‘I am ready,’ said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, ‘to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it.’
‘Belle,’ said I, ‘I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik.’
‘I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,’ said Belle.
‘Why hang upon it?’ said I.
‘Because the old women in the great house used to call so the chimney-hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake.’
‘Good!’ said I, ‘you will make an apt scholar; but mind that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals.’
‘What are numerals?’ said Belle.
‘Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There—have you heard them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, try and repeat them.’
‘I only remember number one,’ said Belle, ‘and that because it is me.’
‘I will repeat them again,’ said I, ‘and pay greater attention. Now, try again.’
‘Me, jergo, earache.’
‘I neither said jergo nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar.’
Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path which led from the bottom of the hollow, where we were seated, to the plain above. ‘Gorgio shunella,’ she said at length, in a low voice.
‘Pure Rommany,’ said I; ‘where?’ I added, in a whisper.
‘Dovey odoi,’ said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path.
‘I will soon see who it is,’ said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house.
buona sera—rather apprehensive—the steep bank—lovely virgin—hospitality—tory minister—custom of the country—sneering smile—wandering zigan—gypsies’ cloaks—certain faculty—acute answer—various ways—addio—the best hollands
The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground-nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed, ‘Buona sera, I hope I don’t intrude.’
‘You have as much right here,’ said I, ‘as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation.’
‘I was not listening,’ said the man, ‘I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine.’
‘I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good,’ said I.
‘I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation,’ said the man in black, looking around; ‘moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable.’
‘And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?’ said I.
‘Per far visita a sua signoria, ecco il motivo.’
‘Why do you speak to me in that gibberish,’ said I; ‘do you think I understand it?’
‘It is not Armenian,’ said the man in black; ‘but it might serve, in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singingwomen, and the like; but we are not at Court—when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor.’
And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner.
‘I see,’ said I, ‘that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening.’
‘Not at all,’ said the man in black; ‘I heard from the steep bank above, that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it.’
‘And how did you know that I was here?’ I demanded.
‘The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But, now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘since you are come, you are welcome; please to step this way.’
Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace, where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, ‘Lovely virgin,’ said he, stretching out his hand, ‘allow me to salute your fingers.’
‘I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,’ said Belle.
‘I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,’ said the man in black, ‘I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers.’
‘I never permit anything of the kind,’ said Belle; ‘I do notapprove of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private.’
‘Do you take me for a listener then?’ said the man in black.
‘Ay, indeed I do,’ said Belle; ‘the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them, if he please, but for my part I neither admit them nor believe them’; and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool.
‘Come, Belle,’ said I, ‘I have bidden the gentleman welcome, I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly.’
‘That’s not English doctrine,’ said the man in black.
‘I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality,’ said I.
‘They do so,’ said the man in black; ‘they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman’s house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master’s feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage.’
‘You are too general,’ said I, ‘in your strictures. Lord ---, the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linen-draper’s feelingsof hospitality; whereupon the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship’s head: what do you think of that?’
‘He! he! he!’ tittered the man in black.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the Radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?’
‘Oh, when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England; I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.’
The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down, gypsy-fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: ‘Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me.’
‘Will you permit me to ask,’ said the man in black—‘the weather is very warm,’ said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat.
I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown—his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downwardtendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large—a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund.
‘A bad countenance,’ said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face.
‘Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?’ said the man in black, resuming his hat, and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice.
‘How,’ said I, ‘do you understand the language of the roads?’
‘As little as I do Armenian,’ said the man in black; ‘but I understand look and tone.’
‘So do I, perhaps,’ retorted Belle; ‘and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.’
‘For shame,’ said I; ‘have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question,’ said I, addressing myself to the man, ‘with respect to your visit.’
‘Will you permit me to ask who you are?’
‘Do you see the place where I live?’ said I.
‘I do,’ said the man in black, looking around.
‘Do you know the name of this place?’
‘I was told it was Mumpers’ or Gypsies’ Dingle,’ said the man in black.
‘Good,’ said I; ‘and this forge and tent, what do they look like?’
‘Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.’
‘Good,’ said I; ‘they belong to me.’
‘Are you, then, a gypsy?’ said the man in black.
‘What else should I be?’
‘But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.’
‘Do you know how gypsies live?’ said I.
‘By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘there’s my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.’
‘But how did you come by your knowledge?’
‘Oh,’ said I, ‘if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.’
‘Why scarlet?’ said the man in black. ‘Is it because gypsies blush like scarlet?’
‘Gypsies never blush,’ said I; ‘but gypsies’ cloaks are scarlet.’
‘I should almost take you for a gypsy,’ said the man in black, ‘but for—’
‘For what?’ said I.
‘But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,’ said the man in black, with a titter.
‘And why should not a gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?’ said I.
‘Because the gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,’ said the man in black; ‘they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers—and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.’
‘What do you take me for?’ said I.
‘Why,’ said the man in black, ‘I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist.’
‘And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?’ said I.
‘Because the philological race is the most stupid underheaven,’ said the man in black; ‘they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject—even though the subject were philology—is a thing of which I have no idea.’
‘But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?’
‘I believe I did,’ said the man in black.
‘And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?’
‘I believe I did,’ said the man in black.
‘And would anyone but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?’
‘I should think not,’ said the man in black.
‘Well, then, don’t you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said the man in black.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said I.
‘Merely puzzled,’ said the man in black.
‘Puzzled?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really puzzled?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remain so.’
‘Well,’ said the man in black, rising, ‘puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady’s retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.’
‘No apology is necessary,’ said I; ‘will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea.’
‘Tea!’ said the man in black; ‘he! he! I don’t drink tea; I don’t like it—if, indeed, you had,’ and here he stopped.
‘There’s nothing like gin and water, is there?’ said I, ‘but I am sorry to say I have none.’
‘Gin and water,’ said the man in black, ‘how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?’
‘Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?’
‘You did,’ said the man in black, ‘and I remember that, when I called for some you repeated my words—permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?’
‘It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar,’ said I.
‘And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?’
‘Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,’ said I.
‘With all your knowledge,’ said the man in black, ‘you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you?’
‘Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves,’ said I; ‘but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly.’
‘Have I your permission to come again?’ said the man in black.
‘Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me.’
‘I will visit you again,’ said the man in black—‘till then, addio.’
‘Belle,’ said I, after the man in black had departed, ‘we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense.’
‘You offered him some tea,’ said Belle, ‘which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.’
‘Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor, and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?’
‘I think I do,’ said Belle, ‘but—’
‘I will have no buts. Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find.’
excursions—adventurous english—opaque forests
Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up one hundred Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads—at least, so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing—and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally objectthat she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God’s favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart, that same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle’s conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hoards of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine—how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle.
the landlord—rather too old—without a shilling—reputation—a fortnight ago—liquids—irrational beings—parliament cove—my brewer
Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his, who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning ‘the ring,’ indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. ‘I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring,’ said he once, ‘which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally—one more rally, and then—but there’s a time for all things—youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one—let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I’m content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome—comes off next Wednesday, at ---; have ventured ten five-pound notes—shouldn’t say ventured either—run no risk at all, because why? I knows my birds.’ About ten days after this harangue I called again, at about three o’clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he wasneither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up; ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘I am glad you are come, I was just thinking about you.’ ‘Thank you,’ said I; ‘it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at ---. I hope you brought it all safe home.’ ‘Safe home!’ said the landlord; ‘I brought myself safe home, and that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out.’ ‘I am sorry for that,’ said I; ‘but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again—how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble.’ ‘Pea and thimble,’ said the landlord—‘not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble.’ ‘Dear me,’ said I; ‘I thought that you knew your birds.’ ‘Well, so I did,’ said the landlord; ‘I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘don’t be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you—your reputation; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood.’
The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. ‘Confound my reputation!’ said he. ‘No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won’t pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it ain’t backed by some of it, it ain’t a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come to look at me, and worship me; but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left offall that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn’t have called me a fool a fortnight ago; ’twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that?—the man that beat Tom of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn’t heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man’s pocket is low, do you see, his heart ain’t much higher; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me.’
‘If you mean,’ said I, ‘to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say—’ ‘You are right there,’ said the landlord; ‘much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf—your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a ’cessor as you; and as for your lending me money, don’t think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, and knows what a fighting cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fightin this here neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place; and as people can’t come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn’t drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you.’ ‘You really must excuse me,’ said I; ‘I have no wish to figure as a pugilist; besides, there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, “Youth will be served.”’ ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to fight,’ said the landlord; ‘I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see; the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with.’
‘The young woman I keep company with,’ said I; ‘pray what do you mean?’
‘We will go into the bar, and have something,’ said the landlord, getting up. ‘My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly.’ Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself further. ‘What I wants is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quiteenough to drink out, for the thing should be close to my house, all the brewer’s stock of liquids, both good and bad.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?’ ‘Confound the respectability of my house,’ said the landlord; ‘will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won’t keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and everyone of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting—what a deal we may make by the betting—and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about I don’t manage to make a hundred, call me horse.’ ‘But suppose,’ said I, ‘the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?’ ‘We must first make all right,’ said the landlord, ‘as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn’t come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend that you and the young woman should fight cross.’ ‘What do you mean by cross?’ said I. ‘Come, come,’ said the landlord, ‘don’t attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is! That won’t do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another, and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice, you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist-woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘you would not have us fight fair?’ ‘By no means,’ said the landlord, ‘because why?—I conceivesthat a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘you said the other day that you liked the fair thing.’ ‘That was by way of gammon,’ said the landlord; ‘just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?’
‘It is a very ingenious one,’ said I.
‘Ain’t it?’ said the landlord. ‘The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool; but if they don’t call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman.’
‘I am going,’ said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale.
‘Do you think she’ll have any objection?’ said the landlord.
‘To do what?’ said I.
‘Why, to fight cross.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said I.
‘But you will do your best to persuade her?’
‘No, I will not,’ said I.
‘Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?’
‘No,’ said I, ‘I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all.’
‘And how’s my brewer to be paid?’ said the landlord.
‘I really don’t know,’ said I.
‘I’ll change my religion,’ said the landlord.
another visit—a clever man—another statue
One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands, which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, was heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a tea-cup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good.
‘This is one of the good things of life,’ he added, after a short pause.
‘What are the others?’ I demanded.
‘There is Malvoisia sack,’ said the man in black, ‘and partridge, and beccafico.’
‘And what do you say to high mass?’ said I.
‘High mass!’ said the man in black; ‘however,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too; but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon.’
‘You speak a la Margutte,’ said I.
‘Margutte!’ said the man in black, musingly, ‘Margutte!’
‘You have read Pulci, I suppose?’ said I.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the man in black, laughing; ‘I remember.’
‘He might be rendered into English,’ said I, ‘something in this style:
‘To which Margutte answered with a sneer,I like the blue no better than the black,My faith consists alone in savoury cheer,In roasted capons, and in potent sack;But above all, in famous gin and clear,Which often lays the Briton on his back;With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well,I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.’
‘To which Margutte answered with a sneer,I like the blue no better than the black,My faith consists alone in savoury cheer,In roasted capons, and in potent sack;But above all, in famous gin and clear,Which often lays the Briton on his back;With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well,I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.’
‘He! he! he!’ said the man in black; ‘that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron.’
‘A clever man,’ said I.
‘Who?’ said the man in black. ‘Mezzofante di Bologna.’
‘He! he! he!’ said the man in black; ‘now I know that you are not a gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that—’
‘Why,’ said I, ‘does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the man in black; ‘and five-and-twenty added to them; but, he! he! he! it was principally from him, who is certainly the greatest of Philologists, that I formed my opinion of the sect.’
‘You ought to speak of him with more respect,’ said I; ‘I have heard say that he has done good service to your See.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the man in black; ‘he has done good service to our See, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the Propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he!—Of course you know Napoleon’s estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals he observed, “Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu’un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu d’esprit.”’
‘You are ungrateful to him,’ said I; ‘well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice.’
‘True,’ said the man in black; ‘when he is dead and gone, we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library.’
‘Of wood?’ said I.
‘He was the son of a carpenter, you know,’ said the man in black; ‘the figure will be of wood for no other reason, I assure you; he! he!’
‘You should place another statue on the right.’
‘Perhaps we shall,’ said the man in black; ‘but we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the other countries inhabited by the faithful, worthy to sit parallel in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered these regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy to bear him company—one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you know, “There is more joy,” etc.’
‘Wood?’ said I.
‘I hope not,’ said the man in black; ‘no, if I be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend bronze.’
And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another.
prerogative—feeling of gratitude—a long history—alliterative style—advantageous specimen—jesuit benefice!—not sufficient—queen stork’s tragedy—good sense—grandeur and gentility—ironmonger’s daughter—clan mac-sycophant—lickspittles—a curiosity—newspaper editors—charles the simple—high-flying ditty—dissenters—lower classes—priestley’s house—ancestors—austin—renovating glass—money—quite original
So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman See?’ said I, after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it.
‘Hope!’ said the man in black; ‘how can we fail? Is not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?’
‘Its prerogative?’
‘Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of England are about to grant Papists emancipation, and to remove the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game in England.’
On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled.
On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed, and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary’s bosom; conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries,and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more.
On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short by saying that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly.
After musing a little while, I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would; reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land—a cry of ‘tolerance,’ which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to ‘hold their nonsense,’ and cutting them down provided they continued bawling longer.
I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said, to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remainin statu quo; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those in place; ‘and so,’ he added, ‘by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the Papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for.’
On my telling the man in black that I believed that, even among the high dignitaries of the English Church, there weremany who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said he was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as, if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas, by their present conduct, they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who would never continue long attached to a Church the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. ‘I speak advisedly,’ said he, in continuation; ‘there is one Platitude.’
‘And I hope there is only one,’ said I; ‘you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?’
‘You know him,’ said the man in black, ‘nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know that, unless a Church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude—’
‘Stop,’ said I; ‘you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life.’
‘Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely differentthing from saying it in the dingle,’ said the man in black; ‘had the Church of England been a persecuting Church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe that, instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.’
‘He tried that game,’ said I, ‘and the parish said “Pooh, pooh,” and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters.’
‘Very true,’ said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, ‘but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged tooth or two. Why, but because the authority of the Church of England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly ashamed of his Church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority.’
‘It may have vigour and authority,’ said I, ‘in foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged to sue for gracein forma pauperis.’
‘Very true,’ said the man in black; ‘but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. “What a fine Church!” they’ll say; “with what authority it speaks! no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles. What a contrast to the sleepy English Church!” They’ll go over to it by millions, till it preponderateshere over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then—and then—’ and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water.
‘What then?’ said I.
‘What then?’ said the man in black, ‘why she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist, or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses—he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork’s tragedy is drawing nigh’; and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner.
‘And this is the Church which, according to your assertion in the public-house, never persecutes?’
‘I have already given you an answer,’ said the man in black. ‘With respect to the matter of the public-house, it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my Church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation stone of our Church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-house what he had previously professed in the valley?’
‘And do you think,’ said I, ‘that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?’
‘Let them become Papists,’ said the man in black; ‘only let the majority become Papists, and you will see.’
‘They will never become so,’ said I; ‘the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity.’
‘The good sense of the people of England!’ said the man in black, filling himself another glass.
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes.’
‘And of what description of people are the upper class?’ saidthe man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water.
‘Very fine people,’ said I, ‘monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be.’
‘He! he!’ said the man in black; ‘only those think them so who don’t know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches—unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors; do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the Church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?’
‘I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?’
‘Their chief characteristic,’ said the man in black, ‘is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long run. Everything that’s lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, “low,” is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate, that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake.’
‘Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?’
‘Most certainly I do,’ said the man in black. ‘The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses, and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed—all of whom were Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake’s hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. O Cavaliere Gualtiero, avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede!’
‘If he has,’ said I, ‘he has done it unwittingly; I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion.’
‘Only in theory,’ said the man in black. ‘Trust any of the clan Mac-Sycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regionsin forma pauperis; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water if, the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium, he did not say, “By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill-scrapit tongues ca’ it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty’s example in adopting it.”’
‘I doubt not,’ said I, ‘that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before Royalty in England thinks about adopting popery.’
‘We can wait,’ said the man in black; ‘in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them.’
‘But not Walters,’ said I.
‘Our work has been already tolerably well done by one,’ said the man in black; ‘but if we wanted literature, we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kindor other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles chose—and they always do our bidding—to admit the canaille to their tables—their kitchen tables. As for literature in general,’ said he, ‘the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lickspittles.’
‘For example, Dante,’ said I.
‘Yes,’ said the man in black, ‘a dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, thatMorganteof his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with thepoveri frati; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lickspittles. And then in Spain,—’tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lickspittles; thePrincipe Constanteof the last is a curiosity in its way; and then theMary Stuartof Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger’s daughter—she has been lately thinking of adding “a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula” to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! But then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of hisQuixote. Then there were some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No, all literary men are not lickspittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all—’
‘Come,’ said I, ‘mind what you are about to say of English literary men.’
‘Why should I mind?’ said the man in black, ‘there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lickspittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel-writers, he! he!—and, above all, at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!’
‘You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your censure of the last class?’ said I.
‘Them!’ said the man in black; ‘why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, by raising the cry of liberalism and by putting themselves at the head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don’t wish to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs,’ he continued, ‘for they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the will stand by them; they will prove themselves as expert lickspittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don’t think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping—they are not altogether the foolish people which you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne.’
‘There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny,’ said the man in black, ‘especially amongst the preachers, clever withal—two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, andmore ridiculous than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels—no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic-looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found. And look at the manner in which they educate their children—I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters—“the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred.” So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they readRokeby, and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty, the “Cavalier”—
‘Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?—
‘Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?—
he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those hotbeds of pride and folly—colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything “low,” and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the Church, as you call it, and the Church is going over to Rome.’
‘I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all,’ said I; ‘some of the Dissenters’ children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome.’
‘In the high road for it, I assure you,’ said the man in black; ‘part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose their prerogative, and when a Church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing themiddle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes: I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character; but pray let me hear your opinion of them.’
‘As for the lower classes,’ said the man in black, ‘I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion! why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests.’
‘Has your church any followers amongst them?’ said I.
‘Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions,’ said the man in black, ‘our church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet, were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are—for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cock-fight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world.’
‘And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow’s head?’ said I.
‘Oh, he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs,’ said the man in black; ‘I think he might make arather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one’s religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob who sacked and burnt Priestley’s house at Birmingham, towards the end of the last century.’
‘A disgraceful affair,’ said I.
‘What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?’ said the man in black. ‘I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that,—we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing.’
‘I suppose,’ said I, ‘that your Church would have acted very differently in its place.’
‘It has always done so,’ said the man in black, coolly sipping. ‘Our Church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us.’
‘Horseflesh and bitter ale!’ I replied.
‘Yes,’ said the man in black; ‘horseflesh and bitter ale—the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our Church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attackedand massacred the presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!’ continued the man in black, ‘what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley!’
‘Then you don’t deny that we have had a Priestley,’ said I, ‘and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?’
‘Lickspittles,’ said the man in black; ‘yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old class; you have had him, and perhaps may have another.’
‘Perhaps we may,’ said I. ‘But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?’
‘I have mixed with all classes,’ said the man in black, ‘and with the lower not less than the upper and middle; they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle, no, not—. It is true, there was one fellow whom I once met, who—; but it is a long story, and the affair happened abroad.—I ought to know something of the English people,’ he continued, after a moment’s pause; ‘I have been many years amongst them, labouring in the cause of the Church.’
‘Your See must have had great confidence in your powers when it selected you to labour for it in these parts,’ said I.
‘They chose me,’ said the man in black, ‘principally because, being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my See that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English—a country where, they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person where, as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives,fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled—in other words, of tippling.’
‘Your See appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English,’ said I.
‘Not altogether an unjust one,’ said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth.
The man in black
‘Well,’ said I, ‘it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing.’
‘Why, as to the kindness of my See,’ said the man in black, ‘I have not much to say; my See has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my See has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account—money!’
‘The Founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money,’ said I.
‘What have we to do with what the Founder of the Christian religion cared for?’ said the man in black. ‘How could our temples be built and our priests supported without money? But you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own Church, if the Church of England be your own Church, as I suppose it is from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy Bishops and your corpulent Rectors—do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money? You might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘whatever their faults may be, you can’t say that they go to Rome for money.’
The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself.