Desire for Novelty—Lives of the Lawless—Countenances—Old Yeoman and Dame—We Live near the Sea—Uncouth-looking Volume—The Other Condition—Draoitheac—A Dilemma—The Antinomian—Lodowick Muggleton—Almost Blind—Anders Vedel.
But to proceed with my own story; I now ceased all at once to take much pleasure in the pursuits which formerly interested me, I yawned over Ab Gwilym; even as I now in my mind’s eye perceive the reader yawning over the present pages. What was the cause of this? Constitutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty? Both it is probable had some influence in the matter, but I rather think that the latter feeling was predominant. The parting words of my brother had sunk into my mind. He had talked of travelling in strange regions and seeing strange and wonderful objects, and my imagination fell to work and drew pictures of adventures wild and fantastic, and I thought what a fine thing it must be to travel, and I wished that my father would give me his blessing, and the same sum that he had given my brother, and bid me go forth into the world; always forgetting that I had neither talents nor energies at this period which would enable me to make any successful figure on its stage.
And then I again sought up the book which had so captivated me in my infancy, and I read it through; and I sought up others of a similar character, and in seeking for them I met books also of adventure, but by no means of a harmless description, lives of wicked and lawless men, Murray and Latroon—books of singular power, but of coarse and prurient imagination—books at one time highly in vogue; now deservedly forgotten, and most difficult to be found.
And when I had gone through these books, what was my state of mind? I had derived entertainment from their perusal, but they left me more listless and unsettled than before, and I really knew not what to do to pass my time. My philological studies had become distasteful, and I had never taken any pleasure in the duties of my profession. I sat behind my desk in a state of torpor, my mind almost as blank as the paper before me, on which I rarely traced a line. It was always a relief to hear the bell ring, as it afforded me an opportunity of doing something which I was yet capable of doing, to rise and open the door and stare in the countenances of the visitors. All of a sudden I fell to studying countenances, and soon flattered myself that I had made considerable progress in the science.
“There is no faith in countenances,” said some Roman of old; “trust anything but a person’s countenance.” “Not trust a man’s countenance?” say some moderns, “why, it is the only thing in many people that we can trust; on which account they keep it most assiduously out of the way. Trust not a man’s words if you please, or you may come to very erroneous conclusions; but at all times place implicit confidence in a man’s countenance, in which there is no deceit; and of necessity there can be none. If people would but look each other more in the face, we should have less cause to complain of the deception of the world; nothing so easy as physiognomy nor so useful.” Somewhat in this latter strain I thought, at the time of which I am speaking. I am now older, and, let us hope, less presumptuous. It is true that in the course of my life I have scarcely ever had occasion to repent placing confidence in individuals whose countenances have prepossessed me in their favour; though to how many I may have been unjust, from whose countenances I may have drawn unfavourable conclusions, is another matter.
But it had been decreed by that Fate which governs our every action, that I was soon to return to my old pursuits. It was written that I should not yet cease to be Lav-engro, though I had become, in my own opinion, a kind of Lavater. It is singular enough that my renewed ardour for philology seems to have been brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in which had I not indulged, the event which I am about to relate, as far as connected with myself, might never have occurred. Amongst the various countenances which I admitted during the period of my answering the bell, there were two which particularly pleased me, and which belonged to an elderly yeoman and his wife, whom some little business had brought to our law sanctuary. I believe they experienced from me some kindness and attention, which won the old people’s hearts. So, one day, when their little businesshad been brought to a conclusion, and they chanced to be alone with me, who was seated as usual behind the deal desk in the outer room, the old man with some confusion began to tell me how grateful himself and dame felt for the many attentions I had shown them, and how desirous they were to make me some remuneration. “Of course,” said the old man, “we must be cautious what we offer to so fine a young gentleman as yourself; we have, however, something we think will just suit the occasion, a strange kind of thing which people say is a book, though no one that my dame or myself have shown it to can make anything out of it; so as we are told that you are a fine young gentleman, who can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, we thought, I and my dame, that it would be just the thing you would like; and my dame has it now at the bottom of her basket.”
“A book,” said I, “how did you come by it?”
“We live near the sea,” said the old man; “so near that sometimes our thatch is wet with the spray; and it may now be a year ago that there was a fearful storm, and a ship was driven ashore during the night, and ere the morn was a complete wreck. When we got up at daylight, there were the poor shivering crew at our door; they were foreigners, red-haired men, whose speech we did not understand; but we took them in, and warmed them, and they remained with us three days; and when they went away they left behind them this thing, here it is, part of the contents of a box which was washed ashore.”
“And did you learn who they were?”
“Why, yes; they made us understand that they were Danes.”
Danes! thought I, Danes! and instantaneously, huge and grizzly, appeared to rise up before my vision the skull of the old pirate Dane, even as I had seen it of yore in the pent-house of the ancient church to which, with my mother and my brother, I had wandered on the memorable summer eve.
And now the old man handed me the book; a strange and uncouth-looking volume enough. It was not very large, but instead of the usual covering was bound in wood, and was compressed with strong iron clasps. It was a printed book, but the pages were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and resembled those generally termed Gothic.
“It is certainly a curious book,” said I; “and I should like to have it, but I can’t think of taking it as a gift, I must give you an equivalent, I never take presents from anybody.”
The old man whispered with his dame and chuckled, and then turned his face to me, and said, with another chuckle, “Well, we have agreed about the price; but, may be, you will not consent.”
“I don’t know,” said I; “what do you demand?”
“Why, that you shake me by the hand, and hold out your cheek to my old dame, she has taken an affection to you.”
“I shall be very glad to shake you by the hand,” said I, “but as for the other condition it requires consideration.”
“No consideration at all,” said the old man, with something like a sigh; “she thinks you like her son, our only child, that was lost twenty years ago in the waves of the North Sea.”
“Oh, that alters the case altogether,” said I, “and of course I can have no objection.”
And now, at once, I shook off my listlessness, to enable me to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than the above event. The Danes, the Danes! And I was at last to become acquainted, and in so singular a manner, with the speech of a people which had as far back as I could remember exercised the strongest influence over my imagination, as how should they not!—in infancy there was the summer-eve adventure, to which I often looked back, and always with a kind of strange interest, with respect to those to whom such gigantic and wondrous bones could belong as I had seen on that occasion; and, more than this, I had been in Ireland, and there, under peculiar circumstances, this same interest was increased tenfold. I had mingled much whilst there, with the genuine Irish—a wild, but kind-hearted race, whose conversation was deeply imbued with traditionary lore, connected with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing commonplace, for they never mentioned them but in terms which tallied well with my own preconceived ideas. For at an early period the Danes had invaded Ireland, and had subdued it, and, though eventually driven out, had left behind them an enduring remembrance in the minds of the people, who loved to speak of their strength and their stature, in evidence of which they would point to the ancient raths or mounds, where the old Danes were buried, and where bones of extraordinary size were occasionally exhumed. And as the Danes surpassed other people in strength, so, according to my narrators, they also excelled all others in wisdom, or rather in Draoitheac, or Magic, for they were powerful sorcerers, they said, compared with whom the fairy men of the present day knew nothing at all, at all; and, amongst other wonderful things, they knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mysterious interest, which I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by my sojourn in Ireland.
And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from its appearance, might be supposed to have belonged to the very old Danes indeed; but how was I to turn it to any account? I had the book, it is true, but I did not understand the language, and how was I to overcome that difficulty? hardly by poring over the book; yet I did pore over the book, daily and nightly, till my eyes were dim, and it appeared to me every now and then I encountered words which I understood—English words, though strangely disguised; and I said to myself, courage! English and Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come when I shall understand this Danish; and then I pored over the book again, but with all my poring I could not understand it; and then I became angry, and I bit my lips till the blood came; and I occasionally tore a handful from my hair, and flung it upon the floor, but that did not mend the matter, for still I did not understand the book, which, however, I began to see was written in rhyme—a circumstance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the lines not differingfrom that which is employed in prose; and its being written in rhyme made me only the more eager to understand it.
But I toiled in vain, for I had neither grammar nor dictionary of the language; and when I sought for them could procure neither; and I was much dispirited, till suddenly a bright thought came into my head, and I said, although I cannot obtain a dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in this language, and if I can procure a Bible, I can learn the language, for the Bible in every tongue contains the same thing, and I have only to compare the words of the Danish Bible with those of the English, and, if I persevere, I shall in time acquire the language of the Danes; and I was pleased with the thought, which I considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my lips, or tore my hair, but took my hat, and, going forth, I flung my hat into the air.
And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and commenced running, directing my course to the house of the Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little library, dusting his books; and the Antinomian clergyman was a tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad brim and a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly nasal; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, “Have you a Danish Bible?” and he replied, “What do you want it for, friend?” and I answered, “to learn Danish by;” “and may be to learn thy duty,” replied the Antinomian preacher. “Truly, I have it not; but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire.”
And when I heard these words of the old man, I was very glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter into conversation with him; and I said, “Why are you an Antinomian? For my part, I would rather be a dog than belong to such a religion.” “Nay, friend,” said the Antinomian, “thou forejudgest us; know that those who call us Antinomians call us so despitefully, we do not acknowledge the designation.” “Then you do not set all law at nought?” said I. “Far be it from us,” said the old man, “we only hope that, being sanctified by the Spirit from above, we have no need of the law to keep us in order. Did you ever hear tell of Lodowick Muggleton?” “Not I.” “That is strange; know then that he was the founder of our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though opprobriously, termed Muggletonians, for we are Christians. Here is his book, which, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase, you are fond of rare books, and this is both curious and rare; I will sell it cheap. Thank you, and now be gone, I will do all I can to procure the Bible.”
And in this manner I procured the Danish Bible, and I commenced my task; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the volume which had excited my curiosity, saying, “Out of this closet thou comest not till I deem myself competent to read thee,” and then I sat down in right earnest, comparing every line in the one version with the correspondingone in the other; and I passed entire nights in this manner, till I was almost blind, and the task was tedious enough at first, but I quailed not, and soon began to make progress: and at first I had a misgiving that the old book might not prove a Danish book, but was soon reassured by reading many words in the Bible which I remembered to have seen in the book; and then I went on right merrily, and I found that the language which I was studying was by no means a difficult one, and in less than a month I deemed myself able to read the book.
Anon, I took the book from the closet, and proceeded to make myself master of its contents; I had some difficulty, for the language of the book, though in the main the same as the language of the Bible, differed from it in some points, being apparently a more ancient dialect; by degrees, however, I overcame this difficulty, and I understood the contents of the book, and well did they correspond with all those ideas in which I had indulged connected with the Danes. For the book was a book of ballads, about the deeds of knights and champions, and men of huge stature; ballads which from time immemorial had been sung in the North, and which some two centuries before the time of which I am speaking had been collected by one Anders Vedel, who lived with a certain Tycho Brahe, and assisted him in making observations upon the heavenly bodies, at a place called Uranias Castle, on the little island of Hveen, in the Cattegat.
The Two Individuals—The Long Pipe—The Germans—Werther—The Female Quaker—Suicide—Gibbon—Jesus of Bethlehem—Fill Your Glass—Shakespeare—English at Minden—Melancholy Swayne Vonved—The Fifth Dinner—Strange Doctrines—Are You Happy?—Improve Yourself in German.
It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that two individuals were seated together in a certain room, in a certain street of the old town which I have so frequently had occasion to mention in the preceding pages; one of them was an elderly, and the other a very young man, and they sat on either side of the fire-place, beside a table, on which were fruit and wine; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited nothing remarkable. Over the mantel-piece, however, hung a small picture with naked figures in the foreground, and with much foliage behind. It might not have struck every beholder, for it looked old and smoke-dried; but a connoisseur, on inspecting it closely, would have pronounced it to be a Judgment of Paris, and a masterpiece of the Flemish school.
The forehead of the elder individual was high, and perhaps appeared more so than it really was, from the hair being carefully brushed back, as if for the purpose of displaying to the best advantage that part of the cranium; his eyes were large and full, and of a light brown, and mighthave been called heavy and dull, had they not been occasionally lighted up by a sudden gleam—not so brilliant however as that which at every inhalation shone from the bowl of the long clay pipe which he was smoking, but which, from a certain sucking sound which, about this time, began to be heard from the bottom, appeared to be giving notice that it would soon require replenishment from a certain canister, which, together with a lighted taper, stood upon the table beside him.
“You do not smoke?” said he, at length, laying down his pipe, and directing his glance to his companion.
Now there was at least one thing singular connected with this last, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming grey. He had very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been somewhat below the usual height.
“No, I can’t smoke,” said the youth in reply to the observation of the other. “I have often tried, but could never succeed to my satisfaction.”
“Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?” said the senior, half speaking to himself.
“I daresay not,” said the youth; “but I shan’t break my heart on that account.”
“As for breaking your heart, of course you would never think of such a thing; he is a fool who breaks his heart on any account; but it is good to be a German, the Germans are the most philosophic people in the world, and the greatest smokers: now I trace their philosophy to their smoking.”
“I have heard say their philosophy is all smoke—is that your opinion?”
“Why, no; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nerves, and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which every one has his share) not only decently, but dignifiedly. Suicide is not a national habit in Germany, as it is in England.”
“But that poor creature, Werther, who committed suicide, was a German.”
“Werther is a fictitious character, and by no means a felicitous one; I am no admirer either of Werther or his author. But I should say that, if there ever was a Werther in Germany, he did not smoke. Werther, as you very justly observe, was a poor creature.”
“And a very sinful one; I have heard my parents say that suicide is a great crime.”
“Broadly, and without qualification, to say that suicide is a crime, is speaking somewhat unphilosophically. No doubt suicide, under many circumstances, is a crime, a very heinous one. When the father of a family, for example, to escape from certain difficulties, commits suicide, he commits a crime; there are those around him who look to him for support, by the law of nature, and he has no right to withdraw himself from those who have a claim upon his exertions; he is a person who decamps with other people’s goods as well as his own. Indeed, there can be no crime which is not founded upon the depriving others of something which belongs to them. A man is hanged for setting fire tohis house in a crowded city, for he burns at the same time or damages those of other people; but if a man who has a house on a heath sets fire to it, he is not hanged, for he has not damaged or endangered any other individual’s property, and the principle of revenge, upon which all punishment is founded, has not been aroused. Similar to such a case is that of the man who, without any family ties, commits suicide; for example, were I to do the thing this evening, who would have a right to call me to account? I am alone in the world, have no family to support, and, so far from damaging any one, should even benefit my heir by my accelerated death. However, I am no advocate for suicide under any circumstances; there is something undignified in it, unheroic, un-Germanic. But if you must commit suicide—and there is no knowing to what people may be brought—always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of. I remember a female Quaker who committed suicide by cutting her throat, but she did it decorously and decently: kneeling down over a pail, so that not one drop fell upon the floor; thus exhibiting in her last act that nice sense of sweetness for which Quakers are distinguished. I have always had a respect for that woman’s memory.”
And here, filling his pipe from the canister, and lighting it at the taper, he recommenced smoking calmly and sedately.
“But is not suicide forbidden in the Bible?” the youth demanded.
“Why, no; but what though it were!—the Bible is a respectable book, but I should hardly call it one whose philosophy is of the soundest. I have said that it is a respectable book; I mean respectable from its antiquity, and from containing, as Herder says, ‘the earliest records of the human race,’ though those records are far from being dispassionately written, on which account they are of less value than they otherwise might have been. There is too much passion in the Bible, too much violence; now, to come to all truth, especially historic truth, requires cool dispassionate investigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been famous. We are ourselves not famous for it, for we are a passionate people; the Germans are not—they are not a passionate people—a people celebrated for their oaths: we are. The Germans have many excellent historic writers, we—’tis true we have Gibbon. You have been reading Gibbon—what do you think of him?”
“I think him a very wonderful writer.”
“He is a wonderful writer—onesui generis—uniting the perspicuity of the English—for we are perspicuous—with the cool dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after the truth, found it, and made it clear.”
“Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer?”
“Why, yes; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood? Many people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood; they have followed him in his researches, and have never found him once tripping. Oh, he’s a wonderful writer! his power of condensation is admirable; the lore of the whole world is to be found in his pages. Sometimes in a single note he has given us the result of the study of years; or, tospeak metaphorically, ‘he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto.’”
“But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith?”
“Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration—of Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have nothing to do. Of all historic characters, Jesus is the most beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilized people—the worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarism—it is mere fetish; the savages of West Africa are all spirit worshippers. But there is something philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who have attained a much higher state of civilization than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances; who was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against that violent dogma, ‘an eye for an eye;’ who shouted conquer, but conquer with kindness; who said put up the sword, a violent unphilosophic weapon; and who finally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha.”
“But he was something more than a hero; he was the son of God, wasn’t he?”
The elderly individual made no immediate answer; but, after a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed, “Come, fill your glass! How do you advance with your translation of Tell?”
“It is nearly finished; but I do not think I shall proceed with it; I begin to think the original somewhat dull.”
“There you are wrong; it is the masterpiece of Schiller, the first of German poets.”
“It may be so,” said the youth. “But, pray excuse me, I do not think very highly of German poetry. I have lately been reading Shakespeare, and, when I turn from him to the Germans—even the best of them—they appear mere pigmies. You will pardon the liberty I perhaps take in saying so.”
“I like that every one should have an opinion of his own,” said the elderly individual; “and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, ‘crackling bombast,’ as I think I have said in one of my essays?”
“I daresay he is,” said the youth; “but I can’t help thinking him the greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of Lancaster, than the Iliad itself. The events described are as lofty as those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer.”
“You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again—but the Germans?”
“I don’t admire the Germans,” said the youth, somewhat excited. “I don’t admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can’t much be depended upon as soldiers; and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside, I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen lay to the present.”
“Ah, the Kœmpe Viser?” said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the declamation of his young companion. “There are singular things in that book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm Ungarswayne, who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved, who roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who cannot answer, and rewarding those who can with golden bracelets. Were it not for the violence, I should say that ballad has a philosophic tendency. I thank you for making me acquainted with the book, and I thank the Jew Mousha for making me acquainted with you.”
“That Mousha was a strange customer,” said the youth, collecting himself.
“Hewasa strange customer,” said the elder individual, breathing forth a gentle cloud. “I love to exercise hospitality to wandering strangers, especially foreigners; and when he came to this place, pretending to teach German and Hebrew, I asked him to dinner. After the first dinner, he asked me to lend him five pounds; Ididlend him five pounds. After the fifth dinner, he asked me to lend him fifty pounds; I didnotlend him the fifty pounds.”
“He was as ignorant of German as of Hebrew,” said the youth; “on which account he was soon glad, I suppose, to transfer his pupil to some one else.”
“He told me,” said the elder individual, “that he intended to leave atown where he did not find sufficient encouragement; and, at the same time, expressed regret at being obliged to abandon a certain extraordinary pupil, for whom he had a particular regard. Now I, who have taught many people German from the love which I bear to it, and the desire which I feel that it should be generally diffused, instantly said, that I should be happy to take his pupil off his hands, and afford him what instruction I could in German, for, as to Hebrew, I have never taken much interest in it. Such was the origin of our acquaintance. You have been an apt scholar. Of late, however, I have seen little of you—what is the reason?”
The youth made no answer.
“You think, probably, that you have learned all I can teach you? Well, perhaps you are right.”
“Not so, not so,” said the young man eagerly; “before I knew you I knew nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father’s health has been very much broken, and he requires attention; his spirits also have become low, which, to tell you the truth, he attributes to my misconduct. He says that I have imbibed all kinds of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in all probability, prove my ruin, both here and hereafter; which—which—”
“Ah, I understand,” said the elder, with another calm whiff. “I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would fain have cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not been reciprocated. I met him, the other day, up the road, with his cane and dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation.”
“He has certain opinions of his own,” said the youth, “which are widely different from those which he has heard that you profess.”
“I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own,” said the elderly individual. “I hold certain opinions; but I should not respect an individual the more for adopting them. All I wish for is tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise. I have always loved the truth, and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my misfortune.”
“Are you happy?” said the young man.
“Why, no. And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions. My life, upon the whole, I consider a failure; on which account, I would not counsel you, or any one, to follow my example too closely. It is getting late, and you had better be going, especially as your father, you say, is anxious about you. But, as we may never meet again, I think there are three things which I may safely venture to press upon you. The first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should never be lost sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentlenesses is at all times compatible with independence of thought and action. The second thing which I would wish to impress upon you is, that there is always some eye upon us; and that it is impossible to keep anything we do from the world, as it will assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon as it is his interest to do so. The third thing which I would wish to press upon you—”
“Yes,” said the youth, eagerly bending forward.
“Is”—and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe upon the table—“that it will be as well to go on improving yourself in German!”
The Alehouse Keeper—Compassion for the Rich—Old English Gentleman—How is this?—Madeira—The Greek Parr—Twenty Languages—Whiter’s Health—About the Fight—A Sporting Gentleman—The Flattened Nose—Lend us that Pightle—The Surly Nod.
“Holloa, master! can you tell us where the fight is likely to be?”
Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick fellow, in brown top-boots, and bare-headed, who stood, with his hands in his pockets, at the door of a country alehouse as I was passing by.
Now, as I knew nothing about the fight, and as the appearance of the man did not tempt me greatly to enter into conversation with him, I merely answered in the negative, and continued my way.
It was a fine, lovely morning in May, the sun shine bright above, and the birds were carolling in the hedgerows. I was wont to be cheerful at such seasons, for, from my earliest recollection, sunshine and the song of birds have been dear to me; yet, about that period, I was not cheerful, my mind was not at rest; I was debating within myself, and the debate was dreary and unsatisfactory enough. I sighed, and, turning my eyes upward, I ejaculated, “What is truth?” But suddenly, by a violent effort, breaking away from my meditations, I hastened forward; one mile, two miles, three miles were speedily left behind; and now I came to a grove of birch and other trees, and opening a gate I passed up a kind of avenue, and soon arriving before a large brick house, of rather antique appearance, knocked at the door. In this house there lived a gentleman with whom I had business. He was said to be a genuine old English gentleman, and a man of considerable property; at this time, however, he wanted a thousand pounds, as gentlemen of considerable property every now and then do. I had brought him a thousand pounds in my pocket, for it is astonishing how many eager helpers the rich find, and with what compassion people look upon their distresses. He was said to have good wine in his cellar.
“Is your master at home?” said I, to a servant who appeared at the door.
“His worship is at home, young man,” said the servant, as he looked at my shoes, which bore evidence that I had come walking. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he added, as he looked me in the face.
“Ay, ay, servants,” thought I, as I followed the man into the house, “always look people in the face when you open the door, and do so before you look at their shoes, or you may mistake the heir of a Prime Minister for a shopkeeper’s son.”
I found his worship a jolly red-faced gentleman, of about fifty-five; he was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fashioned leather sofa, with two small, thorough-bred English terriers, one on each side of him. He had all the appearance of a genuine old English gentleman who kept good wine in his cellar.
“Sir,” said I, “I have brought you a thousand pounds”; and I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had ceased their barking, which is natural to all such dogs at the sight of a stranger.
And when the magistrate had received the money, and signed and returned a certain paper which I handed to him, he rubbed his hands, and looking very benignantly at me, exclaimed,—
“And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, perhaps you can tell me where the fight is to take place?”
“I am sorry, sir,” said I, “that I can’t inform you; but everybody seems to be anxious about it”; and then I told him what had occurred to me on the road with the alehouse keeper.
“I know him,” said his worship; “he’s a tenant of mine, and a good fellow, somewhat too much in my debt, though. But how is this, young gentleman, you look as if you had been walking; you did not come on foot?”
“Yes, sir, I came on foot.”
“On foot! why, it is sixteen miles.”
“I sha’n’t be tired when I have walked back.”
“You can’t ride, I suppose?”
“Better than I can walk.”
“Then why do you walk?”
“I have frequently to make journeys connected with my profession; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride, just as the whim takes me.”
“Will you take a glass of wine?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right; what shall it be?”
“Madeira!”
The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee; “I like your taste,” said he; “I am fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can give you such a one as you will not drink every day. Sit down, young gentleman, you shall have a glass of Madeira, and the best I have.”
Thereupon he got up, and, followed by his two terriers, walked slowly out of the room.
I looked round the room, and, seeing nothing which promised me much amusement, I sat down, and fell again into my former train of thought.
“What is truth?” said I.
“Here it is,” said the magistrate, returning at the end of a quarter of an hour, followed by the servant, with a tray; “here’s the true thing, or I am no judge, far less a justice. It has been thirty years in my cellar last Christmas. There,” said he to the servant, “put it down, and leave my young friend and me to ourselves. Now, what do you think of it?”
“It is very good,” said I.
“Did you ever taste better Madeira?”
“I never before tasted Madeira.”
“Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is?”
“I ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is.”
“Well, there is logic in that, as Parr would say; you have heard of Parr?”
“Old Parr?”
“Yes, old Parr, but not that Parr; you mean the English, I the Greek Parr, as people call him.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Perhaps not—rather too young for that; but were you of my age, you might have cause to know him, coming from where you do. He kept school there, I was his first scholar; he flogged Greek into me till I loved him—and he loved me; he came to see me last year, and sat in that chair; I honour Parr—he knows much, and is a sound man.”
“Does he know the truth?”
“Know the truth! he knows what’s good, from an oyster to an ostrich—he’s not only sound but round.”
“Suppose we drink his health?”
“Thank you, boy: here’s Parr’s health, and Whiter’s.”
“Who is Whiter?”
“Don’t you know Whiter? I thought everybody knew Reverend Whiter the philologist, though I suppose you scarcely know what that means. A man fond of tongues and languages, quite out of your way—he understands some twenty; what do you say to that?”
“Is he a sound man?”
“Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say: he has got queer notions in his head—wrote a book to prove that all words came originally from the earth—who knows? Words have roots, and roots, live in the earth; but, upon the whole, I should not call him altogether a sound man, though he can talk Greek nearly as fast as Parr.”
“Is he a round man?”
“Ay, boy, rounder than Parr; I’ll sing you a song, if you like, which will let you into his character:—
“‘Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old,And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold,An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride,And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side;With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal,Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call.’
“‘Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old,And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold,An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride,And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side;With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal,Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call.’
Here’s to Whiter’s health—so you know nothing about the fight?”
“No, sir; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information—boxing is a noble art.”
“Can you box?”
“A little.”
“I tell you what, my boy; I honour you, and, provided your education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter; both can box. Boxing is, as you say, a noble art—a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace! I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prize-fight: I saw the Game Chicken beat Gulley.”
“Did you ever see Big Ben?”
“No, why do you ask?” But here we heard a noise, like that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little time, the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in the room.
“Sir,” said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, “here are two gentlemen waiting to speak to you.”
“Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the servant; “but they look like sporting gentlemen, and—and”—here he hesitated; “from a word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight.”
“About the fight,” said the magistrate. “No! that can hardly be; however, you had better show them in.”
Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the servant ushered two men into the apartment. Again there was a barking, but louder than that which had been directed against myself, for here were two intruders; both of them were remarkable looking men, but to the foremost of them the most particular notice may well be accorded: he was a man somewhat under thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue coat, white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with small golden buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb’s-wool stockings, and on his feet shoes reaching to the ankles; round his neck was a handkerchief of the blue and bird’s eye pattern; he wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and appeared not to delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light brown, being closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat narrow; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp than broad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were grey, with an expression in which there was sternness blended with something approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain pock-marks, which here and there studded his countenance; his form was athletic, but lean; his arms long. In the whole appearance of the man there was a blending of the bluff and the sharp. You might have supposed him a bruiser; his dress was that of one in all its minutiæ; something was wanting, however, in his manner—the quietness of the professional man; he rather looked like one performing the part—well—very well—but still performing a part. His companion!—there, indeed, was the bruiser—no mistake about him: a tall massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring; he wore white topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. As the first advanced towards the table, behind which the magistratesat, he doffed a white castor from his head, and made rather a genteel bow; looking at me, who sat somewhat on one side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition.
“May I request to know who you are, gentlemen?” said the magistrate.
“Sir,” said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, “allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. ---, the celebrated pugilist;” and he motioned with his hand towards the massive man with the flattened nose.
“And your own name, sir?” said the magistrate.
“My name is no matter,” said the man; “were I to mention it to you, it would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It is neither Kean nor Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to distinguish myself like either of those individuals, or even like my friend here. However, a time may come—we are not yet buried; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high—
‘Like a bird that’s bred amongst the Helicons.’”
‘Like a bird that’s bred amongst the Helicons.’”
And here a smile half theatrical passed over his features.
“In what can I oblige you, sir?” said the magistrate.
“Well, sir; the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; ’twould be a favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe.”
My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air, “Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request.”
“Not comply!” said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with a hoarse and savage tone, “Not comply! why not?”
“It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!”
“Why so?”
“I am not compelled to give my reason to you, sir, nor to any man.”
“Let me beg of you to alter your decision,” said the man, in a tone of profound respect.
“Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate.”
“Magistrate! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and a Harmanbeck.”
“Sir!” said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery with wrath.
But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment; and in a moment more the heavy footsteps of himself and his companion were heard descending the staircase.
“Who is that man?” said my friend, turning towards me.
“A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which I come.”
“He appeared to know you.”
“I have occasionally put on the gloves with him.”
“What is his name?”
Doubts—Wise King of Jerusalem—Let Me See—A Thousand Years—Nothing New—The Crowd—The Hymn—Faith—Charles Wesley—There He Stood—Farewell, Brother—Death—Sun, Moon, and Stars—Wind on the Heath.
There was one question which I was continually asking myself at this period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the reader who has followed me through the last chapter. “What is truth?” I had involved myself imperceptibly in a dreary labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I turned, no reasonable prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means by which I had brought myself into this situation may be very briefly told; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I might become wise, and I had read and pondered over the words of the wise, so called, till I had made myself master of the sum of human wisdom; namely, that everything is enigmatical and that man is an enigma to himself; thence the cry of “What is truth?” I had ceased to believe in the truth of that in which I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I could put any fixed or deliberate belief. I was, indeed, in a labyrinth! In what did I not doubt? With respect to crime and virtue I was in doubt; I doubted that the one was blameable and the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity? Assuredly; time and chance govern all things: yet how can this be? alas!
Then there was myself; for what was I born? Are not all things born to be forgotten? That’s incomprehensible: yet is it not so? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a butterfly? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah! that was a pang indeed; ’tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fishpools, saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun? If so, of what profit is life?
In truth, it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as the wise man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform must necessarily be of very temporary duration; and if so, why do it? I said to myself, whatever name I can acquire, will it endure for eternity? scarcely so. A thousand years? Let me see! What have I done already? I have learnt Welsh, and have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand lines, into English rhyme; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach into corresponding English metre. Good! have I done enough already to secure myself a reputation of a thousand years? No, no! certainly not; I have not the slightest ground for hoping that my translations from the Welsh and Danish will be read at the end of a thousand years. Well, but I am only eighteen, and I havenot stated all that I have done; I have learnt many other tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then be very learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have translated the Talmud, and some of the great works of the Arabians. Pooh! all this is mere learning and translation, and such will never secure immortality. Translation is at best an echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be heard after the lapse of a thousand years. No! all I have already done, and all I may yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing—mere pastime; something else must be done. I must either write some grand original work, or conquer an empire; the one just as easy as the other. But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, under favourable circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well! but what’s a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me! I may just as well sit still.
“Would I had never been born!” I said to myself; and a thought would occasionally intrude. But was I ever born? Is not all that I see a lie—a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, and earth, and sky? Berkeley’s doctrine—Spinosa’s doctrine! Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinosa. I have still never read them; who are they, men of yesterday? “All is a lie—all a deceitful phantom,” are old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those who, casting aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the “universal all” is most coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie—a deceitful phantom—was said when the world was yet young; its surface, save a scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddh; and Buddh lived thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his sunny fishpools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, “There is nothing new under the sun!”
* * * * *
One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended halfway up the side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half-a-dozen men; some sitting, others standing—they were dressed in sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in a plain and rather uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all were bare-headed—sitting or standing, all were bare-headed. One of them, a tall man, was speaking as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn “to the glory of God”—that was the word. It was a strange sounding hymn, as well it might be, for everybodyjoined in it: there were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and of children—of those who could sing, and of those who could not—a thousand voices all joined, and all joined heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers and mechanics, and their wives and children—dusty people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over—and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious solemnity was being done—in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their melodious tones in presence of Batuschca and his cardinals—on the ice of the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph:—when the hymn was over, another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a practised one—once or twice he hesitated as if for words to express his meaning, but still he held on, talking of faith, and how it could remove mountains: “It is the only thing we want, brethren, in this world; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will enable us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot, however hard it may be—and the lot of all mankind is hard—the lot of the poor is hard, brethren—and who knows more of the poor than I?—a poor man myself, and the son of a poor man: but are the rich better off? not so, brethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too: I am not rich myself, but I have seen the rich with careworn countenances; I have also seen them in mad-houses; from which you may learn, brethren, that the lot of all mankind is hard; that is, till we lay hold of faith, which makes us comfortable under all circumstances; whether we ride in gilded chariots or walk bare-footed in quest of bread; whether we be ignorant, whether we be wise—for riches and poverty, ignorance and wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar temptations. Well, under all these troubles, the thing which I would recommend you to seek is one and the same—faith; faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us, and allotted to each his station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do it, therefore, but always in faith; without faith we shall find ourselves sometimes at fault; but with faith never—for faithcan remove the difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us; for as every man has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It will likewise teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we must one day part with it. It will teach us to face death with resignation, and will preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling of the river Jordan.”
And when he had concluded his address, he said, “Let us sing a hymn, one composed by Master Charles Wesley—he was my countryman, brethren.
‘Jesus, I cast my soul on thee,Mighty and merciful to save;Thou shalt to death go down with me,And lay me gently in the grave.This body then shall rest in hope,This body which the worms destroy;For thou shalt surely raise me up,To glorious life and endless joy.’”
‘Jesus, I cast my soul on thee,Mighty and merciful to save;Thou shalt to death go down with me,And lay me gently in the grave.
This body then shall rest in hope,This body which the worms destroy;For thou shalt surely raise me up,To glorious life and endless joy.’”
Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm serious look! I saw thee once again, and that was lately—only the other day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the seaside, that I saw the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quicksands. There he stood on the monticle, preaching to weather-worn fishermen and mariners gathered below upon the sand. “Who is he?” said I to an old fisherman who stood beside me with a book of hymns in his hand; but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that was the only answer I received. Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not that of one who hesitates. There he stood—no longer a young man, for his black locks were become gray, even like my own; but there was the intelligent face, and the calm serious look which had struck me of yore. There stood the preacher, one of those men—and, thank God, their number is not few—who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty, and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian England. I should have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might speak to him and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me, “Why loiterest thou here?—knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?” and he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, “Farewell, brother! theseed came up at last, after a long period!” and then I gave the speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping horse, I said, “Would that my life had been like his—even like that man’s.”
I now wandered along the heath, until I came to a place where, beside a thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the setting sun.
“That’s not you, Jasper?”
“Indeed, brother!”
“I’ve not seen you for years.”
“How should you, brother?”
“What brings you here?”
“The fight, brother.”
“Where are the tents?”
“On the old spot, brother.”
“Any news since we parted?”
“Two deaths, brother.”
“Who are dead, Jasper?”
“Father and mother, brother.”
“Where did they die?”
“Where they were sent, brother.”
“And Mrs. Herne?”
“She’s alive, brother.”
“Where is she now?”
“In Yorkshire, brother.”
“What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?” said I, as I sat down beside him.
“My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing—
Canna marel o manus chivios andé puv,Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi.
Canna marel o manus chivios andé puv,Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi.
When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast into the earth, and there is an end of the matter.”
“And do you think that is the end of man?”
“There’s an end of him, brother, more’s the pity.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Life is sweet, brother.”
“Do you think so?”
“Think so!—There’s night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?”
“I would wish to die—”
“You talk like a gorgio—which is the same as talking like a fool—were you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed!—A Rommany Chal would wish to live for ever!”
“In sickness, Jasper?”
“There’s the sun and stars, brother.”
“In blindness, Jasper?”
“There’s the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we’ll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and I’ll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!”