Chapter LXXII
The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said, that with the blessing of God, he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were? "for I like it not," he continued, "as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here". I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth--we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds, that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farm- house.
Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me: "This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances." After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak.
Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed, yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. "I am glad to see thee moving about, young man," said she, in a soft, placid tone; "I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?--Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?" I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said: "Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?" "Very little," I replied, "but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long." The woman was silent for some moments, and then said: "I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself--they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow."
Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree: "Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night". "True," said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English: "We hoped to have heard you speak to- night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup--to-morrow, with God's will, we shall hear you". "And to-night, also, with God's will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither." "They will be hither presently," said Mary, "for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome." And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which, he said: "Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you". A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart.
The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse, the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed: "I shall soon be back, Peter, I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company"; and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. "Set it down, Jessy," said the mistress to the girl, "and then betake thyself to thy rest; I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends." The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, "Ay, truly, we were both forgetful"; and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said: "Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?" "I cannot eat," I replied, "but I think I could drink a little milk;" whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying: "'Croesaw'. That," added he with a smile, "is Welsh for welcome."
The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. "Mary," said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, "every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?" "The two eldest understand a few words," said the woman, "but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. 'Who,' I have heard him say, 'would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?'" "I for one," said the preacher, somewhat hastily; "not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced." "You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person," said the woman; "as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings." "That's no bad observation," said the preacher, "and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account." "They jog on very well now," said the woman; "but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester." "Ha, ha!" said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; "he told you that, did he?" "Yes," said Mary; "once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and English, and the Welsh beat the English and hanged the mayor." "Your husband is a clever man," said Peter, "and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No? then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was ---. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That --- was a very fine, noble--God forgive me, what was I about to say!--a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here--let us change the subject."
They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart.
"Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant," said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night.
"I am afraid he is," said Winifred; "yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn."
Chapter LXXIII
I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. "Good-morning," said Peter, "how dost thou feel?" "Much better," said I, "than I could have expected." "I am glad of it," said Peter. "Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast," pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill, bearing the tray upon her head.
"What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?" said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. "Do," said I, "as I do other days, what I can." "And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?" said Peter. "Why not?" said I; "what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday." "Art thou aware," said the wife interposing, "what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?" "No," said I, "I did not know that it was Sunday." "And how did that happen?" said Winifred with a sigh. "To tell you the truth," said I, "I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time." "And yet of what infinite importance is time," said Winifred. "Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?" "I do not think," said I, "that I am so near my end as I was yesterday." "Yes thou art," said the woman; "thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?" "Cast into the earth, perhaps," said I. "I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man." "Who is Mr. Petulengro?" said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. "Master of the horse- shoe," said I, "and, according to his own account, king of Egypt." "I understand," said Peter, "head of some family of wandering Egyptians--they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?--but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ---. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family." "Who was he?" said I. "John Bunyan," replied Peter, reverently, "and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile." "No," said I, "I will not go and hear." "Wherefore?" said Peter. "I belong to the church," said I, "and not to the congregations." "Oh! the pride of that church," said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, "exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members." "Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church," said Peter, again addressing me; "there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill." "No," said I, "I do not mean to go to church." "May I ask thee wherefore?" said Peter. "Because," said I, "I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and the tinkling of the waters."
"Then thou intendest to remain here?" said Peter, looking fixedly at me. "If I do not intrude," said I; "but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody--perhaps you wish me to go?" "On the contrary," said Peter, "I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question: Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?" "No," said I; "had I known there had been poison in the cake, I certainly should not have taken it." "And who gave it thee?" said Peter. "An enemy of mine," I replied. "Who is thy enemy?" "An Egyptian sorceress and poisonmonger." "Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee--of what did she complain?" "That I had stolen the tongue out of her head." "I do not understand thee--is she young?" "About sixty-five."
Here Winifred interposed. "Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man," said she; "I trust thou dost bear no malice against her." "No," said I, "I bear no malice against her." "Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?" "By no means," said I; "I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject." "In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?" "Both now and for ever," said I. "Truly," said Winifred, "the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much: I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us." "My exhortation!" said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; "thou forgettest what I am--I--I--but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting."
Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet, sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding, that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me.
And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother--a quiet, sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.
And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.
For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.
Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.
But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.
Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.
"Good-day," said I, "pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch."
"Good-day," said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book.
"That's a nice book you are reading," said I.
The girl looked at me with surprise. "How do you know what book it is?" said she.
"How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no fortune- telling in it."
The girl looked at me half offended. "Fortune-telling!" said she, "I should think not. But you know nothing about it;" and she bent her head once more over the book.
"I tell you what, young person," said I, "I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?"
"I never wager," said the girl.
"Shall I tell you the name of it," said I, "O daughter of the dairy?"
The girl half started. "I should never have thought," said she, half timidly, "that you could have guessed it."
"I did not guess it," said I, "I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it."
"Why so?" said the girl.
"Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the Dairyman's Daughter?"
"Where do you come from?" said the girl.
"Out of the water," said I. "Don't start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?"
"No," said the girl, heaving a sigh; "I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea;" and here she sighed again.
"The sea is a wide gulf," said I, "and frequently separates hearts."
The girl sobbed.
"Why are you alone here?" said I.
"I take my turn with the rest," said the girl, "to keep at home on Sunday."
"And you are--" said I.
"The master's niece!" said the girl. "How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?"
"Who are those you call my friends?" said I.
"Peter and his wife."
"And who are they?" said I.
"Do you not know?" said the girl; "you came with them."
"They found me ill by the way," said I; "and they relieved me: I know nothing about them."
"I thought you knew everything," said the girl.
"There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?"
"Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?"
"Never," said I.
"Well," said the girl, "this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream."
"And what is their reason for doing so?" said I; "would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?"
"I know not their reasons," said the girl, "but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind--"
"Thank you," said I, "I will now depart."
"Hem!" said the girl, "I was wishing--"
"What? to ask me a question?"
"Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling."
"Do you wish me to tell your fortune?"
"By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know--"
"When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know--this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would, if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the Dairyman's Daughter when you have nothing better to do."
It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest.
About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent--all was silent--but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim: "Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!" and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said--she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated--"Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!" I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired.
Now, "pechod Ysprydd Glan," interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost.
Chapter LXXIV
Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and the latter passed many hours in the farm-house. Towards evening, without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my two friends were seated beneath the oak; they had just completed their frugal supper. "We waited for thee some time," said Winifred, "but finding that thou didst not come, we began without thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee." "I will sit down," said I, "but I require no supper, for I have eaten where I have been." Nothing more particular occurred at the time. Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. "I will not share your breakfast," said I. "Wherefore not?" said Winifred anxiously. "Because," said I, "it is not proper that I be beholden to you for meat and drink." "But we are beholden to other people," said Winifred. "Yes," said I, "but you preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which considerably alters the matter; not that I would receive anything from them, if I preached to them six times a day." "Thou art not fond of receiving favours, then, young man," said Winifred. "I am not," said I. "And of conferring favours?" "Nothing affords me greater pleasure," said I, "than to confer favours." "What a disposition!" said Winifred, holding up her hands; "and this is pride, genuine pride--that feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is pride! never before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride!"
"But how wilt thou live, friend?" said Peter; "dost thou not intend to eat?" "When I went out last night," said I, "I laid in a provision." "Thou hast laid in a provision!" said Peter, "pray let us see it. Really, friend," said he, after I had produced it, "thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough to last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, here is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let us partake of some of thy fare." "I should be very happy if you would," said I. "Doubt not but we shall," said Peter; "Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense--we will dine at thine."
On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak. We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon became more cheerful, fluent and entertaining. I spoke but little, but I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark, "What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it?"
"Fairies!" said Peter, "fairies! how came you, young man, to know anything about the fair family?"
"I am an Englishman," said I, "and of course know something about fairies; England was once a famous place for them."
"Was once, I grant you," said Peter, "but is so no longer. I have travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before; the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair family, and many believe in them."
"And do you believe in them?" said I.
"I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing irrational in the supposition."
"Do you believe in devils, then?"
"Do I believe in devils, young man!" said Peter, and his frame was shaken as if by convulsions. "If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at the present moment?"
"You know best," said I; "but I don't believe that fairies are devils, and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they are devils?"
"Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the Bardd Cwsg."
"The Bardd Cwsg," said I; "what kind of book is that? I have never heard of that book before."
"Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it before! By-the-bye, can you read?"
"Very tolerably," said I; "so there are fairies in this book. What do you call it--the Bardd Cwsg?"
"Yes, the Bardd Cwsg. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you ever been in Wales?"
"Never," said I.
"Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don't understand Welsh; but we were talking of the Bardd Cwsg--yes, there are fairies in the Bardd Cwsg--the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, was carried away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till he was rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who subsequently showed him many wonderful things."
"I beg your pardon," said I, "but what were those wonderful things?"
"I see, young man," said Peter, smiling, "that you are not without curiosity; but I can easily pardon anyone for being curious about the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel showed him the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. On another occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting torment."
"But this was all in his sleep," said I, "was it not?"
"Yes," said Peter, "in his sleep; and on that account the book is called Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg, or, Visions of the Sleeping Bard."
"I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep," said I. "I prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions at all--they are probably of his own invention."
"They are substantially true, young man," said Peter; "like the dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own country, in the language in which they are written. Many a guilty conscience has the Bardd Cwsg aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of [the deep] Unknown. Were it not for the Bardd Cwsg perhaps I might not be here."
"I would sooner hear your own tale," said I, "than all the visions of the Bardd Cwsg."
Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. "What is the matter?" said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the posture I have described. He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former occasion, "Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict thee?" Peter removed his hands from his face. "The old pain, the old pain," said he; "I was talking with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred--my sin: O pechod Ysprydd Glan! O_ pechod Ysprydd Glan_!" and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears trickled down Winifred's face; I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband. I arose from my seat; "I am the cause of all this," said I, "by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way." I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. "Go not," said he, "you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the case, it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own iniquity;" he then paused, and appeared to be considering: at length he said, "Many things which thou hast seen and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much shaken".
Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale--the tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Glan.
Chapter LXXV
"I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers.
"My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and his neighbours.
"One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious matters. 'It is a hard matter to get to heaven,' said my father. 'Exceedingly so,' said the other. 'However, I don't despond, none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.'
"'Ah!' said my father, 'thank God I never committed that--how awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost! I can scarcely think of it without my hair standing on end;' and then my father and his friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their discourse.
"I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it--a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined not to commit it, and having said my prayers, I fell asleep.
"When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, 'Commit it'; and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone.
"After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired it. My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost.
"But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight; I felt very tired, and was presently asleep.
"Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is justified; He had no hand in my destruction, but, on the contrary, He did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery, and having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror--words not to be repeated--and in this manner I committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.
"When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep.
"I awoke several times during the night, each time with the dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but presently I fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying? I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.
"I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, again beaten by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master's face, and thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, as you suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?
"Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone, monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet to learn the horror of my condition.
"Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales.
"Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said: 'God bless you, my children; I am going from you, but take comfort, I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven'.
"As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of me. Meet my father in heaven--how could I ever hope to meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them! They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me--they had never committed the unpardonable sin.
"In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of the school.
"I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that, though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost: I had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!--and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years, at the end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the months and the days, nay, even the hours which yet intervened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured.
"There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterable grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself--to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror- struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away.
"The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars, he advised me to go home--which I was glad to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office which I had undertaken.
"So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth, and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then, springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long time--prayed to God.
"A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure.
"At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a good, very good young man. At times the recollection of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure.
"One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a moment, I said, 'I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a creature as myself'. I went to church, and was as usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the Scriptures: all I knew of them was from the Liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I had begun. My father's Bible was upon the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the following--
"'He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven, either in this world or the next'."
Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and, after a short pause, continued his narration.
Chapter LXXVI
"Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality. I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams.
"Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about; I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave. But nothing seemed to affect my constitution, probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befel me; my life was a dream--a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable, hale old man, who had hold of me. 'Let me go!' said I fiercely. 'I will not let thee go,' said the old man, and now, instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. 'In whose name dost them detain me?' said I, scarcely knowing what I said. 'In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea, and has said to the sea, so far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.' 'Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?' said I. 'He has,' said the old man, 'but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go,' he continued, as I again struggled; 'if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says in his Wrestlings of Jacob; and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou;' and, indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. 'Who art thou?' he said at last. 'A miserable man,' I replied. 'What makes thee miserable?' said the old man. 'A hideous crime,' I replied. 'I can find no rest; like Cain, I wander here and there.' The old man turned pale. 'Hast thou taken another's life?' said he; 'if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next.' 'No,' said I, 'I have never taken another's life.' 'What then, another's goods? If so, restore them seven- fold if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able.' 'I have taken no one's goods,' said I. 'Of what art thou guilty, then?' said he. 'Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?' 'Alas, no,' said I; 'I am neither of these; would that I were no worse!'
"Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said: 'Young man, I have a great desire to know your name'. 'What matters it to you what is my name?' said I; 'you know nothing of me.' 'Perhaps you are mistaken,' said the old man, looking kindly at me; 'but at all events tell me your name.' I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, 'I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence! I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son.'
"He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said 'Amen'.
"And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man, the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man. Both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was.
"I staid several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day, my friend said: 'I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me'. I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,' etc., etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind.
"The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood-shedding alone. 'Therefore, my friends,' said he, in conclusion, 'despair not--however guilty you may be, despair not--however desperate your condition may seem,' said he, fixing his eyes upon me, 'despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.'
"This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost--perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, 'Oh, yes, every one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible--begone!' Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own church; there were many such in it, he said.
"I staid several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate.
"At last my friend said to me: 'It is now time thou shouldst return to thy mother and thy brother'. So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said: 'I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir--left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days.' And I answered: 'I will, if so please the Lord'; and I said to myself, 'God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's favour'.
"And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him.
"There was one thing connected with my new abode, which gave me considerable uneasiness--the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now, I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said: 'Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists'. 'The Methodists,' said I; 'are there any in these parts?' 'There is a chapel,' said he, 'only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.' Now, it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him: 'May I go with you next Sunday?' 'Why not?' said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists.
"I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time.
"I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest, plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. 'Very fervent,' said I. 'And do you read the Scriptures often?' said he. 'No,' said I. 'Why not?' said he. 'Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation.' They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer.
"As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world.
"But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind's eye, decked with quiet graces--hang not down your head, Winifred--and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not--selfishness, however, prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period--suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession--we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend, and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer.
"One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said: 'This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.' And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy, taking pleasure in everything around me,--in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour--oh, God--God! I came to the fatal passage.
"Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans--for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife! 'What is the matter, husband, dear husband?' she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night--it was a mid-winter night--over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now.
"I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said--what do you think my wife said, young man?"
"It is impossible for me to guess," said I.
"'Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless.'"
Chapter LXXVII
"And so I still say," said Winifred, sobbing. "Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late."
"Rest!" said Peter; "there is no rest for the wicked!"
"We are all wicked," said Winifred; "but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed."
"Then you will still maintain," said Peter, "that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?"
"I will," said Winifred; "you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?"
"Have I not read my own condemnation?" said Peter. "Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? 'He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.'"
"You never committed it," said Winifred.
"But the words! the words! the words!" said Peter.
"The words are true words," said Winifred, sobbing; "but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master."
"And what sayest thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?" said Peter. "Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore? Thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?"
"No," said Winifred, "not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage."
"Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?" said Peter, with a groan. "Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin."
"Thou hast not committed it," said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. "Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways."
"I see thou wouldst comfort me," said Peter, "as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion."
"I have not yet heard the whole of your history," said I.
"My story is nearly told," said Peter; "a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair, when one day Winifred said to me: 'I see thou wilt be lost if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.' 'And what can I do in the wide world?' said I, despondingly. 'Much,' replied Winifred, 'if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God.' Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I--I--outcast Peter, became the preacher, Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!"
"I am thinking of London Bridge," said I.
"Of London Bridge!" said Peter and his wife.
"Yes," said I, "of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, 'Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O! if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there!'"
"That's true," said Peter. "What is the name of the book?"
"The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders."
"Some popish saint, I suppose," said Peter.
"As much of a saint, I dare say," said I, "as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone, monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them?"
"How!" said Peter, "dost thou think that they had divined my secret?"
"Not they," said I; "they were, I dare say, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?"
"Dost thou then imagine," said Peter, "the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?"
"As you have described it," said I, "of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it."
"Truly," said Winifred, "the young man talks wisely."
Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said: "Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?"
"I am neither Papist nor Methodist," said I, "but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years--but I am sleepy, and must go to rest."
"God bless thee, young man," said Winifred.
Chapter LXXVIII
Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I occasionally heard the word Pechod proceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts.
"I wish that man were happy," said I to myself, "were it only for his wife's sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own."
The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably.
"Your husband seems much better," said I, at evening fall, to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone.
"He does," said Winifred; "and that on the day of the week when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for to-morrow is the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful."
"To whom do you allude," said I, "and to what words?"
"To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last night, after you had heard my poor husband's history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction,--the only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children, has tranquillised him; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone."
Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and myself breakfasted together, again the good family of the house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. "Wilt thou not come?" said Peter, looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion. "Wilt thou not come?" said Winifred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding Sabbath, and I was again left alone.
The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the sky, the trees and the water. At last I strolled up to the house and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed heavily away.
At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking: "Such a sermon," said she, "it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day--he was always a powerful preacher; but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it." "What was the subject?" said I, interrupting her. "Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence and Goodness of God."
Chapter LXXIX
On the morrow I said to my friends: "I am about to depart; farewell!" "Depart!" said Peter and his wife simultaneously, "whither wouldst thou go?" "I can't stay here all my days," I replied. "Of course not," said Peter, "but we had no idea of losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee." "You mean I am under infinite obligations to you," said I. "Did you not save my life?" "Perhaps so, under God," said Peter; "and what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, to-morrow we go into Wales; go with us." "I have no wish to go into Wales," said I. "Why not?" said Peter with animation. "Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says--a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig lead."
"I daresay it is a very fine country," said I, "but I have no wish to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another direction, to say nothing of my trade." "Thou dost right to say nothing of thy trade," said Peter, smiling, "for thou seemest to care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into Wales." "I cannot promise to go with you into Wales," said I; "but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way." "Do," said Peter. "I have many people to see to-day, and so has Winifred; but we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end."
In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing me in the following manner:--
"I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit, that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from the body, to heaven or hell: to the halls of eternal bliss, where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell; indeed, I like not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by-the-bye was a Churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only a Churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago--I wish many like him flourished now--speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns, called the Welshman's Candle, observes:--
"'The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope nor possibility of escaping over them'.
"But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above."
And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above, explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there.
And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began to address me. "I do not think," said she, "from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?--to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form, and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe--the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to--"
And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded I took her hand and said, "I thank you," and that was all.
On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival.
And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often came up to me, and, holding out her hand, said: "Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest". Then, after looking around her, she said: "It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!"
So after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said: "It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop, by means of a less qualification".
"Very probably," said Peter; "more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do! as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his Candle for Welshmen:--
"'It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help, but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest'."
"The Church of England is a fine church," said I; "I would not advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me."
"I have nothing to say against the church," said Peter; "all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church."
"It is too proud for that," said Winifred.
"You are much more of a Methodist," said I, "than your husband. But tell me," said I, addressing myself to Peter, "do you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries."
"Oh, the pride of that church!" said Winifred half to herself; "wandering sectaries!"
"We differ in no points of doctrine," said Peter; "we believe all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker," he added, smiling; "it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do."
Nothing further passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said: "You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?"
"Many," said Peter, "it has been my lot to meet with, but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry, about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred, being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I had finished afternoon's worship--the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet, retired place; suddenly a voice said to me: 'Good evening, Pastor'; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of matters with much fluency, till at last he mentioned my preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he said that I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers. 'How can that be,' said I, 'even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?'
"The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he almost instantly observed that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation were to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and I told him firmly, that if he wished me to forsake my present profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that church, but I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself, 'Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!' A few days after, when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding, that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, 'The Roman Pontiff'. 'If it be he,' said I, 'I can have nothing to do with him; I will serve no one who is an enemy of Christ.' Thereupon he drew near to me and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that if He ever did, He was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and speaking more horribly than before. I made him no answer, whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the morning of that day. 'Who are you?' said he fiercely. 'This man's wife,' said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. 'Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain.' He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed; at length recovering himself, he departed, muttering 'Wife! Wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.'"
Chapter LXXX
We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, "If you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close upon the border".
"Which is the border?" said I.
"Yon small brook," said Peter, "into which the man on horseback, who is coming towards us, is now entering."
"I see it," said I, "and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as if to water his steed."
We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. "Well," said Peter, "will you go into Wales?"
"What should I do in Wales?" I demanded.
"Do!" said Peter, smiling, "learn Welsh."
I stopped my little pony. "Then I need not go into Wales; I already know Welsh."
"Know Welsh!" said Peter, staring at me.
"Know Welsh!" said Winifred, stopping her cart.
"How and when did you learn it?" said Peter.
"From books, in my boyhood."
"Read Welsh!" said Peter, "is it possible?"
"Read Welsh!" said Winifred, "is it possible?"
"Well, I hope you will come with us," said Peter.
"Come with us, young man," said Winifred; "let me, on the other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales."
"Thank you both," said I, "but I will not come."
"Wherefore?" exclaimed both simultaneously.
"Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim--'Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales'."
"How!" said Peter; "hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?"
"With notes critical, historical and explanatory."
"Come with us, friend," said Peter. "I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting."
"Come with us, young man," said Winifred, "even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome."
"I will not go with you," said I. "Dost thou see that man in the ford?"
"Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him."
"I shall turn back with him. God bless you!"
"Go back with him not," said Peter, "he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes--turn not with that man."
"Go not back with him," said Winifred. "If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us."
"I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, Mr. Petulengro."
"Kosko Divvus, Pal," said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; "are you turning back?"
I turned back with Mr. Petulengro.
Peter came running after me: "One moment, young man, who and what are you?"
"I must answer in the words of Taliesin," said I; "none can say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all myself. God bless you both!"
"Take this," said Peter; and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my hand.
Chapter LXXXI
So I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some time in silence; at last we fell into discourse. "You have been in Wales, Mr. Petulengro?"
"Ay, truly, brother."
"What have you been doing there?"
"Assisting at a funeral."
"At whose funeral?"
"Mrs. Hearne's, brother."
"Is she dead, then?"
"As a nail, brother."
"How did she die?"
"By hanging, brother."
"I am lost in astonishment," said I; whereupon Mr. Petulengro, lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and adjusting himself sideways in the saddle, replied with great deliberation:--
"Two days ago, I happened to be at a fair not very far from here; I was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of forty miles off, when who should come up but a chap that I knew, a relation, or rather, a connection of mine--one of those Hearnes. 'Ar'n't you going to the funeral?' said he; and then, brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed between I and you; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot to do. 'Who hanged her?' said I; and then the man told me that she had done it herself--been her own hinjiri; and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, but there was no time for that; they were too far off, and the dead was to be buried early the next morning, so I went with the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to their encampment, and there I found the Hearnes, and the dead body--the last laid out on a mattress, in a tent, dressed Romaneskoenaes, in a red cloak and big bonnet of black beaver. I must say for the Hearnes that they took the matter very coolly: some were eating, others drinking, and some were talking about their small affairs; there was one, however, who did not take the matter so coolly, but took on enough for the whole family, sitting beside the dead woman, tearing her hair, and refusing to take either meat or drink; it was the child Leonora. I arrived at nightfall, and the burying was not to take place till the morning, which I was rather sorry for, as I am not very fond of them Hearnes, who are not very fond of anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I had married into the family; one of them, however, came up and offered to fight me for five shillings; had it not been for them, I should have come back as empty as I went--he didn't stand up five minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath a tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean; I slept little, and had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was among.
"Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, brother. When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going. Before mounting my gry, however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself, a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose, rather ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last, that if I wanted to know all about the matter, none could tell me better than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her nowhere. At last the same man told me that he shouldn't wonder if I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the child, Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said, how came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it. It was a long time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth, and spoke, and these were the words she said: 'It was all along of your pal'; and then she told me all about the matter. How Mrs. Hearne could not abide you, which I knew before, and that she had sworn your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don't wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody. Well, brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Hearne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass. I don't know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and a dean; and then she added, that it was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey. Well, brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent, where Mrs. Hearne and she were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am."
"And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro; but this is sad news which you tell me about Mrs. Hearne."
"Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a good thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil's tinder about with her, as the man said."
"I am sorry for her," said I; "more especially as I am the cause of her death--though the innocent one."
"She could not bide you, brother, that's certain; but that is no reason"--said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the saddle--"that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take away your essence of life, and, when disappointed, to hang herself upon a tree: if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have flown at you, and scratched your face; or, if she did not judge herself your match, she might have put down five shillings for a turn-up between you and some one she thought could beat you--myself, for example, and so the matter might have ended comfortably; but she was always too fond of covert ways, drows and brimstones. This is not the first poisoning affair she has been engaged in."
"You allude to drabbing bawlor."
"Bah!" said Mr. Petulengro; "there's no harm in that. No, no! she has cast drows in her time for other guess things than bawlor; both Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and died. Did you never hear of the poisoned plum pudding?"
"Never."
"Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years ago, a few months after she had quitted us--she had gone first among her own people, as she called them; but there was another small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were taken and lodged in --- Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, 'If she does, I am nashkado'. Mrs. Hearne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said: 'But I suppose you know what to do?' 'I do not,' said he. 'Then hir mi devlis,' said she, 'you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion.' Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition--she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble, she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt--for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal man put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in --- Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and--"
"Ate of it," said I, "just like my case?"
"Quite different, brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of giving way to her appetite as you might have done, she put it before the rest whom she was going to impeach--perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself--and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said: 'It was my death was sought for; I know the man, and I'll be revenged,' and then the Poknees spoke to her and said, 'Where can we find him?' and she said, 'I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a man'."
"Well," said I, "and what did the Poknees do?"
"Do, brother, sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother; and, in order that he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, being much shaded by trees; so the plastramengro placed himself in the dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night, dreary, though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behind a tree till he was tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some hours; and when he awoke, the moon had risen, and was shining bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, and that I had let the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the contrary; just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall, big fellow, the very man he was in quest of: the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate too with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horseback, 'You are my prisoner,' said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow."
"I am entirely of your opinion," said I; "but what happened then?"
"Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind, which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff, and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping by doing so, either to break away from him, or fling him down; but it would not do--the plastramengro held on like a bulldog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two--the chal and the runner--as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it; every one has heard of it; every one has heard of the fight between the Bow street engro and the Rommany chal."
"I never heard of it till now."
"All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two--all these engroes are strong fellows--and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people--he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro's legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult, was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it; so that in a little time the chal was three parts naked; and as for holding him by the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher's handkerchief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever the chal could, he could not free himself; and when the engro saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt; 'It's of no use,' said he; 'you had better give in; hold out your hands for the darbies, or I will throttle you'."
"And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal?" said I.
"I sat still on my horse, brother."
"You?" said I. "Were you the man?"
"I was he, brother."
"And why did you not help your comrade?"
"I have fought in the ring, brother."
"And what had fighting in the ring to do with fighting in the lane?"
"You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t'other side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to back me, and he had all his brother pals about him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn't have done had they put one finger on his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. Now, brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone; so you see, brother--"
"That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro; I see that clearly; and now, pray proceed with your narration; it is both moral and entertaining."
But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither did he proceed upon his way; he had stopped his horse, and his eyes were intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some lofty trees, on the left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough spot, and seemed to invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to rest from the fatigues of the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said: "I say, brother, that would be a nice place for a tuzzle!"
"I daresay it would," said I, "if two people were inclined to fight."
"The ground is smooth," said Mr. Petulengro; "without holes or ruts, and the trees cast much shade. I don't think, brother, that we could find a better place," said Mr. Petulengro, springing from his horse.
"But you and I don't want to fight!"
"Speak for yourself, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "However, I will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Hearne's death, innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, I shouldn't like it to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother-in-law's death--that's to say, unless he gave me satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tuzzle, he gives me satisfaction; and if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you can't do, it makes no difference at all, he gives me satisfaction; and he who says to the contrary, knows nothing of gypsy law, and is a dinelo into the bargain."
"But we have no gloves!"
"Gloves!" said Mr. Petulengro contemptuously, "gloves! I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Hearne's death, I wish to see what you can do with your morleys; so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you."
Chapter LXXXII
And when I heard Mr. Petulengro talk in this manner, which I had never heard him do before, and which I can only account for by his being fasting and ill-tempered, I had of course no other alternative than to accept his challenge, so I put myself into a posture which I deemed the best both for offence and defence, and the tuzzle commenced; and when it had endured for about half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said: "Brother, there is much blood on your face, you had better wipe it off"; and when I had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. Petulengro said: "I think enough has been done, brother, in the affair of the old woman; I have, moreover, tried what you are able to do, and find you as I thought, less apt with the naked morleys than the stuffed gloves; nay, brother, put your hands down; I'm satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be reasonably expected for an old woman, who carried so much brimstone about her as Mrs. Hearne".
So the struggle ended, and we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways upon his horse as before, and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself; I told him that I did not know; whereupon with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his wife's sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me.
I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Hearne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. "A pretty life I should lead with those two," said I, "when they came to know it." "Pooh," said Mr. Petulengro, "they will never know it. I shan't blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulders." "Unlike the woman in the sign," said I, "whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro; as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she'll talk,--but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades." "What trades?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro." "Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horse-shoes," said Mr. Petulengro. "I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware. I don't believe--come, brother, don't be angry, it's quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning and let us be going; I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want."
"And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?" I demanded. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother."
And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. "I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay, stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful--such a place as the Chong Gav. I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany."
Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said: "Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good, if not, Chal Devlehi". But I again refused Mr. Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. "I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro," said I.
Chapter LXXXIII
It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones, placed in some quaint, quiet spot--a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition--and superstition is the soul of poetry--is connected with these cross-roads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness; the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, half in shadow, and half-illumed by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse's rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture before me--in itself a picture of romance--whatever of the wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own eyes in connection with forges.
I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords, so keen, indeed, that if placed in a running stream, they would fairly divide an object, however slight, which was borne against them by the water, and who eventually married a king's daughter, by whom he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse at the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader.
{Mumpers' Dingle: p444.jpg}
I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with Grecian mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snow-balls had been suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform.
I am in the dingle making a horse-shoe. Having no other horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps if I had sought all England, I should scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. "You belonged to a tinker before," said I, addressing the animal, "but now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it sha'n't be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate, it sha'n't be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and better fed, than you were with your last master."
I am in the dingle making a petul; and I must here observe, that whilst I am making a horse-shoe, the reader need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horse-shoe--Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me, prala, snatch the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, or two shillings a day, brother; and when I have beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudamengro, which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word for bellows, and whilst thus employed I sing a gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now I am somewhat at fault; I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro baro, or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and lo, and behold, it has assumed something the outline of a petul.
I am not going to enter into further details with respect to the process--it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages; my forge was a rude one, my tools might have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since--but stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance--iron perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstance are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined to make a horse-shoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle--ay, in spite of dukkerin. At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and refashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith in Cheshire.
But I had not yet shod my little gry; this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, I applied each petul hot, glowing hot to the pindro. Oh, how the hoofs hissed; and, oh, the pleasant, pungent odour which diffused itself through the dingle, an odour good for an ailing spirit.
I shod the little horse bravely--merely pricked him once, slightly, with a cafi, for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro; then dismissed him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the muchtar, I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me.
Chapter LXXXIV
Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength, and without hope. Several causes, perhaps, co-operated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the work, the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and every one is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and lassitude--want of nourishment might likewise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes, and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and eftes swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Hearne's cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow have never entirely disappeared--even at the present time they display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced--there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle--the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade--I cast my eyes up; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle, but lower down all was gloom and twilight, yet, when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down, so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects before me, the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle; and now I found my right hand grasping convulsively the three forefingers of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long.
Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too certain; the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. I had thought that it had forsaken me; that it would never visit me again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and, lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. What should I do?--resist, of course; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself: it was part of myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with that horror upon me! and then I flung myself on the ground, gnawed the earth and swallowed it; and then I looked round; it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted to escape; at the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that place its lair; my little horse, my only companion and friend in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west, behind me; the fields were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle; in another minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been; in a little time it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do?--it was of no use fighting against the horror, that I saw; the more I fought against it, the stronger it became. What should I do: say my prayers? Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, "Our Father"; but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress cries; the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do: run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would consider me a maniac, if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not a maniac, for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was upon me--the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness and this screaming horror? So I thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord's Prayer; but it was of no use; praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish; and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I, therefore, went deeper into the dingle; I sat down with my back against a thorn bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them I pressed harder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer; the power of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? so I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? O what a mercy! but it could not be--and yet I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, and said, "Our Father". I said no more, I was too agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst.
After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as before; I put my hand to his mouth, he licked my hand. I flung myself down by him and put my arms round his neck; the creature whinned, and appeared to sympathise with me; what a comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathise with me at such a moment! I clung to my little horse as if for safety and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm; presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night--not a star was to be seen--but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay down, and again went to sleep.
I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day; the sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank from the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding my late struggle and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal I went to the pit and filled a can with water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered what I should next do; it was necessary to do something, or my life in this solitude would be insupportable. What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horse- shoe? but I wanted nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me; well, why not read the Bible? I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what else I could well do on the present occasion; so I determined to read the Bible; it was in Welsh--at any rate it might amuse me; so I took the Bible out of the sack in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. I opened it at that part where the history of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference; but after some time my attention was riveted, and no wonder; I had come to the visitations of Saul--those dark moments of his when he did and said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. Oh, how I sympathised with Saul, the tall, dark man! I had read his life before, but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that I was like him, but I now sympathised with Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the dark hour came frequently on Saul.
Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations, a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet; they were what I had felt on the preceding day--they were the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone: the sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the earth; the dingle was again in deep shade; I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into my tent.
I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight--it was pitch dark, and there was much fear upon me.
Chapter LXXXV
Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle. I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which I had brought with me to that solitude.
"What shall I now do?" said I to myself; "shall I continue here, or decamp? This is a sad, lonely spot; perhaps I had better quit it; but whither should I go? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please; but I can't remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don't see why I should not write a little sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn't wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but first of all I must think of supplying myself with food."
I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go to the nearest town with my little horse and cart, and procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had no doubt, however, that by using ordinary diligence I should be back before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, just as they were. "I need not be apprehensive on their account," said I to myself; "nobody will come here to meddle with them; the great recommendation of this place is its perfect solitude; I daresay that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry and be off to the town."
At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me: for by this time he had become so accustomed to me, that he would obey my call for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. "Now," said I to him, "we are going to the town to buy bread for myself, and oats for you. I am in a hurry to be back; therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol?"
Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear.
So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I removed two or three things from out it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise.
I stood stock still supporting the shaft of the little cart in my hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground; but I could hear nothing. The noise which I thought I had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude: the note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was--there I heard it again, a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed from the entrance of the dingle. "Here are folks at hand," said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground, "is it possible that they can be coming here?"
My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected, and I may say unwelcome, visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent, that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches.
"Why don't you move forward?" said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female, "you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;" and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart.
"Why don't you move forward, Jack?" said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path.
The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on his haunches.
"What's the matter?" said the voice which I had last heard.
"Get back with you, Belle, Moll," said the man, still staring at me, "here's something not over-canny or comfortable."
"What is it?" said the same voice; "let me pass, Moll, and I'll soon clear the way," and I heard a kind of rushing down the path.
"You need not be afraid," said I, addressing myself to the man, "I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself--come here to seek for shelter--you need not be afraid; I am a Roman chabo by matriculation--one of the right sort, and no mistake. Good-day to ye, brother; I bid ye welcome."
The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering as he passed me, "afraid. Hm!"
I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock-coat, corduroys, and highlows; on his black head was a kind of red nightcap; round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief--I did not like the look of the man at all.
"Afraid," growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; "that was the word, I think."
But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice, and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression. She was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl.
"What's the matter, Jack?" said the latter, looking at the man.
"Only afraid, that's all," said the man, still proceeding with his work.
"Afraid at what--at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost. I would engage to thrash him with one hand."
"You might beat me with no hands at all," said I, "fair damsel, only by looking at me; I never saw such a face and figure, both regal. Why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes:--
'On Dovrefeld in Norway, Were once together seen, The twelve heroic brothers Of Ingeborg the queen.'"
"None of your chaffing, young fellow," said the tall girl, "or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it."
"Well, perhaps I was a peg too high," said I; "I ask your pardon--here's something a bit lower:--
'As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus I met on the drom miro Rommany chi--'"
"None of your Rommany chies, young fellow," said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before and clenching her fist, "you had better be civil, I am none of your chies; and though I keep company with gypsies, or, to speak more proper, half and halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford."
"I have no doubt," said I, "that it was a great house judging from your size, I shouldn't wonder if you were born in a church."
"Stay, Belle," said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, "my turn is first;" then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said, with a look of deep malignity, "Afraid was the word, wasn't it?"
"It was," said I, "but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast, you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear."
The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not; ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl started forward, crying, "He's chaffing, let me at him"; and, before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground.
"Enough," said I, putting my hand to my cheek; "you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face; now be pacified, and tell me fairly the grounds of this quarrel."
"Grounds!" said the fellow; "didn't you say I was afraid? and if you hadn't, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?"
"Is it your ground?" said I.
"A pretty question," said the fellow; "as if all the world didn't know that. Do you know who I am?"
"I guess I do," said I; "unless I am much mistaken, you are he whom folks call the 'Flaming Tinman'. To tell you the truth, I'm glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. There's no harm done--there's room enough here for all of us--we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when we are a little better acquainted, I'll tell you my history."
"Well, if that doesn't beat all," said the fellow.
"I don't think he's chaffing now," said the girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; "the young man speaks civil enough."
"Civil," said the fellow with an oath; "but that's just like you; with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear all I may have to say to my two morts."
"Two morts!" said the girl, kindling up, "where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo, for t'other an't your name, the same thing I told the young man here: be civil, or you will rue it."
The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. "What's this?" said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. "Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby."
"It's his no longer; I bought it and paid for it."
"It's mine now," said the fellow; "I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat; ay, and beat the master too."
"I am not Slingsby."
"All's one for that."
"You don't say you will beat me?"
"Afraid was the word."
"I'm sick and feeble."
"Hold up your fists."
"Won't the horse satisfy you?"
"Horse nor bellows either."
"No mercy, then."
"Here's at you."
"Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you've got it. I thought so," shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp blow in the eye. "I thought he was chaffing at you all along."
"Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do--go in," said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; "go in apopli; you'll smash ten like he."
The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in, bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose.
"You'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way," said the girl, looking at me doubtfully.
And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman disengaging himself of his frock-coat, and, dashing off his red night-cap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another, he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow's strength appeared to be tremendous.
"Pay him off now," said the vulgar woman. The Flaming Tinman made no reply, but planting his knee on my breast, seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his neck with a grasp nearly as powerful as that with which he pressed my throat.
"Do you call that fair play?" said she.
"Hands off, Belle," said the other woman; "do you call it fair play to interfere? hands off, or I'll be down upon you myself."
But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the handkerchief that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly:--
"Finish t'other business first, and then I'm your woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly--no foul play when I'm by--I'll be the boy's second, and Moll can pick you up when he happens to knock you down."
The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury; but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knock-down blows myself. "I can never stand this," said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle, "I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard," and I spat out a mouthful of blood.
"Sure enough you'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the way you fight--it's of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman with your left hand; why don't you use your right?"
"Because I'm not handy with it," said I; and then getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs.
"Now, will you use Long Melford?" said Belle, picking me up.
"I don't know what you mean by Long Melford," said I, gasping for breath.
"Why, this long right of yours," said Belle, feeling my right arm--"if you do, I shouldn't wonder if you yet stand a chance."
And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second's knee as well as my weakness would permit me; on he came, striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted, and it so happened that the blow which I struck the tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow.
"Hurrah for Long Melford!" I heard Belle exclaim; "there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness all the world over."
At these words I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. "He is dead," said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to raise him up; "he is dead; the best man in all the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy." Alarmed at these words, I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation. "He's not dead," said I, "only stunned; if he were let blood, he would recover presently." I produced a penknife which I had in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed: "I'll tear the eyes out of your head, if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, and murder him outright, now he's asleep? you have had enough of his blood already." "You are mad," said I, "I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won't let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it in his face, you know where the pit is."
"A pretty manoeuvre," said the woman; "leave my husband in the hands of you and that limmer, who has never been true to us; I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came back." "Do you go," said I, to the tall girl, "take the can and fetch some water from the pit." "You had better go yourself," said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form of the tinker; "you had better go yourself, if you think water will do him good." I had by this time somewhat recovered my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. "It was all owing to you, you limmer," said the vulgar woman to the other; "had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy."
"I'm for fair play and Long Melford," said the other. "If your old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, he might, for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me; and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul's destruction." "Hold your tongue, or I'll--"; I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs of animation; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl who was walking slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman's face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating his words, said: "No, it won't do; you are right there, and now hear what I have to say,--let bygones be bygones, and let us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just now". The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the dingle turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the assent; she then stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said: "You are not going, are you?" Receiving no answer, she continued: "I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly,--however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I bear no malice. I'm sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you, only tell me?" The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone: "Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you,--stay with the bit of a mullo whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley you before he comes to be--Have you with us, indeed! after what's past, no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla go-cart and live here with your chabo." She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears.
"They were bad people," said she, "and I did not like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world."
Chapter LXXXVI
In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone.
The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle.
"This tea is very good," said I, "but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly."
"How else should you feel," said the girl, "after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder at is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound."
"That's a great deal for a person in your station to pay."
"In my station! I'd have you to know, young man--however, I haven't the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum for one to pay who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can't help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies--what some folks call vapours, making me weep and cry."
"Dear me," said I, "I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!"
"My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I sha'n't take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn't taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn't be now taking tea with me."
"It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we'll let that pass. So that man's name is Bosville; what's your own?"
"Isopel Berners."
"How did you get that name?"
"I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions! will you have another cup of tea?"
"I was just going to ask for another."
"Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother."
"Your mother's name, then, was Isopel?"
"Isopel Berners."
"But had you never a father?"
"Yes, I had a father," said the girl, sighing, "but I don't bear his name."
"Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother's name?"
"If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and whether my father's or mother's, I am not ashamed of it."
"It is a noble name."
"There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the county were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun."
"What do you mean by the great house?"
"The workhouse."
"Is it possible that you were born there?"
"Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy's crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river--at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents--and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet, pretty creature, I'm told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house."
"And how did they receive you in the great house?"
"Not very kindly, young man--on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate, the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for--"
"Knocking your mistress down?"
"No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me, so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days, I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me; I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said: 'Cheer up, my dear, if you like you shall go with me, and wait upon me'. Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. 'Let me get down,' said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried, which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company's sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one's own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows, for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant; I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy, don't you, young man?"
"Yes," said I, "they are very nice things. I feel very strangely."
"How do you feel, young man?"
"Very much afraid."
"Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don't be afraid of him. He won't come back, and if he did, he shouldn't touch you in this state. I'd fight him for you, but he won't come back, so you needn't be afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of the Flaming Tinman."
"What, then, are you afraid of?"
"The evil one."
"The evil one," said the girl, "where is he?"
"Coming upon me."
"Never heed," said the girl, "I'll stand by you."
Chapter LXXXVII
The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices.
I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried: "Want anything, young fellow?"
"Bring me a jug of ale," said I, "if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head."
"Don't be saucy, young fellow," said the landlord, for such he was, "don't be saucy, or--" Whatever he intended to say, he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still.
This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. "What do you mean by staring at my hand so?" said I, withdrawing it from the table.
"No offence, young man, no offence," said the landlord, in a quite altered tone; "but the sight of your hand--," then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an undertone: "But mum's the word for the present, I will go and fetch the ale."
In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. "Here's your health," said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured: "All's right, I glory in you; but mum's the word." Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room.
What can the silly, impertinent fellow mean, thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep, but who cares, anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and bending down I laid my head on the table on my folded hands.
And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me--it revived and strengthened me. I felt a new man.
I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed: "So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King".
That man must be a Radical, thought I.
Chapter LXXXVIII
The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice: he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. "Who would live in such a country as England?" he shouted.
"There is no country like America," said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance, "there is no country like America," said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth; "I think I shall"--and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other,--"go to America one of these days myself."
"Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all," said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. "If there was but a little more work to be got, I should have nothing to say against her. I hope, however--"
"You hope, who cares what you hope?" interrupted the first, in a savage tone; "you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dog's wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action? a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and "their --- wives and daughters," as William Cobbett says, in his Register."
"Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms," said another.
The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat, which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon.
"You are quite right," said the first, alluding to what this last had said, "the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by --- the King, I'll toss up my hat again, and --- the Church of England too."
"And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?" said I.
These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed.
"What are you laughing at, you fool?" said the radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him, "hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you," said he, looking at me, "to come here, and speak against the great American nation."
"I speak against the great American nation?" said I, "I rather paid them a compliment."
"By supposing they would put me in the stocks. Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing--stocks, indeed!--there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks? why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and the Church."
"I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if you go to America, you will say of the President and country what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back to England."
The radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. "I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance."
"Kicking up a disturbance," said I, "is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing."
The man in black partially raised his head and gave me another peculiar glance.
"Well, if you ar'n't sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you sha'n't bully me. I say down with the aristocracy, the beggarly aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that?"
"Nothing," said I.
"Nothing!" repeated the radical.
"No," said I, "down with them as soon as you can."
"As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?"
"No," said I.
"You won't?"
"No," said I; "though from what I have seen of them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves."
"You won't fight for them," said the radical, triumphantly; "I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord," said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, "some more ale--he won't fight for his friends."
"A white feather," said his companion.
"He! he!" tittered the man in black.
"Landlord, landlord," shouted the radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. "Who called?" said the landlord, coming in at last. "Fill this jug again," said the other, "and be quick about it." "Does any one else want anything?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass of gin and water." "Cold?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black, "with a lump of sugar in it."
"Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it," said I, and struck the table with my fist.
"Take some?" said the landlord, inquiringly.
"No," said I, "only something came into my head."
"He's mad," said the man in black.
"Not he," said the radical. "He's only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business."
The landlord looked at the radical and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with the beer before the radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out.
"Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the man in black, "I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his Register."
The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "With respect to the steeples," said he, "I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad church, a persecuting church."
"Whom does it persecute?" said I.
The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, "the Catholics".
"And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?" said I.
"Never," said the man in black.
"Did you ever read Fox's Book of Martyrs?" said I.
"He! he!" tittered the man in black, "there is not a word of truth in Fox's Book of Martyrs."
"Ten times more than in the Flos Sanctorum," said I.
The man in black looked at me, but made no answer.
"And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, 'whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,' or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?"
The man in black made no answer.
"Go to," said I, "it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can't do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome--"
"Hollo!" said the radical, interfering, "What are you saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope! I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish, as it's called, because I conceives the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won't hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don't look fierce. You won't fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance--I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?"
"Oh dear me, yes," said I, getting up and stepping forward. "I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope--the enemy of all peace and quiet. To refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope--so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well."
"An Orangeman," said the man in black.
"Not a Platitude," said I.
The man in black gave a slight start.
"Amongst that family," said I, "no doubt something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great."
The man in black sat quite still.
"Especially amongst those who have wives," I added.
The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water.
"However," said I, "we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution."
The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, let the spoon fall.
"But what has this to do with the main question?" said I: "I am waiting here to fight against the Pope."
"Come, Hunter," said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "get up, and fight for the Pope."
"I don't care for the young fellow," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.
"I know you don't," said the other, "so get up, and serve him out."
"I could serve out three like him," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.
"So much the better for you," said the other, "the present work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at once."
The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir.
"Who shows the white feather now?" said the simple-looking man.
"He! he! he!" tittered the man in black.
"Who told you to interfere?" said the radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; "say another word, and I'll--And you!" said he, addressing himself to the man in black, "a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I'll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it."
"Then you won't fight?" said I.
"Not for the Pope," said the radical; "I'll see the Pope--"
"Dear me!" said I, "not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I'll give you another chance--you were abusing the Church of England just now. I'll fight for it--will you fight against it?"
"Come, Hunter," said the other, "get up, and fight against the Church of England."
"I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the church belongs to this fellow in black; so let him carry it on. However," he continued suddenly, "I won't slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn't fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him."
Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. "There shall be no fighting here," said he, "no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool," said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, "do you know whom you are going to tackle with? this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers' Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar'n't it all true, young man? Ar'n't you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers' Dingle?" "I never beat Flaming Bosville," said I, "he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn't be here at the present moment." "Here! here!" said the landlord, "now that's just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton, in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England; yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I'll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen--because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment."
"I have no wish to fight the young man," said Hunter; "more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed--but he won't, I know; for I see he's a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute; so I have no wish to fight; however, there is one thing I'll do," said he, uplifting his fist, "I'll fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you--"
"Come, doctor," said the landlord, "or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I'll second you, only you must back yourself. I'll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing."
"Oh! I have no wish to fight," said the man in black hastily; "fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody's pardon."
"Landlord," said I, "what have I to pay?"
"Nothing at all," said the landlord; "glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You'll come again, I dare say; shall always be glad to see you. I won't take it," said he, as I put sixpence on the table; "I won't take it."
"Yes, you shall," said I; "but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman," said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; "he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see--"
"Bravo!" said the landlord, "that's just the conduct I like."
"Bravo!" said Hunter. "I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here."
"If I have given offence to anybody," said the man in black, "I repeat that I ask pardon,--more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I--not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here," bowing to Hunter; "but I happen to know something of the Catholics--several excellent friends of mine are Catholics--and of a surety the Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely extended religion, though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it--amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians--"
"The Armenians," said I; "oh dear me, the Armenians--"
"Have you anything to say about those people, sir?" said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth.
"I have nothing further to say," said I, "than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome."
"There's half a crown broke," said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. "You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment."
Chapter LXXXIX
The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. "I am glad you are returned," said she, as soon as she perceived me; "I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?"
"Yes," said I; "I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind--I am much beholden to you."
"I knew it would do you good," said Belle; "I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say: 'Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong'."
"He was no advocate for tea, then?" said I.
"He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, 'Everything in its season'. Shall we take ours now--I have waited for you."
"I have no objection," said I; "I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale--'Everything in its season,' as the surgeon said."
Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said: "What did you see and hear at the public-house?"
"Really," said I, "you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?"
"It matters very little to me," said Belle; "I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation--you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips--at least I think so."
"One only feels uncomfortable," said I, "in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house."
"Really, young man," said Belle, "you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been--some young--?" and here Belle stopped.
"No," said I, "there was no young person--if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy savage radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the radical against me, and afterwards with me against the radical. There, you know my company, and what took place."
"Was there no one else?" said Belle.
"You are mighty curious," said I. "No, none else, except a poor, simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away."
Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought--"America?" said she, musingly--"America?"
"What of America?" said I.
"I have heard that it is a mighty country."
"I dare say it is," said I; "I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen."
"I heard nothing about that," said Belle; "what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither."
"Well," said I, "the radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds."
"I shall go by myself," said Belle, "unless--unless that should happen which is not likely--I am not fond of radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers."
"Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?"
"I don't wish to say you are," said Belle; "but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly."
"What should I have to say against America? I never was there."
"Many people speak against America who never were there."
"Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America."
"If you liked America you would speak in its praise."
"By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it."
"I can't speak with you," said Belle; "but I see you dislike the country."
"The country!"
"Well, the people--don't you?"
"I do."
"Why do you dislike them?"
"Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time."
"And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?"
"Yes," said I, "that is my reason for disliking them."
"Will you take another cup of tea?" said Belle.
I took another cup; we were again silent. "It is rather uncomfortable," said I, at last, "for people to sit together without having anything to say."
"Were you thinking of your company?" said Belle.
"What company?" said I.
"The present company."
"The present company! oh, ah!--I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian."
"What is Armenian?"
"Did you ever hear of Ararat?"
"Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible."
"Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you."
"To prevent--"
"Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish any one else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian."
"Would not the language of the roads do as well?" said Belle.
"In some places it would," said I, "but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves' slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth."
"I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it," said Belle; "in the meantime, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?"
"If no roadster is nigh, you may," said I, "and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian."
"I suppose you mean no harm," said Belle.
"Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin."
"Stop till I have removed the tea-things," said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment.
"I am ready," said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, "to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it."
"Belle," said I, "I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik."
"I am sure that word will hang upon my memory," said Belle.
"Why hang upon it?"
"Because the old woman in the great house used to call so the chimney- hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake."
"Good!" said I, "you will make an apt scholar; but, mind, that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals."
"What are numerals?" said Belle.
"Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There, have you heard them?"--"Yes." "Well, try and repeat them."
`"I only remember number one," said Belle, "and that because it is me."
"I will repeat them again," said I, "and pay greater attention. Now, try again."
"Me, jergo, earache."
"I neither said jergo nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar."
Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path, which led from the bottom of the hollow where we were seated, to the plain above. "Gorgio shunella," she said, at length, in a low voice.
"Pure Rommany," said I; "where?" I added in a whisper.
"Dovey odoi," said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path.
"I will soon see who it is," said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house.
Chapter XC
The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed: "Buona Sera, I hope I don't intrude".
"You have as much right here," said I, "as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation."
"I was not listening," said the man, "I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine."
"I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good," said I.
"I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation," said the man in black, looking around; "moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable."
"And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?" said I.
"Per far visita a sua signoria, ecco il motivo."
"Why do you speak to me in that gibberish?" said I; "do you think I understand it?"
"It is not Armenian," said the man in black; "but it might serve in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court--when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor."
And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner.
"I see," said I, "that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening."
"Not at all," said the man in black; "I heard from the steep bank above that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it."
"And how did you know that I was here?" I demanded.
"The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you."
"Well," said I, "since you are come, you are welcome, please to step this way."
Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, "Lovely virgin," said he, stretching out his hand, "allow me to salute your fingers".
"I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers," said Belle.
"I did not presume to request to shake hands with you," said the man in black, "I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers."
"I never permit anything of the kind," said Belle; "I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private."
"Do you take me for a listener, then?" said the man in black.
"Ay, indeed I do," said Belle; "the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neither admit them, nor believe them;" and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool.
"Come, Belle," said I, "I have bidden the gentleman welcome; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly."
"That's not English doctrine," said the man in black.
"I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality," said I.
"They do so," said the man in black; "they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does, he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman's house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master's feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage."
"You are too general," said I, "in your strictures; Lord ---, {484} the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linen-draper's feelings of hospitality; whereupon, the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship's head; what do you think of that?"
"He! he! he!" tittered the man in black.
"Well," said I, "I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him, when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?"
"Oh! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England, I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake."
"Well," said I, "we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you."
The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: "Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me."
"Will you permit me to ask," said the man in black--"the weather is very warm," said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat.
I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown; his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large--a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund.
"A bad countenance," said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face.
"Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?" said the man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice. "How," said I, "do you understand the language of the roads?"
"As little as I do Armenian," said the man in black; "but I understand look and tone."
"So do I, perhaps," retorted Belle; "and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face."
"For shame," said I; "have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question," said I, addressing myself to the man, "with respect to your visit."
"Will you permit me to ask who you are?"
"Do you see the place where I live?" said I.
"I do," said the man in black, looking around.
"Do you know the name of this place?"
"I was told it was Mumpers', or Gypsies' Dingle," said the man in black.
"Good," said I; "and this forge and tent, what do they look like?"
"Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy."
"Good," said I; "they belong to me."
"Are you, then, a Gypsy?" said the man in black.
"What else should I be?"
"But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them."
"Do you know how Gypsies live?" said I.
"By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes."
"Well," said I, "there's my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer."
"But how did you come by your knowledge?"
"Oh," said I, "if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth."
"Why scarlet?" said the man in black. "Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet."
"Gypsies never blush," said I; "but Gypsies' cloaks are scarlet."
"I should almost take you for a Gypsy," said the man in black, "but for--"
"For what?" said I.
"But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing," said the man in black, with a titter.
"And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?" said I.
"Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness; and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers--and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto."
"What do you take me for?" said I.
"Why," said the man in black, "I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist."
"And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?" said I.
"Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject--even though the subject were philology--is a thing of which I have no idea."
"But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?"
"I believe I did," said the man in black.
"And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?"
"I believe I did," said the man in black.
"And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?"
"I should think not," said the man in black.
"Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?"
"I really don't know," said the man in black.
"What's the matter with you?" said I.
"Merely puzzled," said the man in black.
"Puzzled?"
"Yes."
"Really puzzled?"
"Yes."
"Remain so."
"Well," said the man in black, rising, "puzzled or not, I will no longer tresspass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion."
"No apology is necessary," said I; "will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea."
"Tea!" said the man in black--"he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it--if, indeed, you had," and here he stopped.
"There's nothing like gin and water, is there?" said I, "but I am sorry to say I have none."
"Gin and water," said the man in black, "how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?"
"Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?"
"You did," said the man in black, "and I remember, that when I called for some, you repeated my words--permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?"
"It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar," said I.
"And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?"
"Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information," said I.
"With all your knowledge," said the man in black, "you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you."
"Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves," said I; "but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly."
"Have I your permission to come again?" said the man in black.
"Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me."
"I will visit you again," said the man in black--"till then, addio."
"Belle," said I, after the man in black had departed, "we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense."
"You offered him some tea," said Belle, "which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not."
"Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?"
"I think I do," said Belle, "but--"
"I will have no 'buts'. Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible, you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find."
Chapter XCI
Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up 100 Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads, at least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing, and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God's favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart that same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle's conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine--how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle.