Excursions—Adventurous English—Opaque Forests—The Greatest Patience.
Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up one hundred Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. Icould clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads, at least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing, and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God’s favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart, that same Belle: such was the staple of Belle’s conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine—how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle.
The Landlord—Rather Too Old—Without a Shilling—Reputation—A Fortnight Ago—Liquids—The Main Chance—Respectability—Irrational Beings—Parliament Cove—My Brewer.
Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger, and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning “the ring,” indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. “I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring,” said he once, “which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally—one more rally, and then—but there’s a time for all things—youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one—let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I’m content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome—comes off next Wednesday at --- have ventured ten five pound notes—shouldn’t say ventured either—run no risk at all, because why? I knows my birds.” About ten days after this harangue, I called again at about three o’clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up; “Ah,” said he, “I am glad you are come, I was just thinking about you.” “Thank you,” said I; “it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at ---. I hope you brought it all safe home.” “Safe home!” said the landlord; “I brought myself safe home, and that was all, came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out.” “I am sorry for that,” said I; “but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again—how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble.” “Pea and thimble,” said the landlord—“not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose bythe pea and thimble.” “Dear me,” said I; “I thought that you knew your birds.” “Well, so I did,” said the landlord, “I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done.” “Well,” said I, “don’t be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you—your reputation; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood.”
The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. “Confound my reputation!” said he. “No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won’t pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it a’n’t backed by some of it, it a’n’t a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come and look at me, and worship me, but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn’t have called me a fool a fortnight ago; ’twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that? the man that beat Tom, of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn’t heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man’s pocket is low, do you see, his heart a’n’t much higher; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me.”
“If you mean,” said I, “to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say—” “You are right there,” said the landlord, “much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf—your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a ’cessor as you, and as for your lending me money, don’t think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better, I have been in the ring myself, and knows what a fighting cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this hereneighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place, and as people can’t come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn’t drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you.” “You really must excuse me,” said I, “I have no wish to figure as a pugilist, besides there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, ‘Youth will be served.’” “Oh, I didn’t mean to fight,” said the landlord, “I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see, the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with.”
“The young woman I keep company with,” said I, “pray what do you mean?”
“We will go into the bar, and have something,” said the landlord, getting up. “My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly.” Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself farther. “What I wants, is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out, for the thing should be close to my house, all the brewer’s stock of liquids, both good and bad.” “But,” said I, “you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?” “Confound the respectability of my house,” said the landlord, “will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won’t keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting—what a deal we may make by the betting—and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about, I don’t manage to make a hundred, call me horse.” “But, suppose,” said I, “the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?” “We must first make all right,” said the landlord, “as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn’t come to an understanding with the others,as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend that you and the young woman should fight cross.” “What do you mean by cross?” said I. “Come, come,” said the landlord, “don’t attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is. That won’t do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing.” “Then,” said I, “you would not have us fight fair?” “By no means,” said the landlord, “because why? I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has.” “But,” said I, “you said the other day, that you liked the fair thing.” “That was by way of gammon,” said the landlord; “just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?”
“It is a very ingenious one,” said I.
“A’n’t it?” said the landlord. “The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool, but if they don’t call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman.”
“I am going,” said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale.
“Do you think she’ll have any objection?” said the landlord.
“To do what?” said I.
“Why, to fight cross.”
“Yes, I do,” said I.
“But you will do your best to persuade her?”
“No, I will not,” said I.
“Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?”
“No!” said I, “I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all.”
“And how’s my brewer to be paid?” said the landlord.
“I really don’t know,” said I.
“I’ll change my religion,” said the landlord.
Another Visit—A 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 wasnow 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 lympth 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 lympth from well,I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.’”
“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron.”
“A clever man,” said I.
“Who?” said the man in black.
“Mezzofante di Bologna.”
“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “now I know that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that—”
“Why,” said I, “does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?”
“O 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.”
“O, 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 those 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 religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled.
On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary’s bosom,—conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more.
On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short, by saying, that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly.
After musing a little while I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would, reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land; a cry of “tolerance,” which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to “Hold their nonsense,” and cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer.
I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain instatu 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 would never continue long attached to a Church, the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. “I speak advisedly,” said he, in continuation, “there is one Platitude.”
“And I hope there is only one,” said I; “you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?”
“You know him,” said the man in black; “nay, I, heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know, that unless a Church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude—”
“Stop,” said I; “you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life.”
“Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely-different thing from saying it in the dingle,” said the man in black; “had the Church of England been a persecuting Church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe, that instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.”
“He tried that game,” said I, “and the parish said—‘Pooh, pooh,’ and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters.”
“Very true,” said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, “butwhy 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 pauperis.”
“Very true,” said the man in black, “but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. ‘What a fine Church,’ they’ll say; ‘with what authority it speaks—no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles.’ What a contrast to the sleepy English Church! they’ll go over to it by millions, till it 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-house what he had previously professed in the valley?”
“And do you think,” said I, “that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?”
“Let them become Papists,” said the man in black: “only let the majority become Papists, and you will see.”
“They will never become so,” said I; “the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity.”
“The good sense of the people of England!” said the man in black, filling himself another glass.
“Yes,” said I; “the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes.”
“And of what description of people are the upper class?” 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, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble.O Cavalière Gualtiero avete fatto molto in favore delle 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 patronize it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, if the very next time the cannyScot 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 eulogize us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles choose, 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 Aertino, 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 ironworker’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 was 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 lickspittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he! he! and above all at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!”
“You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your censure of the last class?” said I.
“Them!” said the man in black; “why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraisetheir 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 foolish people 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 taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty, the ‘Cavalier ---’
‘Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and BrownWith the barons of England, who fight for the crown?’—
‘Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and BrownWith 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 in black, “I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion? why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests.”
“Has your church any followers amongst them?” said I.
“Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions,” said the man in black, “our church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are—for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cock-fight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, whom, I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world.”
“And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow’s head?” said I.
“Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs,” said the man in black; “I think he might make 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 with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us.”
“Horseflesh and bitter ale!” I replied.
“Yes,” said the man in black; “horseflesh and bitter ale, the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, 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 beingof 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 chair, 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 bidding farewell, 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 ofher late excursion remained; she had 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 queen of 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?”
“O 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 thecleverest 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 reminds me 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 you mentioned 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 now 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 carried off. 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 thunder-storm there are occasionally all kinds of aërial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunder-storm, 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 cursed 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 cursed hag is screeching high,Whilst crash goes all her crockery?”
You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered 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; this 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.”