, her ^ow^j/ 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 had 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 had you never read it — and yet, who knows ? Per- adventure, 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 2C2 THE FAIR. 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 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 par- ticular business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back ? only walk about well-known streets ; and, if I must walk, why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its terraces led ? I was here in a terra incognita, and an unknown place had always some interest for me ; moreover, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate ; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group of the crowd, and almost vieing in speed with some of the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches ; and by dint of walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three quarters of an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the river ; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls, and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been partial toiairs, 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 lair ; 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, oo which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving ab6ut a great LOST! LOST I 203 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 em- blazoned 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 them- selves in various ways. Coming to the top of the hill, I was presently stopped by a lofty wall, along which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through, and found myself en 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. Any one else try ? Who'll try ? Will you, my lord ? " and then it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry of " Lost ! lost ! " — then again the sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard " Won ! won ! " but the predominant cry was " Lost ! lost ! " At last there was a considerable hubbub, and the words " Cheat ! " "Rogue ! " and " You filched away the pea ! " were used freely by more voices than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied, " Never filched a pea in my life ; would scorn it. Always glad when folks wins ; but, as those here don't appear to be civil, nor to wish to play any more, 1 shall take myself off with my table ; so, good day, geutlemen." 204 SINGULAR TABLE-NO MONEY, 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 verj' 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, mj^ 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, 111 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 can find it, — and it is easy enough to find it, — I give you a sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins." "And them that don't find, loses," said I; "no, I don't wish to play." " Why not, my lord ? " " Why, in the first place, I have no money." "Oh, you have no money; that of course alters the case. If you have no money, you can't play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing after my customers," said he, glancing over the plain. " Good day," said I. " Good day," said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he added, " Out of employ ?" " Yes," said I, "out of employ." The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. At length he said, " May I speak a word or two to you, my lord ? " " As many as you please," said I. " Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on tlie 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 otir customers lords," said the IPE OF THE THIMBLE. 205 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 1, " 1 am very much in want of employ." " 1 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, causes the top deals to fly off; this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers : so we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know nothing about us ; for example, when the customer says, ' I'm cheated,' the bonnet must say, ' No, you a'n't, it is all right ; ' or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square and say, ' I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won't see him ill-used; ' and so, when they kicks at the table, the bonnet must say, ' I won't see the table ill-used, such a nice table too; besides, I want to play my- self ;' and then I would say to the bonnet, ' Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins ; ' and then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win." "In a word," said I, "the bonnet means the man who covers you, even as the real bonnet covers the head." " Just so," said the man, " I see you are awake, and would soon make a first-rate bonnet." "Bonnet," said I, musingly; " bonnet ; it is metaphorical." " Is it ? " said the man. " Yes," said I, " like the cant words " " Bonnet is cant," said the man ; "we of the thimble, as well as all clyfakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every bonnet ; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being understood by 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 alto- gether 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." 2o6 WISELY RESOLVED. " I wish I did," said tlie man, " I would give ten pounds and ir.ore to know the language of tiie Kommany Chals. There's some of it in tiie language of the pea and thimble ; how it came there I don't know, hut 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 wetk." " Is it possible?" said I. " Good wages, a'n't they ? " said the man. " First rate," said I ; " bonneting is more profitable than reviewing." " Anan ? " said the man. " Or translating ; I don't think the Armenian would have paid me at that rate for translating his Esop." " Who is he ? " said the man. " Esop ?" ' No, I know what that is, Esop's cant for a hunchback ; but t'otlier?" " 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 tiiat I did not carry off that pocket- book ; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the trade, in which, had 1 remained, I might have been lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned ; so I determined to leave it olT 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. 1 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 1 tiiought of the pea and tliimble, 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 siiould never have got over it. What funds could 1 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 1 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 1. " 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 FAT GENTLEMAN— FIRST EDITION. 207 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 countr\' 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 gentle- man, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say, 'How singular!' and then the two talked together in a speech 1 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 alto- gether a fool nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a little confidence ; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and said, ' I will have five guineas for that book, there a'n't such another in the whole world.' ' Nonsense,' said the first man, ' there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings.' 'No, said I, ' I'll not take it, for I don't like to be cheated, so give me my book again ; ' and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman's hand. ' Stop,' said the younger man, ' are you sure that you won't take less ? ' ' Not a farthing,' said I ; which was not altogether true, but I said so. ' Well,' said the fat gentleman, ' I will give you what you ask ; ' and sure enough he presently gave me the money ; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had got the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow, said, ' May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money for that 'ere dirty book ? When I came into the shop, I should have been glad to get a shiUing 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 careT 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." Q 2o8 WONT CLOSE. " 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 ser\-e 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, some- thing 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 verj' well." "Then you won't close ?" said the man. " By no means," I replied, " your proposal does not suit me." " You may be principal in time," said the man. " That makes no difference," said I ; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. " That a'n't cant," said the man, " no, nor gypsy, either. Well, if you won't close, another will, I can't lose any more time," and forthwith he departed. And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declen- sions, 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 'vho 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 lordT-"" he inquired. But I made no answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to \\'in, and the eagerness to plav with him became greater. After I had looked on for some time. I v.'as moving away: just then I perceived a AVELLA GORGIO—MR. PETULENGRO. 209 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, inas- much 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 Win- dow — 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 neighbour- hood 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 re-filled 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 210 ONES OWN HORN. drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what about?" " I have been in the Big City," said I, " writing lils." " How much money have you got in your pocket, brother ? " said Mr. Petulengro. " Eighteen pence," said I ; " all I have in the world." " I have been in the Big City, too," said Mr. Petulengro ; " but I have not written lils — I have fought in the ring — I have fifty pounds in my pocket — I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us." " I would rather be the lil-writer, after all," said the tall, handsome, black man ; "indeed, I would wish for nothing better." " Why so ? " said Mr. Petulengro. " Because they have so much to say for themselves," said the black man, " even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the church- yard, it is their own fault if people a'n't talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you, Jasper, were " " The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno^ however, here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us." " Not he," said the other, with a sigh ; "he'll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was ; and who can blame him ? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis — my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that ' there is nothing like blowing one's own horn,' which 1 conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own lil." After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. " Only eighteen pence in the world, brother! " said he, as we walked together. " Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had ? " " Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much monry in his pocket. I was looking at my own face tiiis morning in my wife's lonking-glass — I did not look as you do, brother." " I believe your sole motive for inquiring," said 1, " was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds." "What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it? "said Mr. Petulengro. "It is not everyone can read faces, brother ; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any ?" " I am not going to ask you to lend me any." "Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully-earnt money, got by fighting in the ring — I will lend you that, brother. ' A GREAT FAVOURITE. 211 "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 ol yonder wooded hill, come and stay w-ith us ; we shall all be glad of your com- pany, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovua." " What hill is that ?" 1 demanded. And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. " We stay on t'other side of the hill a fortnight," he continued ; " and as you are fond of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dook gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago." " Who was he ? " I demanded. "Jemmy Abershaw," said Mr. Petulengro ; "one of those whom we call Boro drom engroes, and the gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money ; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna." At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro ; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood ; but that these ver>' 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 — stigmatizing 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 212 MUCH IVANTED-FAtR PLAY. jjiescntly, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards I lie 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 ex- posed ; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my baltads 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 1 stood listlessly looking at the window, and the pub- lit ;itions which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by \\ afers with something written upon it. 1 drew yet nearer for the pur- j)ose 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 — Fair Play — Fashionable Life — Colonel P> Joseph Sell — The Kindly Glow — Easiest Manner Imaginable. " I MUST do something," said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apart- ment, 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 1, 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, other- wise 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." " 1 will do it," said I, as I struck my hand against the table ; " I will do it." Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it ? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel ? " Yes, yes," said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, " I can manage it ; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything." But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteen pence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst 1 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 mar told me so ? or something to that effect, months before ? It was true there was my lodging to pay for ; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money ; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget FASHIONABLE LIFE. 213 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 Some- thing? 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 supplj' me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurrj', and could not afford the time which it would be necessar)' to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and con- sulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being be- holden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the historj-. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then — Harry Simms ? Alas, the life of Harr>- 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 extraordinar)'' men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether 1 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 urite 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 partizau 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 a cofSn 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 verj' 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 214 JOSEPH SELL. will not lailj^c u rll with the old t;ile ; one will but spoil the other." I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B , thought 1. but boldly and indcpendenly sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell. This Joscidi Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of tiie name, but just at that moment it hai)pened to come into my head ; I would write an entirely tictitious narrative, called the Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, tlie great traveller. I had better begin at once, thought I ; and removing the bread and the jug, whieh latter was now empty, I seized pen and jKiper, and fortliwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it was much easier to resolve upon a thing tiian 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, 1 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 wliich 1 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 tlic incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind's eye so plentifully, that I knew not how to dispose of tiiem ; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of the difliculty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaiuing the better and more impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and tiien resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most diflicult part of my undertaking was achieved. CHAPTER LVI. Considerably Sobered — Power of Writing — The Tempter— Hungry Talent — Work Concluded. KAriiKR late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still, j)erlfctly 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 ca|)tivating guise tliat morning. I felt languiil and almost hopeless — the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me, — I must make an etTort to improve the posture of my alTairs ; 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 com- THE TEMPTER. 