For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as if rooted to the floor. I felt stunned–my last hope was gone; presently a feeling arose in my mind–a feeling of self-reproach. Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Armenian? Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians had I not put the idea into his head? he had told me in his epistle that he was indebted to me for the idea. But for that, he might at the present moment have been in London, increasing his fortune by his usual methods, and I might be commencing under his auspices the translation of the Haik Esop, with the promise, no doubt, of a considerable remuneration for my trouble; or I might be taking a seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and imbibing the first rudiments of doing business after the Armenian fashion, with the comfortable hope of realising, in a short time, a fortune of three or four hundred thousand pounds; but the Armenian was now gone, and farewell to the fine hopes I had founded upon him the day before. What was I to do? I looked wildly around, till my eyes rested on the Moldavian clerk, who was writing away in his ledger with particular vehemence. Not knowing well what to do or to say, I thought I might as well ask the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian had departed, and when he thought that he would return. It is true it mattered little to me when he departed, seeing that he was gone, and it was evident that he would not be back soon; but I knew not what to do, and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask; so I went up to the Moldavian clerk, and asked him when the Armenian had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or three. Whereupon the Moldavian clerk, looking up from his ledger, made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I stood astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when he considered it probable that the master would return, and whether he thought it would be two months or–my tongue faltered–two years; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet more unintelligible; as I persisted, however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth, moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained a horror of dumb people, having once heard my another say, when I was a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better.
CHAPTER LII
Kind of stupor–Peace of God–Divine hand–Farewell, child–The fair–Massive edifice–Battered tars–Lost! lost!–Good-day, gentlemen.
Leaving the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some time; almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London Bridge, to the booth in which stood the stall of the old apple-woman; the sound of her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of stupor on the stone bench beside her; she was inquiring what was the matter with me.
At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance. Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman’s countenance cleared up instantly; she informed me that she had never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her HONEST trade–laying an emphasis on the word honest–had increased of late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, above all, that she felt no fear and horror ‘here,’ laying her hand on her breast.
On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, she told me that she frequently did; but that the present were mild voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from the former ones; that a voice, only the night previous, had cried out about ‘the peace of God,’ in particularly sweet accents; a sentence which she remembered to have read in her early youth in the primer, but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the night before brought it to her recollection.
After a pause, the old woman said to me, ‘I believe, dear, that it is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought this goodly change. How glad I am now that I can read; but oh what a difference between the book you brought to me and the one you took away! I believe the one you brought is written by the finger of God, and the other by–‘
‘Don’t abuse the book,’ said I, ‘it is an excellent book for those who can understand it; it was not exactly suited to you, and perhaps it had been better that you had never read it–and yet, who knows? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you would not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you say is written by the finger of God’; and, pressing my hand to my head, I fell into a deep fit of musing. ‘What, after all,’ thought I, ‘if there should be more order and system in the working of the moral world than I have thought? Does there not seem in the present instance to be something like the working of a Divine hand? I could not conceive why this woman, better educated than her mother, should have been, as she certainly was, a worse character than her mother. Yet perhaps this woman may be better and happier than her mother ever was; perhaps she is so already–perhaps this world is not a wild, lying dream, as I have occasionally supposed it to be.’
But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to abandon myself much longer to these musings. I started up. ‘Where are you going, child?’ said the woman, anxiously. ‘I scarcely know,’ said I; ‘anywhere.’ ‘Then stay here, child,’ said she; ‘I have much to say to you.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I shall be better moving about’; and I was moving away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see this woman again; and turning round I offered her my hand, and bade her good-bye. ‘Farewell, child,’ said the old woman, ‘and God bless you!’ I then moved along the bridge until I reached the Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects.
At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it would appear, to the south-east. I was walking at a great rate– there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a great rate; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate; and all–men, carts, and carriages–going in the selfsame direction, namely to the south-east. I stopped for a moment and deliberated whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in that direction? I could not say that I had any particular business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back? only walk about well-known streets; and, if I must walk, why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its terraces led? I was ere in a terra incognita, and an unknown place had always some interest for me; moreover, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group of the crowd, and almost vying in speed with some of the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches; and, by dint of walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the river; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls, and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the crowd which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting away as much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best to enter into the diversions of the fair; staring at the wonderful representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows of wild beasts, which, by the bye, are frequently found much more worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves; listening to the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in front of the temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel dresses of the performers who thronged the stages in the intervals of the entertainments; and in this manner, occasionally gazing and occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came in front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of the Thames.
It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, on which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, with strange three-cornered hats on their heads; most of them were mutilated; this had a wooden leg–this wanted an arm; some had but one eye; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the singular-looking individuals who moved before it, I guessed where I was. ‘I am at– ‘ said I; ‘these individuals are battered tars of Old England, and this edifice, once the favourite abode of Glorious Elizabeth, is the refuge which a grateful country has allotted to them. Here they can rest their weary bodies; at their ease talk over the actions in which they have been injured; and, with the tear of enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how they have trod the deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others whose names stand emblazoned in the naval annals of their country.’
Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill which rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among the trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the top of the hill, I was present’ y stopped by a lofty wall, along which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through, and found myself on an extensive green plain, on one side bounded in part by the wall of the park, and on the others, in the distance, by extensive ranges of houses; to the south-east was a lofty eminence, partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited an animated scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below; there were multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows; there was also horse-racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun shining brightly overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a little time, feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the tents, and laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise in the tent. ‘Who will stand me?’ said a voice with a slight tendency to lisp. ‘Will you, my lord?’ ‘Yes,’ said another voice. Then there was a sound as of a piece of money banging on a table. ‘Lost! lost! lost!’ cried several voices; and then the banging down of the money, and the ‘lost! lost! lost!’ were frequently repeated; at last the second voice exclaimed, ‘I will try no more; you have cheated me.’ ‘Never cheated any one in my life, my lord–all fair- -all chance. Them that finds, wins–them that can’t finds, loses. Anyone else try? Who’ll try? Will you, my lord?’ and then it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry of ‘lost! lost!’–then again the sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard ‘Won! won!’ but the predominant cry was ‘Lost! lost!’ At last there was a considerable hubbub, and the words ‘Cheat!’ ‘Rogue!’ and ‘You filched away the pea!’ were used freely by more voices than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied, ‘Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad when folks wins; but, as those here don’t appear to be civil, not to wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; so, good-day, gentlemen.’
CHAPTER LIII
Singular table–No money–Out of employ–My bonnet–We of the thimble–Good wages–Wisely resolved–Strangest way in the world– Fat gentleman–Not such another–First edition–Not very easy– Won’t close–Avella gorgio–Alarmed look.
Presently a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a rather singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was exceedingly small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few yards from the entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to decide on the direction which he should take; presently, his eye glancing on me as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared for a moment inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and all. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, and, coming up to the place where I was, the long legs of the table projecting before him, he cried, ‘Glad to see you here, my lord.’
‘Thank you,’ said I, ‘it’s a fine day.’
‘Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that finds, wins–them that don’t finds, loses.’
‘Play at what?’ said I.
‘Only at the thimble and pea, my lord.’
‘I never heard of such a game.’
‘Didn’t you? Well, I’ll soon teach you,’ said he, placing the table down. ‘All you have to do is to put a sovereign down on my table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my thimbles. If you find it,–and it is easy enough to find it,–I give you a sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins.’
‘And them that don’t finds, loses,’ said I; ‘no, I don’t wish to play.’
‘Why not, my lord?’
‘Why, in the first place, I have no money.’
‘Oh, you have no money, that of course alters the case. If you have no money, you can’t play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing after my customers,’ said he, glancing over the plain.
‘Good-day,’ said I.
‘Good-day,’ said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he added, ‘Out of employ?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘out of employ.’
The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. At length he said, ‘May I speak a word or two to you, my lord?’
‘As many as you please,’ said I.
‘Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on the grass, if you please, my lord.’
‘Why do you call me my lord?’ said I, as I arose and followed him.
‘We of the thimble always calls our customers lords,’ said the man; ‘but I won’t call you such a foolish name any more; come along.’
The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a dry pit, when, looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid his table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the side of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. ‘So you are in want of employ?’ said he, after I had sat down beside him.
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am very much in want of employ.’
‘I think I can find you some.’
‘What kind?’ said I.
‘Why,’ said the man, ‘I think you would do to be my bonnet.’
‘Bonnet!’ said I, ‘what is that?’
‘Don’t you know? However, no wonder, as you had never heard of the thimble and pea game, but I will tell you. We of the game are very much exposed; folks when they have lost their money, as those who play with us mostly do, sometimes uses rough language, calls us cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats over our eyes; and what’s more, with a kick under our table, cause the top deals to fly off; this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers: so we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know nothing about us; for example, when the customer says, “I’m cheated,” the bonnet must say, “No, you ain’t, it is all right”; or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square, and say, “I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won’t see him ill-used”; and so, when they kicks at the table, the bonnet must say, “I won’t see the table ill-used, such a nice table, too; besides, I want to play myself”; and then I would say to the bonnet, “Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins”; and then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win.’
