At Tea—Vapours—Isopel Berners—Softly and Kindly—Sweet Pretty Creature—Bread and Water—Two Sailors—Truth and Constancy—Very Strangely.
In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone.
The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle.
“This tea is very good,” said I, “but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly.”
“How else should you feel,” said the girl, “after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound.”
“That’s a great deal for a person in your station to pay.”
“In my station! I’d have you to know, young man—however, I haven’t the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum to pay for one who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can’t help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies—what some folk call vapours, making me weep and cry.”
“Dear me,” said I, “I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!”
“My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil, this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I shan’t take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn’t taken your part against blazing Bosville, you wouldn’t be now taking tea with me.”
“It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we’ll let that pass. So that man’s name is Bosville; what’s your own?”
“Isopel Berners.”
“How did you get that name?”
“I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions! will you have another cup of tea?”
“I was just going to ask for another.”
“Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother.”
“Your mother’s name, then, was Isopel?”
“Isopel Berners.”
“But had you never a father?”
“Yes, I had a father,” said the girl, sighing, “but I don’t bear his name.”
“Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother’s name?”
“If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and whether my father’s or mother’s, I am not ashamed of it.”
“It is a noble name.”
“There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house, where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the county were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun.”
“What do you mean by the great house?”
“The workhouse.”
“Is it possible that you were born there?”
“Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea, as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy’s crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields andforests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river—at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents—and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet pretty creature, I’m told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house.”
“And how did they receive you in the great house?”
“Not very kindly, young man—on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate, the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for—”
“Knocking your mistress down?”
“No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me, so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days, I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me; I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said, ‘Cheer up, my dear, if you like you shall go with me, and wait upon me.’ Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. ‘Let me get down,’ said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman, who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, prayingme only to see her decently buried, which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when any body was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company’s sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one’s own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows, for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising, if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant; I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy, don’t you, young man?”
“Yes,” said I, “they are very nice things. I feel very strangely.”
“How do you feel, young man?”
“Very much afraid.”
“Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don’t be afraid of him. He won’t come back, and if he did, he shouldn’t touch you in this state. I’d fight him for you, but he won’t come back, so you needn’t be afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid of the Flaming Tinman.”
“What, then, are you afraid of?”
“The evil one.”
“The evil one,” said the girl “where is he?”
“Coming upon me.”
“Never heed,” said the girl, “I’ll stand by you.”
Hubbub of Voices—No Offence—Nodding—The Guests.
The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices.
I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried, “Want anything, young fellow?”
“Bring me a jug of ale,” said I; “if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head.”
“Don’t be saucy, young fellow,” said the landlord, for such he was, “don’t be saucy, or—” Whatever he intended to say, he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still.
This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. “What do you mean by staring at my hand so?” said I, withdrawing it from the table.
“No offence, young man, no offence,” said the landlord, in a quite altered tone; “but the sight of your hand—,” then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an under tone, “But mum’s the word for the present, I will go and fetch the ale.”
In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. “Here’s your health,” said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured, “All’s right, I glory in you; but mum’s the word.” Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room.
What can the silly impertinent fellow mean, thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep, but who cares, anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and, bending down, I laid my head on the table on my folded hands.
And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me—it revived and strengthened me—I felt a new man.
I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed, “So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King.”
That man must be a Radical, thought I.
A Radical—Simple-Looking Man—Church of England—The President—Aristocracy—Gin and Water—Mending the Roads—Persecuting Church—Simon de Montford—Broken Bells—Get Up—Not for the Pope—Quay of New York—Mumpers’ Dingle—No Wish to Fight—First Draught—A Poor Pipe—Half-a-crown Broke.
The individual whom I supposed to be a Radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice; he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. “Who would live in such a country as England?” he shouted.
“There is no country like America—” said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance—“there is no country like America,” said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth, “I think I shall—” and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other,—“go to America one of these days myself.”
“Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all,” said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. “If there was but a little more work to be got I should have nothing to say against her. I hope, however—”
“You hope, who cares what you hope?” interrupted the first, in a savage tone; “you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dog’s wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed, who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action, a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and ‘their wives and daughters,’ as William Cobbett says, in his ‘Register.’”
“Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms,” said another.
The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat, which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon.
“You are quite right,” said the first, alluding to what this last had said, “the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by --- the King, I’ll toss up my hat again, and the --- Church of England too.”
“And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?” said I.
These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The Radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed.
“What are you laughing at, you fool?” said the Radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him, “hold your noise; and a pretty fellow you,” said he, looking at me, “to come here, and speak against the great American nation.”
“I speak against the great American nation?” said I, “I rather paid them a compliment.”
“By supposing they would put me in the stocks. Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing—stocks, indeed!—there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks? why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and Church.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if you go to America, you will say of the President and country what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back to England.”
The Radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. “I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance.”
“Kicking up a disturbance,” said I, “is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing.”
The man in black partially raised his head, and gave me another peculiar glance.
“Well, if you ar’n’t sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you sha’n’t bully me. I say down with the aristocracy, the beggarly British aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that?”
“Nothing,” said I.
“Nothing!” repeated the Radical.
“No,” said I, “down with them as soon as you can.”
“As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?”
“No,” said I.
“You won’t?”
“No,” said I; “though from what I have seen of them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves.”
“You won’t fight for them,” said the Radical triumphantly; “I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord,” said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, “some more ale—he won’t fight for his friends.”
“A white feather,” said his companion.
“He! he!” tittered the man in black.
“Landlord, landlord,” shouted the Radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. “Who called?” said the landlord, coming in at last. “Fill this jug again,” said the other, “and be quick about it.” “Does any one else want anything?” said the landlord.“Yes,” said the man in black; “you may bring me another glass of gin and water.” “Cold?” said the landlord. “Yes,” said the man in black, “with a lump of sugar in it.”
“Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it,” said I, and struck the table with my fist.
“Take some?” said the landlord, inquiringly.
“No,” said I, “only something came into my head.”
“He’s mad,” said the man in black.
“Not he,” said the Radical. “He’s only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to those manœuvres, but it won’t do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don’t you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business.”
The landlord looked at the Radical, and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with beer before the Radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out.
“Here is your health, sir,” said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the man in black, “I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his Register.”
The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. “With respect to the steeples,” said he, “I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself which I am compelled to arraign, but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting Church.”
“Whom does it persecute?” said I.
The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, “The Catholics.”
“And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?” said I.
“Never,” said the man in black.
“Did you ever read ‘Fox’s Book of Martyrs?’” said I.
“He! he!” tittered the man in black, “there is not a word of truth in ‘Fox’s Book of Martyrs.’”
“Ten times more than in the ‘Flos Sanctorum,’” said I.
The man in black looked at me, but made no answer.
“And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, ‘whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,’ or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?”
The man in black made no answer.
“Go to,” said I, “it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting Church, that those whom you call the respectable part areleaving her; it is because they can’t do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montford did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome—”
“Hollo!” said the Radical, interfering. “What are you saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope: I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish, as it’s called, because I conceives the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won’t hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don’t look fierce. You won’t fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance—I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?”
“O dear me, yes,” said I, getting up and stepping forward. “I am a quiet peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope—the enemy of all peace and quiet—to refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope—so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well.”
“An Orangeman,” said the man in black.
“Not a Platitude,” said I.
The man in black gave a slight start.
“Amongst that family,” said I, “no doubt something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great.”
The man in black sat quite still.
“Especially amongst those who have wives,” I added.
The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water.
“However,” said I, “we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution.”
The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, let the spoon fall.
“But what has this to do with the main question?” said I, “I am waiting here to fight against the Pope.”
“Come, Hunter,” said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “get up, and fight for the Pope.”
“I don’t care for the young fellow,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.
“I know you don’t,” said the other, “so get up, and serve him out.”
“I could serve out three like him,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.
“So much the better for you,” said the other, “the present work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at once.”
The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir.
“Who shows the white feather now?” said the simple-looking man.
“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.
“Who told you to interfere?” said the Radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; “say another word, and I’ll—And you!” said he, addressing himself to the man in black, “a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I’ll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it.”
“Then you won’t fight?” said I.
“Not for the Pope,” said the Radical; “I’ll see the Pope—”
“Dear me!” said I, “not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I’ll give you another chance—you were abusing the Church of England just now. I’ll fight for it—will you fight against it?”
“Come, Hunter,” said the other, “get up, and fight against the Church of England.”
“I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the Church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the Church belongs to this fellow in black; so let him carry it on. However,” he continued suddenly, “I won’t slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn’t fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the Church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.”
Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. “There shall be no fighting here,” said he, “no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But you fool,” said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, “do you know whom you are going to tackle with—this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers’ Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left hand hitter. Ar’n’t it all true, young man? Ar’n’t you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers’ Dingle?” “I never beat Flaming Bosville,” said I, “he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn’t be here at the present moment.” “Hear! hear!” said the landlord, “now that’s just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom, of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coatin England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom, of Hopton, in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England; yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I’ll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen—because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”
“I have no wish to fight the young man,” said Hunter; “more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed—but he won’t, I know; for I see he’s a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute; so I have no wish to fight; however, there is one thing I’ll do,” said he, uplifting his fist; “I’ll fight this fellow in black here for half-a-crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you—”
“Come, Doctor,” said the landlord, “or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I’ll second you, only you must back yourself. I’ll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing.”
“Oh! I have no wish to fight,” said the man in black, hastily; “fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody’s pardon.”
“Landlord,” said I, “what have I to pay?”
“Nothing at all,” said the landlord, “glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You’ll come again, I dare say; shall always be glad to see you. I won’t take it,” said he, as I put sixpence on the table; “I won’t take it.”
“Yes, you shall,” said I; “but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman,” said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; “he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see—”
“Bravo!” said the landlord, “that’s just the conduct I like.”
“Bravo!” said Hunter. “I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here.”
“If I have given offence to anybody,” said the man in black, “I repeat that I ask pardon—more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I—not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here,” bowing to Hunter; “but I happen to know something of the Catholics—several excellent friends of mine are Catholics—and of a surety theCatholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely-extended religion though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it—amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, among the Armenians.”
“The Armenians,” said I; “O dear me, the Armenians—”
“Have you anything to say about these people, sir?” said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth.
“I have nothing further to say,” said I, “than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome.”
“There’s half-a-crown broke,” said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. “You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”
The Dingle—Give them Ale—Not over Complimentary—America—Many People—Washington—Promiscuous Company—Language of the Roads—The Old Women—Numerals—The Man in Black.
The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. “I am glad you are returned,” said she, as soon as she perceived me; “I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?”
“Yes,” said I, “I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind,—I am much beholden to you.”
“I knew it would do you good,” said Belle; “I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say, ‘Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.’”
“He was no advocate for tea, then?” said I.
“He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, ‘Everything in its season.’ Shall we take ours now—I have waited for you.”
“I have no objection,” said I; “I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale—‘Everything in its season,’ as the surgeon said.”
Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said, “What did you see and hear at the public-house?”
“Really,” said I, “you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?”
“It matters very little to me,” said Belle; “I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation—you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips—at least I think so.”
“One only feels uncomfortable,” said I, “in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house.”
“Really, young man,” said Belle, “you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been—some young—?” and here Belle stopped.
“No,” said I, “there was no young person—if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy savage Radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the Radical against me, and afterwards with me against the Radical. There, you know my company, and what took place.”
“Was there no one else?” said Belle.
“You are mighty curious,” said I. “No, none else, except a poor simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away.”
Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought—“America!” said she, musingly—“America!”
“What of America?” said I.
“I have heard that it is a mighty country.”
“I dare say it is,” said I; “I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen.”
“I heard nothing about that,” said Belle; “what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither.”
“Well,” said I, “the Radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds.”
“I shall go by myself,” said Belle, “unless—unless that should happen which is not likely—I am not fond of Radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers.”
“Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?”
“I don’t wish to say you are,” said Belle; “but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly.”
“What should I have to say against America? I never was there.”
“Many people speak against America who never were there.”
“Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America.”
“If you liked America you would speak in its praise.”
“By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it.”
“I can’t speak with you,” said Belle; “but I see you dislike the country.”
“The country!”
“Well, the people—don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Why do you dislike them?”
“Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time.”
“And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?”
“Yes,” said I, “that is my reason for disliking them.”
“Will you take another cup of tea?” said Belle.
I took another cup; we were again silent. “It is rather uncomfortable,” said I, at last, “for people to sit together without having anything to say.”
“Were you thinking of your company?” said Belle.
“What company?” said I.
“The present company.”
“The present company! oh, ah!—I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortable towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian.”
“What is Armenian?”
“Did you ever hear of Ararat?”
“Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible.”
“Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you.”
“To prevent—”
“Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish anyone else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian.”
“Would not the language of the roads do as well?” said Belle.
“In some places it would,” said I, “but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves’ slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud atCourt with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth.”
“I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it,” said Belle; “in the mean time, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?”
“If no roadster is nigh, you may,” said I, “and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian.”
“I suppose you mean no harm?” said Belle.
“Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin.”
“Stop till I have removed the tea-things,” said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment.
“I am ready,” said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, “to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided 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 great 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—Adio—Best Hollands.
The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around 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 singing women, 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.”
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 fire-place, where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, “Lovely virgin,” said he, stretching out his hand, “allow me to salute your fingers.”
“I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,” said Belle.
“I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,” said the man in black, “I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two fore-fingers.”
“I never permit anything of the kind,” said Belle, “I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private.”
“Do you take me for a listener, then?” said the man in black.
“Ay, indeed I do,” said Belle; “the young man may receive your 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 boorishand 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 linendraper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linendraper’s feelings of hospitality; whereupon the linendraper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half-a-dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship’s head; what do you think of that?”
“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.
“Well,” said I, “I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing, you sided with the Radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him, when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?”
“O! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England, I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake.”
“Well,” said I, “we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.”
The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down, gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus. “Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? should it prove so, it 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 downward tendency, 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?”
“O,” said I, “if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.”
“Why scarlet?” said the man in black. “Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet?”
“Gypsies never blush,” said I; “but Gypsies’ 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 under Heaven,” 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 any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?”
“I should think not,” said the man in black.
“Well, then, don’t you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?”
“I really don’t know,” said the man in black.
“What’s the matter with you?” said I.
“Merely puzzled,” said the man in black.
“Puzzled?”
“Yes.”
“Really puzzled?”
“Yes.”
“Remain so.”
“Well,” said the man in black, rising, “puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady’s retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologize for my intrusion.”
“No apology is necessary,” said I; “will 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.”