215 : tbem I0 faepa. This I did not find at nrst so easy ss I could I wanted ■echanical 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 ni^t, I had completed fifteen pages cf my life (A Josepb SeiL Tfce aext dsj I teanmeA vy task — I found my power of writing t&ustAeai^ iaeeeaaed ; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper — my teaio was m a wootdexfully teeming state ; many scenes ai-:d visions wiridb I hsd BOt tliOQght of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, wnKkM dGwm ; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more trutiinri to my history, than many others which I had imagined before, assd wincii I matdc now give place to these newer creations : by about trpf4m0[t I bad added thirty fresh pages to my '* Life and Adventures of Joseph Sefl." The third day arose — it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it drearily enangh within ; my brain appeared to have lost much of its fonner glow, and my pen much of its power ; I, hovsrever, toiled on, but at ■Bdiai^t had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph SdL On the iomttk day the sun shone brightly — I arose, and having break- fasted as irwril, I fell to work. My bram was this day wonderfully prolific, and aByften never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper ; tamatdst sight I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and asy whole system was extraordinarily a^^ected. I like- wise occasionaBy saw double — a tempter now seemed to be at work within Bie. " You bad better leave off now for a short space," said the tempter. " and go out aeed 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 youx work is done." I was about to ©bey the soggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I &A not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never com- plete it ; so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of Joseph SeU. 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 despcodencies came over me. It will be too late, thought I ; by the time I hswe iaished the work, the bookseller will have been sup- plied with a tafc ©r a novel. Is it probaUe tliat, 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 piirpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so cfren, that at la^ fa tstter despair, I flung dovim the pen. Whereupon tlie tempter witfaja m» 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, thouj^t I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at aU— and then forthwith I resumed the pen, aBd wrote with greater v%oaf tfaan before, from about six o'clock in the evening 2i6 jrORK CONCLUDED-THE BOOKSELLER'S WIFE until I could hardly see, when I rested for awhile, when the tempter within me again said, or appeared to say — "All you have been writing is stuff, it will never do — a drug — a mere drug : " and methought these last words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. " A thing merely to be sneered at," a voice like that of Taggart added ; and tlien 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. Rut 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 hand sank on the pillow. " Oh me ! " CHAPTER LVII. Nervous Look— The Bookseller's Wife— The Last Stake — Terms — God Forbid 1— Will You Come to Teo ?— 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 intelli- gent 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 gentle- man of the house," said L " My husband is not within at present," she replied ; " what is your business ? " "I have merely brought something to show him," said \, " 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 1 cannot promise you much chance df its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him ; however, you may leave it ; give it me. Are you afraid THE LAST STAKE— TERMS. 217 to intrust it to me ? " she demanded somewhat hastily, obser%'ing 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, notwith- standing the earhness of the hour. 1 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 t'r.an 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 book- seller'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 adnce, 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 allow you half the profit when the edition is sold." "That will not do," said 1; "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, 1 don't care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate ; the public are very fastidious, and the specula- tion may prove a losing one, after all. Let me see, will five hem " — he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face ; there was some- thing 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 1 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, everj-thing 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, " 1 shoulr" never 2i8 A LIGHT HEART. 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 eveninp, 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 tiiemselves 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 I— 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 A RESOLUTION. 219 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 bj' the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased b\' 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, thougii I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid the people would ask. Where are your Northern Ballads ? Where are }-our 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 touTi. But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time ; at present, I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at least equally probable, the}' 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." Father late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, uith 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 830 FLASHING EYES. before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going Iiome, 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 Ardrj', "whither bound?" " I do not know," said I ; "all I can say is, that 1 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'esi 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 I " " Is she not ? " said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty ; " she cost a hundred guineas." " Qtcest-ce qiiil dit? " demanded his companion. " // dii que le jument est bien beau." " Allons, nwn ami, il est turd," said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head ; " allons ! " " Efieo/e 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?" said the lady again. " // dit que tout l' equipage est eti assez bon goat" "■Allons, e'est un ours" said the lady ; " /^ cheval mcme 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. "// dit que vous ctes belle tomtne un ange," said Francis Ardry, emphatically. " Mais, a la bonne heure ! arretez, mon ami" said the lady tn Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; "je Toudrais bien causer un moment avec lui; arretes, il est dclicieux. — Est-ce bien ainsi que vous ttnitez 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 Ardr)' drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. THE MEDITATION. 221 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 accom- plished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had enter- tained 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 mTich 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 whensver 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 coach- pian, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, 323 SIXTEEN SHILLINGS. dressed in a fashionably cut great coat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. " No, no, keep behind — the box a'n't for the like of you," said he, as he drov6 off; '' the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least." I made no answer. " D that oft-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 thorough-bred," 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 xnail, I'm going to talk to you about 'orses. I talk to nobody about 'orses except lords." "Well," said I, " I have been called a lord in my time." " It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then," said the coachman, bending back, and half turning his face round with a broad leer. "You have hit the mark wonderfully," said I. " You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools." " We a'n't, a'n't we ? " said the coach- man. " 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 j'ou 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 know- ing 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 lie 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 tlie 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 ol 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 ALL RIGHT— THE WONDROUS CIRCLE. 225 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 pf 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 grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward ; as I drew nearer, I per- ceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stone.?. 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 1 did — cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of thp portal of giants, beneath the transve ^e §tone. 824 THE SHEPHERD. The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me ! And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle, wandered around the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to tlie 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 1 still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browzing past the circle of stones ; two or tiiree 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 tliousand 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 those 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 ? " r MILK OF THE PLAINS. 225 " Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the top of hills." " Do tlie 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 5'ou 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, tlicre 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 speak- ing 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 ?" 226 HENGIST SPARED IT-THE RIVER. "English." " A'n't they one?" "No." " Who were the British ?" " The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones." " Wiiere are they now ?" "Our forcfatliers 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." "1 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 LXL The River — Arid Downs— A Prospect. Leaving the sheplierd, 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 tliese 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 ste|)s 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, 1 sujiposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steej) hill, I kl)ew at once, frpm certain appearances, that I was Rear A PROSPECT.-LIFE UNCEkTAtN. iij the object ol ttiy 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 side s 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, 1 beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world. After I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to tiie 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 diinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs ha\ing 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 condescen- sion as people who travel on foot with bundle and itick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third d-^y, 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; se^eral persons hastened to her assistance. "She is dead," said one. '•'So, she is not," said another. " I am afraid she is," said a third. " Life is very uncertain," said a fourtL " It is Mrs. ," said a fifth ; " let us carry her to her owu bouse." Not bting able to render any assistance, 1 left the pooj^ izi THE GRAND t'OlNt. female in the hatids 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 cvtremity; passing through it I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and taking oft" 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 tiiere 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 sea-port. " Is this the direct road to London from that place ?" I demanded. " No," said the man ; " but 1 had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was entrusted with ; amongst others to , w here 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 fitting down beside me, " I hav'n'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 L " 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 L " 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 L " Why do you say ' Dear me ' ? " said the man. " It is a very long way off," said L "Was that your reason for saying so ? " said the man. "Not exactly," said L "No," said the man, with something of a bitter smile; " It was somc* thing else that made you say so ; you were thiukiug o( the convicts." /I HARD MOTHER. 229 " 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 j'ou 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 m}' 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 ex- pedition, 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 ; 1 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 I — what would I give only to know that she is alive." '' Life is very uncertain," said L •' That is true/' said the man, with a sigh. 230 THE BETTER COUNTRY, " We are here one moment, and gone the next," I continued. " As 1 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 sometliing within me seems to tell me you will ; I should not much mind betting hve shiUings to five pence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to five pence " " Is very considerable odds," said the man, rubbing his hands ; "sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds." •' After all," said I, " it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive ?" " I scarcely know," said the man ; " I have frequently thought that if I found my mother aUve 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 tlie 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 trilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the A PLEASANT MOMENT. i^t 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 I " 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, " }'ou 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 snowj'-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 incontinentl}', 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 neck- cloth, 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 l.ad 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 I " 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 gaid, " Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life." 232 THE FUkTtt^E GLANCE. 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 any- body to dine with you ? " " I can't say that I expect anybody," said I, laughing inwardly to my- self; "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 iiis appearance, and sat down in a rhair 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 lie walked to the mantel-piece 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 mantel-piece with his finger, advanced to- wards 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 1 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 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 careless- ness. " 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. T^E MIGHT? Round. sjj 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 rotmd 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 tlie 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 acquaint- ance ; 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 gentle- man'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, how- ever, 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 234 The El^iL CHANCE. to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up, first iiidvitig his fore finger 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 ciiar.ce ? " The stranger ttarted ; 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 thouglit ; nothing further passed between us until I had concluded the dinner, when I said to him, " I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine." The stranger rose; "No, my young friend," said he, smiling, " tliat 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 htre : the landlord is an excel- lent fellow, but he is an inn-keeper, 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." " ^'ho 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 welcom- ing his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate you." CHAPTER LXIV. New Acquaintance— Old French Style— The Portrait— Taciturnity— The Evergieen Tree — The Dark Hour — The Flash — Ancestors — A Fortunate Man — A Posthumous Child— Antagonistic 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 your- self, 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 iiigh road, we turned off, and were presently in one of those mazes of lanes fur wliich England is THE PORTRAIT. 235 famous ; the stranger at first seemed inclined to oe taciturn ; a few observations, however, which I made, appeared to rouse him, and he soon exhibited not only considerable powers of observ-ation, 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 lodge ; the stranger having rung a bell, the gate was opened by an old man, and we proceeded along a gravel path, which in about five minutes brought us to a large brick house, built something in the old French style, having a spacious lawn before it, and immediately in front a pond in which were golden fish, and in the middle a stone swan discharging quantities of water from its bill. We ascended a spacious flight of steps to the door, which was at once flung open, and two servants with powdered hair, and in livery of blue plush, came out and stood one on either side as we passed the threshold. We entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking me by the hand, welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and then gave orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me to an apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in my toilette. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no objection to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to a spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress required. When everything had been completed to my perfect satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to the library, where dinner would be speedily ser\-ed. In the library I found a table laid for two ; my host was not there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilette as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring eyes ; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and bindings ; there were 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 mantel-piece, 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 seem.ed to have resumed his taci- turnity — 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 companion- able." The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it from the circumstance of having already 4ined ; the strsnggr aJsO; though withouj 236 THE DARK HOUR. 