Lavengro
by George Borrow
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Return to Part 1 of 2

For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as if
rooted to the floor. I felt stunned - my last hope was gone;
presently a feeling arose in my mind - a feeling of self-reproach.
Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Armenian?
Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians had I not put
the idea into his head? he had told me in his epistle that he was
indebted to me for the idea. But for that, he might at the present
moment have been in London, increasing his fortune by his usual
methods, and I might be commencing under his auspices the
translation of the Haik Esop, with the promise, no doubt, of a
considerable remuneration for my trouble; or I might be taking a
seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and imbibing the first rudiments
of doing business after the Armenian fashion, with the comfortable
hope of realising, in a short time, a fortune of three or four
hundred thousand pounds; but the Armenian was now gone, and
farewell to the fine hopes I had founded upon him the day before.
What was I to do? I looked wildly around, till my eyes rested on
the Moldavian clerk, who was writing away in his ledger with
particular vehemence. Not knowing well what to do or to say, I
thought I might as well ask the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian
had departed, and when he thought that he would return. It is true
it mattered little to me when he departed, seeing that he was gone,
and it was evident that he would not be back soon; but I knew not
what to do, and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask;
so I went up to the Moldavian clerk, and asked him when the
Armenian had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or
three. Whereupon the Moldavian clerk, looking up from his ledger,
made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I stood
astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when he
considered it probable that the master would return, and whether he
thought it would be two months or - my tongue faltered - two years;
whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet
more unintelligible; as I persisted, however, he flung down his
pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth, moved it rapidly,
causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw; whereupon I saw
that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained a
horror of dumb people, having once heard my another say, when I was
a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better.

CHAPTER LII

Kind of stupor - Peace of God - Divine hand - Farewell, child - The
fair - Massive edifice - Battered tars - Lost! lost! - Good-day,
gentlemen.

LEAVING the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some time;
almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London Bridge, to the
booth in which stood the stall of the old apple-woman; the sound of
her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of stupor on the stone
bench beside her; she was inquiring what was the matter with me.

At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I
observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance.
Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her
upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman's
countenance cleared up instantly; she informed me that she had
never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her HONEST
trade - laying an emphasis on the word honest - had increased of
late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, above all, that
she felt no fear and horror 'here,' laying her hand on her breast.

On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, she
told me that she frequently did; but that the present were mild
voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from the
former ones; that a voice, only the night previous, had cried out
about 'the peace of God,' in particularly sweet accents; a sentence
which she remembered to have read in her early youth in the primer,
but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the night before
brought it to her recollection.

After a pause, the old woman said to me, 'I believe, dear, that it
is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought this goodly
change. How glad I am now that I can read; but oh what a
difference between the book you brought to me and the one you took
away! I believe the one you brought is written by the finger of
God, and the other by - '

'Don't abuse the book,' said I, 'it is an excellent book for those
who can understand it; it was not exactly suited to you, and
perhaps it had been better that you had never read it - and yet,
who knows? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you would
not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you say is
written by the finger of God'; and, pressing my hand to my head, I
fell into a deep fit of musing. 'What, after all,' thought I, 'if
there should be more order and system in the working of the moral
world than I have thought? Does there not seem in the present
instance to be something like the working of a Divine hand? I
could not conceive why this woman, better educated than her mother,
should have been, as she certainly was, a worse character than her
mother. Yet perhaps this woman may be better and happier than her
mother ever was; perhaps she is so already - perhaps this world is
not a wild, lying dream, as I have occasionally supposed it to be.'

But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to abandon
myself much longer to these musings. I started up. 'Where are you
going, child?' said the woman, anxiously. 'I scarcely know,' said
I; 'anywhere.'  'Then stay here, child,' said she; 'I have much to
say to you.'  'No,' said I, 'I shall be better moving about'; and I
was moving away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might never
see this woman again; and turning round I offered her my hand, and
bade her good-bye. 'Farewell, child,' said the old woman, 'and God
bless you!'  I then moved along the bridge until I reached the
Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again
became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects.

At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on
either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it
would appear, to the south-east. I was walking at a great rate -
there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a
great rate; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate; and
all - men, carts, and carriages - going in the selfsame direction,
namely to the south-east. I stopped for a moment and deliberated
whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in that
direction? I could not say that I had any particular business in
that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back? only walk
about well-known streets; and, if I must walk, why not continue in
the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its
terraces led? I was ere in a TERRA INCOGNITA, and an unknown place
had always some interest for me; moreover, I had a desire to know
whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought
they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at
such a rate; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group
after group of the crowd, and almost vying in speed with some of
the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches; and, by dint of
walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat
less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of
an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the
river; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from
the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls, and
the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been
partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the crowd
which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting away as
much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best to enter into
the diversions of the fair; staring at the wonderful
representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows of
wild beasts, which, by the bye, are frequently found much more
worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves; listening to
the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in front of the
temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel dresses of the
performers who thronged the stages in the intervals of the
entertainments; and in this manner, occasionally gazing and
occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came in
front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of
the Thames.

It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and
black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, on
which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving
about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, with
strange three-cornered hats on their heads; most of them were
mutilated; this had a wooden leg - this wanted an arm; some had but
one eye; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the singular-looking
individuals who moved before it, I guessed where I was. 'I am at -
' said I; 'these individuals are battered tars of Old England, and
this edifice, once the favourite abode of Glorious Elizabeth, is
the refuge which a grateful country has allotted to them. Here
they can rest their weary bodies; at their ease talk over the
actions in which they have been injured; and, with the tear of
enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how they have trod the
deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others whose names stand
emblazoned in the naval annals of their country.'

Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of
enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill which
rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among the
trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the top of
the hill, I was present' y stopped by a lofty wall, along which I
walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through, and found
myself on an extensive green plain, on one side bounded in part by
the wall of the park, and on the others, in the distance, by
extensive ranges of houses; to the south-east was a lofty eminence,
partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited an animated
scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below; there were
multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows; there was also
horse-racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun shining brightly
overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a little time,
feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the tents, and
laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise in the tent.
'Who will stand me?' said a voice with a slight tendency to lisp.
'Will you, my lord?'  'Yes,' said another voice. Then there was a
sound as of a piece of money banging on a table. 'Lost! lost!
lost!' cried several voices; and then the banging down of the
money, and the 'lost! lost! lost!' were frequently repeated; at
last the second voice exclaimed, 'I will try no more; you have
cheated me.'  'Never cheated any one in my life, my lord - all fair
- all chance. Them that finds, wins - them that can't finds,
loses. Anyone else try? Who'll try? Will you, my lord?' and then
it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money
flung down. Then again the cry of 'lost! lost!' - then again the
sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard
'Won! won!' but the predominant cry was 'Lost! lost!'  At last
there was a considerable hubbub, and the words 'Cheat!' 'Rogue!'
and 'You filched away the pea!' were used freely by more voices
than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied,
'Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad when
folks wins; but, as those here don't appear to be civil, not to
wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; so,
good-day, gentlemen.'

CHAPTER LIII

Singular table - No money - Out of employ - My bonnet - We of the
thimble - Good wages - Wisely resolved - Strangest way in the world
- Fat gentleman - Not such another - First edition - Not very easy
- Won't close - Avella gorgio - Alarmed look.

PRESENTLY a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a rather
singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was exceedingly
small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few yards from the
entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to decide on the
direction which he should take; presently, his eye glancing on me
as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared for a moment
inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and all. In a
moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, and, coming up to
the place where I was, the long legs of the table projecting before
him, he cried, 'Glad to see you here, my lord.'

'Thank you,' said I, 'it's a fine day.'

'Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that finds,
wins - them that don't finds, loses.'

'Play at what?' said I.

'Only at the thimble and pea, my lord.'

'I never heard of such a game.'

'Didn't you? Well, I'll soon teach you,' said he, placing the
table down. 'All you have to do is to put a sovereign down on my
table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my thimbles.
If you find it, - and it is easy enough to find it, - I give you a
sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins.'

'And them that don't finds, loses,' said I; 'no, I don't wish to
play.'

'Why not, my lord?'

'Why, in the first place, I have no money.'

'Oh, you have no money, that of course alters the case. If you
have no money, you can't play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing
after my customers,' said he, glancing over the plain.

'Good-day,' said I.

'Good-day,' said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in
reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he
added, 'Out of employ?'

'Yes,' said I, 'out of employ.'

The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. At length
he said, 'May I speak a word or two to you, my lord?'

'As many as you please,' said I.

'Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on the
grass, if you please, my lord.'

'Why do you call me my lord?' said I, as I arose and followed him.

'We of the thimble always calls our customers lords,' said the man;
'but I won't call you such a foolish name any more; come along.'

The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a dry
pit, when, looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid his
table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the side
of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. 'So you are in want of
employ?' said he, after I had sat down beside him.

'Yes,' said I, 'I am very much in want of employ.'

'I think I can find you some.'

'What kind?' said I.

'Why,' said the man, 'I think you would do to be my bonnet.'

'Bonnet!' said I, 'what is that?'

'Don't you know? However, no wonder, as you had never heard of the
thimble and pea game, but I will tell you. We of the game are very
much exposed; folks when they have lost their money, as those who
play with us mostly do, sometimes uses rough language, calls us
cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats over our eyes; and what's
more, with a kick under our table, cause the top deals to fly off;
this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being
broken by uncivil customers: so we of the game generally like to
have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us,
though pretending to know nothing about us; for example, when the
customer says, "I'm cheated," the bonnet must say, "No, you ain't,
it is all right"; or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the
bonnet must square, and say, "I never saw the man before in all my
life, but I won't see him ill-used"; and so, when they kicks at the
table, the bonnet must say, "I won't see the table ill-used, such a
nice table, too; besides, I want to play myself"; and then I would
say to the bonnet, "Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins"; and
then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win.'

'In a word,' said I, 'the bonnet means the man who covers you, even
as the real bonnet covers the head.'

'I just so,' said the man; 'I see you are awake, and would soon
make a first-rate bonnet.'

'Bonnet,' said I, musingly; 'bonnet; it is metaphorical.'

'Is it?' said the man.

'Yes,' said I, 'like the cant words - '

'Bonnet is cant,' said the man; 'we of the thimble, as well as all
cly-fakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every
bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as
soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being
understood by every one. Besides covering his principal, a bonnet
must have his eyes about him, for the trade of the pea, though a
strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful; so it is the duty of
the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, to say, The gorgio's
welling.'

'That is not cant,' said I, 'that is the language of the Rommany
Chals.'

'Do you know those people?' said the man.

'Perfectly,' said I, 'and their language too.'

'I wish I did,' said the man; 'I would give ten pounds and more to
know the language of the Rommany Chals. There's some of it in the
language of the pea and thimble; how it came there I don't know,
but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is difficult. You'll make
a capital bonnet; shall we close?'

'What would the wages be?' I demanded.

'Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I could
afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week.'

'Is it possible?' said I.

'Good wages, ain't they?' said the man.

'First-rate,' said I; 'bonneting is more profitable than
reviewing.'

'Anan?' said the man.

'Or translating; I don't think the Armenian would have paid me at
that rate for translating his Esop.'

'Who is he?' said the man.

'Esop?'

'No, I know what that is, Esop's cant for a hunchback; but
t'other?'

'You should know,' said I.

'Never saw the man in all my life.'

'Yes, you have,' said I, 'and felt him too; don't you remember the
individual from whom you took the pocket-book?'

'Oh, that was he; well, the less said about that matter the better;
I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a much
better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not carry off
that pocket-book; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the
trade, in which had I remained, I might have been lagged, sent
abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I determined to leave
it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, not having a penny in
the world.'

'And wisely resolved,' said I; 'it was a bad and dangerous trade, I
wonder you should ever have embraced it.'

'It is all very well talking,' said the man, 'but there is a reason
for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military officer' -
and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat the man's
story, it was a poor one, a vile one; at last he observed, 'So that
affair which you know of determined me to leave the filching trade,
and take up with a more honest and safe one; so at last I thought
of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, especially to pay for
lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew little about it.'

'Well,' said I, 'how did you get over that difficulty?'

'Why,' said the man, 'I thought I should never have got over it.
What funds could I raise? I had nothing to sell; the few clothes I
had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always appear decent, or
nobody would come near us. I was at my wits' ends; at last I got
over my difficulty in the strangest way in the world.'

'What was that?'

'By an old thing which I had picked up some time before - a book.'

'A book?' said I.

'Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship's pocket one day as
you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought it was a
pocket-book at first, full of bank-notes, perhaps,' continued he,
laughing. 'It was well for me, however, that it was not, for I
should have soon spent the notes; as it was, I had flung the old
thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it home. When I was
so hard up, however, after the affair with that friend of yours, I
took it up one day, and thought I might make something by it to
support myself a day with. Chance or something else led me into a
grand shop; there was a man there who seemed to be the master,
talking to a jolly, portly old gentleman, who seemed to be a
country squire. Well, I went up to the first, and offered it for
sale; he took the book, opened it at the title-page, and then all
of a sudden his eyes glistened, and he showed it to the fat, jolly
gentleman, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say "How
singular!" and then the two talked together in a speech I didn't
understand - I rather thought it was French, at any rate it wasn't
cant; and presently the first asked me what I would take for the
book. Now I am not altogether a fool, nor am I blind, and I had
narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now
was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose
nothing by a little confidence; so I looked the man boldly in the
face, and said, "I will have five guineas for that book, there
ain't such another in the whole world."  "Nonsense," said the first
man, "there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty
editions, to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings."  "No,"
said I, "I'll not take it, for I don't like to be cheated, so give
me my book again"; and I attempted to take it away from the fat
gentleman's hand. "Stop," said the younger man; "are you sure that
you won't take less?"  "Not a farthing," said I; which was not
altogether true, but I said so. "Well," said the fat gentleman, "I
will give you what you ask"; and sure enough he presently gave me
the money; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came
into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I
had the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow,
said, "May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money
for that 'ere dirty book? When I came into the shop, I should have
been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you wanted it, and
asked five guineas."  Then they looked at one another, and smiled,
and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the first man, looking at
me, said, "Friend, you have been a little too sharp for us;
however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend here has long
been in quest of this particular book; there are plenty of
editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth five
shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first
edition is worth its weight in gold."'

'So, after all, they outwitted you,' I observed.

'Clearly,' said the man; 'I might have got double the price, had I
known the value; but I don't care, much good may it do them, it has
done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest,
respectable trade, in which there's little danger and plenty of
profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged, sooner
or later.'

'But,' said I, 'you ought to remember that the thing was not yours;
you took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple-
woman to exchange it for a Bible.'

'Well,' said the man, 'did she ever get her Bible?'

'Yes,' said I, 'she got her Bible.'

'Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or
something else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable
amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you
my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, which you say
yourself are capital wages.'

'I find no fault with the wages,' said I, 'but I don't like the
employ.'

'Not like bonneting,' said the man; 'ah, I see, you would like to
be principal; well, a time may come - those long white fingers of
yours would just serve for the business.'

'Is it a difficult one?' I demanded.

'Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful - natural
talent, and constant practice; but I'll show you a point or two
connected with the game'; and, placing his table between his knees
as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and
a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. He moved the
thimble and pellet about, now placing it to all appearance under
one, and now under another; 'Under which is it now?' he said at
last. 'Under that,' said I, pointing to the lowermost of the
thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of triangle. 'No,'
said he, 'it is not, but lift it up'; and, when I lifted up the
thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. 'It was under
none of them,' said he, 'it was pressed by my little finger against
my palm'; and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me
if the game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the
affirmative, he said, 'I am glad you like it; come along and let us
win some money.'

Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was
moving away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me
what I was staying for. 'Merely for my own pleasure,' said I; 'I
like sitting here very well.'  'Then you won't close?' said the
man. 'By no means,' I replied; 'your proposal does not suit me.'  
'You may be principal in time,' said the man. 'That makes no
difference,' said I; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I
forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. 'That ain't cant,'
said the man; 'no, nor gypsy either. Well, if you won't close,
another will, I can't lose any more time,' and forthwith he
departed.

And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different
declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about
amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green.
Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing,
with the table before him, and many people about him. 'Them who
finds, wins, and them who can't find, loses,' he cried. Various
individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccessful,
till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the
terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. 'Never cheated
anybody in all my life,' he cried; and, observing me at hand,
'didn't I play fair, my lord?' he inquired. But I made no answer.
Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and
the eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked
on for some time, I was moving away: just then I perceived a
short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a
great hurry; whereupon, with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed -

Shoon thimble-engro;
Avella gorgio.

The man, who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no
sooner heard the last word of the distich than he turned an alarmed
look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and
perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and
thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he cried to
the people about him, 'Make way!' and with a motion with his head
to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swiftness which
the short, pursy constable could by no means rival; and whither he
went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch as I turned away
in another direction.

CHAPTER LIV

Mr. Petulengro - Rommany Rye - Lil-writers - One's own horn -
Lawfully-earnt money - The wooded hill - A great favourite - The
shop window - Much wanted.

AND, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where
several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the
neighbourhood of a small tent. 'Here he comes,' said one of them,
as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and sang:-

'Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree -
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.'

It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several
of his comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness.
'Sit down, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'and take a cup of good
ale.'

I sat down. 'Your health, gentlemen,' said I, as I took the cup
which Mr. Petulengro handed to me.

'Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany,
brother,' said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now
emptied it at a draught.

'Your health in Rommany, brother,' said Tawno Chikno, to whom the
cup came next.

'The Rommany Rye,' said a third.

'The Gypsy gentleman,' exclaimed a fourth, drinking.

And then they all sang in chorus:-

'Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree -
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.'

'And now, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'seeing that you have
drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have
been, and what about?'

'I have been in the Big City,' said I, 'writing lils.'

'How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?' said Mr.
Petulengro.

'Eighteenpence,' said I; 'all I have in the world.'

'I have been in the Big City, too,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'but I
have not written lils - I have fought in the ring - I have fifty
pounds in my pocket - I have much more in the world. Brother,
there is considerable difference between us.

'I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,' said the tall,
handsome, black man; 'indeed, I would wish for nothing better.'

'Why so?' said Mr. Petulengro.

'Because they have so much to say for themselves,' said the black
man, 'even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the
churchyard, it is their own fault if people ain't talking of them.
Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was
once the beauty of the world, or that you Jasper were - '

'The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno -
however, here's our brother will perhaps let the world know
something about us.'

'Not he,' said the other, with a sigh; 'he'll have quite enough to
do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and
clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write
lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis -
my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you
what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that
"there is nothing like blowing one's own horn," which I conceive to
be much the same thing as writing one's own lil.'

After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and
motioned me to follow him. 'Only eighteenpence in the world,
brother?' said he, as we walked together.

'Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money
I had?'

'Because there was something in your look, brother, something very
much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much
money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in
my wife's looking-glass - I did not look as you do, brother.'

'I believe your sole motive for inquiring,' said I, 'was to have an
opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you
were in possession of fifty pounds.'

'What is the use of having money unless you let people know you
have it?' said Mr. Petulengro. 'It is not every one can read
faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask
me to lend you any?'

'I am not going to ask you to lend me any.'

'Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have
fifty pounds, all lawfully-earnt money, got by fighting in the ring
- I will lend you that, brother.'

'You are very kind,' said I; 'but I will not take it.'

'Then the half of it?'

'Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go
back to the Great City.'

'And what will you do in the Boro Foros?'

'I know not,' said I.

'Earn money?

'If I can.'

'And if you can't?'

'Starve!'

'You look ill, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro.

'I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should
I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big
City, and take to the woods and fields.'

'You may do that, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'whether you have
money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder
wooded hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your
company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna.'

'What hill is that?' I demanded.

And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. 'We shall
stay on t'other side of the hill a fortnight,' he continued; 'and,
as you are fond of lil-writing, you may employ yourself profitably
whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dock gallops down
that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long
ago.'

'Who was he?' I demanded.

'Jemmy Abershaw,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'one of those whom we call
Boro drom engroes, and the gorgios highway-men. I once heard a rye
say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to
the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper
and his wife Pakomovna.'

At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr.
Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to
decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr.
Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends
when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in
the wood; but that these very people when living together in a
house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected,
moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is
true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had
frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she
called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time
when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents' roof, and
only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times
were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro,
when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and
subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the
individual and what he said - stigmatising my conversation as saucy
discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might
bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided,
indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without
declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and
presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course
towards the Great City.

I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of
London; for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the
turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I
found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and
mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various
publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I
had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym,
and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing a
decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood
listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it
contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with
something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of
inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand - 'A Novel or
Tale is much wanted,' was what was written.

CHAPTER LV

Bread and water - Pair play - Fashion - Colonel B- - Joseph Sell -
The kindly glow - Easiest manner imaginable.

'I MUST do something,' said I, as I sat that night in my lonely
apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me.

Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered
what I was to do. 'I have no idea what I am to do,' said I, as I
stretched my hand towards the pitcher, 'unless (and here I took a
considerable draught) I write a tale or a novel - That bookseller,'
I continued, speaking to myself, 'is certainly much in need of a
tale or a novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose
I write one, I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself
from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me
to his window.

'I will do it,' said I, as I struck my hand against the table; 'I
will do it.'  Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me.
Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or
a novel? 'Yes, yes,' said I, as I struck my hand again against the
table, 'I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish
anything.'

But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain
myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteenpence in
the world. Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I
thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much,
and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true,
but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not
the big man told me so? or something to that effect, months before?

It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present
time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time that the people of
the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a
novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink,
and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid
for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would go doggedly
to work upon my tale or novel.

But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of
fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess
something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared
less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life?
What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of some
one. Good - but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy
Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of
Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I
knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr.
Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill, on
the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that
his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant
materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable
indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further
materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could
not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing
to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride
revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the
materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of
Abershaw. Whose then - Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms
had been already much better written by himself than I could hope
to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was
merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were
merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale
likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a
mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something
higher than a mere robber; some one like - like Colonel B-. By the
way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B-,
of Londonderry in Ireland?

A truly singular man was this same Colonel B-, of Londonderry in
Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and
daring, who had been a partizan soldier, a bravo - who, assisted by
certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the
crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang
the Duke of Ormond at Tyburn; and whose strange, eventful career
did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the
circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his
death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native
place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin
through the streets.

Of his life I had inserted an account in the NEWGATE LIVES AND
TRIALS; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward
style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly
captivated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it
something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures,
and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent
tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old
garments with new cloth occurred to me. 'I am afraid,' said I,
'any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the
old tale; one will but spoil the other.'  I had better have nothing
to do with Colonel B-, thought I, but boldly and independently sit
down and write the life of Joseph Sell.

This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had
just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but
just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write
an entirely fictitious narrative, called the LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
JOSEPH SELL, the great traveller.

I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and
the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and
forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon
discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to
achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not
know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I
thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected
undertaking till the morrow.

So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the
night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to
execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I
could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt
within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of
inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to
imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted
before my mind's eye so plentifully, that I knew not how to dispose
of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of
the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by
consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less
stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more
impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on
the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the
pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking
was achieved.

CHAPTER LVI

Considerably sobered - Power of writing - The tempter - Hungry
talent - Work concluded.

RATHER late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still,
perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the
scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over night
appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. I
felt languid and almost hopeless - the thought, however, of my
situation soon roused me - I must make an effort to improve the
posture of my affairs; there was no time to be lost; so I sprang
out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down
doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell.

It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged
the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The
chief thing requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of
committing them to paper. This I did not find at first so easy as
I could wish - I wanted mechanical skill; but I persevered, and
before evening I had written ten pages. I partook of some bread
and water; and before I went to bed that night, I had completed
fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell.

The next day I resumed my task - I found my power of writing
considerably increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper - my
brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions
which I had not thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as
evolved, written down; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose,
and more natural to my history, than many others which I had
imagined before, and which I made now give place to these newer
creations: by about midnight I had added thirty fresh pages to my
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH SELL.

The third day arose - it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I
passed it drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost
much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however,
toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven pages to my history
of Joseph Sell.

On the fourth day the sun shone brightly - I arose, and, having
breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day
wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so
rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely
about the back part of my head, and my whole system was
extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double - a
tempter now seemed to be at work within me.

'You had better leave off now for a short space,' said the tempter,
'and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling
left - if you go on at this rate, you will go mad - go out and
spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is
done.'  I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the
idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit
was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on. I am almost
afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of
Joseph Sell.

From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner;
but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task,
dreadful fears and despondencies came over me. - It will be too
late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the
bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is it
probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant -
hungry talent too - a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a
novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four
hours? I may as well fling down my pen - I am writing to no
purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at
last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the
tempter within me said - 'And, now you have flung down the pen, you
may as well fling yourself out of the window; what remains for you
to do?'  Why, to take it up again, thought I to myself, for I did
not like the latter suggestion at all - and then forthwith I
resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than before, from
about six o'clock in the evening until I could hardly see, when I
rested for a while, when the tempter within me again said, or
appeared to say - 'All you have been writing is stuff, it will
never do - a drug - a mere drug'; and methought these last words
were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. 'A thing
merely to be sneezed at,' a voice like that of Taggart added; and
then I seemed to hear a sternutation, - as I probably did, for,
recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shivering with
cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion.

But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I
shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper
which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded,
on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I
had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task,
however trying to my nerves, must be got over; at last, in a kind
of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one;
there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had
anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the task
of revision. 'To-morrow for the bookseller,' said I, as my head
sank on the pillow. 'Oh me!'

CHAPTER LVII

Nervous look - The bookseller's wife - The last stake - Terms - God
forbid! - Will you come to tea? - A light heart.

ON arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the
window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been
removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place;
with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I
stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should
call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and
out came a well-dressed lady-like female, of about thirty, with a
good-looking and intelligent countenance. 'What is your business,
young man?' said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. 'I
wish to speak to the gentleman of the house,' said I. 'My husband
is not within at present,' she replied; 'what is your business?'  
'I have merely brought something to show him,' said I, 'but I will
call again.'  'If you are the young gentleman who has been here
before,' said the lady, 'with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know
you are,' she added, smiling, 'for I have seen you through the
glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is,' she added
with another smile, 'if you bring us nothing else.'  'I have not
brought you poems and ballads now,' said I, 'but something widely
different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have
written something which I think will suit; and here it is,' I
added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. 'Well,'
said the bookseller's wife, 'you may leave it, though I cannot
promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has
already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give
it me. Are you afraid to intrust it to me?' she demanded somewhat
hastily, observing that I hesitated. 'Excuse me,' said I, 'but it
is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly
apprehensive that it will not be read.'  'On that point I can
reassure you,' said the good lady, smiling, and there was now
something sweet in her smile. 'I give you my word that it shall be
read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when, if not
approved, it shall be returned to you.'

I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed,
notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably
tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide
by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing
to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which
nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties
which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured
during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding
night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last
threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the
immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended
on the purchase of milk.

At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller;
the bookseller was in his shop. 'Ah,' said he, as soon as I
entered, 'I am glad to see you.'  There was an unwonted heartiness
in the bookseller's tones, an unwonted benignity in his face.
'So,' said he, after a pause, 'you have taken my advice, written a
book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of
your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so
does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I
may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I
think I shall venture on sending your book to the press.'  'But,'
said I, 'we have not yet agreed upon terms.'  'Terms, terms,' said
the bookseller; 'ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms
at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when
the edition is sold.'  'That will not do,' said I; 'I intend
shortly to leave London: I must have something at once.'  'Ah, I
see,' said the bookseller, 'in distress; frequently the case with
authors, especially young ones. Well, I don't care if I purchase
it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very
fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one after all.
Let me see, will five - hem - ' he stopped. I looked the
bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it.
Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble
sounded in my ear, 'Now is your time, ask enough, never such
another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and
thimble.'  'Well,' said I at last, 'I have no objection to take the
offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-
twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered.'  
'Five-and-twenty guineas!' said the bookseller; 'are you - what was
I going to say - I never meant to offer half as much - I mean a
quarter; I was going to say five guineas - I mean pounds; I will,
however, make it up guineas.'  'That will not do,' said I; 'but, as
I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry
it to some one else.'  The bookseller looked blank. 'Dear me,'
said he, 'I should never have supposed that you would have made any
objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have
been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge
manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former
occasion.'  'Well,' said I, 'if you will engage to publish either
of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five
pounds.'  'God forbid that I should make any such bargain!' said
the bookseller; 'I would publish neither on any account; but, with
respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print
it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds.'  'No,'
said I, 'ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript.'  
'Stay,' said the bookseller, 'my wife is in the next room, I will
go and consult her.'  Thereupon he went into his back room, where I
heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten
minutes he returned. 'Young gentleman,' said he, 'perhaps you will
take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the
matter.'

That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife,
both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with
civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been
already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of
a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised
themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again
brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time;
when, however, the bookseller's wife complimented me on my
production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered
therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day
prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand
to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be
troubled with the correction of the work.

Before I departed, I received the twenty pounds, and departed with
a light heart to my lodgings.

Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should
you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters
of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however
difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not
liberate you.

CHAPTER LVIII

Indisposition - A resolution - Poor equivalents - The piece of gold
- Flashing eyes - How beautiful - Bon jour, Monsieur.

I HAD long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means
should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to
leave the Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would
fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just
opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure.
The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had
assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an
article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him,
provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller's wife, by her
complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But
for some months past I had been far from well, and my original
indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the
Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the
exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few
days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or
become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the
country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure
air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent
movements to be determined by Providence.

But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of
walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my
brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but,
though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt
much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was
not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present
juncture. I was afraid that people would ask, Where are your
Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab
Gwilym - of which you were always talking, and with which you
promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such
interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled
NEWGATE LIVES AND TRIALS, and had written the life of Joseph Sell,
but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely
consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the
songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction
but that of the old town.

But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with
time; at present I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to
what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and
ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my
sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, whether,
which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one
thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they
troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and
ballads.

As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a
stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books
to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three
days I was in readiness to start.

Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the
apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be
labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of
gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived.
The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back
the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not
want it, she said. 'Tell the poor thin lad,' she added, 'to keep
it for himself, he wants it more than I.'

Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick
in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to
the south-west: when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year
before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not
going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the
very opposite to home.

Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket, at
the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came
dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone
where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the
spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished
this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with
flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him.

'Holloa, friend,' said Francis Ardry, 'whither bound?'

'I do not know,' said I; 'all I can say is, that I am about to
leave London.'

'And the means?' said Francis Ardry.

'I have them,' said I, with a cheerful smile.

'Qui est celui-ci?' demanded the small female, impatiently.

'C'est - mon ami le plus intime; so you were about to leave London,
without telling me a word,' said Francis Ardry, somewhat angrily.

'I intended to have written to you,' said I: 'what a splendid mare
that is.'

'Is she not?' said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with
difficulty; 'she cost a hundred guineas.'

'Qu'est ce qu'il dit?' demanded his companion.

'Il dit que le jument est bien beau.'

'Allons, mon ami, il est tard,' said the beauty, with a scornful
toss of her head; 'allons!'

'Encore un moment,' said Francis Ardry; 'and when shall I see you
again?'

'I scarcely know,' I replied: 'I never saw a more splendid turn
out.'

'Qu'est ce qu'il dit?' I said the lady again.

'Il dit que tout l'equipage est en assez bon gout.'

'Allons, c'est un ours,' said the lady; 'le cheval meme en a peur,'
added she, as the mare reared up on high.

'Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the
equipage?' said Francis Ardry, reproachfully, after he had with
some difficulty brought the mare to order.

Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. 'How
beautiful!' said I, looking the lady full in the face.

'Comment?' said the lady, inquiringly.

'Il dit que vous etes belle comme un ange,' said Francis Ardry,
emphatically.

'Mais, a la bonne heure! arretez, mon ami,' said the lady to
Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; 'je voudrais bien causer
un moment avec lui; arretez, il est delicieux. - Est-ce bien ainsi
que vous traitez vos amis?' said she passionately, as Francis Ardry
lifted up his whip. 'Bon jour, Monsieur, bon jour,' said she,
thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry
drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour.

CHAPTER LIX

The milestone - The meditation - Want to get up? - The off-hand
leader - Sixteen shillings - The near-hand wheeler - All right.

IN about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the
suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was
travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not
whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great.
Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I
rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which
had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation.

I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first
arrival in that vast city - I had worked and toiled, and, though I
had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I
had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own
living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one.
I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly
empty; rather ailing it may be, but not broken in health; and, with
hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be
thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time
under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much
more, and whose future was far more hopeful - Good! But there
might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either
trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were
quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and,
oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the
whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes!

My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in
the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I
had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to
indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the
habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little
weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the
next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded
like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the
weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the
direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a
mail, drawn by four bounding horses - there was no one upon it but
the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it
stopped. 'Want to get up?' sounded a voice, in the true coachman-
like tone - half querulous, half authoritative. I hesitated; I was
tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian
excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a
coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance.
'Come, we can't be staying here all night,' said the voice, more
sharply than before. 'I can ride a little way, and get down
whenever I like,' thought I; and springing forward I clambered up
the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the
coachman. 'No, no,' said the coachman, who was a man about thirty,
with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably-cut
greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. 'No, no,
keep behind -the box ain't for the like of you,' said he, as he
drove off; 'the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least.'  I made
no answer. 'D- that off-hand leader,' said the coachman, as the
right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw
in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his
long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. 'These seem
to be fine horses,' said I. The coachman made no answer. 'Nearly
thoroughbred,' I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a
kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. 'Come, young fellow,
none of your chaff. Don't you think, because you ride on my mail,
I'm going to talk to you about 'orses. I talk to nobody about
'orses except lords.'  'Well,' said I, 'I have been called a lord
in my time.'  'It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then,' said
the coachman, bending back, and half turning his face round with a
broad leer. 'You have hit the mark wonderfully,' said I. 'You
coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools.'  'We
ain't, ain't we?' said the coachman. 'There you are right; and, to
show you that you are, I'll now trouble you for your fare. If you
have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well
cleared out. Where are you going? - to - ? I think I have seen
you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt;
them that has no money can't ride on my mail.'

Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a
considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first,
that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow
would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to
acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined,
therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount
a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid
the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard - 'All
right, Jem; got fare to - '; and forthwith whipped on his horses,
especially the off hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a
particular spite, to greater speed than before - the horses flew.

A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of
road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted
having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in
the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my
friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of
himself - hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and
fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the
new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. 'D- this near-
hand wheeler,' said he, 'the brute has got a corn.'  'Whipping him
won't cure him of his corn,' said I. 'Who told you to speak?' said
the driver, with an oath; 'mind your own business; 'tisn't from the
like of you I am to learn to drive 'orses.'  Presently I fell into
a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a
rough voice - 'Got to -, young man; get down if you please.'  I
opened my eyes - there was a dim and indistinct light, like that
which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like
a street; just below me stood the guard. 'Do you mean to get
down,' said he, 'or will you keep us here till morning? other fares
want to get up.'  Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and
stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. 'All right, John,'
said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off
whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by
disappeared, and I was left alone.

CHAPTER LX

The still hour - A thrill - The wondrous circle - The shepherd -
Heaps and barrows - What do you mean? - Milk of the plains -
Hengist spared it - No presents.

AFTER standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do,
I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling
town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my
right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing
of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was
running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over
the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams,
especially at the still hours. 'What stream is this, I wonder?'
said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which
whirled and gurgled below.

Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently
reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It
was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which
prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in
the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In
about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two, at an
angle or tongue of dark green sward. 'To the right or the left?'
said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand
road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the
midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally
with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small
grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and gray. I stood still
for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly
towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the
objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind
of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill
pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the
whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a
huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now
where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off
my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself - it was folly, perhaps,
but I could not help what I did - cast myself, with my face on the
dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the
transverse stone.

The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!

And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time,
I arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and
bundle, wandered round the wondrous circle, examining each
individual stone, from the greatest to the least; and then,
entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad
stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and
the other slanted upon the earth; and there, in deep meditation, I
sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the
tall stones of the eastern side.

And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently
a large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones;
two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and
soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side.

'Early here, sir,' said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a
dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; 'a
traveller, I suppose?'

'Yes,' said I, 'I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?'

'They are, sir; that is, they are my master's. A strange place
this, sir,' said he, looking at the stones; 'ever here before?'

'Never in body, frequently in mind.'

'Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder - all the people of the
plain talk of them.'

'What do the people of the plain say of them?'

'Why, they say - How did they ever come here?'

'Do they not suppose them to have been brought?'

'Who should have brought them?'

'I have read that they were brought by many thousand men.'

'Where from?'

'Ireland.'

'How did they bring them?'

'I don't know.'

'And what did they bring them for?'

'To form a temple, perhaps.'

'What is that?'

'A place to worship God in.'

'A strange place to worship God in.'

'Why?'

'It has no roof.'

'Yes, it has.'

'Where?' said the man, looking up.

'What do you see above you?'

'The sky.'

'Well?'

'Well!'

'Have you anything to say?'

'How did these stones come here?'

'Are there other stones like these on the plains?' said I.

'None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs.'

'What are they?'

'Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the
tops of hills.'

'Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?'

'They do not.'

'Why?'

'They were raised by hands.'

'And these stones?'

'How did they ever come here?'

'I wonder whether they are here?' said I.

'These stones?'

'Yes.'

'So sure as the world,' said the man; 'and, as the world, they will
stand as long.'

'I wonder whether there is a world.'

'What do you mean?'

'An earth, and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men.'

'Do you doubt it?'

'Sometimes.'

'I never heard it doubted before.'

'It is impossible there should be a world.'

'It ain't possible there shouldn't be a world.'

'Just so.'  At this moment a fine ewe, attended by a lamb, rushed
into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. 'I suppose
you would not care to have some milk,' said the man.

'Why do you suppose so?'

'Because, so be there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what
there ben't is not worth having.'

'You could not have argued better,' said I; 'that is, supposing you
have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please.'

'Be still, Nanny,' said the man; and producing a tin vessel from
his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. 'Here is milk of the plains,
master,' said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.

'Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking
of?' said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; 'are there any
near where we are?'

'Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away,' said the
shepherd, pointing to the south-east. 'It's a grand place, that,
but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of
the finest spire in the world.'

'I must go to it,' said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk;
'yonder, you say.'

'Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river
lies between.'

'What river?'

'The Avon.'

'Avon is British,' said I.

'Yes,' said the man, 'we are all British here.'

'No, we are not,' said I.

'What are we then?'

'English.'

'Ain't they one?'

'No.'

'Who were the British?'

'The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and
who raised these stones.'

'Where are they now?'

'Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about,
especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places,
and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another.'

'Yes, they did,' said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse
stone.

'And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which
English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe,
woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!
- Here is sixpence.'

'I won't have it,' said the man.

'Why not?'

'You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all
about them.'

'I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with
yourself, How did they ever come here?'

'How did they ever come here?' said the shepherd.

CHAPTER LXI

The river - Arid downs - A prospect.

LEAVING the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by
him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of
which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over
the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the
river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or
swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the
opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful
stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place where the
water ran dark and still.

Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of
these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and
tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and
scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with
hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground;
I at length found myself on a high-road, leading over wide and arid
downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything
remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path,
and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having
nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain
appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to
the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which
brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting
the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the
ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway,
and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a
square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or
ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before,
I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman
encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand
warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that
space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the
morning wind.

After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the
gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left
hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great
altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city,
situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from
the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld
towering to the sky the finest spire in the world.

And after I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I
hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the cause-way, regained
the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the
city of the spire.

CHAPTER LXII

The hostelry - Life uncertain - Open countenance - The grand point
- Thank you, master - A hard mother - Poor dear! - Considerable
odds - The better country - English fashion - Landlord-looking
person.

AND in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best
could - inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and
drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the
digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months
they had been strangers - enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large
bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain
hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters - receiving from the
people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people
who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are
perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit
of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I
departed from the city of the spire.

As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a
sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several
persons hastened to her assistance. 'She is dead,' said one. 'No,
she is not,' said another. 'I am afraid she is,' said a third.
'Life is very uncertain,' said a fourth. 'It is Mrs. -,' said a
fifth; 'let us carry her to her own house.'  Not being able to
render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her
townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the
direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was
growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was to be seen; two or
three hours' walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding
with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its
farthest extremity; passing through it, I ascended a lofty
acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and, taking
off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly
over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of
exercise and the heat of the day.

And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the
downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in
which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he
stopped, and, looking at me, cried - 'Am I right for London,
master?'

He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-
five and thirty years of age - he had an open manly countenance,
and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye.

'Yes,' said I, in reply to his question; 'this is one of the ways
to London. Do you come from far?'

'From -,' said the man, naming a well-known seaport.

'Is this the direct road to London from that place?' I demanded.

'No,' said the man; 'but I had to visit two or three other places
on certain commissions I was intrusted with; amongst others to -,
where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired,
master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.'

'You have as much right to sit down here as I have,' said I; 'the
road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have
the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your
company.'

'Why, as for being honest, master,' said the man, laughing and
sitting down by me, 'I haven't much to say - many is the wild thing
I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To
learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn
the grand point of wisdom.'

'What is that?' said I.

'That honesty is the best policy, master.'

'You appear to be a sailor,' said I, looking at his dress.

'I was not bred a sailor,' said the man, 'though, when my foot is
on the salt water, I can play the part - and play it well too. I
am now from a long voyage.'

'From America?' said I.

'Farther than that,' said the man.

'Have you any objection to tell me?' said I.

'From New South Wales,' said the man, looking me full in the face.

'Dear me,' said I.

'Why do you say "Dear me"?' said the man.

'It is a very long way off,' said I.

'Was that your reason for saying so?' said the man.

'Not exactly,' said I.

'No,' said the man, with something of a bitter smile; 'it was
something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the
convicts.'

'Well,' said I, 'what then - you are no convict.'

'How do you know?'

'You do not look like one.'

'Thank you, master,' said the man cheerfully; 'and, to a certain
extent, you are right - bygones are bygones - I am no longer what I
was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth - a
convict I have been - a convict at Sydney Cove.'

'And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced,
and are now returned?'

'As to serving out my sentence,' replied the man, 'I can't say that
I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove
little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the
Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the
convicts to murder and destroy - I overheard and informed the
Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it;
those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of
villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I
had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind
gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and
good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me
employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In
fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever
happened to me in all my life.'

'And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see
home brought you from New South Wales.'

'There you are mistaken,' said the man. 'Wish to see England again
would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth,
master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many.
No, a wish to see another kind of mother - a poor old woman, whose
son I am - has brought me back.'

'You have a mother, then?' said I. 'Does she reside in London?'

'She used to live in London,' said the man; 'but I am afraid she is
long since dead.'

'How did she support herself?' said I.

'Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small
stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is
dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful
creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way
back merely for the chance of seeing her.'

'Did you ever write to her,' said I, 'or cause others to write to
her?'

'I wrote to her myself,' said the man, 'about two years ago; but I
never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over
there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for
reading, I could do that very well before I went - my poor mother
taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a
strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear! - what I would give
only to know that she is alive.'

'Life is very uncertain,' said I.

'That is true,' said the man, with a sigh.

'We are here one moment, and gone the next,' I continued. 'As I
passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a
respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who
knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance,
at that very time?'

'Who knows, indeed?' said the man. 'Ah, I am afraid my mother is
dead. Well, God's will be done.'

'However,' said I, 'I should not wonder at your finding your mother
alive.'

'You wouldn't?' said the man, looking at me wistfully.

'I should not wonder at all,' said I; 'indeed, something within me
seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five
shillings to fivepence that you will see your mother within a week.
Now, friend, five shillings to fivepence - '

'Is very considerable odds,' said the man, rubbing his hands; 'sure
you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give
such odds.'

'After all,' said I, 'it not unfrequently happens that those who
lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to
do in the event of finding your mother alive?'

'I scarcely know,' said the man; 'I have frequently thought that if
I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to
accompany me to the country which I have left - it is a better
country for a man - that is, a free man - to live in than this;
however, let me first find my mother - if I could only find my
mother - '

'Farewell,' said I, rising. 'Go your way, and God go with you - I
will go mine.'  'I have but one thing to ask you,' said the man.
'What is that?' I inquired. 'That you would drink with me before
we part - you have done me so much good.'  'How should we drink?'
said I; 'we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to
drink.'  'But there is a village below,' said the man; 'do let us
drink before we part.'  'I have been through that village already,'
said I, 'and I do not like turning back.'  'Ah,' said the man,
sorrowfully, 'you will not drink with me because I told you I was -
'  'You are quite mistaken,' said I, 'I would as soon drink with a
convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the
same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the
convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd
sixpence in my pocket, which I will change that I may drink with
you.'  So we went down the hill together to the village through
which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank
together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the
sailor-looking man going his way and I mine.

After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested
for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction
of the north-west. I continued journeying for four days, my daily
journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this
time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The
weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and
spirits. On the fifth day, about two o'clock, I arrived at a small
town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn - within a
kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord-looking person, with a very
pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man,
'House!' said I, 'house! Can I have dinner, house?'

CHAPTER LXIII

Primitive habits - Rosy-faced damsel - A pleasant moment - Suit of
black - The furtive glance - The mighty round - Degenerate times -
The newspaper - The evil chance - I congratulate you.

'YOUNG gentleman,' said the huge fat landlord, 'you are come at the
right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a
dinner,' he continued, rubbing his hands, 'as you will not see
every day in these times.'

'I am hot and dusty,' said I, 'and should wish to cool my hands and
face.'

'Jenny!' said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, 'show the
gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face.'

'By no means,' said I, 'I am a person of primitive habits, and
there is nothing like the pump in weather like this.'

'Jenny,' said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, 'go
with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take
a clean towel along with you.'

Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and
producing a large, thick, but snowy white towel, she nodded to me
to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage
into the back kitchen.

And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to
it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, 'Pump, Jenny';
and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with
one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands.

And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth,
and, unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the
spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny, 'Now, Jenny, lay down the
towel, and pump for your life.'

Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the
handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as
handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in
torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick
floor.

And, after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out
with a half-strangled voice, 'Hold, Jenny!' and Jenny desisted. I
stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel
which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my
face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep
sigh and said, 'Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of
life.'

Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a
pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the
long passage, and showed me into a neat sanded parlour on the
ground-floor.

I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street;
presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the table-
cloth. 'Shall I spread the table for one, sir,' said she, 'or do
you expect anybody to dine with you?'  'I can't say that I expect
anybody,' said I, laughing inwardly to myself; 'however, if you
please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine
should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for
him.'

So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty
street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which
adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from
which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door.
Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No; a man of the
middle age, and rather above the middle height, dressed in a plain
suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some
distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in
thought.

'The weather is very warm, sir,' said I.

'Very,' said the stranger, laconically, looking at me for the first
time.

'Would you like to see the newspaper?' said I, taking up one which
lay upon the window seat.

'I never read newspapers,' said the stranger, 'nor, indeed, - '  
Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he left
unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the farther
end of the room, before which he placed himself with his back
towards me. There he remained motionless for some time; at length,
raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantelpiece with his
finger, advanced towards the chair which he had left, and again
seated himself.

'Have you come far?' said he, suddenly looking towards me, and
speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish to enter
into conversation. 'You do not seem to be of this place.'

'I come from some distance,' said I; 'indeed, I am walking for
exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. I
believe that by exercise people would escape much mental misery.'

Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his hand,
with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the glasses;
after a moment or two he touched the glass with his finger as if
inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he withdrew his hand
and looked towards the window.

'Are you from these parts?' said I at last, with apparent
carelessness.

'From this vicinity,' replied the stranger. 'You think, then, that
it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of the
body?'

'I, at least, am walking in that hope,' said I.

'I wish you may be successful,' said the stranger; and here he
touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him.

Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open
with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, supporting with
some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty round mass
of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables; so high was
the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it was not until
he had placed it upon the table that he appeared to observe the
stranger; he almost started, and quite out of breath exclaimed,
'God bless me, your honour; is your honour the acquaintance that
the young gentleman was expecting?'

'Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance?' said the
stranger.

There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters,
thought I to myself; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown.
'Sir,' said I, 'when I told Jenny that she might lay the table-
cloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping in
he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely jocular,
being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no one.
Fortune, however, it would seem, has been unexpectedly kind to me;
I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in this room I have
had the honour of making your acquaintance; and in the strength of
that hope I humbly entreat you to honour me with your company to
dinner, provided you have not already dined.'

The stranger laughed outright.

'Sir,' I continued, 'the round of beef is a noble one, and seems
exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right when he
said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every day. A round
of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, is seldom seen
smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. Allow me, sir,'
said I, observing that the stranger was about to speak, 'allow me
another remark. I think I saw you just now touch the fork; I
venture to hail it as an omen that you will presently seize it, and
apply it to its proper purpose, and its companion the knife also.'

The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence.

'Do, sir,' here put in the landlord; 'do, sir, accept the young
gentleman's invitation. Your honour has of late been looking
poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentleman, and a
clever young gentleman; and I think it will do your honour good to
have a dinner's chat with the young gentleman.'

'It is not my dinner hour,' said the stranger; 'I dine considerably
later; taking anything now would only discompose me; I shall,
however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentleman; reach
me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has satisfied his
appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together.'

The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing,
retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the
smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. The
stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. We
continued thus a considerable time - the one reading and the other
dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the stranger, I saw
his brow contract; he gave a slight stamp with his foot, and flung
the newspaper to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up,
first moving his forefinger along the floor, seemingly slightly
scratching it with his nail.

'Do you hope, sir,' said I, 'by that ceremony with the finger to
preserve yourself from the evil chance?'

The stranger started; then, after looking at me for some time in
silence, he said, 'Is it possible that you - ?'

'Ay, ay,' said I, helping myself to some more of the round; 'I have
touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil chance and the
good. Can't say, though, that I ever trusted much in the
ceremony.'

The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep thought;
nothing farther passed between us until I had concluded the dinner,
when I said to him, 'I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the
pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine.'

The stranger rose; 'No, my young friend,' said he, smiling, 'that
would scarce be fair. It is my turn now - pray do me the favour to
go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor roof can
offer; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some particular
discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this place.
As for wine, I can give you some much better than you can get here:
the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an innkeeper after
all. I am going out for a moment, and will send him in, so that
you may settle your account; I trust you will not refuse me, I only
live about two miles from here.'

I looked in the face of the stranger - it was a fine intelligent
face, with a cast of melancholy in it. 'Sir,' said I, 'I would go
with you though you lived four miles instead of two.'

'Who is that gentleman?' said I to the landlord, after I had
settled his bill; 'I am going home with him.'

'I wish I were going too,' said the fat landlord, laying his hand
upon his stomach. 'Young gentleman, I shall be a loser by his
honour's taking you away; but, after all, the truth is the truth -
there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, either for
learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate
you.'

CHAPTER LXIV

New acquaintance - Old French style - The portrait - Taciturnity -
The evergreen tree - The dark hour - The flash - Ancestors - A
fortunate man - A posthumous child - Antagonist ideas - The hawks -
Flaws - The pony - Irresistible impulse - Favourable crisis - The
topmost branch - Twenty feet - Heartily ashamed.

I FOUND the stranger awaiting me at the door of the inn. 'Like
yourself, I am fond of walking,' said he, 'and when any little
business calls me to this place I generally come on foot.'

We were soon out of the town, and in a very beautiful country.
After proceeding some distance on the high-road, we turned off, and
were presently in one of those mazes of lanes for which England is
famous; the stranger at first seemed inclined to be taciturn; a few
observations, however, which I made appeared to rouse him, and he
soon exhibited not only considerable powers of conversation, but
stores of information which surprised me. So pleased did I become
with my new acquaintance that I soon ceased to pay the slightest
attention either to place or distance. At length the stranger was
silent, and I perceived that we had arrived at a handsome iron gate
and a lodge; the stranger having rung a bell, the gate was opened
by an old man, and we proceeded along a gravel path, which in about
five minutes brought us to a large brick house, built something in
the old French style, having a spacious lawn before it, and
immediately in front a pond in which were golden fish, and in the
middle a stone swan discharging quantities of water from its bill.
We ascended a spacious flight of steps to the door, which was at
once flung open, and two servants with powdered hair and in livery
of blue plush came out and stood one on either side as we passed
the threshold. We entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking
me by the hand, welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and
then gave orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me
to an apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in
my toilet. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I
had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no
objection to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to
a spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little
nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress
required. When everything had been completed to my perfect
satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to
the library, where dinner would be speedily served.

In the library I found a table laid for two; my host was not there,
having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilet as
his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring
eyes; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to
the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and
bindings; there was a globe or two, a couch, and an easy-chair.
Statues and busts there were none, and only one painting, a
portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. Over the
mantelpiece, the features staringly like, but so ridiculously
exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human being,
daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, hung a
half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity - my sturdy
host of the town.

I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself as I
best could, when my friend entered; he seemed to have resumed his
taciturnity - scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner was
served, when he said, smiling, 'I suppose it would be merely a
compliment to ask you to partake?'

'I don't know,' said I, seating myself; 'your first course consists
of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to be
companionable.'

The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it
from the circumstance of having already dined; the stranger also,
though without my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer;
he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and
every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally
unsuccessful.

And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and I
remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the encomiums
of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that my
entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to tie his
tongue - but no! I endeavoured to tempt him by various topics, and
talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the heavenly
sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard was a very
large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according to Olaus,
stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and which I
affirmed was a yew - but no, nothing that I said could induce my
entertainer to relax his taciturnity.

It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable. 'I must presently be
going,' I at last exclaimed.

At these words he gave a sudden start; 'Going,' said he, 'are you
not my guest, and an honoured one?'

'You know best,' said I; 'but I was apprehensive I was an intruder;
to several of my questions you have returned no answer.'

'Ten thousand pardons!' he exclaimed, seizing me by the hand; 'but
you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you about - there is one
thing in particular - '

'If it be the evergreen tree at Upsal,' said I, interrupting him,
'I hold it to have been a yew - what else? The evergreens of the
south, as the old bishop observes, will not grow in the north, and
a pine was unfitted for such a locality, being a vulgar tree. What
else could it have been but the yew - the sacred yew which our
ancestors were in the habit of planting in their churchyards?
Moreover, I affirm it to have been the yew for the honour of the
tree; for I love the yew, and had I home and land, I would have one
growing before my front windows.'

'You would do right, the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but it is
not about the yew.'

'The star Jupiter, perhaps?'

'Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons; an observation which escaped
you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me.'

'But I really must take my departure,' said I; 'the dark hour is at
hand.'

And as I uttered these latter words the stranger touched rapidly
something which lay near him - I forget what it was. It was the
first action of the kind which I had observed on his part since we
sat down to table.

'You allude to the evil chance,' said I; 'but it is getting both
dark and late.'

'I believe we are going to have a storm,' said my friend, 'but I
really hope that you will give me your company for a day or two; I
have, as I said before, much to talk to you about.'

'Well,' said I, 'I shall be most happy to be your guest for this
night; I am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to
travel unknown paths by night - dear me, what a flash of
lightning.'

It had become very dark; suddenly a blaze of sheet lightning
illumed the room. By the momentary light I distinctly saw my host
touch another object upon the table.

'Will you allow me to ask you a question or two?' said he at last.

'As many as you please,' said I; 'but shall we not have lights?'

'Not unless you particularly wish it,' said my entertainer; 'I
rather like the dark, and though a storm is evidently at hand,
neither thunder nor lightning has any terrors for me. It is other
things I quake at - I should rather say ideas. Now permit me to
ask you - '

And then my entertainer asked me various questions, to all of which
I answered unreservedly; he was then silent for some time, at last
he exclaimed, 'I should wish to tell you the history of my life -
though not an adventurous one, I think it contains some things
which will interest you.'

Without waiting for my reply he began. Amidst darkness and gloom,
occasionally broken by flashes of lightning, the stranger related
to me, as we sat at table in the library, his truly touching
history.

'Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not be
amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great-
grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who,
when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of
one hundred thousand pounds and a splendid business; the son,
however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition
was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass the
remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this he
managed to accomplish; he disposed of his business, purchased a
beautiful and extensive estate for fourscore thousand pounds, built
upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of welcoming you to-
day, married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, who brought him
a fortune of five thousand pounds, became a magistrate, and only
wanted a son and heir to make him completely happy; this blessing,
it is true, was for a long time denied him; it came, however, at
last, as is usual, when least expected. His lady was brought to
bed of my father, and then who so happy a man as my grandsire; he
gave away two thousand pounds in charities, and in the joy of his
heart made a speech at the next quarter sessions; the rest of his
life was spent in ease, tranquillity, and rural dignity; he died of
apoplexy on the day that my father came of age; perhaps it would be
difficult to mention a man who in all respects was so fortunate as
my grandfather: his death was sudden it is true, but I am not one
of those who pray to be delivered from a sudden death.

'I should not call my father a fortunate man; it is true that he
had the advantage of a first-rate education; that he made the grand
tour with a private tutor, as was the fashion at that time; that he
came to a splendid fortune on the very day that he came of age;
that for many years he tasted all the diversions of the capital
that, at last determined to settle, he married the sister of a
baronet, an amiable and accomplished lady, with a large fortune;
that he had the best stud of hunters in the county, on which,
during the season, he followed the fox gallantly; had he been a
fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was
frequently known to do; ten months after his marriage his horse
fell upon him, and so injured him, that he expired in a few days in
great agony. My grandfather was, indeed, a fortunate man; when he
died he was followed to the grave by the tears of the poor - my
father was not.

'Two remarkable circumstances are connected with my birth - I am a
posthumous child, and came into the world some weeks before the
usual time, the shock which my mother experienced at my father's
death having brought on the pangs of premature labour; both my
mother's life and my own were at first despaired of; we both,
however, survived the crisis. My mother loved me with the most
passionate fondness, and I was brought up in this house under her
own eye - I was never sent to school.

'I have already told you that mine is not a tale of adventure; my
life has not been one of action, but of wild imaginings and strange
sensations; I was born with excessive sensibility, and that has
been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man.

'No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible for a
being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or even
enjoy peace and tranquillity; most of our pleasures and pains are
the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is great,
the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagination raised
up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up one of
distress and gloom; these two antagonist ideas instantly commence a
struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, I may say
invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should be a happy
man?

'It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period that I
can remember; the first playthings that were given me caused me for
a few minutes excessive pleasure: they were pretty and glittering;
presently, however, I became anxious and perplexed, I wished to
know their history, how they were made, and what of - were the
materials precious? I was not satisfied with their outward
appearance. In less than an hour I had broken the playthings in an
attempt to discover what they were made of.

'When I was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who was also
my godfather, sent me a pair of Norway hawks, with directions for
managing them; he was a great fowler. Oh, how rejoiced was I with
the present which had been made me, my joy lasted for at least five
minutes; I would let them breed, I would have a house of hawks;
yes, that I would - but - and here came the unpleasant idea -
suppose they were to flyaway, how very annoying! Ah, but, said
hope, there's little fear of that; feed them well and they will
never fly away, or if they do they will come back, my uncle says
so; so sunshine triumphed for a little time. Then the strangest of
all doubts came into my head; I doubted the legality of my tenure
of these hawks; how did I come by them? why, my uncle gave them to
me, but how did they come into his possession? what right had he to
them? after all, they might not be his to give. I passed a
sleepless night. The next morning I found that the man who brought
the hawks had not departed. "How came my uncle by these hawks?" I
anxiously inquired. "They were sent to him from Norway, master,
with another pair."  "And who sent them?"  "That I don't know,
master, but I suppose his honour can tell you."  I was even
thinking of scrawling a letter to my uncle to make inquiry on this
point, but shame restrained me, and I likewise reflected that it
would be impossible for him to give my mind entire satisfaction; it
is true he could tell who sent him the hawks, but how was he to
know how the hawks came into the possession of those who sent them
to him, and by what right they possessed them or the parents of the
hawks? In a word, I wanted a clear valid title, as lawyers would
say, to my hawks, and I believe no title would have satisfied me
that did not extend up to the time of the first hawk, that is,
prior to Adam; and, could I have obtained such a title, I make no
doubt that, young as I was, I should have suspected that it was
full of flaws.

'I was now disgusted with the hawks, and no wonder, seeing all the
disquietude they had caused me; I soon totally neglected the poor
birds, and they would have starved had not some of the servants
taken compassion upon them and fed them. My uncle, soon hearing of
my neglect, was angry, and took the birds away; he was a very good-
natured man, however, and soon sent me a fine pony; at first I was
charmed with the pony, soon, however, the same kind of thoughts
arose which had disgusted me on a former occasion. How did my
uncle become possessed of the pony? This question I asked him the
first time I saw him. Oh, he had bought it of a gypsy, that I
might learn to ride upon it. A gypsy; I had heard that gypsies
were great thieves, and I instantly began to fear that the gypsy
had stolen the pony, and it is probable that for this apprehension
I had better grounds than for many others. I instantly ceased to
set any value upon the pony, but for that reason, perhaps, I turned
it to some account; I mounted it and rode it about, which I don't
think I should have done had I looked upon it as a secure
possession. Had I looked upon my title as secure, I should have
prized it so much, that I should scarcely have mounted it for fear
of injuring the animal; but now, caring not a straw for it, I rode
it most unmercifully, and soon became a capital rider. This was
very selfish in me, and I tell the fact with shame. I was
punished, however, as I deserved; the pony had a spirit of its own,
and, moreover, it had belonged to gypsies; once, as I was riding it
furiously over the lawn, applying both whip and spur, it suddenly
lifted up its heels, and flung me at least five yards over its
head. I received some desperate contusions, and was taken up for
dead; it was many months before I perfectly recovered.

'But it is time for me to come to the touching part of my story.
There was one thing that I loved better than the choicest gift
which could be bestowed upon me, better than life itself - my
mother; - at length she became unwell, and the thought that I might
possibly lose her now rushed into my mind for the first time; it
was terrible, and caused me unspeakable misery, I may say horror.
My mother became worse, and I was not allowed to enter her
apartment, lest by my frantic exclamations of grief I might
aggravate her disorder. I rested neither day nor night, but roamed
about the house like one distracted. Suddenly I found myself doing
that which even at the time struck me as being highly singular; I
found myself touching particular objects that were near me, and to
which my fingers seemed to be attracted by an irresistible impulse.
It was now the table or the chair that I was compelled to touch;
now the bell-rope; now the handle of the door; now I would touch
the wall, and the next moment, stooping down, I would place the
point of my finger upon the floor: and so I continued to do day
after day; frequently I would struggle to resist the impulse, but
invariably in vain. I have even rushed away from the object, but I
was sure to return, the impulse was too strong to be resisted: I
quickly hurried back, compelled by the feeling within me to touch
the object. Now I need not tell you that what impelled me to these
actions was the desire to prevent my mother's death; whenever I
touched any particular object, it was with the view of baffling the
evil chance, as you would call it - in this instance my mother's
death.

'A favourable crisis occurred in my mother's complaint, and she
recovered; this crisis took place about six o'clock in the morning;
almost simultaneously with it there happened to myself a rather
remarkable circumstance connected with the nervous feeling which
was rioting in my system. I was lying in bed in a kind of uneasy
doze, the only kind of rest which my anxiety on account of my
mother permitted me at this time to take, when all at once I sprang
up as if electrified; the mysterious impulse was upon me, and it
urged me to go without delay, and climb a stately elm behind the
house, and touch the topmost branch; otherwise - you know the rest
- the evil chance would prevail. Accustomed for some time as I had
been, under this impulse, to perform extravagant actions, I confess
to you that the difficulty and peril of such a feat startled me; I
reasoned against the feeling, and strove more strenuously than I
had ever done before; I even made a solemn vow not to give way to
the temptation, but I believe nothing less than chains, and those
strong ones, could have restrained me. The demoniac influence, for
I can call it nothing else, at length prevailed; it compelled me to
rise, to dress myself, to descend the stairs, to unbolt the door,
and to go forth; it drove me to the foot of the tree, and it
compelled me to climb the trunk; this was a tremendous task, and I
only accomplished it after repeated falls and trials. When I had
got amongst the branches, I rested for a time, and then set about
accomplishing the remainder of the ascent; this for some time was
not so difficult, for I was now amongst the branches; as I
approached the top, however, the difficulty became greater, and
likewise the danger; but I was a light boy, and almost as nimble as
a squirrel, and, moreover, the nervous feeling was within me,
impelling me upward. It was only by means of a spring, however,
that I was enabled to touch the top of the tree; I sprang, touched
the top of the tree, and fell a distance of at least twenty feet,
amongst the branches; had I fallen to the bottom I must have been
killed, but I fell into the middle of the tree, and presently found
myself astride upon one of the boughs; scratched and bruised all
over, I reached the ground, and regained my chamber unobserved; I
flung myself on my bed quite exhausted; presently they came to tell
me that my mother was better - they found me in the state which I
have described, and in a fever besides. The favourable crisis must
have occurred just about the time that I performed the magic touch;
it certainly was a curious coincidence, yet I was not weak enough,
even though a child, to suppose that I had baffled the evil chance
by my daring feat.

'Indeed, all the time that I was performing these strange feats, I
knew them to be highly absurd, yet the impulse to perform them was
irresistible - a mysterious dread hanging over me till I had given
way to it; even at that early period I frequently used to reason
within myself as to what could be the cause of my propensity to
touch, but of course I could come to no satisfactory conclusion
respecting it; being heartily ashamed of the practice, I never
spoke of it to any one, and was at all times highly solicitous that
no one should observe my weakness.'

CHAPTER LXV

Maternal anxiety - The baronet - Little zest - Country life - Mr.
Speaker! - The craving - Spirited address - An author.

AFTER a short pause my host resumed his narration. 'Though I was
never sent to school, my education was not neglected on that
account; I had tutors in various branches of knowledge, under whom
I made a tolerable progress; by the time I was eighteen I was able
to read most of the Greek and Latin authors with facility; I was
likewise, to a certain degree, a mathematician. I cannot say that
I took much pleasure in my studies; my chief aim in endeavouring to
accomplish my tasks was to give pleasure to my beloved parent, who
watched my progress with anxiety truly maternal. My life at this
period may be summed up in a few words: I pursued my studies,
roamed about the woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast
my fly in a trout stream, and sometimes, but not often, rode a-
hunting with my uncle. A considerable part of my time was devoted
to my mother, conversing with her and reading to her; youthful
companions I had none, and as to my mother, she lived in the
greatest retirement, devoting herself to the superintendence of my
education, and the practice of acts of charity; nothing could be
more innocent than this mode of life, and some people say that in
innocence there is happiness, yet I can't say that I was happy. A
continual dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my
mother's death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had
been considerably shaken by her last illness; this I knew, and this
I saw - for the eyes of fear are marvellously keen. Well, things
went on in this way till I had come of age; my tutors were then
dismissed, and my uncle the baronet took me in hand, telling my
mother that it was high time for him to exert his authority; that I
must see something of the world, for that, if I remained much
longer with her, I should be ruined. "You must consign him to me,"
said he, "and I will introduce him to the world."  My mother sighed
and consented; so my uncle the baronet introduced me to the world,
took me to horse-races and to London, and endeavoured to make a man
of me according to his idea of the term, and in part succeeded. I
became moderately dissipated - I say moderately, for dissipation
had but little zest for me.

'In this manner four years passed over. It happened that I was in
London in the height of the season with my uncle, at his house; one
morning he summoned me into the parlour, he was standing before the
fire, and looked very serious. "I have had a letter," said he;
"your mother is very ill."  I staggered, and touched the nearest
object to me; nothing was said for two or three minutes, and then
my uncle put his lips to my ear and whispered something. I fell
down senseless. My mother was . . . I remember nothing for a long
time - for two years I was out of my mind; at the end of this time
I recovered, or partly so. My uncle the baronet was very kind to
me; he advised me to travel, he offered to go with me. I told him
he was very kind, but I would rather go by myself. So I went
abroad, and saw, amongst other things, Rome and the Pyramids. By
frequent change of scene my mind became not happy, but tolerably
tranquil. I continued abroad some years, when, becoming tired of
travelling, I came home, found my uncle the baronet alive, hearty,
and unmarried, as he still is. He received me very kindly, took me
to Newmarket, and said that he hoped by this time I was become
quite a man of the world; by his advice I took a house in town, in
which I lived during the season. In summer I strolled from one
watering-place to another; and, in order to pass the time, I became
very dissipated.

'At last I became as tired of dissipation as I had previously been
of travelling, and I determined to retire to the country, and live
on my paternal estate; this resolution I was not slow in putting
into effect; I sold my house in town, repaired and refurnished my
country house, and, for at least ten years, lived a regular country
life; I gave dinner parties, prosecuted poachers, was charitable to
the poor, and now and then went into my library; during this time I
was seldom or never visited by the magic impulse, the reason being
that there was nothing in the wide world for which I cared
sufficiently to move a finger to preserve it. When the ten years,
however, were nearly ended, I started out of bed one morning in a
fit of horror, exclaiming, "Mercy, mercy! what will become of me?
I am afraid I shall go mad. I have lived thirty-five years and
upwards without doing anything; shall I pass through life in this
manner? Horror!'  And then in rapid succession I touched three
different objects.

'I dressed myself and went down, determining to set about
something; but what was I to do? - there was the difficulty. I ate
no breakfast, but walked about the room in a state of distraction;
at last I thought that the easiest way to do something was to get
into Parliament, there would be no difficulty in that. I had
plenty of money, and could buy a seat; but what was I to do in
Parliament? Speak, of course - but could I speak? "I'll try at
once," said I, and forthwith I rushed into the largest dining-room,
and, locking the door, I commenced speaking: "Mr. Speaker," said
I, and then I went on speaking for about ten minutes as I best
could, and then I left off, for I was talking nonsense. No, I was
not formed for Parliament; I could do nothing there. What - what
was I to do?

'Many, many times I thought this question over, but was unable to
solve it; a fear now stole over me that I was unfit for anything in
the world, save the lazy life of vegetation which I had for many
years been leading; yet, if that were the case, thought I, why the
craving within me to distinguish myself? Surely it does not occur
fortuitously, but is intended to rouse and call into exercise
certain latent powers that I possess? and then with infinite
eagerness I set about attempting to discover these latent powers.
I tried an infinity of pursuits, botany and geology amongst the
rest, but in vain; I was fitted for none of them. I became very
sorrowful and despondent, and at one time I had almost resolved to
plunge again into the whirlpool of dissipation; it was a dreadful
resource, it was true, but what better could I do?

'But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the world.
One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time past showed a
wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a considerable
hurry. "I am come to beg an important favour of you," said he;
"one of the county memberships is vacant - I intend to become a
candidate; what I want immediately is a spirited address to the
electors. I have been endeavouring to frame one all the morning,
but in vain; I have, therefore, recourse to you as a person of
infinite genius; pray, my dear friend, concoct me one by the
morning!"  "What you require of me," I replied, "is impossible; I
have not the gift of words; did I possess it I would stand for the
county myself, but I can't speak. Only the other day I attempted
to make a speech, but left off suddenly, utterly ashamed, although
I was quite alone, of the nonsense I was uttering."  "It is not a
speech that I want," said my friend; "I can talk for three hours
without hesitating, but I want an address to circulate through the
county, and I find myself utterly incompetent to put one together;
do oblige me by writing one for me, I know you can; and, if at any
time you want a person to speak for you, you may command me not for
three but for six hours. Good-morning; to-morrow I will breakfast
with you.'  In the morning he came again. "Well," said he, "what
success?"  "Very poor," said I; "but judge for yourself"; and I put
into his hand a manuscript of several pages. My friend read it
through with considerable attention. "I congratulate you," said
he, "and likewise myself; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you;
the address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather
say, that it is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are;
but it will do - I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my
election."  And in truth he did win his election; and it was not
only his own but the general opinion that he owed it to the
address.

'But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, at last
discovered what had so long eluded my search - what I was able to
do. I, who had neither the nerve nor the command of speech
necessary to constitute the orator - who had not the power of
patient research required by those who would investigate the
secrets of nature, had, nevertheless, a ready pen and teeming
imagination. This discovery decided my fate - from that moment I
became an author.'

CHAPTER LXVI

Trepidations - Subtle principle - Perverse imagination - Are they
mine? - Another book - How hard! - Agricultural dinner -
Incomprehensible actions - Inmost bosom - Give it up - Chance
resemblance - Rascally newspaper.

'AN author,' said I, addressing my host; 'is it possible that I am
under the roof of an author?'

'Yes,' said my host, sighing, 'my name is so and so, and I am the
author of so and so; it is more than probable that you have heard
both of my name and works. I will not detain you much longer with
my history; the night is advancing, and the storm appears to be
upon the increase. My life since the period of my becoming an
author may be summed briefly as an almost uninterrupted series of
doubts, anxieties, and trepidations. I see clearly that it is not
good to love anything immoderately in this world, but it has been
my misfortune to love immoderately everything on which I have set
my heart. This is not good, I repeat - but where is the remedy?
The ancients were always in the habit of saying, "Practise
moderation," but the ancients appear to have considered only one
portion of the subject. It is very possible to practise moderation
in some things, in drink and the like - to restrain the appetites -
but can a man restrain the affections of his mind, and tell them,
so far you shall go, and no farther? Alas, no! for the mind is a
subtle principle, and cannot be confined. The winds may be
imprisoned; Homer says that Odysseus carried certain winds in his
ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer never speaks of
confining the affections. It were but right that those who exhort
us against inordinate affections, and setting our hearts too much
upon the world and its vanities, would tell us how to avoid doing
so.

'I need scarcely tell you that no sooner did I become an author
than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It became my
idol, and, as a necessary consequence, it has proved a source of
misery and disquietude to me, instead of pleasure and blessing. I
had trouble enough in writing my first work, and I was not long in
discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring and spirited
address to a set of county electors, and another widely different
to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression upon the
great world. I felt, however, that I was in my proper sphere, and
by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded in evolving
from the depths of my agitated breast a work which, though it did
not exactly please me, I thought would serve to make an experiment
upon the public; so I laid it before the public, and the reception
which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations. The
public were delighted with it, but what were my feelings?
Anything, alas! but those of delight. No sooner did the public
express its satisfaction at the result of my endeavours, than my
perverse imagination began to conceive a thousand chimerical
doubts; forthwith I sat down to analyse it; and my worst enemy, and
all people have their enemies, especially authors - my worst enemy
could not have discovered or sought to discover a tenth part of the
faults which I, the author and creator of the unfortunate
production, found or sought to find in it. It has been said that
love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object - common love
does, perhaps - the love of a father to his child, or that of a
lover to his mistress, but not the inordinate love of an author to
his works, at least not the love which one like myself bears to his
works: to be brief, I discovered a thousand faults in my work,
which neither public nor critics discovered. However, I was
beginning to get over this misery, and to forgive my work all its
imperfections, when - and I shake when I mention it - the same kind
of idea which perplexed me with regard to the hawks and the gypsy
pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith commenced touching the
objects around me, in order to baffle the evil chance, as you call
it; it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the legality of my
claim to the thoughts, expressions, and situations contained in the
book; that is, to all that constituted the book. How did I get
them? How did they come into my mind? Did I invent them? Did
they originate with myself? Are they my own, or are they some
other body's? You see into what difficulty I had got; I won't
trouble you by relating all that I endured at that time, but will
merely say that after eating my own heart, as the Italians say, and
touching every object that came in my way for six months, I at
length flung my book, I mean the copy of it which I possessed, into
the fire, and began another.

'But it was all in vain; I laboured at this other, finished it, and
gave it to the world; and no sooner had I done so, than the same
thought was busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure which I
should otherwise have derived from my work. How did I get all the
matter which composed it? Out of my own mind, unquestionably; but
how did it come there - was it the indigenous growth of the mind?
And then I would sit down and ponder over the various scenes and
adventures in my book, endeavouring to ascertain how I came
originally to devise them, and by dint of reflecting I remembered
that to a single word in conversation, or some simple accident in a
street or on a road, I was indebted for some of the happiest
portions of my work; they were but tiny seeds, it is true, which in
the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees,
but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been
produced, and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these
compositions which charmed the world - for the did charm the world
- was due to myself. Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning
all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the
result of my brain-sweat. "How hard!" I would exclaim, looking up
to the sky, "how hard! I am like Virgil's sheep, bearing fleeces
not for themselves."  But, not to tire you, it fared with my second
work as it did with my first; I flung it aside, and, in order to
forget it, I began a third, on which I am now occupied; but the
difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire to be
original sadly cramping the powers of my mind; my fastidiousness
being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not
think to be legitimately my own. But there is one circumstance to
which I cannot help alluding here, as it serves to show what
miseries this love of originality must needs bring upon an author.
I am constantly discovering that, however original I may wish to
be, I am continually producing the same things which other people
say or write. Whenever, after producing something which gives me
perfect satisfaction, and which has cost me perhaps days and nights
of brooding, I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little
relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure to find in
it something more or less resembling some part of what I have been
just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which then
comes over me; 'tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the
chance which, by discovering my latent powers, induced me to adopt
a profession of such anxiety and misery.

'For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, owing
to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar
to what I myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress without
having almost instant reason to repent. To-day, when I took up the
newspaper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an
agricultural dinner, the very same ideas, and almost the same
expressions which I had put into the mouth of an imaginary
personage of mine, on a widely different occasion; you saw how I
dashed the newspaper down - you saw how I touched the floor; the
touch was to baffle the evil chance, to prevent the critics
detecting any similarity between the speech of the Duke of
Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner and the speech of my
personage. My sensibility on the subject of my writings is so
great that sometimes a chance word is sufficient to unman me, I
apply it to them in a superstitious sense; for example, when you
said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on, I applied it
to my works - it appeared to bode them evil fortune; you saw how I
touched, it was to baffle the evil chance; but I do not confine
myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me. To
baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly
incomprehensible; I have been known, when riding in company with
other people, to leave the direct road, and make a long circuit by
a miry lane to the place to which we were going. I have also been
seen attempting to ride across a morass, where I had no business
whatever, and in which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-
girths, and was only extricated by the help of a multitude of
hands. I have, of course, frequently been asked the reason of such
conduct, to which I have invariably returned no answer, for I scorn
duplicity; whereupon people have looked mysteriously, and sometimes
put their fingers to their foreheads. "And yet it can't be," I
once heard an old gentleman say; "don't we know what he is capable
of?" and the old man was right; I merely did these things to avoid
the evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me; and
this evil chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only
things at present which render life valuable to me. If I touch
various objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any
mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books getting
into disrepute; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any
expressions, thoughts, or situations in any work which I am writing
from resembling the thoughts, expressions, and situations of other
authors, for my great wish, as I told you before, is to be
original.

'I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the
secrets of my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken so
unreservedly as I have done, had I not discovered in you a kindred
spirit. I have long wished for an opportunity of discoursing on
the point which forms the peculiar feature of my history with a
being who could understand me; and truly it was a lucky chance
which brought you to these parts; you who seem to be acquainted
with all things strange and singular, and who are as well
acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that
relates to the star Jupiter or the mysterious tree at Upsal.'

Such was the story which my host related to me in the library,
amidst the darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning.
Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded.

'It is a singular story,' said I, at last, 'though I confess that I
was prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask you a
question?'

'Certainly,' said my host.

'Did you never speak in public?' said I.

'Never.'

'And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room,
commencing with Mr. Speaker, no one was present?'

'None in the world, I double-locked the door; what do you mean?'

'An idea came into my head - dear me how the rain is pouring - but,
with respect to your present troubles and anxieties, would it not
be wise, seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and
anxiety, to give it up altogether?'

'Were you an author yourself,' replied my host, 'you would not talk
in this manner; once an author, ever an author - besides, what
could I do? return to my former state of vegetation? no, much as I
endure, I do not wish that; besides, every now and then my reason
tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly
without; foundation that whatever I write is the legitimate growth
of my own mind, and that it is the height of folly to afflict
myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts and those
of other writers, such resemblance being inevitable from the fact
of our common human origin. In short - '

'I understand you,' said I; 'notwithstanding your troubles and
anxieties you find life very tolerable; has your originality ever
been called in question?'

'On the contrary, every one declares that originality constitutes
the most remarkable feature of my writings; the man has some
faults, they say, but want of originality is certainly not one of
them. He is quite different from others - a certain newspaper, it
is true, the - I think, once insinuated that in a certain work of
mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of
authors which it mentioned; it happened, however, that I had never
even read one syllable of the writings of either, and of one of
them had never even heard the name; so much for the discrimination
of the -. By the bye, what a rascally newspaper that is!'

'A very rascally newspaper,' said I.

CHAPTER LXVII

Disturbed slumbers - The bed-post - Two wizards - What can I do? -
Real library - The Rev. Mr. Platitude - Toleration to Dissenters -
Paradox - Sword of St. Peter - Enemy to humbug - High principles -
False concord - The damsel - What religion? - Further conversation
- That would never do! - May you prosper.

DURING the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed by
strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was my
host; my head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts and
imaginations, out of which I was endeavouring to frame a book. And
now the book was finished and given to the world, and the world
shouted; and all eyes were turned upon me, and I shrank from the
eyes of the world. And, when I got into retired places, I touched
various objects in order to baffle the evil chance. In short,
during the whole night, I was acting over the story which I had
heard before I went to bed.

At about eight o'clock I awoke. The storm had long since passed
away, and the morning was bright and shining; my couch was so soft
and luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some time, my
eyes wandering about the magnificent room to which fortune had
conducted me in so singular a manner; at last I heaved a sigh; I
was thinking of my own homeless condition, and imagining where I
should find myself on the following morning. Unwilling, however,
to indulge in melancholy thoughts, I sprang out of bed and
proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst dressing, I felt an
irresistible inclination to touch the bed-post.

I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, however,
as I left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible,
thought I, that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten
influence should have possessed me again? but I will not give way
to it; so I hurried downstairs, resisting as I went a certain
inclination which I occasionally felt to touch the rail of the
banister. I was presently upon the gravel walk before the house:
it was indeed a glorious morning. I stood for some time observing
the golden fish disporting in the waters of the pond, and then
strolled about amongst the noble trees of the park; the beauty and
freshness of the morning - for the air had been considerably cooled
by the late storm - soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas
which had previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a
stroll of about half an hour, I returned towards the house in high
spirits. It is true that once I felt very much inclined to go and
touch the leaves of a flowery shrub which I saw at some distance,
and had even moved two or three paces towards it; but, bethinking
myself, I manfully resisted the temptation. 'Begone!' I exclaimed,
'ye sorceries, in which I formerly trusted - begone for ever
vagaries which I had almost forgotten; good luck is not to be
obtained, or bad averted, by magic touches; besides, two wizards in
one parish would be too much, in all conscience.'

I returned to the house, and entered the library; breakfast was
laid on the table, and my friend was standing before the portrait
which I have already said hung above the mantelpiece; so intently
was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor
was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him and spoke,
when he turned round and shook me by the hand.

'What can possibly have induced you to hang up that portrait in
your library? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears
to me a wretched daub.'

'Daub as you call it,' said my friend, smiling, 'I would not part
with it for the best piece of Rafael. For many a happy thought I
am indebted to that picture - it is my principal source of
inspiration; when my imagination flags, as of course it
occasionally does, I stare upon those features, and forthwith
strange ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow into my mind; these
I round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations, and bring forth
as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am occasionally
tormented by the thought that, by doing this, I am committing
plagiarism; though, in that case, all thoughts must be plagiarisms,
all that we think being the result of what we hear, see, or feel.
What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source or
other; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features
of my landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. My
works, as you are aware, are of a serio-comic character. My
neighbours are of opinion that I am a great reader, and so I am,
but only of those features - my real library is that picture.'

'But how did you obtain it?' said I.

'Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neighbourhood,
and my jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented to sit for
his portrait; she highly admired the picture, but she soon died,
and then my fat friend, who is of an affectionate disposition, said
he could not bear the sight of it, as it put him in mind of his
poor wife. I purchased it of him for five pounds - I would not
take five thousand for it; when you called that picture a daub, you
did not see all the poetry of it.'

We sat down to breakfast; my entertainer appeared to be in much
better spirits than on the preceding day; I did not observe him
touch once; ere breakfast was over a servant entered - 'The
Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir,' said he.

A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my host.
'What does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming here?' said
he, half to himself; 'let him come in,' said he to the servant.

The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, introducing the
Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Platitude, having what is
vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling into the room; he was
about thirty years of age, and about five feet three inches high;
his face was of the colour of pepper, and nearly as rugged as a
nutmeg-grater; his hair was black; with his eyes he squinted, and
grinned with his lips, which were very much apart, disclosing two
very irregular rows of teeth; he was dressed in the true Levitical
fashion, in a suit of spotless black, and a neckerchief of spotless
white.

The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my
entertainer, who received him politely but with evident coldness;
nothing daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude took a seat by
the table, and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, winked,
grinned, and consented.

In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is generally
called absence; my mind takes flight and returns to former scenes,
or presses forward into the future. One of these fits of absence
came over me at this time - I looked at the Reverend Mr. Platitude
for a moment, heard a word or two that proceeded from his mouth,
and saying to myself, 'You are no man for me,' fell into a fit of
musing - into the same train of thought as in the morning, no very
pleasant one - I was thinking of the future.

I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should have
continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the voice of
Mr. Platitude raised to a very high key. 'Yes, my dear sir,' said
he, 'it is but too true; I have it on good authority - a gone
church - a lost church - a ruined church - a demolished church is
the Church of England. Toleration to Dissenters! - oh, monstrous!'

'I suppose,' said my host, 'that the repeal of the Test Acts will
be merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists?'

'Of the Catholics,' said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. 'Ahem. There
was a time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when I was as
much opposed to the emancipation of the Catholics as it was
possible for any one to be; but I was prejudiced, my dear sir,
labouring under a cloud of most unfortunate prejudice; but I thank
my Maker I am so no longer. I have travelled, as you are aware.
It is only by travelling that one can rub off prejudices; I think
you will agree with me there. I am speaking to a traveller. I
left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The Catholics are at least
our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven that I am no longer an enemy
to Catholic emancipation.'

'And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?'

'Dissenters, my dear sir; I hope you would not class such a set as
the Dissenters with Catholics?'

'Perhaps it would be unjust,' said my host, 'though to which of the
two parties is another thing; but permit me to ask you a question:
Does it not smack somewhat of paradox to talk of Catholics, whilst
you admit there are Dissenters? If there are Dissenters, how
should there be Catholics?'

'It is not my fault that there are Dissenters,' said the Reverend
Mr. Platitude; 'if I had my will I would neither admit there were
any, nor permit any to be.'

'Of course you would admit there were such as long as they existed;
but how would you get rid of them?'

'I would have the Church exert its authority.'

'What do you mean by exerting its authority?'

'I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain.'

'What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the founder of
the religion which you profess said about the sword, "He who
striketh with it ... "  I think those who have called themselves
the Church have had enough of the sword. Two can play with the
sword, Mr. Platitude. The Church of Rome tried the sword with the
Lutherans: how did it fare with the Church of Rome? The Church of
England tried the sword, Mr. Platitude, with the Puritans: how did
it fare with Laud and Charles?'

'Oh, as for the Church of England,' said Mr. Platitude, 'I have
little to say. Thank God, I left all my Church of England
prejudices in Italy. Had the Church of England known its true
interests, it would long ago have sought a reconciliation with its
illustrious mother. If the Church of England had not been in some
degree a schismatic church, it would not have fared so ill at the
time of which you are speaking; the rest of the Church would have
come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped it, so would
the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always been the
bane of the Church.'

Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past;
methought I was in a small comfortable room wainscoted with oak; I
was seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which
were wine and fruit; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a
plain suit of brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat
high forehead; he had a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he
smoked gravely and placidly, without saying a word; at length,
after drawing at the pipe for some time rather vigorously, he
removed it from his mouth, and, emitting an accumulated cloud of
smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone, 'As I was telling
you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug.'

When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was
quitting the apartment.

'Who is that person?' said I to my entertainer, as the door closed
behind him.

'Who is he?' said my host; 'why, the Reverend Mr. Platitude.'

'Does he reside in this neighbourhood?'

'He holds a living about three miles from here; his history, as far
as I am acquainted with it, is as follows. His father was a
respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make
his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at
college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest course; I
believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a gentleman; I have
known many gentlemanly youths go to college, and return anything
but what they went. Young Mr. Platitude did not go to college a
gentleman, but neither did he return one: he went to college an
ass, and returned a prig; to his original folly was superadded a
vast quantity of conceit. He told his father that he had adopted
high principles, and was determined to discountenance everything
low and mean; advised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him a
living. The old man retired from business, purchased his son a
living, and shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his
fortune. The first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did, after his
father's decease, was to send his mother and sister into Wales to
live upon a small annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse
to anything low, and that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing to
shine in the pulpit, he now preached high sermons, as he called
them, interspersed with scraps of learning. His sermons did not,
however, procure him much popularity; on the contrary, his church
soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of his flock going
over to certain dissenting preachers, who had shortly before made
their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Platitude was filled
with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most unmeasured terms. Coming
in contact with some of the preachers at a public meeting, he was
rash enough to enter into argument with them. Poor Platitude! he
had better have been quiet, he appeared like a child, a very
infant, in their grasp; he attempted to take shelter under his
college learning, but found, to his dismay, that his opponents knew
more Greek and Latin than himself. These illiterate boors, as he
had supposed them, caught him at once in a false concord, and Mr.
Platitude had to slink home overwhelmed with shame. To avenge
himself he applied to the ecclesiastical court, but was told that
the Dissenters could not be put down by the present ecclesiastical
law. He found the Church of England, to use his own expression, a
poor, powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to improve his
consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful young
lady in the neighbourhood; the damsel measured him from head to
foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and refused
him. Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place,
determined to travel; he went to Italy; how he passed his time
there he knows best, to other people it is a matter of little
importance. At the end of two years he returned with a real or
assumed contempt for everything English, and especially for the
Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is supported. He
forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his Church of
England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against
sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil
hour for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my
acquaintance, and from that time I have been pestered, as I was
this morning, at least once a week. I seldom enter into any
discussion with him, but fix my eyes on the portrait over the
mantelpiece, and endeavour to conjure up some comic idea or
situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour about
Church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal
wedlock; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of being,
whose acquaintance he says he made in Italy; I believe he is some
sharking priest who has come over to proselytise and plunder. This
being has some powers of conversation and some learning, but
carries the countenance of an arch villain; Platitude is evidently
his tool.'

'Of what religion are you?' said I to my host.

'That of the Vicar of Wakefield - good, quiet, Church of England,
which would live and let live, practises charity, and rails at no
one; where the priest is the husband of one wife, takes care of his
family and his parish - such is the religion for me, though I
confess I have hitherto thought too little of religious matters.
When, however, I have completed this plaguy work on which I am
engaged, I hope to be able to devote more attention to them.'

After some further conversation, the subjects being, if I remember
right, college education, priggism, church authority, tomfoolery,
and the like, I rose and said to my host, 'I must now leave you.'

'Whither are you going?'

'I do not know.'

'Stay here, then - you shall be welcome as many days, months, and
years as you please to stay.'

'Do you think I would hang upon another man? No, not if he were
Emperor of all the Chinas. I will now make my preparations, and
then bid you farewell.'

I retired to my apartment and collected the handful of things which
I carried with me on my travels.

'I will walk a little way with you,' said my friend on my return.

He walked with me to the park gate; neither of us said anything by
the way. When we had come upon the road, I said, 'Farewell now; I
will not permit you to give yourself any further trouble on my
account. Receive my best thanks for your kindness; before we part,
however, I should wish to ask you a question. Do you think you
shall ever grow tired of authorship?'

'I have my fears,' said my friend, advancing his hand to one of the
iron bars of the gate.

'Don't touch,' said I, 'it is a bad habit. I have but one word to
add: should you ever grow tired of authorship follow your first
idea of getting into Parliament; you have words enough at command;
perhaps you want manner and method; but, in that case, you must
apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of a master of
elocution.'

'That would never do!' said my host; 'I know myself too well to
think of applying for assistance to any one. Were I to become a
parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original one, even if
not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take in any speech I
might make, however original as to thought, provided the gestures I
employed and the very modulation of my voice were not my own? Take
lessons, indeed! why, the fellow who taught me, the professor,
might be standing in the gallery whilst I spoke; and, at the best
parts of my speech, might say to himself, "That gesture is mine -
that modulation is mine."  I could not bear the thought of such a
thing.'

'Farewell,' said I, 'and may you prosper. I have nothing more to
say.'

I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round
suddenly; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of
the gate.

'He has been touching,' said I, as I proceeded on my way; 'I wonder
what was the evil chance he wished to baffle.'

CHAPTER LXVIII

Elastic step - Disconsolate party - Not the season - Mend your
draught - Good ale - Crotchet - Hammer and tongs - Schoolmaster -
True Eden life - Flaming Tinman - Twice my size - Hard at work - My
poor wife - Grey Moll - A Bible - Half-and-half - What to do - Half
inclined - In no time - On one condition - Don't stare - Like the
wind.

AFTER walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the
same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made
acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my
journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though
beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I
walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In
about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little
way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade
of which stood a little pony and a cart, which seemed to contain
various articles. I was going past - when I saw scrawled over the
door of the cottage, 'Good beer sold here'; upon which, feeling
myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and
taste the beverage.

I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on
one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest
to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting
of a grimy-looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in
faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron - a rather pretty-
looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged
children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man
sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with
both his hands; the woman, who was next him, sat quite still, save
that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes
that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of
the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I
had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a
pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed.

'House!' said I; 'House!' and then, as nobody appeared, I cried
again as loud as I could, 'House! do you hear me, House!'

'What's your pleasure, young man?' said an elderly woman, who now
made her appearance from a side apartment.

'To taste your ale,' said I.

'How much?' said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the
empty mug upon the table.

'The largest measure-full in your house,' said I, putting back her
hand gently. 'This is not the season for half-pint mugs.'

'As you will, young man,' said the landlady; and presently brought
in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and
which foamed and frothed withal.

'Will this pay for it?' said I, putting down sixpence.

'I have to return you a penny,' said the landlady, putting her hand
into her pocket.

'I want no change,' said I, flourishing my hand with an air.

'As you please, young gentleman,' said the landlady, and then,
making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment.

'Here is your health, sir,' said I to the grimy-looking man, as I
raised the pitcher to my lips.

The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his
posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight
nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a
draught of the ale, which I found excellent; 'Won't you drink?'
said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker.

The man again lifted up his eyes, looked at me, and then at the
pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was
about to shake his head in sign of refusal; but no, he looked once
more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly
removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed,
nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher
down before me upon the table.

'You had better mend your draught,' said I to the tinker; 'it is a
sad heart that never rejoices.'

'That's true,' said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to
his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a
larger quantity than before.

'Pass it to your wife,' said I.

The poor woman took the pitcher from the man's hand; before,
however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True
mother's heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug,
I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each
to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her
gown, before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health.

In about five minutes none of the family looked half so
disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep
discourse.

Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and
proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of
Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that
which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet
there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is
a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this passage
will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim, 'The man is
evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not
only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other
people with it.'  Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals
there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in
this instance - given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go
to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a
pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they
were well aware - but they wanted not water; what should I have
given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was
stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong
meat would have choked them. What should I have given them?
Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money?
Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for
everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a
time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and
there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time
for advice is after a cup of ale. I do not say many cups; the
tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more
benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know
you for conceited creatures, with one idea - and that a foolish
one; - a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice
anything, religion if required - country? There, fling down my
book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless
you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the
breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to
support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have
invariably been an enemy to humbug.

'Well,' said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, 'little
thought, when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade.'

MYSELF. Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much
difference, 'tis true, between a tinker and a smith.

TINKER. You are a whitesmith then?

MYSELF. Not I, I'd scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend,
black's the colour; I am a brother of the horse-shoe. Success to
the hammer and tongs.

TINKER. Well, I shouldn't have thought you had been a blacksmith
by your hands.

MYSELF. I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth
is, I have not worked for many a day.

TINKER. Where did you serve first?

MYSELF. In Ireland.

TINKER. That's a good way off, isn't it?

MYSELF. Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the
run of salt water that lies behind them, there's Ireland.

TINKER. It's a fine thing to be a scholar.

MYSELF. Not half so fine as to be a tinker.

TINKER. How you talk!

MYSELF. Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one's
own master? Now a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let
us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster for example, for I
suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship
than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don't; we
should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only
conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school,
teaching children to write in copy-books, 'Evil communication
corrupts good manners,' or 'You cannot touch pitch without
defilement,' or to spell out of Abedariums, or to read out of Jack
Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging
in such guise from morning till night, without any rational
enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog's
life as that with your own - the happiest under heaven - true Eden
life, as the Germans would say, - pitching your tent under the
pleasant hedgerows, listening to the song of the feathered tribes,
collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering
and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of
your brow - making ten holes - hey, what's this? what's the man
crying for?

Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun
to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of
his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated,
the youngest began to roar.

MYSELF. What's the matter with you; what are you all crying about?

TINKER (uncovering his face). Lord, why to hear you talk; isn't
that enough to make anybody cry - even the poor babes? Yes, you
said right, 'tis life in the garden of Eden - the tinker's; I see
so now that I'm about to give it up.

MYSELF. Give it up! you must not think of such a thing.

TINKER. No, I can't bear to think of it, and yet I must; what's to
be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the
roads.

MYSELF. Who has driven you off the roads?

TINKER. Who! the Flaming Tinman.

MYSELF. Who is he?

TINKER. The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he
wouldn't have served me as he has done - I'll tell you all about
it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and
my mother too; and I worked with them as long as they lived, as a
dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach myself with on their
account; and when my father died I took up the business, and went
his beat, and supported my mother for the little time she lived;
and when she died I married this young woman, who was not born upon
the roads, but was a small tradesman s daughter, at Gloster. She
had a kindness for me, and, notwithstanding her friends were
against the match, she married the poor tinker, and came to live
with him upon the roads. Well, young man, for six or seven years I
- as the happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you
described just now - respected by everybody in this beat; when in
an evil hour comes this Black Jack, this flaming tinman, into these
parts, driven as they say out of Yorkshire - for no good you may be
sure. Now there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you
doubtless know; mine was a good one, but it would not support the
flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported twenty
it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who'll brook
no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and offers to
fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, I can fight
a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was not going
to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so I told him;
whereupon he knocks me down, and would have done me farther
mischief had not some men been nigh and prevented him; so he
threatened to cut my throat, and went his way. Well, I did not
like such usage at all, and was woundily frightened, and tried to
keep as much out of his way as possible, going anywhere but where I
thought I was likely to meet him; and sure enough for several
months I contrived to keep out of his way. At last somebody told
me that he was gone back to Yorkshire, whereupon I was glad at
heart, and ventured to show myself, going here and there as I did
before. Well, young man, it was yesterday that I and mine set
ourselves down in a lane, about five miles from here, and lighted
our fire, and had our dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend
three kettles and a frying pan which the people in the
neighbourhood had given me to mend - for, as I told you before, I
have a good connection, owing to my honesty. Well, as I sat there
hard at work, happy as the day's long, and thinking of anything but
what was to happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this
king of the tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife,
that they call Grey Moll, by his side - for the villain has got a
wife, and a maid-servant too; the last I never saw, but they that
has, says that she is as big as a house, and young, and well to
look at, which can't be all said of Moll, who, though she's big
enough in all conscience, is neither young nor handsome. Well, no
sooner does he see me and mine, than, giving the reins to Grey
Moll, he springs out of his cart, and comes straight at me; not a
word did he say, but on he comes straight at me like a wild bull.
I am a quiet man, young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would
be of no use, so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the
roads, and able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in
upon me, and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young
man, it was like a fly fighting with an elephant - one of those big
beasts the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the
fellow, he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into
the hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and
my poor wife saw it. Now my poor wife, though she is as gentle as
a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn't bred
upon the roads, can scratch a little; so when she saw me at my last
shifts, she flew at the villain - she couldn't bear to see her
partner murdered - and scratched the villain's face. Lord bless
you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no
sooner saw what she was about, than, springing out of the cart,
where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping
and screeching to encourage her blade:- Grey Moll, I say (my flesh
creeps when I think of it - for I am a kind husband, and love my
poor wife) . . .

MYSELF. Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and
it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man
says in the play.

TINKER. That's true, young man; here's to you - where was I? Grey
Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than, springing out of
the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a
moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless you, young man, my
poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a
pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the
Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I
determined to give up everything - everything to save my poor wife
out of Grey Moll's claws. 'Hold!' I shouted. 'Hold, both of you -
Jack, Moll. Hold, both of you, for God's sake, and I'll do what
you will: give up trade, and business, connection, bread, and
everything, never more travel the roads, and go down on my knees to
you in the bargain.'  Well, this had some effect; Moll let go my
wife, and the Blazing Tinman stopped for a moment; it was only for
a moment, however, that he left off - all of a sudden he hit me a
blow which sent me against a tree; and what did the villain then?
why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost
throttled me, roaring - what do you think, young man, that the
flaming villain roared out?

MYSELF. I really don't know - something horrible, I suppose.

TINKER. Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man;
neither more nor less than the Bible - 'A Bible, a Bible!' roared
the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the
tree that my senses began to dwaul away - a Bible, a Bible, still
ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian
woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her
at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the
children to read - it was the only thing she brought with her from
the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on
her back; so my poor wife, half distracted, runs to her sack, pulls
out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who
then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it
made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened
to be decayed. 'Swear,' said he, 'swear, you mumping villain, take
your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether,
or I'll - and then the hard-hearted villain made me swear by the
Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was, to - to - I
can't go on -

MYSELF. Take another draught - stout liquor -

TINKER. I can't, young man, my heart's too full, and what's more,
the pitcher is empty.

MYSELF. And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the
roads?

TINKER. You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain.

MYSELF. Gypsy! Is he a gypsy?

TINKER. Not exactly; what they call a half-and-half. His father
was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads.

MYSELF. Is he of the Smiths - the Petulengres?

TINKER. I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would
think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I
thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that
name - Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever
he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of
the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a - at any rate he's a bad
one, as I know to my cost.

MYSELF. And what are you going to do?

TINKER. Do! you may well ask that; I don't know what to do. My
poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over
that half-pint mug of beer; we can't determine on what's to be
done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain
swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he'd cut all our
throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now
standing out there under the tree.

MYSELF. And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart?

TINKER. Another question! What shall we do with our cart and
pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not,
both for my oath's sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money,
we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little
business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about
the mug of beer.

MYSELF. But why don't you sell your horse and cart?

TINKER. Sell them! and who would buy them, unless some one who
wished to set up in my line; but there's no beat, and what's the
use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat?

MYSELF. I'm half inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat
too.

TINKER. You! How came you to think of such a thing?

MYSELF. Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a
home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a
home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be
a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to
tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and
work there now? I don't like the thoughts of it. If I go to
Chester and work there, I can't be my own man; I must work under a
master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I
am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to
prison; I don't like the thought either of going to Chester or to
Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester?

TINKER. A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would
employ you, which I don't think they would with those hands of
yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome
nature you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no
time. I don't know how to advise you. As for selling you my
stock, I'd see you farther first, for your own sake.

MYSELF. Why?

TINKER. Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you
were to meet him?

MYSELF. Pooh, don't be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him
I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of
strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit
people when they put me out.

Here the tinker's wife, who for some minutes past had been
listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a
low soft tone: 'I really don't see, John, why you shouldn't sell
the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so
confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if
anything ill should befall him, people couldn't lay the blame on
you; but I don't think any ill will befall him, and who knows but
God has sent him to our assistance in time of need?'

'I'll hear of no such thing,' said the tinker; 'I have drunk at the
young man's expense, and though he says he's quarrelsome, I would
not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should
be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets
up on my beat, he's a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his
head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you
shan't have your will though; I won't be the young man's
destruction . . . If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker
- but he never can; he says he can hit, but it's no use hitting the
tinker, - crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say,
young man, I believe you understand a thing or two, just now you
were talking of knowing hard words and names - I don't wish to send
you to your mischief - you say you know hard words and names; let
us see. Only on one condition I'll sell you the pony and things;
as for the beat it's gone, isn't mine - sworn away by my own mouth.
Tell me what's my name; if you can't, may I - '

MYSELF. Don't swear, it's a bad habit, neither pleasant nor
profitable. Your name is Slingsby - Jack Slingsby. There, don't
stare, there's nothing in my telling you your name: I've been in
these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years
ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles
from here in a post-chaise, at the door of an inn, and as I looked
from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, with
a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack
Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can't, I wish I
could. So there's nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed,
there's nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the
bottom. Now what am I to give you for the things?

I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade,
cart, and pony - purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also
a wagoner's frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers,
deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to
depart.

'God bless you, young man,' said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand;
'you are the best friend I've had for many a day: I have but one
thing to tell you, Don't cross that fellow's path if you can help
it; and stay - should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and
he'll fly like the wind.'

CHAPTER LXIX

Effects of corn - One night longer - The hoofs - A stumble - Are
you hurt? - What a difference - Drowsy - Maze of bushes -
Housekeeping - Sticks and furze - The driftway - Account of stock -
Anvil and bellows - Twenty years.

IT was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure from
the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my little
cart; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was probably
not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly; so far from having
to hasten him forward by the particular application which the
tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to repress his
eagerness, being, though an excellent pedestrian, not unfrequently
left behind. The country through which I passed was beautiful and
interesting, but solitary; few habitations appeared. As it was
quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I went, the
whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to decide upon the
matter; it was not long before he left the high-road, being
probably no friend to public places. I followed him I knew not
whither, but, from subsequent observation, have reason to suppose
that our course was in a north-west direction. At length night
came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which was succeeded by a
drizzling rain.

I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to
pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road's side;
but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it
would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse at
which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry to
have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I had
determined to live quite independent, but I had never before passed
a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at the
idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more prepared
for the step, so I determined for one night - only for one night
longer - to sleep like a Christian; but human determinations are
not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity is
frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a
considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic
hostelry, but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes; the
country in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house
of any kind was to be seen - at least I saw none - though it is
true houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the
darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I
heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs; but the sound appeared to
come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the ground
beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a night in which
even a tramper by profession would feel more comfortable in being
housed than abroad. I followed in the rear of the cart, the pony
still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till methought I heard other
hoofs than those of my own nag; I listened for a moment, and
distinctly heard the sound of hoofs approaching at a great rate,
and evidently from the quarter towards which I and my little
caravan were moving. We were in a dark lane - so dark that it was
impossible for me to see my own hand. Apprehensive that some
accident might occur, I ran forward, and, seizing the pony by the
bridle, drew him as near as I could to the hedge. On came the
hoofs - trot, trot, trot; and evidently more than those of one
horse; their speed as they advanced appeared to slacken - it was
only, however, for a moment. I heard a voice cry, 'Push on, - this
is a desperate robbing place, - never mind the dark'; and the hoofs
came on quicker than before. 'Stop!' said I, at the top of my
voice; 'stop! or - '  Before I could finish what I was about to say
there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting
out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse
stretched upon the road. 'Lord have mercy upon us! what's the
matter?' exclaimed a voice. 'Spare my life,' cried another voice,
apparently from the ground; 'only spare my life, and take all I
have.'  'Where are you, Master Wise?' cried the other voice.
'Help! here, Master Bat,' cried the voice from the ground; 'help me
up or I shall be murdered.'  'Why, what's the matter?' said Bat.
'Some one has knocked me down, and is robbing me,' said the voice
from the ground. 'Help! murder!' cried Bat; and, regardless of the
entreaties of the man on the ground that he would stay and help him
up, he urged his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he
could. I remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans
and exclamations uttered by the person on the ground; at length I
said, 'Holloa! are you hurt?'  'Spare my life, and take all I
have!' said the voice from the ground. 'Have they not done robbing
you yet?' said I; 'when they have finished let me know, and I will
come and help you.'  'Who is that?' said the voice; 'pray come and
help me, and do me no mischief.'  'You were saying that some one
was robbing you,' said I; 'don't think I shall come till he is gone
away.'  'Then you ben't he?' said the voice. 'Aren't you robbed?'
said I. 'Can't say I be,' said the voice; 'not yet at any rate;
but who are you? I don't know you.'  'A traveller whom you and
your partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost
frightened me out of my senses.'  'Frightened!' said the voice, in
a louder tone; 'frightened! oh!' and thereupon I heard somebody
getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the individual proceeded
to attend to his horse, and with a little difficulty raised him
upon his legs also. 'Aren't you hurt?' said I. 'Hurt!' said the
voice; 'not I; don't think it, whatever the horse may be. I tell
you what, my fellow, I thought you were a robber, and now I find
you are not; I have a good mind - '  'To do what?'  'To serve you
out; aren't you ashamed - ?'  'At what?' said I; 'not to have
robbed you? Shall I set about it now?'  'Ha, ha!' said the man,
dropping the bullying tone which he had assumed; 'you are joking -
robbing! who talks of robbing? I wonder how my horse's knees are;
not much hurt, I think - only mired.'  The man, whoever he was,
then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little,
said, 'Good night, friend; where are you?'  'Here I am,' said I,
'just behind you.'  'You are, are you? Take that.'  I know not
what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the spur the
animal kicked out violently; one of his heels struck me on the
shoulder, but luckily missed my face; I fell back with the violence
of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great rate.
Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and then,
continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him.

'What a difference!' said I, getting up; 'last night I was feted in
the hall of a rich genius, and to-night I am knocked down and mired
in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise's horse - I wonder who
gave him that name? And yet he was wise enough to wreak his
revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep out of his way.
Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little consequence.'

I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I might as
well make use of it; I therefore got into the cart, and, taking the
reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, whereupon
the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace as if he
had not already come many a long mile. I lay half reclining in the
cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the animal to go just
where he pleased, often wondering where he would conduct me. At
length I felt drowsy, and my head sank upon my breast; I soon
aroused myself, but it was only to doze again; this occurred
several times. Opening my eyes after a doze somewhat longer than
the others, I found that the drizzling rain had ceased, a corner of
the moon was apparent in the heavens, casting a faint light; I
looked around for a moment or two, but my eyes and brain were heavy
with slumber, and I could scarcely distinguish where we were. I
had a kind of dim consciousness that we were traversing an
uninclosed country - perhaps a heath; I thought, however, that I
saw certain large black objects looming in the distance, which I
had a confused idea might be woods or plantations; the pony still
moved at his usual pace. I did not find the jolting of the cart at
all disagreeable, on the contrary, it had quite a somniferous
effect upon me. Again my eyes closed; I opened them once more, but
with less perception in them than before, looked forward, and,
muttering something about woodlands, I placed myself in an easier
posture than I had hitherto done, and fairly fell asleep.

How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I
believe for a considerable time; I was suddenly awakened by the
ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of
which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and
looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of the
heaven was studded with stars; I found myself amidst a maze of
bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through
which was a path or driftway with grass growing on either side,
upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I conjectured
that this place had been one of the haunts of his former master,
and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened in that
opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from its burnt
and blackened appearance, seemed to have been frequently used as a
fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an
excellent spot for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite
right to trust myself to the guidance of the pony. Unharnessing
the animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will on
the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a place to
which he was so much attached; I then pitched the little tent close
beside the ash tree to which I have alluded, and conveyed two or
three articles into it, and instantly felt that I had commenced
housekeeping for the first time in my life. Housekeeping, however,
without a fire is a very sorry affair, something like the
housekeeping of children in their toy houses; of this I was the
more sensible from feeling very cold and shivering, owing to my
late exposure to the rain, and sleeping in the night air.
Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze I could find, I
placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain chips and a billet
which I found in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of
Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. Having then
struck a spark in a tinder-box and lighted a match, I set fire to
the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze;
I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one of
the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense pleasure
and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture for a
considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the direction
of a particular star; I, however, could not find the star, nor
indeed many of the starry train, the greater number having fled,
from which circumstance, and from the appearance of the sky, I
concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I again began to
feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared for myself a
kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and went to
sleep.

I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the carolling
of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel; I awoke
because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, not
because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as they had
probably been for hours without my hearing them. I got up and left
my tent; the morning was yet more bright than that of the preceding
day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about endeavouring to
ascertain to what place chance, or rather the pony, had brought me;
following the driftway for some time, amidst bushes and stunted
trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, through which it appeared
to lead; I tracked it a few hundred yards, but seeing nothing but
trees, and the way being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain,
I returned on my steps, and, pursuing the path in another
direction, came to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless
the one I had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity
satisfied, I returned to my little encampment, and on the way
beheld a small footpath on the left winding through the bushes,
which had before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent
and cart, I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had
procured the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular
account of the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but
now become my own by right of lawful purchase.

Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was possessed
of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a blanket to
cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new; then there was a
frying-pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food which
required cooking, and the second for heating any water which I
might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot and two or
three cups; of the first I should rather say I found the remains,
it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came into my
possession, which would have precluded the possibility of my asking
anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit me, even
supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then
overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in trade;
this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing-pan and
small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin,
with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of
considerable dilapidation - if I may use the term; of these first
Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as soon
as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I might
have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the outlay
which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity of block
tin, sheet tin, and solder. 'This Slingsby,' said I, 'is certainly
a very honest man, he has sold me more than my money's worth; I
believe, however, there is something more in the cart.'  Thereupon
I rummaged the farther end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of
straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of that kind which are
used in forges, and two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and
the other small.

The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, as
no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had given me
reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occupation of a
smith; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them? I sat down
upon the shaft, and pondered the question deliberately in my mind;
at length I concluded that he had come by them by one of those
numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, of which I, being a
young hand upon the roads, must have a very imperfect conception;
honestly, of course - for I scouted the idea that Slingsby would
have stolen this blacksmith's gear - for I had the highest opinion
of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at the present day,
which is upwards of twenty years from the time of which I am
speaking, during the whole of which period I have neither seen the
poor fellow nor received any intelligence of him.

CHAPTER LXX

New profession - Beautiful night - Jupiter - Sharp and shrill - The
Rommany chi - All alone - Three-and-sixpence - What is Rommany? Be
civil - Parraco tute - Slight start - She will be grateful - The
rustling.

I PASSED the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach
myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was
very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore
not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, took some
refreshment, and afterwards a walk.

This time I turned up the small footpath of which I have already
spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel,
elder, and sweet-brier; after following its windings for somewhat
better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and
presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the path.
I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced the want
of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as I was in a
place to all appearance occasionally frequented by wandering
people, who I was aware never take up their quarters in places
where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I stretched
myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious draught of the
crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for
some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its
channel through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably
continued much longer had not the thought that I had left my
property unprotected compelled me to rise and return to my
encampment.

Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and
innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the
shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was
twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star of the system
to which we belong: of all stars the one which has most interest
for me - the star Jupiter.

Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know
nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a
big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is not that
knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly; I
never look at thee without wondering what is going on in thee; what
is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt?
There is life in our own little star, therefore there must be life
in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how different must
life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little star! Life
here is life beneath the dear sun - life in Jupiter is life beneath
moons - four moons - no single moon is able to illumine that vast
bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is anything
but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us
every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter,
on which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by
pale moonbeams! The thought that there is more sadness and
melancholy in Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas!
there is but too much, has always made me take a melancholy
interest in that huge distant star.

Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first.
During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the
remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole of this time
I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment
without vouchsafing me a glance; they probably considered
themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were.

One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits,
for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as
I imagined, two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which
seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it
sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees.
I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill,
with yet something of childhood in them. Once or twice I
distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was
singing; the words were - but no, I thought again I was probably
mistaken - and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard
it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment
I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it
abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I
at first thought I had distinguished.

I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be
about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived
the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she
appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time
she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however;
probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked
towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she
advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first
words of which were those which I have already alluded to.

'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.'

A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my
kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let
them look to their cattle.

'All alone here, brother?' said a voice close by me, in sharp but
not disagreeable tones.

I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the
gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half
a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.

A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were
very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a
clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders.
She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare;
round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with
ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush.

'All alone here, brother?' said the girl, as I looked up; 'all
alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?'

'Why do you call me brother?' said I; 'am no brother of yours. Do
you take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!'

'Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman - Roman indeed, you are
not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though
you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what
else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to
have you for a brother.'

'Then you don't like me?'

'Neither like you nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for
that kekaubi?'

'What's the use of talking to me in that unchristian way; what do
you mean, young gentlewoman?'

'Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a
kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.'

'Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn't it well mended?'

'Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-
sixpence! it's only fit to be played at football with.'

'I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a
world of trouble.'

'I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is
white.'

"Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature.'

'I am young, brother; my hair is black - that's nature: you are
young, brother; your hair is white - that's not nature.'

'I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you
never see gray hair on the young?'

'Never! I have heard it is true of a gray lad, and a bad one he
was. Oh, so bad.'

'Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do, to
oblige me, pretty sister.'

'Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did - you don't speak like a
gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister.'

'As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all,
sister.'

'I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face - there
- do you speak Rommany?'

'Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?'

'What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only
one thing, you don't speak Rommany?'

'You say it.'

'I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?'

'Do you mean thieves' slang - cant? no, I don't speak cant, don't
like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner,
don't they?'

'I don't know,' said the girl, sitting down on the ground, 'I was
almost thinking - well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say,
brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi.'

'I thought you said it was badly mended?'

'Yes, yes, brother, but - '

'I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?'

'Yes, yes, brother, but - '

'What will you give for it?'

'Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence
for the kekaubi.'

'Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?'

'Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?'

'Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?'

'I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the
kekaubi, brother?'

'You like me then?'

'I don't dislike you - I dislike no one; there's only one, and him
I don't dislike, him I hate.'

'Who is he?'

'I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you
don't speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty
brother?'

'You may have it, but not for sixpence; I'll give it to you.'

'Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi
is now mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.'

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto
held in her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a
moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over
her head the while, and singing -

'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.

Good-bye, brother, I must be going.'

'Good-bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?'

'Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!'

'Ha, ha! gypsy daughter,' said I, starting up and clapping my
hands, 'I don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's
the answer to your gillie -

'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Love Luripen
And dukkeripen,
And hokkeripen,
And every pen
But Lachipen
And tatchipen.'

The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for
some time after I had concluded the song standing motionless as a
statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards
me, and stared me full in the face. 'Gray, tall, and talks
Rommany,' said she to herself. In her countenance there was an
expression which I had not seen before - an expression which struck
me as being composed of fear, curiosity, and the deepest hate. It
was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank,
and open. 'Ha, ha, brother,' said she, 'well, I like you all the
better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn't it?
especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you picked
it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you to pretend
not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not
kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person's child so by
screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi
to the child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she
will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the
poor person's child will come and see you again; you are not going
away to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, gray-haired
brother - you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?'

'Nor the next day,' said I, 'only to take a stroll to see if I can
sell a kettle; good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy
sister.'

'Good-bye, tall brother,' said the girl, as she departed, singing

'The Rommany chi,' etc.

'There's something about that girl that I don't understand,' said I
to myself; 'something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me,
she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?'

Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep
meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in
the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction,
but saw nothing. 'Some bird,' said I; 'an owl, perhaps'; and once
more I fell into meditation; my mind wandered from one thing to
another - musing now on the structure of the Roman tongue - now on
the rise and fall of the Persian power - and now on the powers
vested in recorders at quarter-sessions. I was thinking what a
fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when, lifting
up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but,
staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange,
half covered with gray hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it
had disappeared.

CHAPTER LXXI

Friend of Slingsby - All quiet - Danger - The two cakes - Children
in the wood - Don't be angry - In deep thought - Temples throbbing
- Deadly sick - Another blow - No answer - How old are you? - Play
and sacrament - Heavy heart - Song of poison - Drow of gypsies -
The dog - Ely's church - Get up, bebee - The vehicle - Can you
speak? - The oil.

THE next day, at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and,
putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll.
Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village,
from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from
thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well
known in these parts.

'If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,' said
an ancient crone; 'you shall never want for work whilst I can give
it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning,
and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid
to trust you - not I. Don't hurry yourself, young man, if you
don't come back for a fortnight I shan't have the worse opinion of
you.'

I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart;
I had work before me for several days, having collected various
kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left
behind - those which I had been employed upon during the last few
days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my
little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath
the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after
looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly
at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet,
and went to sleep.

Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular
notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon
on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I
was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt
but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back
against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber; I
particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree,
for it was about the sweetest slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long
I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it
had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me
that a voice cried in my ear, 'Danger! danger! danger!'  Nothing
seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then
an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and
at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just
opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular
kind of little dog stood beside her.

'Ha!' said I, 'was it you that cried danger? What danger is
there?'

'Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be?
I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little
dog's name is not danger, but Stranger; what danger should there
be, brother?'

'What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you
have got in your hand?'

'Something for you,' said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to
untie a white napkin; 'a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I
went home to my people I told my grand-bebee how kind you had been
to the poor person's child, and when my grand-bebee saw the
kekaubi, she said, "Hir mi devlis, it won't do for the poor people
to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko
mescro."'

'But there are two cakes.'

'Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them
both for you - but list, brother, I will have one of them for
bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, gray-
haired brother - which shall I have, brother?'

In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and
costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing
about half a pound.

'Which shall I have, brother?' said the gypsy girl.

'Whichever you please.'

'No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine. It is for you to
say.'

'Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.'

'Yes, brother, yes,' said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung
them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell,
and singing the while. 'Pretty brother, gray-haired brother -
here, brother,' said she, 'here is your cake, this other is mine.'

'Are you sure,' said I, taking the cake, 'that this is the one I
chose?'

'Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no
difference, however - shall I eat?'

'Yes, sister, eat.'

'See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, gray-haired
brother.'

'I am not hungry.'

'Not hungry! well, what then - what has being hungry to do with the
matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were
kind to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be
like the children in the wood that the gorgios speak of.'

'The children in the wood had nothing to eat.'

'Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother.'

'See, sister, I do,' and I ate a piece of the cake.

'Well, brother, how do you like it?' said the girl, looking fixedly
at me.

'It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange
about it; I don't think I shall eat any more.'

'Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see,
I have nearly eaten mine.'

'That's a pretty little dog.'

'Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call
her.'

'Come here, juggal,' said I to the animal.

'What do you want with my juggal?' said the girl.

'Only to give her a piece of cake,' said I, offering the dog a
piece which I had just broken off.

'What do you mean?' said the girl, snatching the dog away; 'my
grandbebee's cake is not for dogs.'

'Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.'

'You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you
wish to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house.'

'Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which
I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after
all.'

'Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence, brother, no
offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but
she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's
cake, and I will go.'

'I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.'

'One piece more before I go, handsome brother, gray-haired
brother.'

'I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished
to oblige you; if you must go, good-day to you.'

The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the
remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me
again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought;
presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she
smiled and said, 'Well, brother, well, do as you please, I merely
wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor
person's child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to
have seen you eat it all; good-bye, brother, I daresay when I am
gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't, I daresay you
have eaten enough to - to - show your love for us. After all it
was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios
are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, gray-
haired brother. Come, juggal.'

I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or
two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been
engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour.
I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against
the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more
agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my
breast, I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my
temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my
mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt
in my sleep still continued. 'I must shake off these feelings,'
said I, 'and get upon my legs.'  I walked rapidly up and down upon
the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed
my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the
bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on
lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but
with the like result; I was about to drink for the third time, when
I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my
strength. What can be the matter with me? thought I; but I suppose
I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made
the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm
had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my
pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was
dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water
was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible; the
qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could
bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How
long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt
somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the
next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible,
with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a
dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a
distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my
swoon.

I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent.
I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the
same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment
of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable
something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the
outside of the tent. 'He does not move, bebee,' said a voice which
I knew. 'I should not wonder if it has done for him already;
however, strike again with your ran'; and then there was another
blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone, 'Is
the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?'  I
remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the
voice continued, 'What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the
house be about that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of
the house may be darning his stockings?'  Thereupon a face peered
into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was
stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in
which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a
large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the
features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice;
it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. 'Ho, ho, sir!'
said she, 'here you are. Come here, Leonora,' said she to the
gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; 'here is
the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner.
Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same.
There - you have seen me before, sir, have you not?'

'The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know
you.'

'I have known him of old, Leonora,' said Mrs. Herne; 'and, to tell
you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no
answer.'

'It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?'

'Yes, child, it's a way he has.'

'Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face.'

'I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will
take off my bonnet - there - and shake out my hair - there - you
have seen this hair before, sir, and this face - '

'No answer, bebee.'

'Though the one was not quite so gray, nor the other so wrinkled.'

'How came they so, bebee?'

'All along of this gorgio, child.'

'The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee?'

'Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may
preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne,
which signifies a hairy individual, though neither gray-haired nor
wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be gray or
wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.'

'How old are you, bebee?'

'Sixty-five years, child - an inconsiderable number. My mother was
a hundred and one - a considerable age - when she died, yet she had
not one gray hair, and not more than six wrinkles - an
inconsiderable number.'

'She had no griefs, bebee?'

'Plenty, child, but not like mine.'

'Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?'

'No, child; my head wanders when I think of them. After the death
of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with
a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about
the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home
and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my
heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to
die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to
themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private
matters in promiscuous company. Well, things went on in this way
for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young
gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and, without much
preamble, says to me and mine, "This is my pal, ain't he a beauty?
fall down and worship him."  "Hold," said I, "I for one will never
consent to such foolishness."'

'That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same.'

'I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The
whole party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their
ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass
that my own daughter says to me, "I shall buy myself a veil and
fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament."  "Don't," says I;
says she, "I should like for once in my life to be courtesied to as
a Christian gentlewoman."'

'Very foolish of her, bebee.'

'Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a
heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the
hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said
I, "Foolish manners is catching; all this comes of that there
gorgio."  Answers the child Leonora, "Take comfort, bebee; I hate
the gorgios as much as you do."'

'And I say so again, bebee, as much or more.'

'Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am
sent to prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned
out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not
over courteously; says I, for their unkindness, and my own
foolishness, all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me the
child, "I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee."'

'I did so, bebee; go on.'

'"How shall I know him, bebee?' says the child. "Young and gray,
tall, and speaks Romanly."  Runs to me the child, and says, "I've
found him, bebee."  "Where, child?" says I. "Come with me, bebee,"
says the child. "That's he," says I, as I looked at my gentleman
through the hedge.'

'Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.'

'You have taken drows, sir,' said Mrs. Herne; 'do you hear, sir?
drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.'

And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang -

'The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl
To-morrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
The farmer's steed.'

'Do you hear that, sir?' said Mrs. Herne; 'the child has tipped you
a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it
Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you
were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.'

'He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him
out, as I told you.'

'Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman
makes no answer. God give me patience!'

'And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog?
Gentleman, indeed! why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's
broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal.'

'That's his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else;
and as for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about it.'

'Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha,
ha, look at the gentleman's motions.'

'He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken
drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe; the hog died by
the drow of gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's
yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken
drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless
you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and
much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be
fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats
to you.'

'Hey, bebee!' cried the girl; 'what is this? what do you mean? you
have blessed the gorgio!'

'Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad;
well, I can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe's
me, he'll get up yet.'

'Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of
dukkerin.'

'Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at
dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will
never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone.'

'He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone;
look there, he's dead.'

'No, he's not, he'll get up - I feel it; can't we hasten him?'

'Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal,
look in there, my dog.'

The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to
bark and tear up the ground.

'At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you.
Halloo!'

The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face,
but retreated.

'The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his
eye, and scared him. He'll get up.'

'Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?'

'The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought
I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the
crowd shouted, "There he comes!" and I looked, and, lo! it was the
tinker; before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found
myself in Ely's big church, which was chock full of people to hear
the dean preach, and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and
presently I heard them say, "There he mounts!" and I looked up to
the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker was in the pulpit, and he
raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I found myself at York
again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw not the
tinker, but my own self hanging in the air.'

'You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your
stick and poke him in the eye.'

'That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I
will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce
yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion - must you? You
must steal its language, and, what was never done before, write it
down Christianly - must you? Take that - and that'; and she
stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the tent.

'That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now once more, and let
it be in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee.'

'What's the matter, child?'

'Some one is coming, come away.'

'Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet.'  And thereupon
Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and, supporting
herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther
end. 'I will thrust out his eye,' said she; and, lunging with her
stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at
that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to
the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim.

'Here's a pretty affair, bebee,' screamed the girl.

'He'll get up, yet,' said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas.

'Get up! - get up yourself; where are you? where is your - Here,
there, bebee, here's the door; there, make haste, they are coming.'

'He'll get up yet,' said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath; 'the
dock tells me so.'

'Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall
be grabbed - both of us.'

'One more blow, I know where his head lies.'

'You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow - gorgio avella.'

And thereupon the females hurried away.

A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time
it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and
stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a
parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman.
It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue.

'Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?' said a masculine
voice.

'Yn wirionedd - I do not know what it can be,' said the female
voice, in the same tongue.

'Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the
ground?'

'Something moves beneath it; and what was that - a groan?'

'Shall I get down?'

'Of course, Peter, some one may want your help?

'Then I will get down, though I do not like this place; it is
frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor
their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now I am down.
It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it.
Merciful father! what a face.'

A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance,
dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling
folds of the tent, and was bending over me. 'Can you speak, my
lad?' said he in English; 'what is the matter with you? if you
could but tell me, I could perhaps help you - '  'What is that you
say? I can't hear you. I will kneel down'; and he flung himself
on the ground, and placed his ear close to my mouth. 'Now speak if
you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!' then starting up, he
cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on -
'Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw. The oil!
Winifred, the oil!'

CHAPTER LXXII

Desired effect - The three oaks - Winifred - Things of time - With
God's will - The preacher - Creature comforts - Croesaw - Welsh and
English - Mayor of Chester.

THE OIL, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the
desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very
doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that
period the man said that with the blessing of God he would answer
for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be
removed from the place in which we were; 'for I like it not,' he
continued, 'as something within me tells me that it is not good for
any of us to be here.'  I told him, as well as I was able, that I,
too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting
my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the
woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a
draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace,
the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is
probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after
swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found
that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth - we were still
moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we
turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane
conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small
brook; it stood between two rising grounds; that on the left, which
was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst
the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the
white walls of what appeared to be a farmhouse.

Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew
three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which
they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the
ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as
the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the
midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me,
'This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the
summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass
the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the
same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present
circumstances.'  After receiving my answer, in which I, of course,
expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to
unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down,
and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night
beneath the oak.

Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and,
looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called
Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon
her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed
yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and
primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw
bonnet in her hand. 'I am glad to see thee moving about, young
man,' said she, in a soft, placid tone; 'I could scarcely have
expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou
hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and
months. What do I say? - Peter, my husband, who is skilled in
medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have
survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask
thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy
deliverance?'  I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause,
said, 'Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?'  
'Very little,' I replied, 'but I should say He must be a wondrous
strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above
there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears
beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as
myself, and will live twenty times as long.'  The woman was silent
for some moments, and then said, 'I scarcely know in what spirit
thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would
caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more
manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us,
than in thyself - they are things of time, but thou art a being
destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy
eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow.'

Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other
side of the tree, 'Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go
up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival,
or they will have retired for the night.'  'True,' said Winifred,
and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning
shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same
language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of
Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately
said, in English, 'We hoped to have heard you speak to-night,
Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late,
owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells
me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup - to-morrow, with
God's will, we shall hear you.'  'And to-night, also, with God's
will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come
hither.'  'They will be hither presently,' said Mary, 'for knowing
that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee
welcome.'  And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of
people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived
at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve
individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of
about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon
found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the
children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after
another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and
girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which he said,
'Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you.'  A
stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and
the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some
seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a
clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the
necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart.

The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking
a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour;
none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of
weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to
hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the
conclusion of the sermon or discourse the whole assembly again
shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress
of the family saying, as she departed, 'I shall soon be back,
Peter; I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and
company'; and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a
young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. 'Set it down, Jessy,'
said the mistress to the girl, 'and then betake thyself to thy
rest, I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my
friends.'  The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females
placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave
thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when
the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said
something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, 'Ay,
truly, we were both forgetful'; and then getting up, he came
towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel
of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said, 'Pardon us, young
man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts, that we
forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou
not join us, and taste our bread and milk?'  'I cannot eat,' I
replied, 'but I think I could drink a little milk'; whereupon he
led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk
into a horn cup, saying, '"Croesaw."  That,' added he, with a
smile, 'is Welsh for welcome.'

The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting
of bread, cheese, milk, and curds. My two friends partook with a
good appetite. 'Mary,' said the preacher, addressing himself to
the woman of the house, 'every time I come to visit thee, I find
thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time,
thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of
thy children?'  'The two eldest understand a few words,' said the
woman, 'but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says
sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh
wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. Who, I have
heard him say, would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?'  
'I for one,' said the preacher, somewhat hastily; 'not to be king
of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your
husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is
somewhat prejudiced.'  'You do him justice, Peter, in saying that
he is an excellent person,' sail the woman; 'as to being
prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two
languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings.'  
'That's no bad observation,' said the preacher, 'and it is
generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on
very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty
calls all men to their long account.'  'They jog on very well now,'
said the woman; 'but I have heard my husband say that it was not
always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and
ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester.'  
'Ha, ha!' said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight;
'he told you that, did he?'  'Yes,' said Mary; 'once, when the
mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of
the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and
the English, and the Welsh beat the English, and hanged the mayor.'  
'Your husband is a clever man,' said Peter, 'and knows a great
deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No!
then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was -. He
was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and
the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of
Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he
enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all.
That - was a very fine, noble - God forgive me, what was I about to
say - a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and
unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad
example to the young man here - let us change the subject.'

They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary
departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to
their tilted cart.

'Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant,' said Peter,
addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden
me farewell for the night.

'I am afraid he is,' said Winifred, 'yet my heart warms to the poor
lad, he seems so forlorn.'

CHAPTER LXXIII

Morning hymn - Much alone - John Bunyan - Beholden to nobody -
Sixty-five - Sober greeting - Early Sabbaths - Finny brood - The
porch - No fortune-telling - The master's niece - Doing good - Two
or three things - Groans and voices - Pechod Ysprydd Glan.

I SLEPT soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of
the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of
Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own
language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay
still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent.
'Good morning,' said Peter, 'how dost thou feel?'  'Much better,'
said I, 'than I could have expected.'  'I am glad of it,' said
Peter. 'Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast,' pointing to
the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again
descending the hill bearing the tray upon her head.

'What dust thou intend to do, young man, this day?' said Peter,
when we had about half finished breakfast. 'Do,' said I; 'as I do
other days, what I can.'  'And dost thou pass this day as thou dost
other days?' said Peter. 'Why not?' said I; 'what is there in this
day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as
yesterday.'  'Art thou aware,' said the wife, interposing, 'what
day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?'  'No,' said I,
'I did not know that it was Sunday.'  'And how did that happen?'
said Winifred, with a sigh. 'To tell you the truth,' said I, 'I
live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of
time.'  'And yet of what infinite importance is time,' said
Winifred. 'Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer
to thy end?'  'I do not think,' said I, 'that I am so near my end
as I was yesterday.'  'Yes, thou art,' said the woman; 'thou wast
not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over
thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time;
be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one
thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been
now?'  'Cast into the earth, perhaps,' said I. 'I have heard Mr.
Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of
man.'  'Who is Mr. Petulengro?' said Peter, interrupting his wife,
as she was about to speak. 'Master of the horse-shoe,' said I;
'and, according to his own account, king of Egypt.'  'I
understand,' said Peter, 'head of some family of wandering
Egyptians - they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them? -
but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose
thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called -. I do
not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of
old sprang up from amidst that family.'  'Who was he?' said I.
'John Bunyan,' replied Peter, reverently, 'and the mention of his
name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and
hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile.'  'No,' said I,
'I will not go and hear.'  'Wherefore?' said Peter. 'I belong to
the church,' said I, 'and not to the congregations.'  'Oh! the
pride of that church,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their own
tongue, 'exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its
members. Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,' said
Peter, again addressing me; 'there is a church on the other side of
that wooded hill.'  'No,' said I, 'I do not mean to go to church.'  
'May I ask thee wherefore?' said Peter. 'Because,' said I, 'I
prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the
sound of the leaves and the tinkling of the waters.'

'Then thou intendest to remain here?' said Peter, looking fixedly
at me. 'If I do not intrude,' said I; 'but if I do, I will wander
away; I wish to be beholden to nobody - perhaps you wish me to go?'  
'On the contrary,' said Peter, 'I wish you to stay. I begin to see
something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now
bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh
for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee
alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question - Didst thou
seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take
that poison?'  'No,' said I; 'had I known there had been poison in
the cake I certainly should not have taken it.'  'And who gave it
thee?' said Peter. 'An enemy of mine,' I replied. 'Who is thy
enemy?'  'An Egyptian sorceress and poison-monger.'  'Thy enemy is
a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee - of what
did she complain?'  'That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.'  
'I do not understand thee - is she young?'  'About sixty-five.'

Here Winifred interposed. 'Thou didst call her just now by hard
names, young man,' said she; 'I trust thou dost bear no malice
against her.'  'No,' said I, 'I bear no malice against her.'  'Thou
art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called
justice?'  'By no means,' said I; 'I have lived long enough upon
the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is
broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one
of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject.'  'In
short, thou forgivest thine adversary?'  'Both now and for ever,'
said I. 'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the spirit which the young man
displayeth pleases me much; I should be loth that he left us yet.
I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy
exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth
us.'  'My exhortation!' said Peter, and a dark shade passed over
his countenance; 'thou forgettest what I am - I - I - but I am
forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the
things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to
the place of meeting.'

Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the
hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's
best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined
us, when a quiet sober greeting ensued on each side. After a
little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till
the evening; Winifred did the same, adding that she hoped I should
be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved
off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night,
Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the
mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I
felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I
did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my
hands behind me.

And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face
turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep
meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the
manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my
prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I
combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do
credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty
D-, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I though
of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous
minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in
the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the
evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the
present, with my mother and brother - a quiet sober walk, during
which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or
yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance
of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had
got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane
it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of
being very good throughout the day.

And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said
to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the
better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed
again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.

For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at
last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that
glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I
lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny
brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine
thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished
myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at
my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my
face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it
looked squalid and miserable.

Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe
and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life
and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing
on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in
the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.

But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport
in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so
large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw
nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following
the winding of the brook, I left the meadow, and, passing through
two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks
the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone
and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.

Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my
vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something
better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the
farm-house; it was a large and commodious building built
principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch,
on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was
seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had
brought the tray to my friends and myself.

'Good-day,' said I, 'pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.'

'Good-day,' said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then
fixing her eyes on her book.

'That's a nice book you are reading,' said I.

The girl looked at me with surprise. 'How do you know what book it
is?' said she.

'How do I know - never mind; but a nice book it is - no love, no
fortune-telling in it.'

The girl looked at me half offended. 'Fortune-telling!' said she,
'I should think not. But you know nothing about it'; and she bent
her head once more over the book.

'I tell you what, young person,' said I, 'I know all about that
book; what will you wager that I do not?'

'I never wager,' said the girl.

'Shall I tell you the name of it,' said I, 'O daughter of the
dairy? '

The girl half started. 'I should never have thought,' said she,
half timidly, 'that you could have guessed it.'

'I did not guess it,' said I, 'I knew it; and meet and proper it is
that you should read it.'

'Why so?' said the girl.

'Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the
DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER?'

'Where do you come from?' said the girl.

'Out of the water,' said I. 'Don't start, I have been bathing; are
you fond of the water?'

'No,' said the girl, heaving a sigh; 'I am not fond of the water,
that is, of the sea'; and here she sighed again.

'The sea is a wide gulf,' said I, 'and frequently separates
hearts.'

The girl sobbed.

'Why are you alone here?' said I.

'I take my turn with the rest,' said the girl, 'to keep at home on
Sunday.'

'And you are - ' said I.

'The master's niece!' said the girl. 'How came you to know it?
But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?'

'Who are those you call my friends?' said I.

'Peter and his wife.'

'And who are they?' said I.

'Do you not know?' said the girl; 'you came with them.'

'They found me ill by the way,' said I; 'and they relieved me: I
know nothing about them.'

'I thought you knew everything,' said the girl.

'There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one
of them. Who are they?'

'Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?'

'Never,' said I.

'Well,' said the girl, 'this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a
nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a
preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing,
having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales
and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the
people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They
frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old
friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart
beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.'

'And what is their reason for doing so?' said I; 'would it not be
more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?'

'I know not their reasons,' said the girl, 'but so it is; they
never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I
once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his
mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say
is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind - '

'Thank you,' said I, 'I will now depart.'

'Hem!' said the girl, 'I was wishing - '

'What? to ask me a question?'

'Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I
think, fortune-telling.'

'Do you wish me to tell your fortune?'

'By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I
should wish to know - '

'When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or
three things which I do not know - this is another of them.
However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of
these days; I would if I were in his place. In the meantime be
patient, attend to the dairy, and read the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER when
you have nothing better to do.'

It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned.
The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my
two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot
of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not
the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace,
but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife
looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a
little time we retired to our separate places of rest.

About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and
listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a
moment I had issued from my tent - all was silent - but the next
moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the
tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there
was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of
extreme anguish, exclaim, 'Pechod Ysprydd Glan - O pechod Ysprydd
Glan!' and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice
of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness
of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did
not understand all she said - she spoke in her native language, and
I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her
husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many
groans, repeated - 'Pechod Ysprydd Glan - O pechod Ysprydd Glan!'  
I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired.

Now 'pechod Ysprydd Glan,' interpreted, is the sin against the Holy
Ghost.

CHAPTER LXXIV

The following day - Pride - Thriving trade - Tylwyth Teg - Ellis
Wyn - Sleeping hard - Incalculable good - Fearful agony - The tale.

PETER and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the
following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and
the latter passed many hours in the farmhouse. Towards evening,
without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and
finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store
of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my
two friends were seated beneath the oak; they had just completed
their frugal supper. 'We waited for thee some time,' said
Winifred, 'but, finding that thou didst not come, we began without
thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee.'  
'I will sit down,' said I, 'but I require no supper, for I have
eaten where I have been': nothing more particular occurred at the
time. Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their
breakfast. 'I will not share your breakfast,' said I. 'Wherefore
not?' said Winifred, anxiously. 'Because,' said I, 'it is not
proper that I be beholden to you for meat and drink.'  'But we are
beholden to other people,' said Winifred. 'Yes,' said I, 'but you
preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which considerably
alters the matter; not that I would receive anything from them, if
I preached to them six times a day.'  'Thou art not fond of
receiving favours, then, young man,' said Winifred. 'I am not,'
said I. 'And of conferring favours?'  'Nothing affords me greater
pleasure,' said I, 'than to confer favours.'  'What a disposition,'
said Winifred, holding up her hands; 'and this is pride, genuine
pride - that feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh,
how mean a thing is pride! never before did I see all the meanness
of what is called pride!'

'But how wilt thou live, friend,' said Peter; 'dost thou not intend
to eat?'  'When I went out last night,' said I, 'I laid in a
provision.'  'Thou hast laid in a provision!' said Peter, 'pray let
us see it. Really, friend,' said he, after I had produced it,
'thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough to
last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, here
is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let
us partake of some of thy fare.'  'I should be very happy if you
would,' said I. 'Doubt not but we shall,' said Peter; 'Winifred
shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the meantime,
sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense - we will dine at
thine.'

On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the
oak. We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but
he soon became more cheerful, fluent, and entertaining. I spoke
but little; but I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the
good Methodist. We had been silent some time. At length, lifting
up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the trees, I said,
having nothing better to remark, 'What a noble tree! I wonder if
the fairies ever dance beneath it.'

'Fairies!' said Peter, 'fairies! how came you, young man, to know
anything about the fair family?'

'I am an Englishman,' said I, 'and of course know something about
fairies; England was once a famous place for them.'

'Was once, I grant you,' said Peter, 'but is so no longer. I have
travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned
before; the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems
to be forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not
have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth
Teg, or fair family, and many believe in them.'

'And do you believe in them?' said I.

'I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of
opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of
pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I
see nothing irrational in the supposition.'

'Do you believe in devils, then?'

'Do I believe in devils, young man?' said Peter, and his frame was
shaken as if by convulsions. 'If I do not believe in devils, why
am I here at the present moment?'

'You know best,' said I; 'but I don't believe that fairies are
devils, and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men
have said they are devils?'

'Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis
Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the BARDD CWSG.'

'The BARDD CWSG,' said I; 'what kind of book is that? I have never
heard of that book before.'

'Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it
before? By the bye, can you read?'

'Very tolerably,' said I; 'so there are fairies in this book. What
do you call it - the BARDD CWSG?'

'Yes, the BARDD CWSG. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you
ever been in Wales?'

'Never,' said I.

'Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don't understand Welsh;
but we were talking of the BARDD CWSG - yes, there are fairies in
the BARDD CWSG, - the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, was carried
away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and
great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till he was
rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who subsequently
showed him many wonderful things.'

'I beg your pardon,' said I, 'but what were those wonderful
things?'

'I see, young man,' said Peter, smiling, 'that you are not without
curiosity; but I can easily pardon any one for being curious about
the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel
showed him the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its
cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. On another
occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether palace,
surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are
continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third
occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting
torment.'

'But this was all in his sleep,' said I, 'was it not?'

'Yes,' said Peter, 'in his sleep; and on that account the book is
called GWELEDIGAETHAU Y BARDD CWSG, or, VISIONS OF THE SLEEPING
BARD.'

'I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep,' said I. 'I
prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the
man had no visions at all - they are probably of his own
invention.'

'They are substantially true, young man,' said Peter; 'like the
dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin,
Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at
least in my own country, in the language of which they are written.
Many a guilty conscience has the BARDD CWSG aroused with its
dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit,
and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of -
Unknown - were it not for the BARDD CWSG perhaps I might not be
here.'

'I would sooner hear your own tale,' said I, 'than all the visions
of the BARDD CWSG.'

Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with
his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon
him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. 'What
is the matter?' said she, looking at her husband, who still
remained in the posture I have described. He made no answer;
whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the
peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former
occasion, 'Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict
thee?'  Peter removed his hand from his face. 'The old pain, the
old pain,' said he; 'I was talking with this young man, and he
would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale,
Winifred - my sin: O pechod Ysprydd Glan! O pechod Ysprydd Glan!'
and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears
trickled down Winifred's face, I saw them trickling by the
moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted
husband. I arose from my seat. 'I am the cause of all this,' said
I, 'by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your
kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my
way.'  I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. 'Go
not,' said he, 'you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the
case it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my
own iniquity'; he then paused, and appeared to be considering: at
length he said, 'Many things which thou hast seen and heard
connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my
tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much
shaken.'

Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak,
Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones
broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale - the
tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Glan.

CHAPTER LXXV

Taking a cup - Getting to heaven - After breakfast -  Wooden
gallery - Mechanical habit - Reserved and gloomy - Last words - A
long time - From the clouds - Ray of hope - Momentary chill -
Pleasing anticipation.

'I WAS born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable
farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers.

'My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is
generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and
read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he
was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and
his neighbours.

'One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his
neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone
kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was
at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious
matters. "It is a hard matter to get to heaven," said my father.
"Exceedingly so," said the other. "However, I don't despond; none
need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed
the sin against the Holy Ghost."

'"Ah!" said my father, "thank God I never committed that - how
awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin
against the Holy Ghost. I can scarcely think of it without my hair
standing on end"; and then my father and his friend began talking
of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them
say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their
discourse.

'I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had
heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a
person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he
must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it,
a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined
not to commit it, and, having said my prayers, I fell asleep.

'When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the
mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, "Commit it";
and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the
night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I
have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I
went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I
ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought
since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone.

'After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself
upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the
sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my
book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and
chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired
it. My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt
shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to
commit the sin against the Holy Ghost.

'But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected
with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was
occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin
and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and
went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I
thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight, I felt very
tired, and was presently asleep.

'Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and
kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit
the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once
into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and
hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had
time to reflect. Thus God is justified; He had no hand in my
destruction, but, on the contrary, He did all that was compatible
with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking
in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my
committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the
wooden gallery; and having stood for a few moments looking at the
stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself
down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of
horror, words not to be repeated, and in this manner I committed
the sin against the Holy Ghost.

'When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the
gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner
as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon
arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what
I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep.

'I awoke several times during the night, each time with the dim
idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but I
presently fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same
vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I
remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I
lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather
stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed
myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from
the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I
recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying?
I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.

'I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, again
beaten, by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely
heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master's face, and
thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, as you
suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed
the sin against the Holy Ghost?

'Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of
the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and
gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my
fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows,
and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I
had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone monstrous being, and yet,
strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy,
but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else
would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet
to learn the horror of my condition.

'Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I
began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was
active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my
age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take
pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in
Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master
no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had
no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales.

'Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the
disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his
children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said "God
bless you, my children, I am going from you, but take comfort, I
trust that we shall all meet again in heaven.'

'As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of
me. Meet my father in heaven, - how could I ever hope to meet him
there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were
all bathed in tears, but how I envied them. They might hope to
meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me, they
had never committed the unpardonable sin.

'In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable
circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales,
where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on
the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of
time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained
at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations,
as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of
the school.

'I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of
others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I
knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that,
though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost; I
had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to
eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!
- and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years; at the
end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the
months and the days, nay, even the hours, which yet intervened
between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the
idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but
then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must
be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I
would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my
place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than
what I then endured.

'There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterable
grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my
father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding
communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I
imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son,
with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was
upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself; to
some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust
my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror-
struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would
continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away.

'The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became
apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly
and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer,
being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as
much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At
length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and,
fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars,
he advised me to go home; which I was glad to do, as I felt myself
every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office
which I had undertaken.

'So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me
with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to
devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business
of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine
morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were
carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark
soul. I looked at the earth and looked at the sky, and felt as I
had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole
over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget
that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then,
springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a
neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not
done for a long, long time - prayed to God.

'A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no
longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were
light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I
arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise
to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not
to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure.

'At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest
attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the
minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a
good, very good, young man. At times the recollection of the sin
would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought
quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure.

'One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt
particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I
was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a
moment, said, "I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a
creature as myself."  I went to church, and was as usual attentive.
The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the
Scriptures: all I knew of them was from the liturgy. I now,
however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I
had begun. My father's Bible was upon the shelf, and on that
evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table,
and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I
opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on
which my eyes lighted was the following:-

'"He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be
forgiven, either in this world or the next."'

Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed
violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter
of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and,
after a short pause, continued his narration.

CHAPTER LXXVI

Hasty farewell - Lofty rock - Wrestlings of Jacob - No rest - Ways
of Providence - Two females - Foot of the Cross - Enemy of souls -
Perplexed - Lucky hour - Valetudinarian - Methodists - Fervent in
prayer - You Saxons - Weak creatures - Very agreeable - Almost
happy - Kindness and solicitude.

'WHERE was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage
which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed
my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream,
but a terrific reality: I will not dwell on that period, I should
only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my
friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair,
and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams.

'Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about, I was
burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night
no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave; but
nothing seemed to affect my constitution; probably the fire which
burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During
the space of three years I scarcely knew what befell me; my life
was a dream - a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I
was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I
liked the last description of people least of all; I could not
abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping
from these beings, whose countenances and godless discourse brought
to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through
Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree
to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors
of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea;
instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into
it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a
voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the
sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself
into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the
direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I
suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself
away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable hale old
man, who had hold of me. "Let me go!" said I, fiercely. "I will
not let thee go," said the old man, and now, instead of with one,
he grappled me with both hands. "In whose name dost thou detain
me?" said I, scarcely knowing what I said. "In the name of my
Master, who made thee and yonder sea; and has said to the sea, So
far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, Thou shalt do no
murder."  "Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his
own?" said I. "He has," said the old man, "but thy life is not thy
own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let
thee go," he continued, as I again struggled; "if thou struggle
with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley
says, in his 'Wrestlings of Jacob'; and see, it is of no use
struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than
thou"; and indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and
exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me
by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood
behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he
opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside
a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted
me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused
me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally
heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. "Who art
thou?" he said at last. "A miserable man," I replied. "What makes
thee miserable?" said the old man. "A hideous crime," I replied.
"I can find no rest; like Cain I wander here and there."  The old
man turned pale. "Hast thou taken another's life?" said he; "if
so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou
canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy
repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world
there may be much in the next."  "No," said I, "I have never taken
another's life."  "What then, another's goods? If so, restore them
sevenfold, if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy
conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and
make the only satisfaction thou art able."  "I have taken no one's
goods," said I. "Of what art thou guilty, then?" said he. "Art
thou a drunkard? a profligate?"  "Alas, no," said I; "I am neither
of these; would that I were no worse."

'Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time;
then, after appearing to reflect, he said, "Young man, I have a
great desire to know your name."  "What matters it to you what is
my name?" said I; "you know nothing of me."  "Perhaps you are
mistaken," said the old man, looking kindly at me; "but at all
events tell me your name."  I hesitated a moment, and then told him
who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, "I thought so;
how wonderful are the ways of Providence. I have heard of thee,
young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a
journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to
me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of
the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have
occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been
afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn
out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as
an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and
pray for thee, my son."

'He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing
for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew
what he was saying, but when he concluded I said "Amen."

'And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a
short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were
two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man, -
the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang
not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant
relation of the old man, - both received me with great kindness,
the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was.

'I stayed several days in the good man's house. I had still the
greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me
when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased
clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of
the second day my friend said, "I am going to preach, perhaps you
will come and hear me."  I consented, and we all went, not to a
church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man,
though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and
there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. "Come
unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden," etc. etc., was
his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater
portion of it in my mind.

'The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take
upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a
humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was
new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it
preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men
might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except
those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to
be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus,
cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through
the merits of His blood-shedding alone. "Therefore, my friends,"
said he, in conclusion, "despair not - however guilty you may be,
despair not - however desperate your condition may seem," said he,
fixing his eyes upon me, "despair not. There is nothing more
foolish and more wicked than despair; over-weening confidence is
not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of
the enemy of souls."

'This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I
had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin
shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either
in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man
certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted
with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven,
however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of
His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I
willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ?
I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not
myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has
committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I
had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, - perhaps the only
one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures
could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly
versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But
did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but
yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to
Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the
Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was
perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I
thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive
away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, "Oh yes, every
one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware
before that there was anything so horrible, - begone!"  Once or
twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I
evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I
think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were
interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in
probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence
he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my
own church; there were many such in it, he said.

'I stayed several days in the family, during which time I more than
once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached, he
exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to
me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young
person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the
latter took a peculiar interest in my fate.

'At last my friend said to me, "It is now time thou shouldest
return to thy mother and thy brother."  So I arose, and departed to
my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me
his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the
last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and
fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand
and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my
mother said, "I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks
ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee
his heir - left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust,
my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old
days."  And I answered, "I will, if so please the Lord"; and I said
to myself, "God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's
favour."

'And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was
about twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but
rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day
long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed.
At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished
for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto
the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared
Him.

'There was one thing connected with my new abode which gave me
considerable uneasiness - the want of spiritual instruction. There
was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was
occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner
that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the
benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in
London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock
to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little
trouble about the matter. Now I wanted every Sunday to hear from
the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those
which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable
friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day
being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious
man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind;
whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said, "Master, the
want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the
Methodists."  "The Methodists," said I, "are there any in these
parts?"  "There is a chapel," said he, "only half a mile distant,
at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during
the week."  Now it happened that my venerable friend was of the
Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this
manner, I said to him, "May I go with you next Sunday?"  "Why not?"
said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the
meeting of the Methodists.

'I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well,
though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend,
the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It,
however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so,
though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time.

'I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a
certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and
various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were
honest plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished
for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them.
Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them
inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. "Very fervent," said I.
"And do you read the Scriptures often?" said he. "No," said I.
"Why not?" said he. "Because I am afraid to see there my own
condemnation."  They looked at each other, and said nothing at the
time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the
Scriptures with fervency and prayer.

'As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the
Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too
vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my
condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost
hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding
of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a
certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing
else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read,
especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my
native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books
I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend,
hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an
ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that
relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master
Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for
me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the
nether world.

'But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that
it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the
pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of
good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently
sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who
could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I
more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then
that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of
the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind's eye,
decked with quiet graces - hang not down your head, Winifred - and
I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to
be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible
to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both
selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a
lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime
for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had,
indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or
not - selfishness however prevailed. I will not detain your
attention with relating all that occurred at this period - suffice
it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that
the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several
questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly
deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased
that I had adopted his profession - we are all weak creatures.
With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions;
and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married
her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the
kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not
from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first
what I was. I married her, friend; and brought her home to my
little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our
affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our
purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the
dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own
country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs
and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps
admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an
ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you
despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed
fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer.

'One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis
Wyn, my wife said, "This is a wonderful book, and containing much
true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond
of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible?
You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs
of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but
yet you never read the Bible."  And when I heard her mention the
Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I
dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that
very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long
time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so
that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered
much the while, so that I was almost happy, - taking pleasure in
everything around me, - in my wife, in my farm, my books and
compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was
reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought
having just come into my head that I would print some of my
compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour - O
God - God! I came to the fatal passage.

'Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed
me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans
- for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh
the kindness and solicitude of my wife! "What is the matter
husband, dear husband?" she was continually saying. I became at
last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of
my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife,
especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we
sat one night - it was a mid-winter night - over the dying brands
of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand
locked in mine, even as it is now.

'I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did
not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was
all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in
my face, she said - what do you think my wife said, young man?'

'It is impossible for me to guess,' said I.

"Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless."'

CHAPTER LXXVII

Getting late - Seven years old - Chastening - Go forth - London
Bridge - Same eyes - Common occurrence - Very sleepy.

'AND so I still say,' said Winifred, sobbing. 'Let us retire to
rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long
since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope
that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to
rest, for it is getting late.'

'Rest!' said Peter; 'there is no rest for the wicked!'

'We are all wicked,' said Winifred; 'but you are afraid of a
shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is
not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its
natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which
God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of
having committed a sin which you never committed.'

'Then you will still maintain,' said Peter, 'that I never committed
the sin against the Holy Spirit?'

'I will,' said Winifred; 'you never committed it. How should a
child seven years old commit a sin like that?'

'Have I not read my own condemnation?' said Peter. 'Did not the
first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? "He who
committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into
the kingdom of God."'

'You never committed it,' said Winifred.

'But the words! the words! the words!' said Peter.

'The words are true words,' said Winifred, sobbing; 'but they were
not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession,
who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master.'

'And what sayst thou to the effect which the words produced upon
me?' said Peter. 'Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales
for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore; thinkest thou that I opened
the book at that particular passage by chance?'

'No,' said Winifred, 'not by chance; it was the hand of God
directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become
satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy
state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that
fearful passage.'

'Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?' said
Peter with a groan. 'Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress
upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush,
Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin.'

'Thou hast not committed it,' said Winifred, sobbing yet more
violently. 'Were they my last words, I would persist that thou
hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this
chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed
the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the
Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if
thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways.'

'I see thou wouldst comfort me,' said Peter, 'as thou hast often
before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his
opinion.'

'I have not yet heard the whole of your history,' said I.

'My story is nearly told,' said Peter; 'a few words will complete
it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the
arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but
in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly
falling into the depths of despair; when one day Winifred said to
me, "I see thou wilt be lost, if we remain here. One resource only
remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and
to comfort thee I will go with thee."  "And what can I do in the
wide world?" said I, despondingly. "Much," replied Winifred, "if
you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the
blessing of God."  Many things of the same kind she said to me; and
at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and
disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the
world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick,
ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I
became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And
people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I
consented, and I preached. I - I - outcast Peter, became the
preacher Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others
the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years,
preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them,
with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am
visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night
before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast,
attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you
seem in thought!'

'I am thinking of London Bridge,' said I.

'Of London Bridge!' said Peter and his wife.

'Yes,' said I, 'of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to
London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to
the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an
ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of
lending me; and there I found written, "Each one carries in his
breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him.
Oh, if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness
would they find there!"'

'That's true,' said Peter. 'What is the name of the book?'

'THE LIFE OF BLESSED MARY FLANDERS.'

'Some popish saint, I suppose,' said Peter.

'As much of a saint, I daresay,' said I, 'as most popish ones; but
you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage
which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had
committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school,
of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy
superiority, considering yourself a lone monstrous being who had
committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure
that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you
and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking
upon them?'

'How!' said Peter, 'dost thou think that they had divined my
secret?'

'Not they,' said I, 'they were, I daresay, thinking too much of
themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of
yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their
own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was
not the very sin which caused you so much misery?'

'Dost thou then imagine,' said Peter, 'the sin against the Holy
Ghost to be so common an occurrence?'

'As you have described it,' said I, 'of very common occurrence,
especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings
likely to commit it.'

'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the young man talks wisely.'

Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting;
at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face,
and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said, 'Tell me, young man,
only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy
Ghost?'

'I am neither Papist nor Methodist,' said I, 'but of the Church,
and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I
will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty
such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness
at these years - but I am sleepy, and must go to rest.'

'God bless thee, young man,' said Winifred.

CHAPTER LXXVIII

Low and calm - Much better - Blessed effect - No answer - Such a
sermon.

BEFORE I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing
in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and
calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my
awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their
cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate
bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I
occasionally heard the word Pechod proceeding from the lips of
each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were
talking of the innate sin of both their hearts.

'I wish that man were happy,' said I to myself, 'were it only for
his wife's sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own.'

The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever
seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he
smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and
the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A
shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it
almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit
than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and
sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the
volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage,
and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and
comfortably.

'Your husband seems much better,' said I, at evening fall, to
Winifred, as we chanced to be alone.

'He does,' said Winifred; 'and that on the day of the week when he
was wont to appear most melancholy, for tomorrow is the Sabbath.
He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but
appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that
this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly
careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a
stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful.'

'To whom do you allude,' said I; 'and to what words?'

'To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last
night, after you had heard my poor husband's history. Those
strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have
produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have observed.
They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks
himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction, - the
only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin.
Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent
occurrence amongst children has tranquillised him; the mist which
hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the
groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to
be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter
for what he has undergone.'

Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and
myself breakfasted together - again the good family of the house on
the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the
meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again
Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred
by the side of her friend. 'Wilt thou not come?' said Peter,
looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion.
'Wilt thou not come?' said Winifred, with a face beaming with
kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved
away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding
Sabbath, and I was again left alone.

The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the
sky, the trees, and the water. At last I strolled up to the house
and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest
maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel of the book
had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and
the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it
to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours
of the Sabbath passed heavily away.

At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was
now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them.
Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and
passed forward. The rest of the party had broken into groups.
There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager
whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I
have spoken more than once was speaking: 'Such a sermon,' said
she, 'it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke
as he has done this day - he was always a powerful preacher, but
oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of
that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it!'  'What
was the subject?' said I, interrupting her. 'Ah! you should have
been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a
lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time;
those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good
Peter Williams on the Power, Providence, and Goodness of God.'

CHAPTER LXXIX

Deep interest - Goodly country - Two mansions - Welshman's Candle -
Beautiful universe - Godly discourse - Fine church - Points of
doctrine - Strange adventures - Paltry cause - Roman pontiff - Evil
spirit.

ON the morrow I said to my friends, 'I am about to depart;
farewell!'  'Depart!' said Peter and his wife, simultaneously;
'whither wouldst thou go?'  'I can't stay here all my days,' I
replied. 'Of course not,' said Peter; 'but we had no idea of
losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join
us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee.'  
'You mean I am under infinite obligations to you,' said I. 'Did
you not save my life?'  'Perhaps so, under God,' said Peter; 'and
what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God,
thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of
that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and
would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, to-morrow we
go into Wales; go with us.'  'I have no wish to go into Wales,'
said I. 'Why not?' said Peter, with animation. 'Wales is a goodly
country; as the Scripture says - a land of brooks of water, of
fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land
whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig
lead.'

'I daresay it is a very fine country,' said I, 'but I have no wish
to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another
direction, to say nothing of my trade.'  'Thou dost right to say
nothing of thy trade,' said Peter, smiling, 'for thou seemest to
care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect
that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that
aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into
Wales.'  'I cannot promise to go with you into Wales,' said I;
'but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with you through the
day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way.'  'Do,' said
Peter: 'I have many people to see to-day, and so has Winifred; but
we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee,
which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end.'

In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated
beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing
me in the following manner:-

'I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit
that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his
soul; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, which is a
frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the
soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two
mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from
the body, to heaven or hell; to the halls of eternal bliss, where
God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery,
inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the
joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of
hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I wish not to
terrify your imagination with the torments of hell: indeed, I like
not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them
sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink
into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men,
are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all
agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror.
Master Ellis Wyn, who by the bye was a churchman, calls it, amongst
other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks.
Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only a churchman, but Vicar of
Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago - I wish
many like him flourished now - speaking of hell, in his collection
of sweet hymns called the "Welshman's Candle," observes,

'"The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any
known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope
nor possibility of escaping over them."

'But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking
of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place,
and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints
above.'

And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven,
and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above;
explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there.

And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon
Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me began to address me. 'I
do not think,' said she, 'from what I have observed of thee, that
thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet, is not thy whole life
a series of ingratitude, and to whom? - to thy Maker. Has He not
endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form; and senses which
enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe - the
work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the
brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of
the dear birds which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for
I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the
whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from
thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to . . .'

And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable
time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when
she had concluded, I took her hand and said, 'I thank you,' and
that was all.

On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good
family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of
hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival.

And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken
so often came up to me, and holding out her hand, said, 'Farewell,
young man, wherever thou goest.'  Then, after looking around her,
she said, 'It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a
letter from him thou wottest of; he is coming soon. God bless you,
young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!'

So, after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we
departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very
cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual
hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said,
'It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a
turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop by
means of a less qualification.'

'Very probably,' said Peter; 'more the pity. But I have told you
the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the
church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I
to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and
comfort; what could I do? as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in
his "Candle for Welshmen":-

'"It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot
coals for want of help; but yet more doleful to see a flock of
souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest."'

'The Church of England is a fine church,' said I; 'I would not
advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me.'

'I have nothing to say against the church,' said Peter; 'all I wish
is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its
priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it
would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church.'

'It is too proud for that,' said Winifred.

'You are much more of a Methodist,' said I, 'than your husband.
But tell me,' said I, addressing myself to Peter, 'do you not
differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course,
as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar
opinions of wandering sectaries.'

'Oh the pride of that church!' said Winifred, half to herself;
'wandering sectaries!'

'We differ in no points of doctrine,' said Peter; 'we believe all
the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and
superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the
church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by
the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a
hedge, or a tinker,' he added, smiling; 'it was those superfluous
ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all,
the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation,
which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering
up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do.'

Nothing farther passed for some time; we were now drawing near the
hills: at last I said, 'You must have met with a great many
strange adventures since you took up this course of life?'

'Many,' said Peter, 'it has been my lot to meet with; but none more
strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You
were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay,
truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper
unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green
earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my
ministry about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred being
slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an
acquaintance; I had finished afternoon's worship - the people had
dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green
trees in a quiet retired place; suddenly a voice said to me, "Good-
evening, Pastor"; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least
the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a
singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As
I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice
before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and
perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool
from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I
at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering
minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his
ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of
matters with much fluency; till at last he mentioned my preaching,
complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I
could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any
effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last
words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which
made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said
little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he
said that I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of
my powers. "How can that be," said I, "even if I possessed all the
powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our
Lord Jesus?"

'The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he
almost instantly observed, that if I chose to forsake this same
miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation was
to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might
expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and
I told him firmly that if he wished me to forsake my present
profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must
absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that church, but
I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I
would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he
burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself,
"Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!"  A few days after,
when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before
me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether
I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding
that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be
highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was;
he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "The Roman Pontiff."  
"If it be he," said I, "I can have nothing to do with him; I will
serve no one who is an enemy of Christ."  Thereupon he drew near to
me, and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for
Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that
if He ever did, He was the greatest impostor the world ever saw.
How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered
that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself,
shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about
me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the
same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and
speaking more horribly than before. I made him no answer;
whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he
looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the
morning of that day. "Who are you?" said he, fiercely. "This
man's wife," said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. "Begone
from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain."  He made no
answer, but stood as if transfixed: at length, recovering himself,
he departed, muttering "Wife! wife! If the fool has a wife, he
will never do for us."'

CHAPTER LXXX

The border - Thank you both - Pipe and fiddle - Taliesin.

WE were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, 'If you
are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close
upon the border.'

'Which is the border?' said I.

'Yon small brook,' said Peter, 'into which the man on horseback who
is coming towards us is now entering.'

'I see it,' said I, 'and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as
if to water his steed.'

We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. 'Well,' said
Peter, 'will you go into Wales?'

'What should I do in Wales?' I demanded.

'Do!' said Peter, smiling, 'learn Welsh.'

I stopped my little pony. 'Then I need not go into Wales; I
already know Welsh.'

'Know Welsh!' said Peter, staring at me.

'Know Welsh!' said Winifred, stopping her cart.

'How and when did you learn it?' said Peter.

'From books, in my boyhood.'

'Read Welsh!' said Peter; 'is it possible?'

'Read Welsh!' said Winifred; 'is it possible?'

'Well, I hope you will come with us,' said Peter.

'Come with us, young man,' said Winifred; 'let me, on the other
side of the brook, welcome you into Wales.'

'Thank you both,' said I, 'but I will not come.'

'Wherefore?' exclaimed both, simultaneously.

'Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at
this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish
to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver,
mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore
Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see
the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe
and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to
Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be
invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and
to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the
cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence,
exclaim - "Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of
my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great
Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales."'

'How!' said Peter, 'hast thou translated the works of the mighty
Dafydd?'

'With notes critical, historical, and explanatory.'

'Come with us, friend,' said Peter. 'I cannot promise such a
dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be
wanting.'

'Come with us, young man,' said Winifred, 'even as thou art, and
the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome.'

'I will not go with you,' said I. 'Dost thou see that man in the
ford?'

'Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done
drinking? Of course I see him.'

'I shall turn back with him. God bless you.'

'Go back with him not,' said Peter; 'he is one of those whom I like
not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes -
turn not with that man.'

'Go not back with him,' said Winifred. 'If thou goest with that
man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with
us.'

'I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, Mr.
Petulengro.'

'Kosko Divvus, Pal,' said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water;
'are you turning back?'

I turned back with Mr. Petulengro.

Peter came running after me: 'One moment, young man, - who and
what are you?'

'I must answer in the words of Taliesin,' said I: 'none can say
with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all myself.
God bless you both!'

'Take this,' said Peter, and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my
hand.

CHAPTER LXXXI

At a funeral - Two days ago - Very coolly - Roman woman - Well and
hearty - Somewhat dreary - Plum pudding - Roman fashion - Quite
different - The dark lane - Beyond the time - Fine fellow - Such a
struggle - Like a wild cat - Fair Play - Pleasant enough spot - No
gloves.

SO I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some time
in silence; at last we fell into discourse. 'You have been in
Wales, Mr. Petulengro?'

'Ay, truly, brother.'

'What have you been doing there?'

'Assisting at a funeral.'

'At whose funeral?'

'Mrs. Herne's, brother.'

'Is she dead, then?'

'As a nail, brother.'

'How did she die?'

'By hanging, brother.'

'I am lost in astonishment,' said I; whereupon Mr. Petulengro,
lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and adjusting
himself sideways in the saddle, replied, with great deliberation,
'Two days ago I happened to be at a fair not very far from here; I
was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of forty miles
off, when who should come up but a chap that I knew, a relation, or
rather a connection, of mine - one of those Hernes. "Aren't you
going to the funeral?" said he; and then, brother, there passed
between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much
the same as has just now passed between me and you; but when he
mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged
her, which you forgot to do. "Who hanged her?" said I; and then
the man told me that she had done it herself; been her own hinjiri;
and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I
did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-
law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our
party, but there was no time for that; they were too far off, and
the dead was to be buried early the next morning; so I went with
the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately
retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to
their encampment, and there I found the Hernes, and the dead body -
the last laid out on a mattress, in a tent, dressed Romaneskoenaes
in a red cloak, and big bonnet of black beaver. I must say for the
Hernes that they took the matter very coolly; some were eating,
others drinking, and some were talking about their small affairs;
there was one, however, who did not take the matter so coolly, but
took on enough for the whole family, sitting beside the dead woman,
tearing her hair, and refusing to take either meat or drink; it was
the child Leonora. I arrived at night-fall, and the burying was
not to take place till the morning, which I was rather sorry for,
as I am not very fond of them Hernes, who are not very fond of
anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I
had married into the family; one of them, however, came up and
offered to fight me for five shillings; had it not been for them I
should have come back as empty as I went - he didn't stand up five
minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath a
tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean; I slept little,
and had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was
among.

'Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body was placed
not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but
to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock,
dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding
of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be
buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old
blood, the kosko puro rati, brother. When it was over, and we had
got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going. Before
mounting my gry, however, I bethought me to ask what could have
induced the dead woman to make away with herself - a thing so
uncommon amongst Romanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a
second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he
neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than
once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of
brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose rather
ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last that
if I wanted to know all about the matter none could tell me better
than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little
like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her
nowhere. At last the same man told me that he shouldn't wonder if
I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure
enough there I found the child Leonora, seated on the ground above
the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said,
"How came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it."  It was a long
time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth
and spoke, and these were the words she said, "It was all along of
your Pal"; and then she told me all about the matter - how Mrs.
Herne could not abide you, which I knew before; and that she had
sworn your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she
told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how
you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other
things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don't wot,
namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had
tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and
no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood
concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody. Well,
brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Herne
heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass. I
don't know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and
a dean; and then she added that it was all up with her, and that
she must take a long journey. Well, brother, that same night
Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent where Mrs. Herne and she
were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went
in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and
when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could
not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am.'

'And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro; but this is sad news
which you tell me about Mrs. Herne.'

'Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a good
thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil's tinder about
with her, as the man said.'

'I am sorry for her,' said I; 'more especially as I am the cause of
her death - though the innocent one.'

'She could not bide you, brother, that's certain; but that is no
reason' - said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the saddle -
'that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take away your
essence of life; and, when disappointed, to hang herself upon a
tree: if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have flown at
you, and scratched your face; or, if she did not judge herself your
match, she might have put down five shillings for a turn-up between
you and some one she thought could beat you - myself, for example -
and so the matter might have ended comfortably; but she was always
too fond of covert ways, drows, and brimstones. This is not the
first poisoning affair she has been engaged in.'

'You allude to drabbing bawlor.'

'Bah!' said Mr. Petulengro; 'there's no harm in that. No, no! she
has cast drows in her time for other guess things than bawlor; both
Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and died. Did you never
hear of the poisoned plum pudding?'

'Never.'

'Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years ago, a
few months after she had quitted us - she had gone first amongst
her own people, as she called them; but there was another small
party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so
happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was
about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and
me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were
taken and lodged in - Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the
sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most
hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour
was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to
'peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, "If she
does, I am nashkado."  Mrs. Herne was then on a visit to the party,
and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said, "But I
suppose you know what to do?"  "I do not," said he. "Then hir mi
devlis," said she, "you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I
know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion."  Why she wanted to
interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from
pure brimstoneness of disposition - she had no hand in the matter
which had brought the party into trouble - she was only on a visit,
and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to
give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened
to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made
a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt - for, besides plums, she put
in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she
gave it to the principal man, and the principal put it into a
basket and directed it to the woman in - Castle, and the woman in
the castle took it and - "

'Ate of it,' said I; 'just like my case!'

'Quite different, brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of
giving way to her appetite, as you might have done, she put it
before the rest whom she was going to impeach; perhaps she wished
to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself; and all the
rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry,
and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said, "It was my death
was sought for; I know the man, and I'll be revenged."  And then
the Poknees spoke to her and said, "Where can we find him?" and she
said, "I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night
before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down
such a lane with such a man."'

'Well,' said I, 'and what did the Poknees do?'

'Do, brother! sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite
secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night
before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the
juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother; and in order that he
might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know
the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself
behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads
into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and
horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, being
much shaded by trees. So the plastramengro placed himself in the
dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night,
dreary though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet
risen, and the plastramengro waited behind the tree till he was
tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down, and
was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some
hours; and when he awoke the moon had risen, and was shining
bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark
lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to
make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men
should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the
plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I
should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have
thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, and that I had let
the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it
turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the
contrary: just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the
direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of
horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is
generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up.
Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards
the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode
foremost was a tall big fellow, the very man he was in quest of;
the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light,
wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion
for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate,
reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open
for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the
lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the
gate to with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horse-back, "You
are my prisoner," said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the
plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a
regular fine fellow.'

'I am entirely of your opinion,' said I; 'but what happened then?'

'Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered
from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold
of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when
you happen to have two or three things on your mind which, if
proved against you, would carry you to the nashky, - the Romm