‘In a word,’ said I, ‘the bonnet means the man who covers you, even as the real bonnet covers the head.’
‘I just so,’ said the man; ‘I see you are awake, and would soon make a first-rate bonnet.’
‘Bonnet,’ said I, musingly; ‘bonnet; it is metaphorical.’
‘Is it?’ said the man.
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘like the cant words–‘
‘Bonnet is cant,’ said the man; ‘we of the thimble, as well as all cly-fakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being understood by every one. Besides covering his principal, a bonnet must have his eyes about him, for the trade of the pea, though a strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful; so it is the duty of the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, to say, The gorgio’s welling.’
‘That is not cant,’ said I, ‘that is the language of the Rommany Chals.’
‘Do you know those people?’ said the man.
‘Perfectly,’ said I, ‘and their language too.’
‘I wish I did,’ said the man; ‘I would give ten pounds and more to know the language of the Rommany Chals. There’s some of it in the language of the pea and thimble; how it came there I don’t know, but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is difficult. You’ll make a capital bonnet; shall we close?’
‘What would the wages be?’ I demanded.
‘Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I could afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week.’
‘Is it possible?’ said I.
‘Good wages, ain’t they?’ said the man.
‘First-rate,’ said I; ‘bonneting is more profitable than reviewing.’
‘Anan?’ said the man.
‘Or translating; I don’t think the Armenian would have paid me at that rate for translating his Esop.’
‘Who is he?’ said the man.
‘Esop?’
‘No, I know what that is, Esop’s cant for a hunchback; but t’other?’
‘You should know,’ said I.
‘Never saw the man in all my life.’
‘Yes, you have,’ said I, ‘and felt him too; don’t you remember the individual from whom you took the pocket-book?’
‘Oh, that was he; well, the less said about that matter the better; I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a much better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not carry off that pocket-book; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the trade, in which had I remained, I might have been lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I determined to leave it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, not having a penny in the world.’
‘And wisely resolved,’ said I; ‘it was a bad and dangerous trade, I wonder you should ever have embraced it.’
‘It is all very well talking,’ said the man, ‘but there is a reason for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military officer’– and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat the man’s story, it was a poor one, a vile one; at last he observed, ‘So that affair which you know of determined me to leave the filching trade, and take up with a more honest and safe one; so at last I thought of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, especially to pay for lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew little about it.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘how did you get over that difficulty?’
‘Why,’ said the man, ‘I thought I should never have got over it. What funds could I raise? I had nothing to sell; the few clothes I had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always appear decent, or nobody would come near us. I was at my wits’ ends; at last I got over my difficulty in the strangest way in the world.’
‘What was that?’
‘By an old thing which I had picked up some time before–a book.’
‘A book?’ said I.
‘Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship’s pocket one day as you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought it was a pocket-book at first, full of bank-notes, perhaps,’ continued he, laughing. ‘It was well for me, however, that it was not, for I should have soon spent the notes; as it was, I had flung the old thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it home. When I was so hard up, however, after the affair with that friend of yours, I took it up one day, and thought I might make something by it to support myself a day with. Chance or something else led me into a grand shop; there was a man there who seemed to be the master, talking to a jolly, portly old gentleman, who seemed to be a country squire. Well, I went up to the first, and offered it for sale; he took the book, opened it at the title-page, and then all of a sudden his eyes glistened, and he showed it to the fat, jolly gentleman, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say “How singular!” and then the two talked together in a speech I didn’t understand–I rather thought it was French, at any rate it wasn’t cant; and presently the first asked me what I would take for the book. Now I am not altogether a fool, nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a little confidence; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and said, “I will have five guineas for that book, there ain’t such another in the whole world.” “Nonsense,” said the first man, “there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions, to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings.” “No,” said I, “I’ll not take it, for I don’t like to be cheated, so give me my book again”; and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman’s hand. “Stop,” said the younger man; “are you sure that you won’t take less?” “Not a farthing,” said I; which was not altogether true, but I said so. “Well,” said the fat gentleman, “I will give you what you ask”; and sure enough he presently gave me the money; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow, said, “May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money for that ‘ere dirty book? When I came into the shop, I should have been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you wanted it, and asked five guineas.” Then they looked at one another, and smiled, and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the first man, looking at me, said, “Friend, you have been a little too sharp for us; however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend here has long been in quest of this particular book; there are plenty of editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth five shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first edition is worth its weight in gold.”‘
‘So, after all, they outwitted you,’ I observed.
‘Clearly,’ said the man; ‘I might have got double the price, had I known the value; but I don’t care, much good may it do them, it has done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest, respectable trade, in which there’s little danger and plenty of profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged, sooner or later.’
‘But,’ said I, ‘you ought to remember that the thing was not yours; you took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple- woman to exchange it for a Bible.’
‘Well,’ said the man, ‘did she ever get her Bible?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘she got her Bible.’
‘Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or something else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, which you say yourself are capital wages.’
‘I find no fault with the wages,’ said I, ‘but I don’t like the employ.’
‘Not like bonneting,’ said the man; ‘ah, I see, you would like to be principal; well, a time may come–those long white fingers of yours would just serve for the business.’
‘Is it a difficult one?’ I demanded.
‘Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful–natural talent, and constant practice; but I’ll show you a point or two connected with the game’; and, placing his table between his knees as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. He moved the thimble and pellet about, now placing it to all appearance under one, and now under another; ‘Under which is it now?’ he said at last. ‘Under that,’ said I, pointing to the lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of triangle. ‘No,’ said he, ‘it is not, but lift it up’; and, when I lifted up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. ‘It was under none of them,’ said he, ‘it was pressed by my little finger against my palm’; and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me if the game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the affirmative, he said, ‘I am glad you like it; come along and let us win some money.’
Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was moving away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me what I was staying for. ‘Merely for my own pleasure,’ said I; ‘I like sitting here very well.’ ‘Then you won’t close?’ said the man. ‘By no means,’ I replied; ‘your proposal does not suit me.’ ‘You may be principal in time,’ said the man. ‘That makes no difference,’ said I; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. ‘That ain’t cant,’ said the man; ‘no, nor gypsy either. Well, if you won’t close, another will, I can’t lose any more time,’ and forthwith he departed.
And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green. Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing, with the table before him, and many people about him. ‘Them who finds, wins, and them who can’t find, loses,’ he cried. Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccessful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. ‘Never cheated anybody in all my life,’ he cried; and, observing me at hand, ‘didn’t I play fair, my lord?’ he inquired. But I made no answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and the eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked on for some time, I was moving away: just then I perceived a short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a great hurry; whereupon, with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed –
Shoon thimble-engro;
Avella gorgio.
The man, who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no sooner heard the last word of the distich than he turned an alarmed look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he cried to the people about him, ‘Make way!’ and with a motion with his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swiftness which the short, pursy constable could by no means rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch as I turned away in another direction.
CHAPTER LIV
Mr. Petulengro–Rommany Rye–Lil-writers–One’s own horn–Lawfully- earnt money–The wooded hill–A great favourite–The shop window– Much wanted.
And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a small tent. ‘Here he comes,’ said one of them, as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and sang:-
‘Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree – Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.’
It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. ‘Sit down, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘and take a cup of good ale.’
I sat down. ‘Your health, gentlemen,’ said I, as I took the cup which Mr. Petulengro handed to me.
‘Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a draught.
‘Your health in Rommany, brother,’ said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup came next.
‘The Rommany Rye,’ said a third.
‘The Gypsy gentleman,’ exclaimed a fourth, drinking.
And then they all sang in chorus:-
‘Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree – Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.’
‘And now, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘seeing that you have drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what about?’
‘I have been in the Big City,’ said I, ‘writing lils.’
‘How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?’ said Mr. Petulengro.
‘Eighteenpence,’ said I; ‘all I have in the world.’
‘I have been in the Big City, too,’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘but I have not written lils–I have fought in the ring–I have fifty pounds in my pocket–I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us.
‘I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,’ said the tall, handsome, black man; ‘indeed, I would wish for nothing better.’
‘Why so?’ said Mr. Petulengro.
‘Because they have so much to say for themselves,’ said the black man, ‘even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is their own fault if people ain’t talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you Jasper were–‘
‘The best man in England of my inches. That’s true, Tawno– however, here’s our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us.’
‘Not he,’ said the other, with a sigh; ‘he’ll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis– my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that “there is nothing like blowing one’s own horn,” which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one’s own lil.’
After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. ‘Only eighteenpence in the world, brother?’ said he, as we walked together.
‘Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?’
‘Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife’s looking-glass–I did not look as you do, brother.’
‘I believe your sole motive for inquiring,’ said I, ‘was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds.’
‘What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?’ said Mr. Petulengro. ‘It is not every one can read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?’
‘I am not going to ask you to lend me any.’
‘Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully-earnt money, got by fighting in the ring–I will lend you that, brother.’
‘You are very kind,’ said I; ‘but I will not take it.’
‘Then the half of it?’
‘Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to the Great City.’
‘And what will you do in the Boro Foros?’
‘I know not,’ said I.
‘Earn money?
‘If I can.’
‘And if you can’t?’
‘Starve!’
‘You look ill, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro.
‘I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take to the woods and fields.’
‘You may do that, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘whether you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna.’
‘What hill is that?’ I demanded.
And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. ‘We shall stay on t’other side of the hill a fortnight,’ he continued; ‘and, as you are fond of lil-writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dock gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago.’
‘Who was he?’ I demanded.
‘Jemmy Abershaw,’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘one of those whom we call Boro drom engroes, and the gorgios highway-men. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna.’
At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents’ roof, and only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the individual and what he said–stigmatising my conversation as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City.
I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London; for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand–‘A Novel or Tale is much wanted,’ was what was written.
CHAPTER LV
Bread and water–Pair play–Fashion–Colonel B—Joseph Sell–The kindly glow–Easiest manner imaginable.
‘I must do something,’ said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me.
Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I was to do. ‘I have no idea what I am to do,’ said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, ‘unless (and here I took a considerable draught) I write a tale or a novel–That bookseller,’ I continued, speaking to myself, ‘is certainly much in need of a tale or a novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window.
‘I will do it,’ said I, as I struck my hand against the table; ‘I will do it.’ Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? ‘Yes, yes,’ said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, ‘I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything.’
But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteenpence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so? or something to that effect, months before?
It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time that the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel.
But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good–but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant materials out of which to write the man’s life. It is probable indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then–Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; some one like–like Colonel B-. By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B-, of Londonderry in Ireland?
A truly singular man was this same Colonel B-, of Londonderry in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partizan soldier, a bravo–who, assisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond at Tyburn; and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets.
Of his life I had inserted an account in the Newgate Lives and Trials; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. ‘I am afraid,’ said I, ‘any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other.’ I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B-, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell.
This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the great traveller.
I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow.
So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind’s eye so plentifully, that I knew not how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved.
CHAPTER LVI
Considerably sobered–Power of writing–The tempter–Hungry talent- -Work concluded.
Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still, perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost hopeless–the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me–I must make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell.
It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish–I wanted mechanical skill; but I persevered, and before evening I had written ten pages. I partook of some bread and water; and before I went to bed that night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell.
The next day I resumed my task–I found my power of writing considerably increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper–my brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, written down; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history, than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty fresh pages to my Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell.
The third day arose–it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell.
On the fourth day the sun shone brightly–I arose, and, having breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double–a tempter now seemed to be at work within me.
‘You had better leave off now for a short space,’ said the tempter, ‘and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left–if you go on at this rate, you will go mad–go out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is done.’ I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of Joseph Sell.
From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me.–It will be too late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant– hungry talent too–a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours? I may as well fling down my pen–I am writing to no purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me said–‘And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?’ Why, to take it up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at all–and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than before, from about six o’clock in the evening until I could hardly see, when I rested for a while, when the tempter within me again said, or appeared to say- -‘All you have been writing is stuff, it will never do–a drug–a mere drug’; and methought these last words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. ‘A thing merely to be sneezed at,’ a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to hear a sternutation,–as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion.
But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had anticipated. About twelve o’clock at night I had got over the task of revision. ‘To-morrow for the bookseller,’ said I, as my head sank on the pillow. ‘Oh me!’
CHAPTER LVII
Nervous look–The bookseller’s wife–The last stake–Terms–God forbid!–Will you come to tea?–A light heart.
On arriving at the bookseller’s shop, I cast a nervous look at the window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. ‘What is your business, young man?’ said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. ‘I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house,’ said I. ‘My husband is not within at present,’ she replied; ‘what is your business?’ ‘I have merely brought something to show him,’ said I, ‘but I will call again.’ ‘If you are the young gentleman who has been here before,’ said the lady, ‘with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are,’ she added, smiling, ‘for I have seen you through the glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is,’ she added with another smile, ‘if you bring us nothing else.’ ‘I have not brought you poems and ballads now,’ said I, ‘but something widely different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will suit; and here it is,’ I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. ‘Well,’ said the bookseller’s wife, ‘you may leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it me. Are you afraid to intrust it to me?’ she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. ‘Excuse me,’ said I, ‘but it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read.’ ‘On that point I can reassure you,’ said the good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. ‘I give you my word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you.’
I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the purchase of milk.
At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the bookseller was in his shop. ‘Ah,’ said he, as soon as I entered, ‘I am glad to see you.’ There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller’s tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. ‘So,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘we have not yet agreed upon terms.’ ‘Terms, terms,’ said the bookseller; ‘ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold.’ ‘That will not do,’ said I; ‘I intend shortly to leave London: I must have something at once.’ ‘Ah, I see,’ said the bookseller, ‘in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially young ones. Well, I don’t care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one after all. Let me see, will five–hem–‘ he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear, ‘Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble.’ ‘Well,’ said I at last, ‘I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered.’ ‘Five-and- twenty guineas!’ said the bookseller; ‘are you–what was I going to say–I never meant to offer half as much–I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas–I mean pounds; I will, however, make it up guineas.’ ‘That will not do,’ said I; ‘but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry it to some one else.’ The bookseller looked blank. ‘Dear me,’ said he, ‘I should never have supposed that you would have made any objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former occasion.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five pounds.’ ‘God forbid that I should make any such bargain!’ said the bookseller; ‘I would publish neither on any account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript.’ ‘Stay,’ said the bookseller, ‘my wife is in the next room, I will go and consult her.’ Thereupon he went into his back room, where I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes he returned. ‘Young gentleman,’ said he, ‘perhaps you will take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter.’
That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller’s wife complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be troubled with the correction of the work.
Before I departed, I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light heart to my lodgings.
Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you.
CHAPTER LVIII
Indisposition–A resolution–Poor equivalents–The piece of gold– Flashing eyes–How beautiful–Bon jour, Monsieur.
I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller’s wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence.
But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid that people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym–of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled Newgate Lives and Trials, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town.
But how one’s sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time; at present I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads.
As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in readiness to start.
Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said. ‘Tell the poor thin lad,’ she added, ‘to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I.’
Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the south-west: when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to home.
Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket, at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him.
‘Holloa, friend,’ said Francis Ardry, ‘whither bound?’
‘I do not know,’ said I; ‘all I can say is, that I am about to leave London.’
‘And the means?’ said Francis Ardry.
‘I have them,’ said I, with a cheerful smile.
‘Qui est celui-ci?’ demanded the small female, impatiently.
‘C’est–mon ami le plus intime; so you were about to leave London, without telling me a word,’ said Francis Ardry, somewhat angrily.
‘I intended to have written to you,’ said I: ‘what a splendid mare that is.’
‘Is she not?’ said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty; ‘she cost a hundred guineas.’
‘Qu’est ce qu’il dit?’ demanded his companion.
‘Il dit que le jument est bien beau.’
‘Allons, mon ami, il est tard,’ said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head; ‘allons!’
‘Encore un moment,’ said Francis Ardry; ‘and when shall I see you again?’
‘I scarcely know,’ I replied: ‘I never saw a more splendid turn out.’
‘Qu’est ce qu’il dit?’ I said the lady again.
‘Il dit que tout l’equipage est en assez bon gout.’
‘Allons, c’est un ours,’ said the lady; ‘le cheval meme en a peur,’ added she, as the mare reared up on high.
‘Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?’ said Francis Ardry, reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought the mare to order.
Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. ‘How beautiful!’ said I, looking the lady full in the face.
‘Comment?’ said the lady, inquiringly.
‘Il dit que vous etes belle comme un ange,’ said Francis Ardry, emphatically.
‘Mais, a la bonne heure! arretez, mon ami,’ said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; ‘je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui; arretez, il est delicieux.–Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis?’ said she passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. ‘Bon jour, Monsieur, bon jour,’ said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour.
CHAPTER LIX
The milestone–The meditation–Want to get up?–The off-hand leader–Sixteen shillings–The near-hand wheeler–All right.
In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation.
I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city–I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful–Good! But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes!
My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses–there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped. ‘Want to get up?’ sounded a voice, in the true coachman- like tone–half querulous, half authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance. ‘Come, we can’t be staying here all night,’ said the voice, more sharply than before. ‘I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like,’ thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman. ‘No, no,’ said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably-cut greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. ‘No, no, keep behind–the box ain’t for the like of you,’ said he, as he drove off; ‘the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least.’ I made no answer. ‘D- that off-hand leader,’ said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. ‘These seem to be fine horses,’ said I. The coachman made no answer. ‘Nearly thoroughbred,’ I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. ‘Come, young fellow, none of your chaff. Don’t you think, because you ride on my mail, I’m going to talk to you about ‘orses. I talk to nobody about ‘orses except lords.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I have been called a lord in my time.’ ‘It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then,’ said the coachman, bending back, and half turning his face round with a broad leer. ‘You have hit the mark wonderfully,’ said I. ‘You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools.’ ‘We ain’t, ain’t we?’ said the coachman. ‘There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I’ll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going?–to–? I think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt; them that has no money can’t ride on my mail.’
Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard–‘All right, Jem; got fare to–‘; and forthwith whipped on his horses, especially the off hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before–the horses flew.
A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself–hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. ‘D- this near- hand wheeler,’ said he, ‘the brute has got a corn.’ ‘Whipping him won’t cure him of his corn,’ said I. ‘Who told you to speak?’ said the driver, with an oath; ‘mind your own business; ’tisn’t from the like of you I am to learn to drive ‘orses.’ Presently I fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice–‘Got to -, young man; get down if you please.’ I opened my eyes–there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below me stood the guard. ‘Do you mean to get down,’ said he, ‘or will you keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up.’ Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. ‘All right, John,’ said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was left alone.
CHAPTER LX
The still hour–A thrill–The wondrous circle–The shepherd–Heaps and barrows–What do you mean?–Milk of the plains–Hengist spared it–No presents.
After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. ‘What stream is this, I wonder?’ said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below.
Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two, at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. ‘To the right or the left?’ said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and gray. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself–it was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did–cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone.
The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!
And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle, wandered round the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there, in deep meditation, I sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side.
And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side.
‘Early here, sir,’ said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; ‘a traveller, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?’
‘They are, sir; that is, they are my master’s. A strange place this, sir,’ said he, looking at the stones; ‘ever here before?’
‘Never in body, frequently in mind.’
‘Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder–all the people of the plain talk of them.’
‘What do the people of the plain say of them?’
‘Why, they say–How did they ever come here?’
‘Do they not suppose them to have been brought?’
‘Who should have brought them?’
‘I have read that they were brought by many thousand men.’
‘Where from?’
‘Ireland.’
‘How did they bring them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And what did they bring them for?’
‘To form a temple, perhaps.’
‘What is that?’
‘A place to worship God in.’
‘A strange place to worship God in.’
‘Why?’
‘It has no roof.’
‘Yes, it has.’
‘Where?’ said the man, looking up.
‘What do you see above you?’
‘The sky.’
‘Well?’
‘Well!’
‘Have you anything to say?’
‘How did these stones come here?’
‘Are there other stones like these on the plains?’ said I.
‘None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs.’
‘What are they?’
‘Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the tops of hills.’
‘Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?’
‘They do not.’
‘Why?’
‘They were raised by hands.’
‘And these stones?’
‘How did they ever come here?’
‘I wonder whether they are here?’ said I.
‘These stones?’
‘Yes.’
‘So sure as the world,’ said the man; ‘and, as the world, they will stand as long.’
‘I wonder whether there is a world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An earth, and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men.’
‘Do you doubt it?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I never heard it doubted before.’
‘It is impossible there should be a world.’
‘It ain’t possible there shouldn’t be a world.’
‘Just so.’ At this moment a fine ewe, attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. ‘I suppose you would not care to have some milk,’ said the man.
‘Why do you suppose so?’
‘Because, so be there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben’t is not worth having.’
‘You could not have argued better,’ said I; ‘that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please.’
‘Be still, Nanny,’ said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. ‘Here is milk of the plains, master,’ said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.
‘Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of?’ said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; ‘are there any near where we are?’
‘Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away,’ said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. ‘It’s a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world.’
‘I must go to it,’ said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; ‘yonder, you say.’
‘Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between.’
‘What river?’
‘The Avon.’
‘Avon is British,’ said I.
‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘we are all British here.’
‘No, we are not,’ said I.
‘What are we then?’
‘English.’
‘Ain’t they one?’
‘No.’
‘Who were the British?’
‘The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another.’
‘Yes, they did,’ said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone.
‘And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!–Here is sixpence.’
‘I won’t have it,’ said the man.
‘Why not?’
‘You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them.’
‘I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here?’
‘How did they ever come here?’ said the shepherd.
CHAPTER LXI
The river–Arid downs–A prospect.
Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place where the water ran dark and still.
Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high-road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind.
After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world.
And after I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the cause-way, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire.
CHAPTER LXII
The hostelry–Life uncertain–Open countenance–The grand point– Thank you, master–A hard mother–Poor dear!–Considerable odds– The better country–English fashion–Landlord-looking person.
And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could–inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers–enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters–receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire.
As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. ‘She is dead,’ said one. ‘No, she is not,’ said another. ‘I am afraid she is,’ said a third. ‘Life is very uncertain,’ said a fourth. ‘It is Mrs. -,’ said a fifth; ‘let us carry her to her own house.’ Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was to be seen; two or three hours’ walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it, I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and, taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day.
And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried–‘Am I right for London, master?’
He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty- five and thirty years of age–he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye.
‘Yes,’ said I, in reply to his question; ‘this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?’
‘From -,’ said the man, naming a well-known seaport.
‘Is this the direct road to London from that place?’ I demanded.
‘No,’ said the man; ‘but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was intrusted with; amongst others to -, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.’
‘You have as much right to sit down here as I have,’ said I; ‘the road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company.’
‘Why, as for being honest, master,’ said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, ‘I haven’t much to say–many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.’
‘What is that?’ said I.
‘That honesty is the best policy, master.’
‘You appear to be a sailor,’ said I, looking at his dress.
‘I was not bred a sailor,’ said the man, ‘though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part–and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage.’
‘From America?’ said I.
‘Farther than that,’ said the man.
‘Have you any objection to tell me?’ said I.
‘From New South Wales,’ said the man, looking me full in the face.
‘Dear me,’ said I.
‘Why do you say “Dear me”?’ said the man.
‘It is a very long way off,’ said I.
‘Was that your reason for saying so?’ said the man.
‘Not exactly,’ said I.
‘No,’ said the man, with something of a bitter smile; ‘it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘what then–you are no convict.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You do not look like one.’
‘Thank you, master,’ said the man cheerfully; ‘and, to a certain extent, you are right–bygones are bygones–I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth–a convict I have been–a convict at Sydney Cove.’
‘And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?’
‘As to serving out my sentence,’ replied the man, ‘I can’t say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy–I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life.’
‘And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.’
‘There you are mistaken,’ said the man. ‘Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother–a poor old woman, whose son I am–has brought me back.’
‘You have a mother, then?’ said I. ‘Does she reside in London?’
‘She used to live in London,’ said the man; ‘but I am afraid she is long since dead.’
‘How did she support herself?’ said I.
‘Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.’
‘Did you ever write to her,’ said I, ‘or cause others to write to her?’
‘I wrote to her myself,’ said the man, ‘about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went–my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear!–what I would give only to know that she is alive.’
‘Life is very uncertain,’ said I.
‘That is true,’ said the man, with a sigh.
‘We are here one moment, and gone the next,’ I continued. ‘As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time?’
‘Who knows, indeed?’ said the man. ‘Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God’s will be done.’
‘However,’ said I, ‘I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive.’
‘You wouldn’t?’ said the man, looking at me wistfully.
‘I should not wonder at all,’ said I; ‘indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to fivepence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to fivepence–‘
‘Is very considerable odds,’ said the man, rubbing his hands; ‘sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds.’
‘After all,’ said I, ‘it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?’
‘I scarcely know,’ said the man; ‘I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left–it is a better country for a man–that is, a free man–to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother–if I could only find my mother–‘
‘Farewell,’ said I, rising. ‘Go your way, and God go with you–I will go mine.’ ‘I have but one thing to ask you,’ said the man. ‘What is that?’ I inquired. ‘That you would drink with me before we part–you have done me so much good.’ ‘How should we drink?’ said I; ‘we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink.’ ‘But there is a village below,’ said the man; ‘do let us drink before we part.’ ‘I have been through that village already,’ said I, ‘and I do not like turning back.’ ‘Ah,’ said the man, sorrowfully, ‘you will not drink with me because I told you I was– ‘ ‘You are quite mistaken,’ said I, ‘I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change that I may drink with you.’ So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine.
After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the north-west. I continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o’clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn–within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord-looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, ‘House!’ said I, ‘house! Can I have dinner, house?’
CHAPTER LXIII
Primitive habits–Rosy-faced damsel–A pleasant moment–Suit of black–The furtive glance–The mighty round–Degenerate times–The newspaper–The evil chance–I congratulate you.
‘Young gentleman,’ said the huge fat landlord, ‘you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner,’ he continued, rubbing his hands, ‘as you will not see every day in these times.’
‘I am hot and dusty,’ said I, ‘and should wish to cool my hands and face.’
‘Jenny!’ said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, ‘show the gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face.’
‘By no means,’ said I, ‘I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this.’
‘Jenny,’ said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, ‘go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you.’
Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen.
And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, ‘Pump, Jenny’; and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands.
And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and, unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny, ‘Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life.’
Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor.
And, after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, ‘Hold, Jenny!’ and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life.’
Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the long passage, and showed me into a neat sanded parlour on the ground-floor.
I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the table- cloth. ‘Shall I spread the table for one, sir,’ said she, ‘or do you expect anybody to dine with you?’ ‘I can’t say that I expect anybody,’ said I, laughing inwardly to myself; ‘however, if you please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for him.’
So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door. Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No; a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle height, dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in thought.
‘The weather is very warm, sir,’ said I.