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 re- member 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 tlie chain which seemed to tie his tongue — but no ! 1 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 1 sai J could induce my entertainer to rcla.x 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 tiu'ng 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 \m fitted 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 window." " You would do right ; the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but it is not about the yew." " The star Jupiter, perhaps ? " " Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons ; an observation which escaped you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me." " But I really must take my departure," said I ; " the dark hour is at hand." And as I uttered these last words, the stranger touched rapidly some- thing 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 ni^lit; 1 am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to travel unkno^\TI paths by night— dear me, what a flash of lightning I " THE FLASH.-ANCESTORS. 237 It had become very dark ; suddenly ablaze 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 the table in the library, his truly touching history. " Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not be amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who, when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds, and a splendid business ; the son, however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass the remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this he managed to accomplish ; he disposed of his business, purchased a beautiful and extensive estate for four score thousand pounds, built upon it the mansion to which I had the honour ot welcoming you to-day, married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, who brought him a fortune of five thousand pounds, became a magis- trate, 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, how- ever, 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 became of age ; perhaps it would be difficult to men- tion 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 be been a fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was ajS ANTAGONISTIC IDEAS. frequently known to do ; ten months after his marriage his horse fell tipon 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. " 1 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 sensa- tions ; I was born with excessive sensibility, and that has been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man. " No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible for a being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or even enjoy peace and tranquillity ; most of our pleasures and pains are the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is great, the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagination raised up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up one of distress and gloom ; these two antagonistic ideas instantly commence a struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, I may say invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should be a happy man ? " It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period that I can remember ; the first playthings that were given me caused me for a few minutes excessive pleasure ; they were pretty and glittering ; presently, however, I became anxious and perplexed, I wished to know their history, how tliey were made, and what of — were the materials precious ; I was not satisfied with their outward appearance. In less tlian an hour I had broken the playthings in an attempt to discover what they were made of. " When 1 was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who was also my godfather, sent me a pair of Norway hawks, with directions for managing them ; he was a great fowler. Oh, how rejoiced was I with the present which had been made me, my joy lasted for at least five minutes ; I would let them breed, I would have a house of hawks ; yes, that I would — but — and here came the unpleasant idea — suppose they were to fly away, how very annoying ! Ah, but, said hope, there's little fear of that ; feed them well and they will never fly away, or if they do they will come back, my uncle says so ; sc 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 tiiat the man who brought the hawks had not departed. ' How came rny uncle by these h^wks ? ' \ anxjously inquired ' They were sgnt tp THE hawks.-the: pony. 23^ liim from Norway, master, vvitli 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 wlio 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 lawj^ers would say, to my hawks, and 1 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 1 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. 240 IRRESISTIBLE IMPULSE. Suddenly I found myself doing that which even at the time struck me as being highly singular ; I found myself touching particular objects tiiat 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 mothers death ; whenever I touched any j)articular object, it was with the view of baffling the evil chance, as }ou 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 re- markable 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, tiie 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 per- form 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 accom- })lished 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 u as now amongst the branches ; as 1 approached the top, however, the difficulty became greater, 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 nij'self astride upon one of the boughs; scratched and bruised all over, 1 reached the ground, and regained my chamber unobserved ; I flung myself on my bed quite e.xhau&ted ; presently they came to tell me MEA^TiLV ASHAMED.-MATERNAL AXXIETY. 241 that my mother was better — they found me in the state which 1 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, 1 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 ; beine heartily ashamed of the practice, I never spoke of it to any one, and wrs 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, ro-med about the woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast my fly in a trout stream, and some- times, 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 ray mother, she lived in the greatest retirement, devoting herself to the superinten- dence 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 con- tinual dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my mothers death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had been con- siderably shaken by her last illness ; this I knew, and this 1 saw — for the eyes of fear are mar\-ellously keen. Well, things went on in thio 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 th : 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 tl.e world.' My mother sighed and con.entcd ; so my uncle the Laruuet 242 COUNTRY UF£.—Mk. SPEAkER ! 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 moder- ately, 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 ver>' serious. ' I have had a letter,' said he ; ' j'our mother is ver>- 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. Mv 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 partlv 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 1 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 countr\', 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, e.xclaiming, ' 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 some- thing ; but what was I to do ? — tliere 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 Parlia- ment, there would be no d fficulty 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 Land 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 -"^uld, and then I left off", for I was talking non- SPIRITED ADDRESS.—AN AUTHOR. 243 sense. 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 beeo 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 in- tended to rouse andcall 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 re- source, it was true, but what better could I do ? " But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the world. One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time past shown a wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a considerable hurr}'. ' I am come to beg an important favour of you,' said he ; ' one of th.e 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, there- fore, 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 wTiting one for me, I know you can ; and, if at any time you want a person to speak for j-ou, 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 w ith considerable attention. 'I congratulate you,' said he, ' and likewise myself; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you ; the address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather say it is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are ; but it will do — I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my elec- tion.' 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 re- quired by those who would investigate the secrets of nature, had, never- theless, a ready pen and teeming imagination. This discovery decided my fate — from that moment I became an author," 244 TREPIDATIONS.— PERFERSE IMAGINATION. 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 everj-thing 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 irnprisoned ; 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 wTite 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, how- ever, 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 thouglit would serve to make an experiment upon the public ; so I laid it belore 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 ARE THEY MINE? ■ 245 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, lound 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. How- ever, 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 legahty 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 ; 1 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 other- wise 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 — wns 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 Tn 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 sub- sequently become stately trees, but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been produced, and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these compositions which charmed the world — for they did charm the world— was due to" myself. Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain sweat. ' How hard ! ' I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, ' how hard ! I am like Virgil's sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves.' But, not to tire you, it fared with my second work as it did with my first ; I flung it aside, and in order to forget it I began a third, on which I am now occupied ; but the difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of my mind ; my fastidiousness being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to be legitimately 246 AGRICULTURAL DINNER. 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 pro- ducing 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, ou ing 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 news- paper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an agri- cultural 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 un- man 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 wliich 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 1 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 varions objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books INMOST BOSOM.— CHANCE RESEMBLANCE. 247 getting into disrepute ; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expres- sions, thoughts, or situations in any work which I am UTiting from resembHng 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 unre- servedly 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 under- stand 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 m5'Sterious 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 storj'," said I, at last, " though I confess that I w-as 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 5'ou made this speech of yours in the dining-room, com- mencing 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 re- semblance between my own thoughts and those of other uTiters, such resamblance 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 contrar}', every one declares that originality constitutes the most remarkable feature of my UTitings ; 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 1 think, once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two from the n jitings of a couple of authors which it mentioned ; it 248 RASCALLY NEWSPAPER.— THE BED-POST. 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 ? — Farther 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 shrunk from the ej'es 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 wan- dering 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 sliould have pos- sessed me again ? but I will not give way to it ; so I hurried down stairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination which I occasionally felt to toucli 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 morrting — 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 tlie leaves of a flowery shrub which 1 saw at some distance, and had even moved two THE REV. MR. PLATITUDE. 249 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 con- science." 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 mantel-piece ; so intently was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him and spoke, when he turned round and shook me by the hand. " What can possibly have induced you to hang that portrait up in your library ? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears to me a wretched daub." " Daub as j'ou call it," said my friend, smiling. " I would not part with it for the best piece of Raphaeh For many a happy thought I am in- debted 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 pur- chased 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 2SO TOLERATION TO DISSENTERS. 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 Hack, and a neckerchief of spotless white. The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my entertainer, who received him politely but with e\"ident 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 " " 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." BIVORD OF ST. PETER. 251 "Of cov.rse you would admit there wrr^ such as kiig as they existed ; but how would j'ou get rid of them ? " " I would have the Church exert its authority." " What do 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 w-ould have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always been the bane of the Church." Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past ; methought I was in a small comfortable room wainscoted with oak ; I was seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which were wine and fruit ; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a plain suit of brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat high forehead ; he had a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly, without saying a word ; at length, after drawing at the pipe for some time rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and emitting an accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone, " As I was telling you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug." When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was quitting the apartment. " Who is that person ? " said I to my entertainer, as the door closed behind him. " Who is he ? " said my host ; " why, the Rev. Mr. Platitude." " Does he reside in this neighbourhood ? " " He holds a living about three miles from here ; his history, as far as I am acquainted with it, is as follows. His father was a respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest course ; I believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a gentleman ; I have known many gentlemanly youths go to college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr. Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he return one ; he went to college an ass, and returned a prig ; to his original folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. 252 HIGH PRINCIPLES.-PALSE COMCoRD. He told his fatlier that he had adopted high principles, and was deter- mined 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. Plati- tudei 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 appear- ance 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 at- tempted to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to his ' 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 tiiyself 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.' ' Xo,' said I, ' I have never taken another's life.' 'What then, another's goods? If so, restore them seven-fold, 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 good's,' 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 sometime; then, after appearing to reflect, he said, 'Young man, I have a great desire lo know your name.' 'What matters it to you what is my name?' said I; 'j-ou 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 ! 1 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, V. ith tears; she told me that you were one ol the best of sons, but that F001 OF TH^ cross. 297 I sottie 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 I for some time ; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what j 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 j 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 youn^; 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 havmg .