No Authority Whatever—Interference—Wondrous Farrago—Brandt and Struensee—What a Life!—The Hearse—Mortal Relics—Great Poet—Fashion and Fame—What a Difference!—Oh, Beautiful!—Good for Nothing.
And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people’s business—at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects—I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though theyhad little authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the City of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher’s philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular—for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily—it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials, I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing—what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial,—his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Königsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance was the publisher’s remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. “Where is Brandt and Struensee?” cries the publisher; “I am sure I don’t know,” I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey’s rats. “Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or—” “Have you found Brandt and Struensee?” cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. “No,” I reply, “I can hear nothing about them;” whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey’s bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treasondangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher’s sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes—he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. “How is this?” he exclaims; “I can scarcely believe my eyes—the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record—what gross, what utter negligence! Where’s the life of Farmer Patch? where’s the trial of Yeoman Patch?”
“What a life! what a dog’s life!” I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher.
One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement—the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Symms—Gentleman Harry as they called him—is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good-looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the city. What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry “There it comes!” and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty.
“Whose body is in that hearse?” said I to a dapper-looking individual, seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession.
“The mortal relics of Lord Byron,” said the dapper-looking individual mouthing his words and smirking—“the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ---shire.”
“An illustrious poet, was he?” said I.
“Beyond all criticism,” said the dapper man; “all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model.”
I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper’s assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived, neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morning with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind.
“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper-looking man, “great poet, but unhappy.”
Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing—that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy, and with reason. Was he a real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I, eagerly to myself—a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron’s; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness—witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice—fameafter death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling—a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don’t know; didn’t he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires, and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to—to—what a destiny! Rank, beauty, fashion, immortality,—he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men—I wish I could think he was unhappy—
I turned away.
“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper man, turning away too, “but unhappy—fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy.”
Hurrying down a street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.
“What means the multitude yonder?” he demanded.
“They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.”
“I have seen the man,” said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, “so I can dispense with seeing the hearse—I saw the living man at Venice—ah, a great poet.”
“Yes,” said I, “a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so—what a destiny! What a difference in the fate of men; but ’tis said he was unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?”
“Oh, beautiful!”
“But did he look happy?”
“Why, I can’t say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two—very fair ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy or not? Come, where shall we go—to Joey’s? His hugest bear—”
“O, I have had enough of bears, I have just been worried by one.”
“The publisher?”
“Yes.”
“Then come to Joey’s, three dogs are to be launched at his bear: as they pin him, imagine him to be the publisher.”
“No,” said I, “I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to London Bridge.”
“That’s too far for me—farewell!”
London Bridge—Why not?—Every Heart has its Bitters—Wicked Boys—Give me my Book—Such a Fright—Honour Bright.
So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall was to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was nowas before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse—a fascination; I had resisted it—I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the eddies—what had I to live for?—what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch—should I yield to the impulse—why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or—Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it—I looked forward, far down the stream in the far distance. “Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance—I stared—I stared—a Fata Morgana—it was gone—”
I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with the intention of returning home; just half way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall.
“Well, mother,” said I, “how are you?” The old woman lifted her head with a startled look.
“Don’t you know me?” said I.
“Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes,” said she, as her features beamed with recollection, “I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?”
“Nothing at all,” said I.
“Bad luck?”
“Yes,” said I, “bad enough, and ill usage.”
“Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” said I, sitting down on the stone bench; “I thought you had left the bridge—why have you changed your side?”
The old woman shook.
“What is the matter with you,” said I, “are you ill?”
“No, child, no; only—”
“Only what? Any bad news of your son?”
“No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child—every heart has its bitters.”
“That’s true,” said I; “well, I don’t want to know your sorrows; come, where’s the book?”
The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. “Book, child, what book?”
“Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.”
“Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child—I have lost it, have left it at home.”
“Lost it,” said I; “left it at home—what do you mean? Come, let me have it.”
“I ha’n’t got it, child.”
“I believe you have got it under your cloak.”
“Don’t tell any one, dear; don’t—don’t,” and the apple-woman burst into tears.
