“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—À la Margutte—Clever Man—Napoleon’s Estimate—Another Statue.
One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands, which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a tea-cup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, 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 speakà 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[347]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; “nowI 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—Lick-Spittles—A Curiosity—Newspaper Editors—Charles the Simple—High-flying Ditty—Dissenters—Lower Classes—Priestley’s House—Saxon Ancestors—Austin—Renovating Glass—Money—Quite Original.
“So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman See?” 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 religionof 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 goingto 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 were many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said he was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as, if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas, by their present conduct, they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who wouldnever continue long attached to a Church the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. “I speak advisedly,” said he, in continuation, “there is one Platitude.”
“And I hope there is only one,” said I; “you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?”
“You know him,” said the man in black, “nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know, that unless a Church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude—”
“Stop,” said I; “you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life.”
“Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing from saying it in the dingle,” saidthe 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 fagot, 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 formâ paureris.”
“Very true,” said the man in black; “but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. ‘What a fine Church!’ they’ll say; ‘with what authority it speaks! no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles. What a contrast to the sleepy English Church!’ They’ll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then—and then . . . ” and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water.
“What then?” said I.
“What then?” said the man in black; “why, she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist, or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses—he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork’s tragedy is drawing nigh;” and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner.
“And this is the Church which, according to your assertion in the public-house, never persecutes?”
“I have already given you an answer,” said the man in black. “With respect to the matter of the public-house, it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my Church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation-stone of our Church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-housewhat he had previously professed in the valley?”
“And do you think,” said I, “that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?”
“Let them become Papists,” said the man in black; “only let the majority become Papists, and you will see.”
“They will never become so,” said I; “the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity.”
“The good sense of the people of England!” said the man in black, filling himself another glass.
“Yes,” said I, “the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes.”
“And of what description of people are the upper class?” said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water.
“Very fine people,” said I, “monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be.”
“He! he!” said the man in black; “only those think them so who don’t know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches—unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors; do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the Church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?”
“I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?”
“Their chief characteristic,” said the man in black, “is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long-run. Everything that’s lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, ‘low,’ is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate, that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake.”
“Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?”
“Most certainly I do,” said the man in black. “The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses, and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed—all of whom were Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake’s hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, Iwould engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble.O Cavalière 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 formâ pauperis; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water if, the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium, he did not say, ‘By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill-scrapit tongues ca’ it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty’s example in adopting it.’”
“I doubt not,” said I, “that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before royalty in England thinks about adopting popery.”
“We can wait,” said the man in black; “in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them.”
“But not Walters,” said I.
“Our work has been already tolerably well done by one,” said the man in black; “but if we wanted literature, we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in thefashion, 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 lick-spittles.”
“For example, Dante,” said I.
“Yes,” said the man in black, “a dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the poveri frati; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick-spittles. And then in Spain,—’tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lick-spittles; the Principe Constante of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the Mary Stuart of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger’s daughter—she has been lately thinking of adding ‘a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula’ to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! But then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote. Then there were some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No, all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all—”
“Come,” said I, “mind what you are about to say of English literary men.”
“Why should I mind?” said the man in black,“there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lick-spittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he! he!—and, above all, at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!”
“You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your censure of the last class?” said I.
“Them!” said the man in black; “why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise 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 lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don’t think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria.”
“Well,” said I, “I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping—they are not altogether the foolishpeople which you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne.”
“There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny,” said the man in black, “especially amongst the preachers, clever withal—two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels—no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic-looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found. And look at the manner in which they educate their children—I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters—‘the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred.’ So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they read ‘Rokeby,’ and are taughtto 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 hot-beds of pride and folly—colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything ‘low,’ and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the Church, as you call it, and the Church is going over to Rome.”
“I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all,” said I; “some of the Dissenters’ children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome.”
“In the high road for it, I assure you,” said the man in black; “part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose their prerogative, and when a Church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others.”
“Well,” said I, “if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes: I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character; but pray let me hear your opinion of them.”
“As for the lower classes,” said the man inblack, “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 cockfight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world.”
“And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow’s head?” said I.
“Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs,” said the man in black; “I think he might make a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one’s religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob who sacked and burnt Priestley’s house at Birmingham, towards the end of the last century.”
“A disgraceful affair,” said I.
“What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?” said the man in black. “I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that,—we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that your Church would have acted very differently in its place.”
“It has always done so,” said the man in black, coolly sipping. “Our Church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble withhorseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us.”
“Horseflesh and bitter ale!” I replied.
“Yes,” said the man in black; “horseflesh and bitter ale—the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our Church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the Presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!” continued the man in black, “what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley!”
“Then you don’t deny that we have had a Priestley,” said I, “and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?”
“Lick-spittles,” said the man in black; “yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old class; you have had him, and perhaps may have another.”
“Perhaps we may,” said I. “But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?”
“I have mixed with all classes,” said the man in black, “and with the lower not less than the upper and middle; they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle, no, not . . . It is true, there was one fellow whom I once met, who . . . but it is a long story, and the affair happened abroad.”
“I ought to know something of the English people,” he continued, after a moment’s pause; “I have been many years amongst them, labouring in the cause of the Church.”
“Your See must have had great confidence in your powers, when it selected you to labour for it in these parts,” said I.
“They chose me,” said the man in black, “principally because, being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my See, that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English—a country where, they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person where, as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled—in other words, of tippling.”
“Your See appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English,” said I.
“Not altogether an unjust one,” said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth.
“Well,” said I, “it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing.”
“Why, as to the kindness of my See,” said the man in black, “I have not much to say; my See has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my See has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account—money!”
“The Founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money,” said I.
“What have we to do with what the Founder of the Christian religion cared for?” said the man in black. “How could our temples be built, and our priests supported without money? But you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own Church, if the Church of England be your own Church, as I suppose it is, from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy bishops, and your corpulent rectors—do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money? You might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility.”
“Well,” said I, “whatever their faults may be, you can’t say that they go to Rome for money.”
The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself.
“I see your glass is again empty,” said I; “perhaps you will replenish it?”
The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments, which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he had laid aside; then, looking at me, who was still lying on the ground, he said—“I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening, after that last observation of yours—it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow this night, after having said an ave and a pater—go to Rome for money!” He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand as if biddingfarewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps.
“Go to Rome for money,” I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, “he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!”
Wooded Retreat—Fresh Shoes—Wood Fire—Ash, when Green—Queen of China—Cleverest People—Declensions—Armenian—Thunder—Deep Olive—What Do You Mean?—Koul Adonai—The Thick Bushes—Wood Pigeon—Old Goethe.
Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather, lazily. On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes which I had produced, and catching them as they fell—some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain.
“Why have you been absent so long?” said I to Belle; “it must be long past four by the day.”
“I have been almost killed by the heat,” said Belle; “I was never out in a more sultry day—the poor donkey, too, could scarcely move along.”
“He shall have fresh shoes,” said I, continuing my exercise; “here they are quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on.”
“And why are you playing with them in that manner?” said Belle.
“Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show that I can do something besides making them; it is not every one who, after having made a set of horse-shoes, can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall.”
“One has now fallen on your chin,” said Belle.
“And another on my cheek,” said I, getting up; “it is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood.”
Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after having flung the donkey’s shoes into my tent, I put some fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress—no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; shehad just added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle.
“I am fond of sitting by a wood fire,” said Belle, “when abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?”
“It is ash,” said I, “green ash. Somewhat less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a mighty aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it—ash, green ash.”
“That makes good the old rhyme,” said Belle, “which I have heard sung by the old women in the great house:—
‘Ash, when green,Is fire for a queen.’”
‘Ash, when green,Is fire for a queen.’”
“And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone,” said I, “than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle.”
“I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man,” said Belle.
“And why not entirely?” said I.
Belle made no reply.
“Shall I tell you?” I demanded. “You had no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you queenof something better than the dingle—Queen of China. Come, let us have tea.”
“Something less would content me,” said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal.
So we took tea together, Belle and I. “How delicious tea is after a hot summer’s day, and a long walk,” said she.
“I dare say it is most refreshing then,” said I; “but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter’s night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth.”
Belle sighed. “Where does tea come from?” she presently demanded.
“From China,” said I; “I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it put me in mind of tea.”
“What kind of country is China?”
“I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover one-ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of the population of the world.”
“And do they talk as we do?”
“Oh no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it.”
“Are the French so very clever, then?” said Belle.
“They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. But talking of Chinese remindsme that I have not for some time past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is—by the bye, what is the Armenian word for tea?”
“That’s your affair, not mine,” said Belle; “it seems hard that the master should ask the scholar.”
“Well,” said I, “whatever the word may be in Armenian, it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian!”
“What’s a declension?”
“The way of declining a noun.”
“Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. Is that a declension?”
“You should never play on words; to do so is low, vulgar, smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining an Armenian noun.”
“I have done so already,” said Belle.
“If you go on in this way,” said I, “I shall decline taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?”
“I don’t like the language,” said Belle. “If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?”
“I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman is clever enough to speak it—to say nothing of teaching; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!”
“Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar,” said Belle; “so, if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard of till youmentioned it to me; though, of the two, I really think Welsh sounds best.”
“The Armenian noun,” said I, “which I propose for your declension this night, is ---, which signifieth Master.”
“I neither like the word nor the sound,” said Belle.
“I can’t help that,” said I; “it is the word I choose: Master, with all its variations, being the first noun the sound of which I would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin—
“A master. Of a master, etc. Repeat—”
“I am not much used to say the word,” said Belle, “but to oblige you I will decline it as you wish;” and thereupon Belle declined Master in Armenian.
“You have declined the noun very well,” said I; “that is, in the singular number; we will now go to the plural.”
“What is the plural?” said Belle.
“That which implies more than one, for example, Masters; you shall now go through Masters in Armenian.”
“Never,” said Belle, “never; it is bad to have one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English.”
“You do not understand,” said I; “I merely want you to decline Masters in Armenian.”
“I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor with Master either; I was wrong to . . . What sound is that?”
“I did not hear it, but I dare say it is thunder; in Armenian—”
“Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it is thunder?”
“Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand.”
“And why did you not tell me so?”
“You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter?”
“My dislike is not pretended,” said Belle; “I hate the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time enough to interrupt it without being anticipated—there is another peal—I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to resist the storm; and I think you had better bestir yourself.”
Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention; in about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool.
“How dark the place is become since I left you,” said she; “just as if night were just at hand.”
“Look up at the sky,” said I; “and you will not wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the branches, and see how their tops are bending; it brings dust on its wings—I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?”
“We shall have plenty anon,” said Belle; “do you hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished.”
“It is not probable that we shall want it,” said I, “but we had better seek shelter: let us go into my tent.”
“Go in,” said Belle, “but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my own.”
“You are right,” said I, “to be afraid of me; I have taught you to decline Master in Armenian.”
“You almost tempt me,” said Belle, “to make you decline mistress in English.”
“To make matters short,” said I, “I decline a mistress.”
“What do you mean?” said Belle, angrily.
“I have merely done what you wished me,” said I, “and in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English there are no declensions.”
“The rain is increasing,” said Belle.
“It is so,” said I; “I shall go to my tent; you may come if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you.”
“Nor I of you,” said Belle; “so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is . . . ”
We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with vehemence. “I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow,” said I to Belle. “There is no fear of that,” said Belle; “the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carriedoff. There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!”
“And what a peal!” said I; “that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai—the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?”
“No,” said Belle, “I rather like to hear it.”
“You are right,” said I; “I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There is nothing like it; Koul Adonai behadar: the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the Prayer-Book version hath it.”
“There is something awful in it,” said Belle; “and then the lightning—the whole dingle is now in a blaze.”
“‘The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes.’ As you say, there is something awful in thunder.”
“There are all kinds of noises above us,” said Belle; “surely I heard the crashing of a tree?”
“‘The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,’” said I, “but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aërial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aërial noises in the following manner:—
‘Astonied now I stand at strains,As of ten thousand clanking chains;And once, methought, that overthrown,The welkin’s oaks came whelming down;Upon my head up starts my hair:Why hunt abroad the hounds of air?What cursèd hag is screeching high,Whilst crash goes all her crockery?’
‘Astonied now I stand at strains,As of ten thousand clanking chains;And once, methought, that overthrown,The welkin’s oaks came whelming down;Upon my head up starts my hair:Why hunt abroad the hounds of air?What cursèd hag is screeching high,Whilst crash goes all her crockery?’
You would hardly believe, Belle, that though Ioffered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them!”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said Belle, “especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end;—surely that was the crash of a tree?”
“Ah!” said I, “there falls the cedar tree—I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short.”
“What a pity,” said Belle, “that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember.”
“I don’t think so,” said I; “after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym’s poetry: he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode,
‘My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,For parting my dear pearl and me!’”
‘My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,For parting my dear pearl and me!’”
“You and I shall part, that is, I shall go to my tent, if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead.”
“Yes,” said I, “there he lies, just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Goethe:—
‘Mist shrouds the night, and rack;Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack!Wildly the owls are flitting,Hark to the pillars splittingOf palaces verdant ever,The branches quiver and sever,The mighty stems are creaking,The poor roots breaking and shrieking,In wild mixt ruin down dashing,O’er one another they’re crashing;Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary,Whirlwinds hurry and worry.Hear’st not, sister—’”
‘Mist shrouds the night, and rack;Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack!Wildly the owls are flitting,Hark to the pillars splittingOf palaces verdant ever,The branches quiver and sever,The mighty stems are creaking,The poor roots breaking and shrieking,In wild mixt ruin down dashing,O’er one another they’re crashing;Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary,Whirlwinds hurry and worry.Hear’st not, sister—’”
“Hark!” said Belle, “hark!”
“‘Hear’st not, sister, a chorusOf voices—?’”
“‘Hear’st not, sister, a chorusOf voices—?’”
“No,” said Belle, “but I hear a voice.”
A shout—A Fire-Ball—See to the Horses—Passing Away—Gap in the Hedge—On Three Wheels—Why Do You Stop?—No Craven Heart—The Cordial—Across the Country—Small Bags.
I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a shout—indistinct, it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid—from some part of the field above the dingle. “I will soon see what’s the matter,” said I to Belle, starting up. “I will go too,” said the girl. “Stay where you are,” said I; “if I need you, I will call;” and, without waiting for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. “Lord have mercy upon us!” I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware ofthe cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fire-balls, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. “Help me,” said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming, “See to the horses; I will look after the man.” She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall; but, presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came limping to me, holding his hand to his right thigh. “Thefirst thing that must now be done,” said I, “is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake to do so?” “I think I can,” said the man, looking at me somewhat stupidly. “I will help,” said Belle, and without loss of time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. “Now,” said I to the man, “what is next to be done?” “I don’t know,” said he; “indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall.” “I think,” said I, “that the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below.” “And what’s to become of my chaise?” said the postillion, looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. “Let us leave the chaise for the present,” said I; “we can be of no use to it.” “I don’t like to leave my chaise lying on the ground in this weather,” said the man; “I love my chaise, and him whom it belongs to.” “You are quite right to be fond of yourself,” said I, “on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible.” “I was not talking of myself,” said the man, “but my master, to whom the chaise belongs.” “I thought you called the chaise yours,” said I. “That’s my way of speaking,” said the man; “but the chaise is my master’s, and a better master does not live. Don’t you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?” “And what is to become of the horses?” said I. “I love my horses well enough,” said the man; “butthey will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise.” “But we three can,” said Belle; “at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles which will assist us.” “You had better go to the tent,” said I, “you will be wet through.” “I care not for a little wetting,” said Belle; “moreover, I have more gowns than one—see you after the horses.” Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the copse or plantation on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground.
We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with success—the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels.
“We may leave it here in safety,” said I, “for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise.” “I don’t think eitherthe wheel or the axle is hurt,” said the postillion, who had been handling both; “it is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin!—though, perhaps, it fell out a mile away.” “Very likely,” said I; “but never mind the linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can’t stay here any longer; I am going to my place below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us.” “I am ready,” said the man; and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh.
As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. “Why do you stop?” said I. “I don’t wish to offend you,” said the man, “but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don’t mean me any harm—you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here.” “We wished to get you out of the rain,” said I, “and ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?” “You may think I have money,” said the man, “and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to—”
“Would it not?” said I; “thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are the horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself inhousekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing.” “Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands,” said the man, putting himself in a posture of defence; “but I’ll show no craven heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I’ll try to pay you in your own coin. I’m rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on both of you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier.”
“Let me hear no more of this nonsense,” said Belle; “if you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise—we only seek to do you a kindness.”
“Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats,” said the man. “You brought it on yourself,” said Belle; “you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would I.” “Well,” said the man, “I was wrong—here’s my hand to both of you,” shaking us by the hands. “I’ll go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange lonesome place, though I ought not much to mind strange lonesome places, having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any harm—come, let us move on, for ’tis a shame to keep you two in the rain.”
So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, whilst I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I produced abottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated. “What do you now propose to do?” said I. “I scarcely know,” said the man; “I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help.” “How far are you from your home?” I demanded. “Upwards of thirty miles,” said the man; “my master keeps an inn on the Great North Road, and from thence I started early this morning with a family, which I conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road to the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way.”
“The best thing you can do,” said I, “is to pass the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable—in the morning we will see to your wheel.” “Well,” said the man, “I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to the horses.” Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. “The trees drip very much upon them,” said the man, “and it will not do for them to remain here all night; they willbe better out on the field picking the grass; but first of all they must have a good feed of corn.” Thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn—into them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. “Here we will leave them for a time,” said the man; “when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let them pick about.”