| doubtless prcNnously told them who I was. ' " I staid several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater .j 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, ;i 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 clergj'man, ; was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted j a pulpit, and began to preach. ' Come unto me, all ye that labour and j 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 i committed the m^-sterious 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, ;l ' 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 j despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both ^ are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.' .j "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 j be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or -I the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, ? of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told fl me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only i| trust in Christ and in the merits of his blood-shedding. Did I believe >^ in Christ ? Ay, truly. Was I wUling to be saved by Christ ? Ay, Tj 258 PERPLEXED.-LVCKY HOUR. 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, ' O, 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 staid several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach ; each time he preached, he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me ; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate. " At last my friend said to me, ' It is now time thou shouldst return to thy m.other 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 lieavy upon me, and 1 feared Him. METHODISTS.-FERVENT IN PRAYER. 299 " 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 encourage- ment, 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 aje two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.' Now it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist per- suasion, 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 lieard 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 enquired whether I was fervent in prayer. 'Very fer\'ent,' 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, 1 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 WelshmaP- Amongst the boojss I read were the ocjes of the great Ab 300 YOU SAXONS. Gwilym, whom tliou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrj-men, 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 fasciliation for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of tlie torments of the nether world. " But man does not love to be alone ; indeed, the Scripture says thnt 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 par- ticularly 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 brouglit 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 penerse, 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 ALMOST HAPPY. 301 your own composition, 5'ou 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 wafe, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night readinr,; the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months au'l 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 mv compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour — oh, God — God ! I came to the fatal passage. " Friend, friend, what shall I say ? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans — for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife ! ' What is the matter, husband, dear husband ? ' she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night — it was a 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 event- ually 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," 302 SEVEN YEARS OLD-CHASTENING. "Then you will still mafntain," said Peter, " that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit ? " " I w\\\," 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 L " My story is nearly told," said Peter; "a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the argu- ments 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 your- self; much good canst thou do with tlie 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 \ could, and wpnt into the v/orl4. We did all the gOQd LONDON BRIDGE. 303 we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last 1 became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of pra5'er. 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 hearkening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for 1 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 1 completed my studies. But to the point. 1 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 1 found written, ' Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O ! if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there ! ' " " 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, 1 dare say," said 1, " as most popish ones ; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which 1 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, con- sidering 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 schooltellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them ! " " How ! " said Feter, " dost thou think that they had divined my secret ? " " Not they," said I ; " they were, 1 dare say, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All 1 mean to say is, they had probaoly secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin ot more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery .-'" "Dost thou then imagine," said Feter, "the sin against the Holy Ghost to oe so common an occurrence .''" "As you have described it," said 1, "of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it." " Iruly," said vVinitred, " the young man talks wisely." Feter \vas silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting ; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, -■ ' Y 304 VERY SLEEPY.— MUCH BETTER. 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 husbands history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced m my SUCH A SERMON. 303 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 tranquillized him ; the mist vvhich hung over his mmd 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 bock had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the sabbath passed heavily away. At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups ; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking: "Such a sermon," said she, "it has never been our lot to hear ; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day — he was always a powerful preacher ; but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it." " What was the subject?" said I, interrupting her. "Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it ; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time ; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence, gnd Goodness of God." 3o6 GOODLY COUNTRY. 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 j-ou 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 lea '." " I dare say 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 al- together 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 5-ou are willing to admit, that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul ; it is of infinite 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 impeiishable. 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, unutter- ably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not tg BEAVTltUL UNIVERSE. 307 speak of them, I wish not to tcr.ify your imagination with tlie 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 ' Welsh- man'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, 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 joj-s of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above; ex- plaining 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 wh,at 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 en- able 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 consider- able 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 everj-thing was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking 01 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 3o8 FiME CHtiRCa.— POINTS OP DOCTRINE. enlivened tlie 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 oi 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 burninc; 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 Kngland is a fine church," said I; "I would not advise any one to speak ill of tlie 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 \\'inifred. "You are much more of a Methodist.'" said I, " than your husband. But tell me," said I, addressing mj-self to Peter, " do you not difi'er 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 difi or 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 nerkcloths and surplices, as the church is. W^e likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by tlie road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beg2;ar beneath a hedge, or a tinker," he -added, smiling; "it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do." Nothing further passed for some time ; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said, " You must have met witli a great many strange adventures since you took up tliis course of life ?" " Many," said Peter, "it has been my lot to meet with; but none rrore 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 un- known 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. 1 was alone, Winifred being slightly indis- posed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance ; I had PALTRY CAUSE.— ROMAN PONTIFF. 309 finished afternoon's worship — the people had dispersed, and I was sit- ting 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 tv\-ice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, 1 took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We begrn 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 u-ith any effect, it was only by the grace of Goi 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 paltr)- 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 al- most instantly observed that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation were to be ex- pected, he would enhst 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 1 Archbishop of Canterbur}' ! ' 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 v/as 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 e\-il spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in ever^- limb ; when I recovered m}"self 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 310 THE BORDER.-PIPE AND FIDDLE. 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 re- covering himself, he departed, muttering 'Wife! wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.' " CHAPTER LXXX. The Border — Thank j'ou 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 |)owcrfiil steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the tight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on tlie border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexliam, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to a TALI ESI N. 311 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 an 1 Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwnlym, 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 drink- ing ? Of course 1 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-clabbsr, 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 Divous, Mr. Petu- lengro." " Kosko Divous, 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 Plaj'— 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." 312 AT A FUNERAL. " What have you been doing there ? " "Assisting at a funeral." " At whose funeral ? " "Mrs. Heme'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 deHberation, " 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 1 knew, a relation, or rather, a connec- tion of mine ; one of those Hemes. ' Ar'n't you going to the funeral ? ' said he ; and then, brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed between I and you ; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot to do. 'Who hanged her ?' said I ; and then the man told me that she had done it herself; been her own hinjiri ; and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, but there was no time for that ; they were too far off, and the dead was to be buried early the next morning, so I went with the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to their encampment, and there I found the Hemes, 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 Hemes 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 Hemes, who are not very fond of anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwith- standing 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 1 should have come back as empty as I went— he didn't stand up five minutes. Brother, 1 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 di-ep dell close by ; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as 1 have told you ; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, ROMAN WOMAN.— SOMEtVHAT DREARY. S'S who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgeous 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 en- campment, I prepared to be going. Before mounting my grj', however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself, a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies ; where- upon 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 rid- dance, ha%-ing more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose, rither 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. Heme 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 that 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. Heme 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. Heme 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. Heme." " 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 drew to take- away your 3t4 PLUM PUDDING. 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 wars, 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. Heme was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said, ' But I suppose you know what to do ? ' ' I do not,' said he. ' Then hir mi devlis,' said she, ' you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion.' Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition — she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble — she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came ; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would ; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt — for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal man put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and " " Ate of it," said I, " just like my case ? " "Quite different, brother, she took it, it is true; but instead of giving way to her appetite as you might have done, she put it before the rest whom she was going to impeach — perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself — and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried the 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 THE DARK LANE.— FINE FELLOW. 315 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 hollj'- 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 F'ebruary night, dreary, though ; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behhid 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 ior 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 ver>' 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 too with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horseback, ' You are my prisoner,' said he. I am of opinion, brother, that 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 3j6 such a struggle. happen to have two or three things on your mind, which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff, and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping by doing so, either to break away from him, or fling him down ; but it would not do — the plastramengro held on like a bulldog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two — the chal and the runner — as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it ; 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 these engroes are strong fellows — and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people — he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant ; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro's legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult, was to get a hrm hold of the chal, lor 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; lor he w^s as good a man as PLEASANT ENOUGH SPOT. 317 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 enter- taining." 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 ot the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said, " I say, brother, that would be a nice place for a tuzzle ! " " I dare say 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, 1 will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present be- tween us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Heme's death, innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, 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 1 and my pal have a tuzzle, he gives me satisfaction ; and, if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you ean't do, it makes no difference at all, he gives me satis- faction ; 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 satisfac- tion for Mrs. Heme's death, I wish to see what you can do with your morleys ; so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes ; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you." 3i8 rM SATISFIED.— FOND OF SOLITUDE. 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 tuzzle commenced ; and when it had endured for about half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said, " Brother, there is much blood on your face ; you had better wipe it off;" and when I had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. Petulengro said, " I think enough has been done, brother, in the affair of the old woman ; I have, moreover, tried what you are able to do, and find you as I thought, less apt with the naked morleys than the stuffed gloves; nay, brother, put your hands down ; Tm satis- fied ; blood has been shed, which is all that can be reasonably expected for an old woman, who carried so much brimstone about with her as Mrs. Heme." 