“What’s the matter with you?” said I, staring at her.
“You want to take my book from me?”
“Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what’s the matter?”
“Why, all about that book.”
“The book?”
“Yes, they wanted to take it from me.”
“Who did?”
“Why, some wicked boys. I’ll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand; up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. ‘What book is this?’ said he, grinning at it. ‘What do you want with my book?’ said I, clutching at it over my stall, ‘give me my book.’ ‘What do you want a book for?’ said he, holding it back; ‘I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames.’ ‘Give me my book,’ I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the boys—off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could; I thought of my fruit, but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. ‘My book! my book!’ I shrieked, ‘murder! theft! robbery!’ I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn’t care—I followed the rascals. ‘Stop them! stop them!’ I ran nearly as fast as they—they couldn’t run very fast on account of the crowd. At last some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was. ‘Has he robbed you?’ said the man. ‘Robbed me, indeed; why, he had got my book.’ ‘Oh, your book,’ said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but—”
“Well, go on.”
“My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn’t keep my stall for two days I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn’t bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged.”
“For what?”
“Why, for stealing my book.”
“I thought you didn’t dislike stealing,—that you were ready to buy things—there was your son, you know—”
“Yes, to be sure.”
“He took things.”
“To be sure he did.”
“But you don’t like a thing of yours to be taken.”
“No, that’s quite a different thing; what’s stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book; there’s a wide difference—don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see.”
“Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I’m glad you do. Would you like to look at the book?”
“Well, I think I should.”
“Honour bright?” said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes.
“Honour bright,” said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes.
“Well then, dear, here it is,” said she, taking it from under her cloak; “read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth—Don’t sit so near the edge—you might—”
I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and giving her another tanner, walked away.
Decease of the Review—Homer Himself—Bread and Cheese—Finger and Thumb—Impossible to Find—Something Grand—Universal Mixture—Some Other Publisher.
Time passed away, and with it the review, which, contrary to the publisher’s expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield’s remark, that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low.
So the review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations—the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian—the inferior members to workingfor the publisher, being to a man dependents of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials. Owing to the bad success of the review, the publisher became more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication.
“Sir,” said the publisher, “what do you want the money for?”
“Merely to live on,” I replied; “it is very difficult to live in this town without money.”
“How much money did you bring with you to town?” demanded the publisher.
“Some twenty or thirty pounds,” I replied.
“And you have spent it already?”
“No,” said I, “not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.”
“Sir,” said the publisher, “I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!”
“On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?”
“Sir,” said the publisher; “you eat meat.”
“Yes,” said I, “I eat meat sometimes: what should I eat?”
“Bread, sir,” said the publisher; “bread and cheese.”
“So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it—it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteen pence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.”
“Then, sir, eat bread—bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.”
However, I got paid at last for my writings in the review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent., consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would.
But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so; his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find; the personages whom he mentionednever having lived, nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life of “Gentleman Harry.” “They are drugs, sir,” said the publisher, “drugs; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar—has it not, Taggart?”
Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning’s visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart’s pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man—yet there was much in Taggart—and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way.
“Well, young gentleman,” said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, “how do you like authorship?”
“I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,” said I.
“What do you call authorship?” said Taggart.
“I scarcely know,” said I; “that is, I can scarcely express what I think it.”
“Shall I help you out?” said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me.
“If you like,” said I.
“To write something grand,” said Taggart, taking snuff; “to be stared at—lifted on people’s shoulders—”
“Well,” said I, “that is something like it.”
Taggart took snuff. “Well,” said he, “why don’t you write something grand?”
“I have,” said I.
“What?” said Taggart.
“Why,” said I, “there are those ballads.”
Taggart took snuff.
“And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.”
Taggart took snuff again.
“You seem to be very fond of snuff,” said I; looking at him angrily.
Taggart tapped his box.
“Have you taken it long?”
“Three-and-twenty years.”
“What snuff do you take?”
“Universal mixture.”
“And you find it of use?”
Taggart tapped his box.
“In what respect?” said I.
“In many—there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.”
“Have you been long here?”
“Three-and-twenty years.”
“Dear me,” said I; “and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch—pah, I don’t like it,” and I sneezed.
“Take another pinch,” said Taggart.
“No,” said I, “I don’t like snuff.”
“Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind.”
“So I begin to think—what shall I do?”
Taggart took snuff.
“You were talking of a great work—what shall it be?”
Taggart took snuff.
“Do you think I could write one?”
Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, however.
“It would require time,” said I, with half a sigh.
Taggart tapped his box.
“A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads—”
Taggart took snuff.
“If published, would do me credit. I’ll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher.”
Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.
Francis Ardry—That Won’t do, Sir—Observe My Gestures—I Think You Improve—Better than Politics—Delightful Young Frenchwoman—A Burning Shame—Magnificent Impudence—Paunch—Voltaire—Lump of Sugar.
Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and, upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door; but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, “Come in—come in by all means;” and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons.
On entering the room I perceived another individual, to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short spare man of about sixty; his hair was of badger grey, and his face was covered with wrinkles—without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, cracked voice, “That won’t do, sir; that won’t do—more vehemence—your argument is at present particularlyweak; therefore, more vehemence—you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir;” and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. “Good, sir—good!” he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. “Infinitely good!” he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; “and now, sir, abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline—gradually, sir; not too fast. Good, sir—very good!” as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence. “And now a little pathos, sir—try them with a little pathos. That won’t do, sir—that won’t do,”—as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic,—“that will never pass for pathos—with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir.”
Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis Ardry recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh. “Ha, ha!” said the other, good humouredly, “you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole I think you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four.”
Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed.
“Who is that gentleman?” said I to Francis Ardry, as soon as we were alone.
“Oh, that is ---,” said Frank smiling, “the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution.”
“And what need have you of elocution?”
“Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians,” said Francis, “who insist that I should, with the assistance of ---, qualify myself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them; for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them.”
“But,” said I, “you are a Roman Catholic; and I thought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?”
“Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are fixed on something better than politics.”
“I understand you,” said I; “dog-fighting—well, I can easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting—”
“I was not thinking of dog-fighting,” said Francis Ardry, interrupting me.
“Not thinking of dog-fighting!” I ejaculated.
“No,” said Francis Ardry, “something higher and much more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts.”
“Dear me,” said I, “I thought I had heard you say, that there was nothing like it!”
“Like what?” said Francis Ardry.
“Dog-fighting, to be sure,” said I.
“Pooh,” said Francis Ardry; “who but the gross and unrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and sleeping thoughts is love—divine love—there is nothing likethat. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you.”
And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover—for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world—succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. “I am looking out for a handsome gig and horse,” said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration; “it were a burning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach.”
“But,” said I, “will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?”
“It will prevent me devoting all my time,” said Francis Ardry, “as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible—unless I have recourse to Jews and money-lenders—to support Annette; present her with articles of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying her angelic person through the streets of London.”
After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing, “So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?”
“Yes,” said Francis Ardry, starting from his reverie; “everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion—abarrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty, and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging myself and others behind him—he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard --- himself, who has heard him speak, say that he will cut a figure.”
“And is --- competent to judge?” I demanded.
“Who but he?” said Francis Ardry; “no one questions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to consult him; C--- himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in --- for consultation.”
“As to matter, or manner?” said I.
“Chiefly the latter,” said Francis Ardry, “though he is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part—‘I want paunch,’ said he.”
“It is not always indispensable,” said I; “there is an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch: but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which --- wants?”
“No more deficient in it than in brass,” said Francis Ardry.
“Well,” said I, “whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up—I love religious liberty.”
“We shall succeed,” said Francis Ardry; “John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself.”
“There is one thing,” said I, “connected with this matter which surprises me—your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable.”
“You would not have cause to complain of my indifference,” said Frank, “provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, ‘and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?’ so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow—a half Italian, half English priest,—who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual—partly as a temporal guide, has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water—and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him,politics, and religious movements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her.”
Progress—Glorious John—Utterly Unintelligible—What a Difference!
By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some progress in translating the publisher’s philosophy into German. But about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what other resource had I—another publisher? But what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym, but then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One asked me if I had anything else—he was a snuff-taker—I said yes; and going home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never opened it.
I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not see Glorious John—I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now gone to his rest, but I—what was I going to say?—the world will never forget Glorious John.
So I returned to my last resource for the time then being—to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of paper.
“Sir,” said he, “you know nothing of German; I have shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans:it is utterly unintelligible to them.” “Did they see the Philosophy?” I replied. “They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand English.” “No more do I,” I replied, “if that Philosophy be English.”
The publisher was furious—I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff to those who can’t take it, silent contempt; at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.
He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!
The Old Spot—A Long History—Thou Shalt Not Steal—No Harm—Education—Necessity—Foam on Your Lip—Apples and Pears—What Will You Read—Metaphor—The Fur Cap—I Don’t Know Him.
It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned from the other side of the bridge, to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had done after repeated conversations with me; “she liked the old place best,” she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her at the old spot, one afternoon past mid-winter, reading the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal. “You may keep it, dear,” said the old woman, with a sigh; “you may carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own.”
Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed, “Is it possible that you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of comfort so long?”
Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again; also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter and beef-steaks were no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter.
“Ah,” said I, “you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health.” I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected withher youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind. There were certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, “Thou shalt not steal.”
On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, who followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother’s house, and which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her life.
But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on the words, “Thou shalt not steal;” she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with her.
On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing; her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though poor.
So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the world—if education was a benefit to some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I did not see howthey could; this poor simple woman found a book in her mother’s closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it, and—and I felt myself getting into a maze, what is right, thought I? what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every action is bound up with necessity.
“Necessity!” I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints.
“Ah, it is a bad thing,” said the old woman.
“What is a bad thing?” said I.
“Why, to be poor, dear.”
“You talk like a fool,” said I, “riches and poverty are only different forms of necessity.”
“You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother a fool.”
“You are not my mother,” said I.
“Not your mother, dear?—no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool—and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip.”
“After all, I don’t know that you are not my mother.”
“Don’t you, dear? I’m glad of it; I wish you would make it out.”
“How shall I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist.”
“What people, dear?”
“You and I.”
“Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so.”
“Don’t abuse it,” said I; “the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists.”
“I wish it did not,” said the old woman; “but it sha’n’t long; I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river—the voices at night tell me to do so.”
“Tell the voices,” said I, “that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?”
“All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.”
“Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all.”
“Anything at all! Why, a’n’t we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my—”
“Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say—I don’t know; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears;and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear.”
“Don’t talk so, dear.”
“I won’t; we will suppose that we all exist—world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?”
“Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.”
“I have read it, and have no farther use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books.”
“Then I will fling it into the river.”
“Don’t do that; here, give it me. Now what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it.”
“I am so no longer.”
“But how will you pass your time; what will you read?”
“I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school: the primer or the other.”
“What was the other?”
“I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus.”
“Ah, I know it.”
“You have read it; it is a nice book—all true?”
“True, true—I don’t know what to say; but if the world be true, and not a lie, a fiction, I don’t see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true. By-the-bye, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book.”
“What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?”
“Yes, the language of those who bring you things.”
“The language of those whodid, dear; they bring them now no longer. They call me a fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calf-skin.”
“That’s metaphor,” said I, “English, but metaphorical; what an odd language! So you would like to have a Bible,—shall I buy you one?”
“I am poor, dear—no money since I left off the other trade.”
“Well, then, I’ll buy you one.”
“No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know—I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.”
“That will never do,” said I, “more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do—try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?”
“Well, dear,” said the old woman, “do as you please; I should like to see the—what do you call it?—Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true.”
“Yes,” said I, “seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt—I seem to think—these apples and pears seem to be—andhere seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other.”
A person had stopped before the apple-woman’s stall, and was glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle stature; his features were keen but rather hard; there was a slight obliquity in his vision. Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinizingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of Southwark.
“Do you know who that man is?” said I to the old woman.
“No,” said she, “except that he is one of my best customers: he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don’t know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking men—Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them.”
Bought and Exchanged—Quite Empty—A New Firm—Bibles—Countenance of a Lion—Clap of Thunder—A Truce with This—I Have Lost It—Clearly a Right—Goddess of the Mint.
In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had intrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket. I went to several shops and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty. When, however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined treating with me; saying that they did not do business in that way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw written, “Books bought and exchanged:” there was a smartish young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers; “You exchange?” said I. “Yes,” said he, “sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?” “A Bible,” said I. “Ah,” said he, “there’s a great demand for Bibles just now; all kinds of people are becoming very pious of late,” he added, grinning at me; “I am afraid I can’t do business with you, more especially as the master is not at home. What book have you brought?” Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter: the young fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into a loud laugh. “What do you laugh for?” said I, angrily, and half clenching my fist. “Laugh!” said the young fellow; “laugh! who could help laughing?” “I could,” said I; “I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this book for a Bible.” “You do?” said the young fellow; “well, I daresay there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either. Master’s a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being afamily man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I’d buy it of you, but, to tell you the truth, I am quite empty here,” said he, pointing to his pocket, “so I am afraid we can’t deal.”
Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, “what am I to do?” said I; “I really want a Bible.”
“Can’t you buy one?” said the young man; “have you no money?”
“Yes,” said I, “I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?”
“I don’t know,” said the young man, thoughtfully, laying down the book on the counter; “I don’t know what you can do; I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job, the trade are rather precise.” All at once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. “Take my advice,” said he; “there is a firm established in this neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will exchange with you?”
Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange—which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success.
I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow had directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square; and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, “Bibles, and other religious books.”
At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I,—Bibles, doubtless. I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament. “Come, young lad,” said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, “put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one.”
Deal, thought I, deal,—the man seems to know what I am coming about,—and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold.
Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men—he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion.
“What is your business, young man?” said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion.
“I want a Bible,” said I.
“What price, what size?” said the precise-looking man.
“As to size,” said I, “I should like to have a large one—that is, if you can afford me one—I do not come to buy.”
“Oh, friend,” said the precise-looking man, “if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken—we—”
“I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing,” said I, “or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter.”
“Oh, we don’t barter,” said the precise man, “at least Bibles; you had better depart.”
“Stay, brother,” said the man with the countenance of a lion, “let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions.”
“Not I,” I exclaimed, “I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible—I don’t believe—”
“Hey!” said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped. But with that “Hey” the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door.
There was silence for about a minute—the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder.
At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly, “Were you about to say that you don’t believe in the Bible, young man?”
“No more than in anything else,” said I; “you were talking of convictions—I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible.”
“He seems to be insane,” said the prim-looking man, “we had better order the porter to turn him out.”
“I am by no means certain,” said I, “that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream.”
“Come,” said the lion-looking man, impatiently, “a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point—you want a Bible?”
“I do,” said I, “but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.”
“And who is that person?”
“A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions,—heard voices, or thought she heard them—I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.”
“What has she sent to offer in exchange?” said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech.
“A book,” said I.
“Let me see it.”
“Nay, brother,” said the precise man, “this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.”
“I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other; “perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?”
I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket—the book was gone.
“What’s the matter?” repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.
“I have it not—I have lost it!”
“A pretty story, truly,” said the precise-looking man, “lost it!”
“You had better retire,” said the other.
“How shall I appear before the party who intrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all that I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her,—appearances are certainly against me.”
“They are so—you had better retire.”
I moved towards the door. “Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.”
“What is that?” said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously.
“The purchase of a Bible.”
“Purchase!” said I, “purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?”
The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, “Dear me,” said I, “it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good.”
No answer.
“Yes,” I repeated, “I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost—” and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket.
The prim-looking man smiled: “I suppose,” said he, “that he has lost his money as well as book.”
“No,” said I, “I have not;” and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns.
“O, noble goddess of the Mint!” as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, “great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man’s character!”
“Only half-a-crown for this Bible?” said I, putting down the money, “it is worth three;” and bowing to the man of noble features, I departed with my purchase.
“Queer customer,” said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door—“don’t like him.”
“Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,” said he of the countenance of a lion.