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 he 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. Heme, 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 impos- sible 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 com- munion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades." "What trades?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro." "Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horse-shoes," said Mr. Petulengro. " I, CHAL DEVLEHI. 319 nowever, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware, I don't believe — come, brother, don't be angr>-, 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 adnse 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 u hen we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would sen-e me as a retreat under present circumstances. " I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not verj- fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly drear>'. 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 dare say 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 merrj- 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 cross-road. 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, pro- ceeded 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 L 320 VOLUNDR.-GRECIAN MYTHOLOGY. CHAPTER LXXXIII, Highlj- Poetical — Volundr — Grecian Mj-thology — Making a Petul — Tongues of Flame — Hammering — Spite of Dukkerin — Heaviness. It has aUvaj's 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 super- stition 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 solemnl)' 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 illumined 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, endea- vour 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 un- advisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, who lived in v.oods 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 eventual!)' 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 1 have hinted before, are particular passages of my own hfe, 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 acro'ss 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 men- tion of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snow-balls had been suddenly flung into it ; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform. MAKING A PETUL. 321 I am in the dingle making a horse-shoe. Having no other horses on tvhose 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 grj', 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 — ]\lr. Petulengro. 1 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, exceedingly hot, brother. And now j-ou 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, 1 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 oft^ 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 1 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 be- hold, it has assumed something of the outline of a petul. I am not going to enter into farther details with respect to the Droccss 322 SPITE OF DVKKEmN. —SEVERAL CAUSES. —\i was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages ; my lorge 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 prac- tised 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 re-fashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a peiul 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, ano, 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. 1 had accomplished tiie 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 over- strained during tlie work, tlie progress of which I have attempted to describe; and eyery one is awape th^t the results qf overstrained GLOOM AND TIViUghT. jij energies are feebleness and lassitude— want of nourishment might like- wise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food has been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertions 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 neighbour- ing 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. Heme'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 them- selves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body, and excite- ment 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, illumi- nating 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 1 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 boy- hood 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 grouad, 324 WHAT SHOULD t DOf 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 mad- ness and this screaming horror ? So I thought and reasoned ; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men, whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there, placing myseli 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, witb 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 un- injured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong upon me. W^as it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey ? O what a mercy I but it could not be — and ALMOST CALM.— FRESH STORE. 325 yet I looked tip 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 sympathize with me ; what a comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathize 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 ao;ain, again subsided ; then drow- siness 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 men- tioned ; 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 afresh 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 con- sidered 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 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 mo- ments 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. O, how I sympathized with Saul, 326 PITCH DARK— FREE AND INDEPENDENT. the tall dark man ! I had read his life before, but it had made no irrt- pression on me ; it had never occurred to me that I was like him, but I now sympathized 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 W^oman — 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 mysel*"; "shall I continue here, or decamp— this is a sad lonely spot — perhaps I had better quit it ; but whither should I go ? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein ? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here ; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please ; but I can't remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don't see why I should not write a little sometimes ; I have pens and an ink-horn, and (or a writing-desk 1 can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn't OATS.— A NOISE. 327 wonder if 1 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 dare say that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. 1 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, 1 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 per- fectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, Ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear. So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I removed two or three things from out it into the tent ; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought 1 heard a noise. I stood stock still supporting the shafts 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 ? " . 1, j My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled ; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, where oace 328 WHATS THE MATTER? 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 1 heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty ; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart ; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent, that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches. "Why don't you move forward?" said a voice from behind, ap- parently that of a female, "you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;" and 1 saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart. " Why don't you move forward. Jack ? " said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path. The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on its haunches. " What is 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 Rome chabo by matricula- tion — one of the right sort, and no mistake — Good day to ye, brother ; I bids ye welcome." The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment — then, turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering as he passed me, " Afraid. Hm ! " I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow ; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame ; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock coat, corduroys, and highlows— on his black head was a kind of red nightcap, round his bull neck a Barcelona handk<-rchief — 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 DOVREFELD.—BLOW ON THE FACE. 329 other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingl\' tall woman, or rather girl, for she coiild 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 com- plexion 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 atten- tion 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, }-ou 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 wape 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 j'eck divvus I met on the drom miro Rommany chi '" " None 01 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." " 1 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 uncontrol- lable 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 stepped 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. 330 CIVIL ENOUGH.— WHATS THIS? "Enough," said I, putting my hand to my cheek; "you have now performed 3-our promise, and made me wipe my face : now be pacified, and tell me fairly the ground of this quarrel." "Grounds I" 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 enougli here for all of us — we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when we are a little better acquainted, I'll tell you my history." " Well, if that doesn't beat all," said the fellow. " I don't thi k 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 1 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 an't your name, the same thing I told the young man here, be civil, or you will rue it." The fellow looked at the girl furiousl}', 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 HANDS OFF.-GASPING FOR BREATH. 331 forward with all the look of a fury; "go in apopli ; you'll smash ten like he." The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose. "You'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way," said the girl, looking at me doubtfully. And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman, disengaging himself of his frock-coat, and dashing oflf 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 as that with which he pressed my throat. " Do you call that fair play ?" said she. " Hands off, Belle," said the other woman ; "do you call it fair play to interfere ? hands off, or I'll be down upon j-ou 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 preser\-er, 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 stnick 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." ^nd now the Flaming Tjrimao was once more ready, much more 33« tbl^G MELFORD. 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 com- menced 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, 1 collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely ex- hausted, and it so happened that the blow which I struck the Tinksi 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, 1 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 into 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 3'ourself," 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 tlie 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 ; 1 had arrived at a part im- mediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, over- grown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle ; I stoj>ped, and laying -hold of a tree. SIGNS OF ANIMATION. 333 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 w^ould 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 under- stand. 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 w^hat 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 repl3^ 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 pro- ceeding 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 con- tinued : " 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 334 ^O MALICE.— AT TEA. up witli it, and go with j'ou if you like, for I bear no malice. I'm sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you, only tell me ? " The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone, " Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you, — stay with the bit of a mullo whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley you before he comes to be Have you with us, indeed ! after what's past, no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla go-cart and live here with your chabo." She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey-cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance ; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears. " They were bad people," said she, "and I did not Hke them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world." CHAPTER LXXXVL At Tea — Vapours — Isppel 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 tlie Flaming Tinman ? All I wonder is that you can feel at all ! As for tiie tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound." " That's a great deal for a person in j-our 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 to pay for one 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 folk call vapours, making me weep and cry," ISOPEL BERNER3. 335 " 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 thare ? " " 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 2 A 336 BREAD AND IVATER. 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 bj' 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 further mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents— and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet prettj'^ creature, I'm told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take lu-r own ])art. 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 ser- vice to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otiierwise 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 tlie 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 necessarj'. 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 didnot 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 crj-ing, having spent my last farthing, tliat 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 storj', 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 irto 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 rae her cart and stock in trade, praying IVse oi.ly 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 companj% but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when any body 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 l\loll, 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, 1 believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faith- ful 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. ITe won't come back, and if he did, he shouldn't touch you in this state. Id fight him for you, but he wont come back, so you needn't be afraid cf 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 LXXXVn. Hubbub of Voices — No Oflfcnce — 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. 1 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 yon 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 pin -'-'i bv chance upon the table, he became suddenly still. 53* No OFFENCE. This was Itiy left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blow§ dealt on a certain haid 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 bf^gan to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, lie interrupted himself, saying in an under tone, " 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 in- describable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep, but who cares, anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall ; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear ; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome ; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding ; and, bending down, I laid my head on the table on my folded hands. And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had with- drawn itself from me. And now, once more, 1 drank of the jug; this second dian^rlit 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. A RADICAL-CHURCH OF ENGLAND. 339 CHAPTER LXXXVIII. A Radical — Simple-Looking Man — Church of England — The President — Aristocracy — Gin and Water — Mending the Roads — Persecuting Church — Simon de Montford — 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 dog's wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed, who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action, a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and ' their wives and daughters,' as William Cobbett says, in his ' Register.' " "Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mis- chief 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 jr the Itocks ? " §3i(J I, 340 THE PRESIDENT.— ARISTOCRACY. 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 — stock*, 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, 5'oung 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 dou n, and say nothing." The man in black partially raised his head, and gave me another peculiar glance. •'Well, if you ar'n't sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation ; but you sha'n'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 5'ou can." " As soon as I can ! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will j-ou figlit for them ? " " No," said I. " You won't ?" " No," said I ; " though from what I have seen ot them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves." "You won't fight for them," said the Radical triumphantly; "I thouglit so ; all bullies, especiallj' 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 went 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 hefore. ''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. GIN AND WATER. PERSECUTING CHURCH. z\ '* "Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass n '** gin and water." "Cold?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the mai in black, " with a lump of sugar in it." " Gin and w ater cold, with a lump of sugar in it," said I, and strucl 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 hi master is here, and therefore has recourse to those manoeuvres, but i won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at ? Why don't yoi obey your orders ? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner i 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 returne( with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug witl beer before the Radical, and the glass with the gin and water before th' man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out. " Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat addressing himself to the man in black, " I honour you for what yoi said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against thi Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and ma; the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend Willian says in his Register." The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to thi man in the snuff-coloured coat. " With respect to the steeples," sai( he, "I am not altogether of your opinion ; they might be turned to bette account than to serve to mend the roads ; they might still be used a places of worship, but not for tlie worship of the Church of England I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself whicl 1 am compelled to arraign, but it will not stand long, the respcctabh part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, ; 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 perFecute ? " said I. " Never," said the man in black. " Did you ever read ' Fox's Book of Martyrs?' " said I. " He I he I " tittered the man in black, " there is not a word of trull in ' Fox's Book of Martyrs.' " " Ten times more than in the ' Flos Sanctorum,' " said I. The man in black looked at me, but made no answer. "And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and th« Vaudois, ' whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,' or the Revocatiui 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 per scouting Church, that those whom you call the respectable part ah 344 SIMON DE MONTFORD. leaving her ; it is because they can't do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montford 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 half- pence, 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 ? " " O 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 tor 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 1, "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." '' 1 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 vvhjte feather now ? " sajd tlie gifnple-looking man. GET UP.- MUMPERS' DINGLE. 343 " He ! he ! he I " 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 1 had taken your part. 1 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 111 give j'ou another chance — you were abusing the Church of England just now. Ill 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 corol- lar}', as I\Iaster 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 aristo- cracy, 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 atti- tude 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 fight- ing 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, j-ou had better go into the field behind the house. But you fool," said he, push- ing 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 closeh', that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left hand hitter. Ar'n't it all true, young man ? Ar'n't you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers' Dingle ?' "I never beat Flaming Bosville," said I, " he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn't be here at the present moment. " 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 ra^n that ever pulled off coat 344 FIRST DRAUGHT.— A POOR POPE. 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, doj-e 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 ever\"body 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. Ill back him for ten pounds ; but no fighting in my kitchen — because why ? I keeps a decent kind of an estabfishment." ■' I have no wish to fight the young man," said Hunter ; " more espe- cially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to figiit for them, indeed — but he won't. I know ; for I see he's a decent, respect- able 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 III 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 joung man. with his Pope and his non- sense ; so I will fight him for anxthing he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second ; whilst you " " Come, Doctor," said the landlord, "or whatsoever you be, will vou go into the field with Hunter ? Ill second j'ou, only you must back yourself! Ill lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inchned 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 ; " fight- ing is not my trade. If I have given any oflFence, I beg anybody's pardon." " Landlord," said I, " what have I to pay ?" " Nothing at ail, ' 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, anjlhing for the first draught. You'll come again. I dare say; shall always be glad to see you. I won't take it," said he, as I put sixpence on the table ; " I won t take iL'' '■ Yes, you shall.'' said I ; '• but not in payment lor anything I have had myself: it shall ser\e 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 with- out 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 an5body,'' said the man in black," I repeat that I ask pardon — more especially to the young gentleman, who was perlectly 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 frit nds of mine are Catholics— and of a surety the HALF-A-CROIVN BROKE.-GIVE THEM ALE. 345 Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely-extended religiori though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been par- ticularly 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, among the Armenians." " The Armenians," said I ; " O dear me, the Armenians " "Have you anything to say about these 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 tlian 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 spe 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 tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. " I am glad you are returned," said she, as soon as she perceived me ; " I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice ? " " Yes," said I, " I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me ; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind, — I am much beholden to you," " I knew it would do you good," said Belle ; " I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say, 'Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong."" " He was no advocate for tea, then ? " said I. "He had no objection to tea ; but he used to say, ' Everything in its season.' Shall we take ours now — I have waited for you." " I have no objection," said I ; " I feel rather heated, and at presert 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 sec and hear at the public-house ?" 346 AMERICA. " Really," said I, "you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what 1 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 uncom- fortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips— at least 1 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 1 had been at the public-house." "Really, j'oung man," said Belle, "you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been — some young ? " and here Belle stopped. '• No," said I, " there was no young person — if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen ; a noisy savage Radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns ; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the Radical against me, and afterwards with me against the Radical, There, you know my company, and what took place." " Was there no one else ? " said Belle. " You are mighty curious," said I. " No, none else, except a poor simple meclianic, 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 1. " I have heard that it is a mighty country." " I dare say it is," said I; "I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen." " 1 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; bq^ with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against Apierica." Washington.— LANGUAGE of tHe roads. uj " 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 tliem ?" "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 uncomfort- able," 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 Oi'" 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 uncomfortable towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian." " What is Armenian ? " " Did you ever hear of Ararat ? " "Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it ; besides, I have read of it in the Bible." " Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you." ^" To prevent " "Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both ; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish anyone else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian." " Would not the language of the roads do as well ? " said Belle. " In some places it would," said I, " but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves' slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at 3tS r//£ oLb WoMEN.-NUMtkALS. { (ii.ii \ulh perfect confidence of safety, but upon tlie whole I should jirefer 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 mean time, if I wish to say anything to you in jirivate, 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 iindt-rstand 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 occa- sionally 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 tliere 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 rhimney-hook, on which they hung the kettle ; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake." "Good! "said 1, "you will make an apt scholar; but, mind, that 1 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 11. e." " I will repeat them again," said I, " and pay great attention. Now, try again." " Me, jergo, earache." " I neither said j'rgo, nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, 1 am afraid 1 shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar." Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the V inding path, which led from the bottom of the hollow where we were seated, to the plain above " Gorgio shunella," she said, at length, in « kw voice. " Pure Rommany," said I ; "where?" I added, in a whisper. •'Dovey odoi," said Bcllc, no J 'in- with her h?ai towa.Ub the path, TME Man in BLACK.-RaTheR apprehensive. 349 " 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 commence- ment, 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— Ratlier 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 — Adio — 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 tlie 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." " 1 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 il your intentions were good," said I. " 1 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 litlie 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 1 have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor. 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 coovulseU, and his mouth opened in a singular manner. 350 Lot^ELV VtRGtN. " 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 tlie 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 conversa- tion concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt 1 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 fire-place, 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 j'ou," said the man in black, " I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two fore-fingers." " 1 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 exxuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neithtr 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 iu his own house, he has a right to be boorish CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY. 351 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 masters 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 hfe, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linendraper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linendraper 's feelings of hospitality ; whereupon the linendraper, 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 1 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 ? " " O ! 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, gyps)' fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool 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 w ill be, I beheve, the first visit of the kind ever paid me." "Will you permit me to ask," said the man in black, "the weather is verj- 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 eye- brows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large — a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion w-as somewhat rubicund. "A bad countenance," said Belle, in the language of the roads, obser\-ing 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 ?" 2 B 352 WANDERING ZlGAN. " As little as 1 do Armenian," said the man in black ; " but I under- stand 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 1, 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 ; 1 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 ? " " O," 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' clonks 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 die io non credo afatto." Certain facVlty.-acute ansiver. 35 '' What do you take me for ? " said I. " Why," said the man in black, " I should consider you to be a phila logist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life ; but I confes: to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for £ philologist." " And why should not a philologist be able to answer question: 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 certair faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them ; bu that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, tc say nothing of an acute one, on any subject — even though the subjecl 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 answer; 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 apologize for my intrusion." " No apology is necessary," said I ; " will j'ou please to take anj'- thing 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 ray calling for it so?" 354 ^ESt HOLLANDS. " Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information," said I. "With all your knowledge," saiJ 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 them- selves," said 1 ; " 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, alter 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. 1 found her conversation highly enter- taining ; 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 OPAQUE FORESTS. 35 S could dearly 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 gocd 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 excise- men. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests ; when I would occasion- ally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and per- verse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America ; and that she hoped, with God's favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart, that same Belle : such was the staple of Belle's conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons ; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine — how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers ; but she had the curiosity of a woman ; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals ; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals ; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian mimerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, leading 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. 356 THE LANDLORD.-IVITIIOVT A SHILLIXG. CHAPTER XCIl. The Landlord— Rathci Too Old— Without a Shilling— Reputation— A Fort- night 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, 1 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 house- keeper, 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 con- tent. 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 . 1 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 nothmg to lose by REPUTATIOX.-A FORTMGHT AGO. 357 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 ahvavs 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. '• Xo reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Repu- tation won"t pass for the current coin of this here realm ; and let me tell you. that if it an't backed by some of it, it a'n't a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood ; and people used to come and look at me, and worship me, but as soon as it began to he whis- pered 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 inmj' own kitchen here. He wouldn't have called me a fool a fortnight ago ; twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool ; what do you think of that ? the man that beat Tom, of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool ; and I hadn't heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall ; for when a man's pocket is low, do you see, his heart a'n't much higher ; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me." •• If you mean," said I, " to ask me to lend you the money which j-ou 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 anj-thing 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 'cesser as you, and as for your lending me money, don't think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had anj', 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 some- thing handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here 358 . LIQUIDS.-RESPECTABILITY. 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 obser\-ed, 'Youth will be served.'" "Oh, I didn't mean to fight," said the landlord, " I think I could beat you if I were to train a little ; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see, the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with." "The young woman I keep company with," said I, '' pray what do you mean ? " "■We will go into the bar, and have something," said the landlord, getting up. " My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly." Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself farther. " What I wants, is to get up a fight between a man and a woman ; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out, for the thing should be close to m.y 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 re- spectability 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, PARLIAMENT COVE.— MY BREWER 359 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 under- stand one another and agree beforehand which should be beat ; and if you take my advice you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing." " Then," said I, "you would not have us fight fair ? " " By no means," said the landlord, "because why? I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has." " But," said I, " you said the other day, that you liked the fair thing." " That was by way of gammon," said the landlord; "just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?'' " It is a very ingenious one," said I. " A'n't it ? " said the landlord. " The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool, but if they don't call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman." " I am going," said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale. '' Do you think she'll have any objection ? " said the landlord. " To do what ? " said I. " Why, to fight cross." " Yes, I do," said I. " But you will do your best to persuade her ? " "No, I will not," said I. " Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair ? " " No ! " said I, " I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all." "And how's my brewer to be paid ?" said the landlord. " I really don't know," said I. "I'll change my religion," said the landlord. CHAPTER XCIII. Another Visit — A la MarguUe — 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 36o A LA MARGUTTE. now in possession of some very excellent Hollands which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at his service ; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a 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, tastec 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 ; 1 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 d la Margtitte," 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 lympth from well, I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.' " " He ! he ! he ! " said the man in black ; " that is more than Mezzo- fante 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 ?" "O yes," said the man in black; "and five-and-twenty added to them; but — he! he! he! it was principally from him who is certamly the greatest of Philologists that I formed my opinion of the sect." "You ought to speak of him with more lespect," said I; "I have heard say that he has done good service to your See." ANOTHER STATUE. 361 " O, yes," said the pian 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 foi 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 obser\'ed, ' Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu'u?i honifne pent avoir beaticoup de paroles avec bien pen d'esp7-it.' " •' 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 in- tend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican librar)'." '■ 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 illus- trissimo ; when, indeed, we have conquered those 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 tliis, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another. CHAPTER XCIV. Prerogative — Feeling of Gratitude — A Long History — Alliterative Style — Ad- vantageous Specimen — Jesuit Benefice — Not Sufficient — Queen Stork's Tragedy — Good Sense — Grandeur and Gentility — Ironmonger's Daugh- ter — Clan Mac-Sycophant — Lick-Spittles — 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 ? ' gajd I , after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it. 362 PREROGATIVE.— FEELING OF GRATITUDE. " 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 obsen-ing that such behaviour would savour strongly of in- gratitude, 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, re- minding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip ; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, how- ever, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inas- much 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 non- sense," 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 Sec of Rome cares for." ADl^ANTAGEOUS SPECIMEN. 363 On my telling the man in black that I believed that even among tlie 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, 1 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 oi 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 ot 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 364 QUEEN STORKS TRAGEDY. 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 lault, 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 emancipa- tion, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make con- verts by thousands. ' What a line 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 her- self. 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 I " 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." CRANDEVR AND GENTILITY. 365 " 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 \-ague 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 inchnation to kiss, nor was tised 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 cava- liers, with which his pages are stuffed — all of whom were Papists, or very high Church, which is nearly the same thing ; and they are be- ginning 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 Gtialtiero aveie fatto molio m favor e delle 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-Sj'cophant 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 patronize it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, if the very next time the canny 366 LICK-SPITTLES.— NEWSPAPER EDTTORS. Scot was admitted to the royal symposium he did not say, ' By rtiy 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 1, " that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before Royalty in Eng- land 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 1. " 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 eulogize us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles choose, and they always do our bidding, to admit the canaille to their tables, their kitchen tables. As for literature in general," said he, " the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lick-spittles." " For example, Dante," said I. " Yes," said the man in black. " A dangerous personage ; that poem of his cuts both ways ; and then there was Pulci, that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us ; and then there was Aertino, who dealt so hard with the poveri frati ; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick-spittles. And then in Spain, — 'tis true. Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lick-spittles ; the Principe Constante of the last is a curiosity in its way ; and then the Mary Stuart of Lope ; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironworker's daughter ; she has been lately thinking of adding 'a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula ' to the rest of her accomplishments, he ! he ! he ! but then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight ; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote ; then there was some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No ; all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent ; it is only in England that all " " Come," said I, " mind what you are about to say of English literary men." " Why should I mind ? " said the man in black, "there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do ; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lick- spittles ; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he ! he ! and above all at your newspaper editors, ho ! ho ! " " You will, of course, except the editors of the from your censure of the last class ? " said I. " Them ! " said the man in black ; " why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise CHARLES THE SIMPLE. 367 tlieir 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. 1 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 con- siderable distance : and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the will stand by them ; they will prove themselves as expert lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don't think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria." "Well," said I, '' I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men ; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes ; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping — they are not altogether the foolish people 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 whi> h 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 hot-beds of pride and folly— colleges, whence they return with a greater con- tempt for everything ' low,' and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. 1 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." ^^ " 1 do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all, said 1 ; 2 C 368 LOWER CLASSES.-PRIESTLEY'S HOUSE. "some of the Dissenters' cliildren may be coming over to the CInirch of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome." " In the high road for it, I assure 5'ou," said the man in black, "part of it is going to abandon, tlie rest to lose their prerogative, and when a Church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others." "Weil," 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 j'our 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 countrj', religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion ? why, tliere 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 j-et the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English esta- blishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes ; j-et 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 ha\ e 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, wlio sacked and burnt Priestley's house at Birmingham towards the end of the last century." SJXON ancestors, 369 "A disgraceful a.Tair," 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 j'ears 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 everj-thing 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 differ- ently 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 favour- ite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tra- dition in our church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the in- stigation 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 ob- serving that all English literary men were sycophants ?" "Lick-spittles," said tlie 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." " 1 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 570 RENOVATING GLASS.— MONEY. of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of m}' 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 g!ass 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 tight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy Bishops, and your corpulent Rectors ! do tliey imitate Christ in his disregard for money? You might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility." " W'ell," 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 chair, 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 1 believe 1 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 <^aid 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 I Go to Rome for money, ho ! ho ! ho ! " WOODED RETREAT.— FRESH SHOES, 371 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 Goethe. Nearly three days elapsed without anything ot 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 quad- ruped 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 pre- paring 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 1 had produced, and catching them as they fell, some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat alter 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 1 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 discon- tinue 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 w^as nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. 1 then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that sur- rounded 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 dresg — jio signs of the dust and fatigue of 372 WOOD FIRE—QUEEN OF CHINA. her late excursion remained ; slie 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 some- thing better than the dingle — Queen of China. Come, let us have tea." " Something less would content me," said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal. So we took tea together, Belle and I. *' How delicious tea is after a hot summer's day, and a long walk," said she. "I dare say it is most refreshing then," said I ; "but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter's night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth." Belle sighed. " Where does tea come from ? " she' presently demanded. " From China," said I ; " I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it fjut 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 in- habitants, 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 ? " "O no ! I know nothing of their language ; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and 50 difficult that uoue but the CLEVEREST PEOPLE.— DECLENSIONS. 373 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 pafct 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 maybe in Armenian, it is a noun ; and as we have never jet 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 mare 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 French- man is clever enough to speak it — to say nothing of teaching ; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh ! " " W^elsh, 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, vvit'i 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 oblipe you I will decline it as you wish ; " and thereupon Belle declined Masti- r 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 Knglish." 374 ARMENIAN.— THUNDER. "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 dare say 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 inter- rupt 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 laeginning to rise ; hark how it moans among the branches ; and see now their to'ps are bending — it brings dust on its wings — 1 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 slielter: 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 ol 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 Ku' iibh there arc no declensions." KOUL ADONAI. 375 «' 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 beheve 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 thunder-storm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner : — *Astonied now I stand at strains, As often 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 ex- pressions 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 I his, the fiercest I remembei," 376 OLD GOETHE. -A SHOUT. " 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 h's 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 ; this 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 1 listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Guilym ; what say you to old Goethe : — ' Mist shrouds the night, and rack ; Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack I 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 Fire Ball — See to the Horses — Passing Away — Gap in the Hedge — On Three Wheels— Why Do You Stop? — No Craven H.art — The Cordial — Across the Country — Small Bags. I LISTENED attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of brandies, 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 tlie matter," said I to Belle, starting uj). " 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 nioutli of the dingle. I was A FIRE BALL.—SEE TO THE HORSES. 377 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 fire-balls, 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 fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. " Help me," said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh ; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore- wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion, or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming, " See to the horses, I will look after the man." She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the 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 pa ify 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 with- out 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 extri- cated. "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 postil- lion, 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 378 G.-iP /.V THE HEDGE.— ON THREE WHEELS. 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. Dont 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 thro;igh." "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 am.dst the trees, which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing ; then, darting down into the dingle, 1 brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying, over- grown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and 1 set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground. We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking ; at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with success — the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels. " We may leave it here in safety," said I, " for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you ; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise." " I dont think either the wheel or the axle is hurt," said the postillion, who liad been handling both ; " it is only the linch-pin having dropped out tliat 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 1 ; " 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 postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. " Why do you stop ? " said 1. " I dont wish to otTend you," said the man ; " but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; 1 hope you and the yoiuig gentlewoman, as you call luT, 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 Oi!rs' 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 parliamentar}- 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 j'ourg 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 neighbour- hood, and I attending them. They soon got tired of sight-seeing, and of Paris too; and so did I. However, thej* still continued there, in order, I believe, that the young ladies might lay in a store of French finer}'. I should have passed my idle time at Paris, of which I hrd 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 ord nary, 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, toos 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 ^is own council, and appeared to care nothing for what p^^ople Si.d 390 PHARAOH'S BUTLER.— A DILIGENCE, 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, hanng seen the inside of a prison, and known the want of a meal's victuals, all which trials King Pharaoh's butler underwent, so he may have been that butler ; at any rate, I have known positive conclusions come to, on no better premises, if indeed as good. As for the story of his coming direct from Satan's kitchen, I place no confidence in it at all, as Blac'K 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 basin, connected by a narrow passage with the sea. Here we were to embark ; and so we did as soon as possible, glad enough to get away ; at least I was, and so I make no doubt were the rest ; for such a place for bad smells I never was in. It seems all the drains and sewers of the place run into that same salt basin, voiding into it all their impurities, which, not being able to escape into the sea in any considerable quantity, owing to the narrowness of the entrance, there accumulate, filling the whole atmo- sphere with these same outrageous scents, on which account the town is a famous lodging-house of the plague. The ship in which we em- barked was bound for a place in Italy called Naples, where we were to stay some time. The voyage was rather a lazy one, the ship not being moved by steam ; for at the time of which I am speaking, some five years ago, steamships were not so plentiful as now. There were only two passengers in the grand cabin, where my governor and his daughters were, an Italian lady and a priest Of the lady I have not much to say; she appeared to be a qufpt rrsp'^ctable person enough, SHARKING PRIEST.— VIRGILIO. 391 and after our arrival at Naples, I neither saw nor heard anything more of her ; but of the priest I sliall have a good deal to say in the sequel, (that, by-the-bye, is a word I learned 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, vvhicii 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, wliich 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 wliich 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 be- fore 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 con- sequently 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 39* TIVO OPINIONS.— HOLY MARY. 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 everj' 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 thin 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 mean time we had plenty of opportunities of seeing Holy Marj', 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 \^er\- fond of sliort 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 tiiat 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 surcricr had over the ladies ; the other maid, however, the one who PRIESTLY CONFEDERATES.— VETURINI. 393 had a kind of respect for me, was not so easily besotted ; she used to laugh at what she saw, and at what the fellow told her, and from her I learnt that amongst other things intended by these priestly confederates was robbery ; she said that the poor old governor had already been persuaded by his daughters to put more than a thousand pounds into the superior priest's hands for purposes of charity and religion, as was said, and that the subordinate one had already inveigled her fellow- servant out of every penny which she had saved from her wages, and had endeavoured likewise to obtain what money she herself had, but in vain. With respect to myself, the fellow shortly after made an attempt towards obtaining a hundred crowns, of which, by some means, he knew me to be in possession, telling me what a meritorious thing it was to give one's superfluities for the purposes of religion. ' That is true,' said I, 'and if, after my return to my native country, I find I have anything which I don't want myself, I will employ it in helping to build a Methodist chapel.' "By the time that the three months were expired for which we had hired the palace of the needy Prince, the old governor began to talk of returning to England, at least of leaving Italy. I believe he had become frightened at the calls which were continually being made upon him for money ; for after all, you know, if there is a sensitive part of a man's wearing apparel it is his breeches pocket ; but the young ladies could not think of leaving dear Italy and the dear priest ; and then they had seen nothing of the country, they had only seen Naples ; before leaving dear Italia they must see more of the country and the cities ; above all, they must see a place which they called the Eternal City, or by some similar nonsensical name ; and they persisted so that the poor governor permitted them, as usual, to have their way; and it was decided what route they should take, that is, the priest was kind enough to decide for them ; and was also kind enough to promise to go with them part of the route, as far as a place where there was a wonderful figure of Holy Mary, which the priest said it was highly necessarj' 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 corner 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 Mar>', dressed in her usual way ; ^nd after we had stared at the figure, and some of our party had bowed 394 I'tKE A SEPULCHRE. 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, 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 w^orshipped ; and I said to myself, if all this here doesn't smtU of fetish may I smell fetid. " At this place the priest left us, returning to Naples with his sub- ordinate, 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 tamily 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 im- mense city it was, looking as if it had stood for a long time, and would stand for a long time still ; compared with it, London would look like a mere assemblage of bee-skeps ; however, give me the bee-skeps with their merry hum and bustle, and life and honey, rather than that huge town, which looked like a sepulchre, where there was no life, no busy hum, no bees, but a scanty sallow population, intermixed with black priests, white priests, grey priests ; and though I don't say there was no honey in the place, for I believe there was, I am ready to take my Bible oath that it was not made there, and that the priests kept it all lor themselves." CHAPTER XCIX. A Cltiistcr— Ilali English — New Acquaintance— Mixed Liquors— Turning Papist — Purposrs of Charity — Foreign Religion — Melancholy — Elbow- ing and Pushing — Outlandish Sight— The Figure — 1 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 tiie postil]ion, " 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 HALF ENGLISH.— NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 395 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 priesdy 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 396 rrns'LxG pAPt^T.-PVRPo^Es OP cuAmtY. n.-.tioii!'.— thry wore always upon tlieir guard, and liad tluir 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 1 heard no sound. My mother had a sandy cat, which sometimes used to open its mouth wide v\ith a mew which nobody could hear, and the silent laugh of tliat red-haired priest used to put me wonderfully in mind of the silent mew of my mother's sand3'-red cat. And then the other laugh, which you could hear ; what a strange laugh that was, never loud, yes, 1 have heard it tolerably loud. He once passed near me, after having taken leave of a silly English feliow^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 wc had been at Rome about si.x weeks, our old friend the priest of Naples arrived, but without his subordinate, for whose services he now perhaps thought that he had no occasion. I believe he found matters in our family wearing almost as favourable an aspect as he could desire : with what he had previously taught them and shown them at Naples and elsewhere, and with what the red-haired confederate had taught them and shown them at Rome, the poor young ladies had become quite handmaids of superstition, so that they, especially the youngest, were prepared to bow down to anything, and kiss anything, however vile and ugly, provided a priest commanded them ; and as for the old governor, what with the influence which his daughters exerted, and what with the ascendancy which the red-haired man had obtained over him, he dared not say his purse, far less his soul, was his own. Only think of an Englishman not being master of his own purse ! My acquaintance, the lady's maid, assured me, that to her certain know- ledge, he had disbursed to the red-haired man, for p\irposes 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 £Overnor, would forsake the religion of their native land, taking up FCRrlG.X RELlGIOM.-tlL^onnNG AND PUSHING. 397 witli that of tlicse foreign regions, for so my fellow-servant expressed it, and that perhaps attempts mii;lit be m ide to induce us poor English servants to take up with the foreign religion, that is herself and me, for as for our fellow-servant, the other maid, she wanted no inducing, being disposed body and soul to go over to it. Whereupon, I swore with an oath that nothing should induce me to take up with the foreign religion ; and the poor maid, my fellow-servant, bursting into tears, said that for her part she would sooner die than have anything to do with it ; thereupon we shook hands and agreed to stand by and countenance one another : and moreover, provided our governors were fools enough to go over to the religion of these here foreigners, we would not wait to be asked to do the like, but leave them at once, and make the best of our way home, even if we were forced to beg on the road. "At last the day of the grand festival came, and we were all to go to the big church to hear the mass. Now it happened that for some time past I had been much afflicted with melancholy, especially when I got up of a morning, produced by the strange manner in which I saw things going on in our family ; and to dispel it in some degree, I had been in the habit of taking a dram before breakfast. On the morning in question, feeling particularly low-spirited when I thought of the foolish step our governor would probably take before evening, I took two drams before breakfast ; and after breakfast, feeling my melancholy still continuing, I took another, which produced a slight effect upon my head, though lam convinced nobody observed it. "Away we drove to the t»g church; it was a dark, misty day, I remember, and very cold, so that if anybody had noticed my b^ing 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, how- ever, though in v\hat direction I knew not, except it was one in which everj'body 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 1 could scarcei'j see. 398 THE FIGURE.— 1 DON'T CARE FOR YOU. " 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 out- landish 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 occasion- ally lilting 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 b)' 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 con- clusion 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 MERRY ANDREWS.— ONE GOOD. 399 b'-nrh In 3 laTse room, something like a guard-room, in the custody of certain fellows dressed like Merry Andrews ; they were bluff, good- ^ookirg, wholesome fellows, very different from the sallow Italians; they were looking at me attentively, and occasionally talking to each other in a language which sounded very like the cracking of walnuts in the mouth, very different from cooing Italian. At last one of them asked me in Italian what had ailed me, to which I replied, in an incoherent manner, something about Mumbo Jumbo; whereupon the fellow, one of the bluffest of the lot, a jovial rosy-faced rascal, lifted up his right hand, placing it in such a manner that the lips were between the forefinger and thumb, then lifting up his right foot and drawing back his head, he sucked in his breath with a hissing sound, as if to imitate one drinking a hearty draught, and then slapped me on the shoulder, saying something which sounded like goot wine, goot com- panion, whereupon they all laughed, exclaiming, ya, ya, goot com- panion. 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 resiilted 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 com- pelled to discharge me. I said that if he was scandalized at my behaviour in the church, I was more scandalized 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 1 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 He down for an hour or two ; but scarcely was I there when the door opened, and m came the red-haired priest. He showed himself, as he always did, per- fectly 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 mterest; for that the family were about to embrace the Catholic religion, and 2 E 400 A DISPUTE. — THE NEXT MORNING. 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 sen-ant, 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 swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here ! May I ' — and here I swore — ' if I do. The mere possibility of one of their children being swash-buckler 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 swash-buckler 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 some- thing extraordinary had been going on in the family. He was for some time closeted with the governor, with whom, I believe, he had a dispute ; for my fellow-servant, the ladies' maid, informed me that she heard high words. " Rather late at night the young gentleman sent for me into his room, and asked me various questions with respect to what had been going on, and my behaviour in the church, of which he had heard something. 1 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 circum- stances, 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 court-yard, 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 shavine;. FEMALE DOLL.— PROPER DIGNITY. 4c i • 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 trumperj' stood a little way down the private stair, the door of which stood open ; without a moment's hesita- tion, 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 ; tliough 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 yeung 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 depaited, 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 probabra that the youngest cf oiir ladies would ba-^e done the- same thin*^ if she could*' 402 FETISH COUNTRY.— SPORTING CHARACTER. 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 tlie 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, 1 liked him very much, for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually consulting me as to his affairs. At length he was brought nearly to his last shifts, by backing the favourite at the Derby, which favourite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars — I mean, between us — as to what was to be done. He wished to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver and I guard. He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-rate whip, and I dare say I should have made a first-rate guard ; but to start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he should go into the Church ; but to go into the Church — at any rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our aim — it is necessary lor 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. SERi^ANTS' CLUB.-POUncB. 463 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 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 chal- lenge, which was accepted ; we went out. Lord C 's servant being seconded by a reformado footman from the palace. We fired thjee 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 404 rEROEATION.-COOD NtGHT. sensitive, and he said tliis duel of mine was a parody of his own. lieing, 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 (luring the time that I lived with the young baronet. I now determined V^ 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 iigain in the direction of town, walking, in order to see the country. On t!ie 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 1 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 1 knew something of horses, engaged me as a postillion. I have remained there since. You have now heard my story. " Stay, you sha'n't say that I told my tale without a per — peroration. ^Vhat shall it be ? Oh, 1 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." ^ THE END, THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.00 ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. SFn oi '"^ 21 ,93 g ^ -. -"^aS^JuJ^ ^^<- :^^■ 1940 /^i^mY fa wuw • ' '-' ::'^-:i\^< . _ «/>d^ o€e ioiw .^ 4^cv'''-"'- JUL 16 1941 Aim 23 ms 1 ,--C*^>' L'^-^ .c:^:^^9fio \ 40ec ^' • -''Pr'^iLL, on '.l^^V '''•'^^' Z\j "'"J ■ .(^C".^*? W!^-'' ■ Ll) 21-20wi-5,'39(9269s) 3 If? ^o fss- S 737 ) 9 9 Z THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY