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Lavengro: the Scholar - the Gypsy - the Priest

by George Borrow · English · Gutenberg #20198 · 1,298,017 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Lavengro: the Scholar - the Gypsy - the Priest

Author: George Borrow

Editor: Theodore Watts-Dunton


        
Release date: December 27, 2006 [eBook #20198]
                Most recently updated: January 13, 2010

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20198

Credits: Transcribed from the 1893 Ward, Lock, Bowden, and Co. edition by David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAVENGRO: THE SCHOLAR - THE GYPSY - THE PRIEST ***


Transcribed from the 1893 Ward, Lock, Bowden, and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                                LAVENGRO:
                   THE SCHOLAR--THE GYPSY--THE PRIEST.


                                    BY
                              GEORGE BORROW,
                                AUTHOR OF
                        "THE BIBLE IN SPAIN," ETC.

                          _WITH AN INTRODUCTION_
                                    BY
                             THEODORE WATTS.

                       WARD, LOCK, BOWDEN, AND CO.
              LONDON: WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
                       NEW YORK: EAST 12TH STREET.
           MELBOURNE: ST. JAMES'S STREET.  SYDNEY: YORK STREET.

                                  1893.

[Picture: Borrow's home at Oulton (now pulled down), showing the summer
house where much of his work was written.  (From a Photograph kindly lent
by Mr. Welchman, of Lowestoft, and taken by Mr. F. G. Mayhew, of the same
place.)]




NOTES UPON GEORGE BORROW.


I.  BORROW AS A SPLENDID LITERARY AMATEUR.


There are some writers who cannot be adequately criticised--who cannot,
indeed, be adequately written about at all--save by those to whom they
are personally known.  I allude to those writers of genius who, having
only partially mastered the art of importing their own individual
characteristics into literary forms, end their life-work as they began
it, remaining to the last amateurs in literary art.  Of this class of
writers George Borrow is generally taken to be the very type.  Was he
really so?

There are passages in "Lavengro" which are unsurpassed in the prose
literature of England--unsurpassed, I mean, for mere perfection of
style--for blending of strength and graphic power with limpidity and
music of flow.  Is "Lavengro" the work of a literary amateur who,
yielding at will to every kind of authorial self-indulgence, fails to
find artistic expression for the life moving within him--fails to project
an individuality that his friends knew to have been unique?  Of other
writers of genius, admirable criticism may be made by those who have
never known them in the flesh.  Is this because each of those others,
having passed from the stage of the literary amateur to that of the
literary artist, is able to pour the stream of his personality into the
literary mould and give to the world a true image of himself?  It has
been my chance of life to be brought into personal relations with many
men of genius, but I feel that there are others who could write about
them more adequately than I.  Does Borrow stand alone?  The admirers of
his writings seem generally to think he does, for ever since I wrote my
brief and hasty obituary notice of him in 1881, I have been urged to
enlarge my reminiscences of him--urged not only by philologers and
gypsologists, but by many others in England, America, and Germany.  But I
on my part have been for years urging upon the friend who introduced me
to him, and who knew him years ago,--knew him when he was the
comparatively young literary lion of East Anglia,--Dr. Gordon Hake, to do
what others are urging me to do.  Not only has the author of "Parables
and Tales" more knowledge of the subject than any one else, but having a
greater reputation than I, he can speak with more authority, and having a
more brilliant pen than I, he can give a more vital picture than I can
hope to give of our common friend.  If he is, as he seems to be, fully
determined not to depict Borrow in prose, let me urge him to continue in
verse that admirable description of him contained in one of the
well-known sonnets addressed to myself in "The New Day":--

    "And he, the walking lord of gipsy lore!
       How often 'mid the deer that grazed the Park,
    Or in the fields and heath and windy moor,
       Made musical with many a soaring lark,
    Have we not held brisk commune with him there,
       While Lavengro, then towering by your side,
    With rose complexion and bright silvery hair,
       Would stop amid his swift and lounging stride
    To tell the legends of the fading race--
       As at the summons of his piercing glance,
    Its story peopling his brown eyes and face,
       While you called up that pendant of romance
    To Petulengro with his boxing glory,
       Your Amazonian Sinfi's noble story!"



II.  IS THERE A KEY TO "LAVENGRO"?


Dr. Hake, however, and those others among Borrow's friends who are apt to
smile at the way in which critics of the highest intelligence will stand
baffled and bewildered before the eccentricities of "Lavengro" and "The
Romany Rye"--some critics treating the work as autobiography spoilt, and
some as spoilt fiction--forget that while it is easy to open a locked
door with a key, to open a locked door without a key is a very different
undertaking.  On the subject of autobiographies and the autobiographic
method, I had several interesting talks with Borrow.  I remember an
especial one that took place on Wimbledon Common, on a certain autumn
morning when I was pointing out to him the spot called Gypsy Ring.  He
was in a very communicative mood that day, and more amenable to criticism
than he generally was.  I had been speaking of certain bold coincidences
in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye"--especially that of Lavengro's meeting
by accident in the neighbourhood of Salisbury Plain the son of the very
apple-woman of London Bridge with whom he had made friends, and also of
such apparently manufactured situations as that of Lavengro's coming upon
the man whom Wordsworth's poetry had sent into a deep slumber in a
meadow.

"What is an autobiography?" he asked.  "Is it a mere record of the
incidents of a man's life? or is it a picture of the man himself--his
character, his soul?"

Now this I think a very suggestive question of Borrow's with regard to
himself and his own work.  That he sat down to write his own life in
"Lavengro" I know.  He had no idea then of departing from the strict line
of fact.  Indeed, his letters to his friend Mr. John Murray would alone
be sufficient to establish this in spite of his calling "Lavengro" a
dream.  In the first volume he did almost confine himself to matters of
fact.  But as he went on he clearly found that the ordinary tapestry into
which Destiny had woven the incidents of his life were not tinged with
sufficient depth of colour to satisfy his sense of wonder; for, let it be
remembered, that of love as a strong passion he had almost none.  Surely
no one but Lavengro could have lived in a dingle with a girl like Belle
Berners, and passed the time in trying to teach her Armenian.  Without
strong passion no very deeply coloured life-tapestry can, in these
unadventurous days, be woven.  The manufactured incidents of which there
are so many in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye," are introduced to give
colour to a web of life that strong Passion had left untinged.  But why?
In order to flash upon the personality of Lavengro, and upon Lavengro's
attitude towards the universe unseen as well as seen, a light more
searching, as Borrow considered, than any picture of actual experience
could have done.  In other words, to build up the truth of the character
of Lavengro, Borrow does not shrink from manipulating certain incidents
and inventing others.  And when he wishes to dive very boldly into the
"abysmal deeps of personality," he speaks and moves partly behind the
mask of some fictitious character, such as the man who touched for the
evil chance, and such as the hypochondriac who taught himself Chinese to
ward off despair, but could not tell the time of day by looking at the
clock.  This is not the place for me to enter more fully into this
matter, but I am looking forward to a fitting occasion of showing whether
or not "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye" form a spiritual autobiography;
and if they do, whether that autobiography does or does not surpass every
other for absolute truth of spiritual representation.  Meantime, let it
be remembered by those who object to Borrow's method that, as I have just
hinted, at the basis of his character was a deep sense of wonder.  Let it
be remembered that he was led to study the first of the many languages he
taught himself--Irish--because there was, as he said, "something
mysterious and uncommon in its use."  Let it be remembered that it was
this instinct of wonder, not the impulse of the mere _poseur_, that
impelled him to make certain exaggerated statements about the characters
themselves who are introduced into his books.



III.  ISOPEL BERNERS.


For instance, the tall girl, Isopel Berners--the most vigorous sketch he
has given us--is perfect as she is adorable.  Among heroines she stands
quite alone; there is none other that is in the least like her.  Yet she
is in many of her qualities typical of a class.  Among the very bravest
of all human beings in the British Islands are, or were, the nomadic
girls of the high road and the dingle.  Their bravery is not only an
inherited quality: it is in every way fostered by their mode of life.  No
tenderness from the men with whom they travel, either as wives or as
mistresses, do they get--none of the chivalry which girls in most other
grades of life experience--and none do they expect.  In all disputes
between themselves and the men, their associates, they know that the
final argument is the knock-down blow.  With the Romany girl, too, this
is the case, to be sure; but then, while the Romany girl, as a rule,
owing to tribal customs, receives the blow in patience, the English girl
is apt to return it, and with vigour.  This condition of things gives the
English road-girl a frank independence of bearing which distinguishes her
from girls of all other classes.  There is something of the charm of the
savage about her, even to her odd passion for tattoo.  No doubt Isopel is
an idealisation of the class; but the class, with all its drawbacks, has
a certain winsomeness for men of Borrow's temperament.

But, unfortunately, his love of the wonderful, his instinct for
exaggeration, asserts itself even here.  I need give only one instance of
what I mean.  He makes Isopel Berners speak of herself as being taller
than Lavengro.  Now, as Borrow gives Lavengro his own character and
physique in every detail, even to the silvery hair and even to the
somewhat peculiar method of sparring, and as he himself stood six feet
two inches, Isopel must have been better adapted to shine as a giantess
in a show than as a fighting woman capable of cowing the "Flaming Tinman"
himself.

It is a very exceptional woman that can really stand up against a trained
boxer, and it is, I believe, or used to be, an axiom among the nomads
that no fighting woman ought to stand more than about five feet ten
inches at the outside.  A handsome young woman never looks so superb as
when boxing; but it is under peculiar disadvantages that she spars with a
man, inasmuch as she has, even when properly padded (as assuredly every
woman ought to be) to guard her chest with even more care than she guards
her face.  The truth is, as Borrow must have known, that women, in order
to stand a chance against men, must rely upon some special and surprising
method of attack--such, for instance, as that of the sudden "left-hand
body blow" of the magnificent gypsy girl of whose exploits I told him
that day at "Gypsy Ring"--who, when travelling in England, was attached
to Boswell's boxing-booth, and was always accompanied by a favourite
bantam cock, ornamented with a gold ring in each wattle, and trained to
clap his wings and crow whenever he saw his mistress putting on the
gloves--the most beautiful girl, gypsy or other, that ever went into East
Anglia.  This "left-hand body blow" of hers she delivered so
unexpectedly, and with such an engine-like velocity, that but few boxers
could "stop it."

But, with regard to Isopel Berners, neither Lavengro, nor the man she
thrashed when he stole one of her flaxen hairs to conjure with, gives the
reader the faintest idea of Isopel's method of attack or defence, and we
have to take her prowess on trust.

In a word, Borrow was content to give us the Wonderful, without taking
that trouble to find for it a logical basis which a literary master would
have taken.  And instances might easily be multiplied of this
exaggeration of Borrow's, which is apt to lend a sense of unreality to
some of the most picturesque pages of "Lavengro."



IV.  BORROW'S USE OF PATOIS.


Nor does Borrow take much trouble to give organic life to a dramatic
picture by the aid of _patois_ in dialogue.  In every conversation
between Borrow's gypsies, and between them and Lavengro, the illusion is
constantly being disturbed by the vocabulary of the speakers.  It is hard
for the reader to believe that characters such as Jasper Petulengro, his
wife, and sister Ursula, between whom so much of the dialogue is
distributed, should make use of the complex sentences and book-words
which Borrow, on occasion, puts into their mouths.

I remember once remarking to him upon the value of _patois_ within
certain limits--not only in imaginative but in biographic art.

His answer came in substance to this, that if the matter of the dialogue
be true to nature, the entire verisimilitude of the form is a secondary
consideration.

"Walter Scott," said he, "has run to death the method of _patois_
dialogue."

He urged, moreover, that the gypsies really are extremely fond of
uncommon and fine words.  And this, no doubt, is true, especially in
regard to the women.  There is nothing in which the native superiority of
the illiterate Romany woman over the illiterate English woman of the road
is more clearly seen than in the love of long "book-words" (often
mispronounced) displayed by the former.  Strong, however, as is the
Romany chi's passion for fine words, her sentences are rarely complex
like some of the sentences Borrow puts into her mouth.

With regard, however, to the charge of idealising gypsy life--a charge
which has often been brought against Borrow--it must be remembered that
the gypsies to whom he introduces us are the better kind of gryengroes
(horse-dealers), by far the most prosperous of all gypsies.  Borrow's
"gryengroes" are not in any way more prosperous than those he knew.

These nomads have an instinctive knowledge of horseflesh--will tell the
amount of "blood" in any horse by a lightning glance at his quarters--and
will sometimes make large sums before the fair is over.

Yet, on the whole, I will not deny that Borrow was as successful in
giving us vital portraits of English and Irish characters as of Romany
characters, perhaps more so.

That hypochondriacal strain in Borrow's nature, which Dr. Hake alludes
to, perhaps prevented him from sympathising fully with the joyous Romany
temper.  But over and above this, and charming as the Petulengro family
are, they do not live as do the characters of Mr. Groome in his
delightful book "In Gypsy Tents"--a writer whose treatises on the gypsies
in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," and in "Chambers' Encyclopedia," are
as full of the fruits of actual personal contact with the gypsies as of
the learning to be derived from books.



V.  THE SAVING GRACE OF PUGILISM.


Borrow's "Flaming Tinman" is, of course, a brilliant success, but then
he, though named Bosville, is not a pure gypsy.  He is what is called on
the roads, I believe, a "half and half"; and in nothing is more clearly
seen that "prepotency of transmission," which I have elsewhere attributed
to the Anglo-Saxon in the racial struggle, than in hybrids of this kind.
A thorough-bred Romany chal can be brutal enough, but the "Flaming
Tinman's" peculiar shade of brutality is Anglo-Saxon, not Romany.  The
Tinman's ironical muttering while unharnessing his horse, "Afraid.  H'm!
Afraid; that was the word, I think," is worthy of Dickens at his very
best--worthy of Dickens when he created Rogue Riderhood--but it is hardly
Romany, I think.

The battle in the dingle is superb.

Borrow is always at his strongest when describing a pugilistic encounter:
for in the saving grace of pugilism as an English accomplishment, he
believed as devoutly almost as he believed in East Anglia and the Bible.
It was this more than anything else that aroused the ire of the critics
of "Lavengro" when it first appeared.  One critical journal characterised
the book as the work of a "barbarian."

This was in 1851, when Clio seemed set upon substituting Harlequin's wand
for Britannia's trident, seemed set upon crowning her with the cap and
bells of Folly in her maudlin mood,--the marvellous and memorable year
when England--while every forge in Europe was glowing with expectance,
ready to beat every ploughshare into a sword--uttered her famous
prophecy, that from the day of the opening of the Prince Consort's glass
show in Hyde Park, bullets, bayonets, and fists were to be institutions
of a benighted past.

Very different was the prophecy of this "eccentric barbarian," Borrow,
especially as regards the abolition of the British fist.  His prophecy
was that the decay of pugilism would be followed by a flourishing time in
England for the revolver and the assassin's knife,--a prophecy which I
can now recommend to those two converts to the virtues of Pugilism, Mr.
Justice Grantham and the present Editor of the _Daily News_, the former
of whom in passing sentence of death (at the Central Criminal Court, on
Wednesday, January 11th, 1893) upon a labourer named Hosler, for stabbing
one Dennis Finnessey to death in a quarrel about a pot of beer, borrowed
in the most impudent manner from the "eccentric barbarian," when he said,
"If men would only use their fists instead of knives when tempted to
violence, so many people would not be hanged"; while the latter remarked
that "the same thing has been said from the bench before, _and cannot be
said too often_."  When the "eccentric barbarian" argued that pugnacity
is one of the primary instincts of man--when he argued that no
civilisation can ever eradicate this instinct without emasculating
itself--when he argued that to clench one's fist and "strike out" is the
irresistible impulse of every one who has been assaulted, and that to
make it illegal to "strike out," to make it illegal to learn the art to
"strike out" with the best effect, is not to quell the instinct, but
simply to force it to express itself in other and more dangerous and
dastardly ways--when he argued thus more than forty years ago, he saw
more clearly than did his critics into the future--a future which held
within its womb not only the American civil war and the gigantic
Continental struggles whose bloody reek still "smells to heaven," but
also the present carnival of dynamite, the revolver, and the assassin's
knife.



VI.  BORROW'S GYPSIES.


To those who knew Borrow, the striking thing about "Lavengro" and "The
Romany Rye" is not that there is so much about the gypsies, but that
there is comparatively so little, and that he only introduces one family
group.  Judged from these two books the reader would conclude that he
knew nothing whatever of the Lees, the Stanleys, and the most noticeable
of all, the Lovells, and yet those who knew him are aware that he was
thrown into contact with most of these.  But here, as in everything else,
Borrow's eccentric methods can never be foreseen.  The most interesting
of all the gypsies are the Welsh gypsies.  The Welsh variety of the
Romany tongue is quite peculiar, and the Romanies of the Principality are
superior to all others in these islands in intelligence and in their
passion for gorgio respectability.  Borrow in "Lavengro" takes the reader
to the Welsh border itself, and then turns back, leaving the Welsh Romany
undescribed.  And in the only part of "Wild Wales" where gypsy life is
afterwards glanced at, the gypsies introduced are not Welsh, but English.

The two great successes amongst Borrow's Romany characters are
undoubtedly Mrs. Petulengro's mother (old Mrs. Herne) and her grandchild
Leonora, but these are the two wicked characters of the group.  It is
impossible to imagine anything better told than the attempt of these two
to poison Lavengro: it is drama of the rarest kind.  The terrible
ironical dialogue over the prostrate and semi-conscious Lavengro, between
the child-murderess and the hag-murderess who have poisoned him, is like
nothing else in literature.  This scene alone should make "Lavengro"
immortal.  In no other race than the Romany would a child of the elf-like
intelligence and unconscious wickedness of Leonora be possible; but also
it must be said that in no other race than the Romany would be possible a
child like her who is made the subject of my sonnet, "A Gypsy Child's
Christmas," printed in the "Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society"--a sonnet
which renders in verse a real incident recorded by my friend before
alluded to:--

    Dear Sinfi rose and danced along "The Dells,"
       Drawn by the Christmas chimes, and soon she sate
       Where, 'neath the snow around the churchyard gate,
    The ploughmen slept in bramble-banded cells:
    The gorgios passed, half fearing gipsy spells,
       While Sinfi, gazing, seemed to meditate;
       She laughed for joy, then wept disconsolate:
    "De poor dead gorgios cannot hear de bells."

    Within the church the clouds of gorgio-breath
       Arose, a steam of lazy praise and prayer,
       To Him who weaves the loving Christmas-stair
    O'er sorrow and sin and wintry deeps of Death;
       But where stood He?  Beside our Sinfi there,
    Remembering childish tears in Nazareth.

Perhaps Borrow's pictures of the gypsies, by omitting to depict the
Romany woman on her loftier, her tragic side, fail to demonstrate what he
well knew to be the Romany's great racial mark of distinction all over
Europe, the enormous superiority of the gypsy women over the gypsy men,
not in intelligence merely, but in all the higher human qualities.  While
it is next to impossible to imagine a gypsy hero, gypsy heroines--women
capable of the noblest things--are far from uncommon.

The "Amazonian Sinfi," alluded to in Dr. Hake's sonnet, was a heroine of
this noble strain, and yet perhaps she was but a type of a certain kind
of Romany chi.

It was she of the bantam cock and "the left-hand body blow" alluded to
above.

This same gypsy girl also illustrated another side of the variously
endowed character of the Romany women, ignored, or almost ignored by
Borrow--their passion for music.  The daughter of an extremely well-to-do
"gryengro," or dealer in horses, this gypsy girl had travelled over
nearly all England, and was familiar with London, where, in the studio of
a certain romantic artist, she was in great request as a face-model.  But
having been brought into close contact with a travelling band of
Hungarian gypsy musicians who visited England some years ago, she
developed a passion for music that showed her to be a musical genius.
The gypsy musicians of Hungary, who are darker than the tented gypsies,
are the most intelligent and most widely-travelled of even Hungarian
gypsies--indeed, of all the Romany race, and with them Sinfi soon
developed into the "Fiddling Sinfi," who was famous in Wales and also in
East Anglia, and the East Midlands.  After a while she widened her
reputation in a curious way as the only performer on the old Welsh
stringed instrument called the "crwth," or cruth.  I told Borrow her
story at Gypsy Ring.  Having become, through the good nature of an
eminent Welsh antiquary, the possessor of a crwth, and having discovered
the unique capabilities of that rarely-seen instrument, she soon taught
herself to play upon it with extraordinary effect, fascinating her Welsh
patrons by the ravishing strains she could draw from it.  This obsolete
instrument is six-stringed, with two of the strings reaching beyond the
key-board, and a bridge placed, not at right angles to the sides of the
instrument, but in an oblique direction.  Though in some respects
inferior to the violin, it is in other respects superior to it.  Sinfi's
performances on this remarkable instrument showed her to be a musical
genius of a high order.



VII.  MY FIRST MEETING WITH BORROW.


But I am not leaving myself much room for personal reminiscences of
Borrow after all--though these are what I sat down to write.

Dr. Hake, in his memoirs of "Eighty Years," records thus the first
meeting between Borrow and myself at Roehampton, at the doctor's own
delightful house, whose windows at the back looked over Richmond Park,
and in front over the wildest part of Wimbledon Common.

    "Later on, George Borrow turned up while Watts was there, and we went
    through a pleasant trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the
    first fiddle.  The reader must not here take metaphor for music.
    Borrow made himself very agreeable to Watts, recited a fairy tale in
    the best style to him, and liked him."

There is, however, no doubt that Borrow would have run away from me had I
been associated in his mind with the literary calling.  But at that time
I had written nothing at all save poems, and a prose story or two of a
romantic kind, and even these, though some of the poems have since
appeared, were then known only through private circulation.

About me there was nothing of the literary flavour: no need to flee away
from me as he fled from the writing fraternity.  He had not long before
this refused to allow Dr. Hake to introduce the late W. R. S. Ralston to
him, simply because the Russian scholar moved in the literary world.

With regard to newspaper critiques of books his axiom was that "whatever
is praised by the press is of necessity bad," and he refused to read
anything that was so praised.

After the "fairy tale" mentioned by Dr. Hake was over, we went, at
Borrow's suggestion, for a ramble through Richmond Park, calling on the
way at the "Bald-Faced Stag" in Kingston Vale, in order that Borrow
should introduce me to Jerry Abershaw's sword, which was one of the
special glories of that once famous hostelry.  A divine summer day it was
I remember--a day whose heat would have been oppressive had it not been
tempered every now and then by a playful silvery shower falling from an
occasional wandering cloud, whose slate-coloured body thinned at the
edges to a fringe of lace brighter than any silver.

These showers, however, seemed, as Borrow remarked, merely to give a rich
colour to the sunshine, and to make the wild flowers in the meadows on
the left breathe more freely.  In a word, it was one of those uncertain
summer days whose peculiarly English charm was Borrow's special delight.
He liked rain, but he liked it falling on the green umbrella (enormous,
shaggy, like a gypsy-tent after a summer storm) he generally carried.  As
we entered the Robin Hood Gate we were confronted by a sudden weird
yellow radiance, magical and mysterious, which showed clearly enough that
in the sky behind us there was gleaming over the fields and over
Wimbledon Common a rainbow of exceptional brilliance, while the raindrops
sparkling on the ferns seemed answering every hue in the magic arch far
away.  Borrow told us some interesting stories of Romany superstitions in
connection with the rainbow--how, by making a "trus'hul" (cross) of two
sticks, the Romany chi who "pens the dukkerin can wipe the rainbow out of
the sky," etc.  Whereupon Hake, quite as original a man as Borrow, and a
humourist of a still rarer temper, launched out into a strain of wit and
whim, which it is not my business here to record, upon the subject of the
"Spirit of the Rainbow" which a certain child went out to find.

Borrow loved Richmond Park, and he seemed to know every tree.  I found
also that he was extremely learned in deer, and seemed familiar with
every dappled coat which, washed and burnished by the showers, seemed to
shine in the sun like metal.  Of course, I observed him closely, and I
began to wonder whether I had encountered, in the silvery-haired giant
striding by my side, with a vast umbrella under his arm, a true "Child of
the Open Air."

"Did a true Child of the Open Air ever carry a gigantic green umbrella
that would have satisfied Sarah Gamp herself?" I murmured to Hake, while
Borrow lingered under a tree and, looking round the Park, said, in a
dreamy way, "Old England!  Old England!"



VIII.  A CHILD OF THE OPEN AIR UNDER A GREEN UMBRELLA.


Perhaps, however, I had better define what Hake and I meant by this
phrase, and to do this I cannot do better than quote the definition of
Nature-worship, by H. A. the "Swimming Rye," which we had both been just
discussing, and which I quoted not long after this memorable walk in a
literary journal:--

    "With all the recent cultivation of the picturesque by means of
    water-colour landscape, descriptive novels, 'Cook's excursions,'
    etc., the real passion for Nature is as rare as ever it was,--perhaps
    rarer.  It is quite an affair of individual temperament: it cannot be
    learned; it cannot be lost.  That no writer has ever tried to explain
    it shows how little it is known.  Often it has but little to do with
    poetry, little with science.  The poet, indeed, rarely has it at its
    very highest; the man of science as rarely.  I wish I could define
    it:--in human souls--in one, perhaps, as much as in another--there is
    always that instinct for contact which is a great factor of progress;
    there is always an irresistible yearning to escape from isolation, to
    get as close as may be to some other conscious thing.  In most
    individuals this yearning is simply for contact with other human
    souls; in some few it is not.  There are some in every country of
    whom it is the blessing, not the bane, that, owing to some
    exceptional power, or to some exceptional infirmity, they can get
    closer to '_Natura Benigna_' herself, closer to her whom we now call
    'Inanimate Nature,' than to the human mother who bore them--far
    closer than to father, brother, sister, wife, or friend.  Darwin
    among English _savants_, and Emily Bronte among English poets, and
    Sinfi Lovell among English gypsies, showed a good deal of the
    characteristics of the 'Children of the Open Air.'  But in the case
    of the first of these, besides the strength of his family ties the
    pedantic inquisitiveness, the methodising pedantry of the man of
    science; in the second, the sensitivity to human contact; and in the
    third, subjection to the love passion--disturbed, and indeed
    partially stifled, the native instinct with which they were
    undoubtedly endowed.

    "Between the true 'Children of the Open Air' and their fellows there
    are barriers of idiosyncrasy, barriers of convention, or other
    barriers quite indefinable, which they find most difficult to
    overpass, and, even when they succeed in overpassing them, the
    attempt is not found to be worth the making.  For, what the
    Nature-worshipper finds in intercourse with his fellow-men is, not
    the unegoistic frankness of Nature, his first love, inviting him to
    touch her close, soul to soul--but another _ego_ enisled like his
    own--sensitive, shrinking, like his own--a soul which, love him as it
    may, is, nevertheless, and for all its love, the central _ego_ of the
    universe to itself, the very Alcyone round whom all other
    Nature-worshippers revolve like the rest of the human constellations.
    But between these and Nature there is no such barrier, and upon
    Nature they lavish their love--'a most equal love,' that varies no
    more with her change of mood than does the love of a man for a
    beautiful woman, whether she smiles, or weeps, or frowns.  To them a
    Highland glen is most beautiful; so is a green meadow; so is a
    mountain gorge or a barren peak; so is a South American savannah.  A
    balmy summer is beautiful, but not more beautiful than a winter's
    sleet beating about the face, and stinging every nerve into delicious
    life.

    "To the 'Child of the Open Air' life has but few ills; poverty cannot
    touch him.  Let the Stock Exchange rob him of his Turkish bonds, and
    he will go and tend sheep in Sacramento Valley, perfectly content to
    see a dozen faces in a year; so far from being lonely, he has got the
    sky, the wind, the brown grass, and the sheep.  And as life goes on,
    love of Nature grows both as a cultus and a passion, and in time
    Nature seems 'to know him and love him' in her turn."

It was the umbrella, green, manifold and bulging, under Borrow's arm,
that made me ask Dr. Hake, as Borrow walked along beneath the trees, "Is
he a genuine Child of the Open Air"?  And then, calling to mind
"Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye," I said, "He went into the Dingle, and
lived alone--went there not as an experiment in self-education, as
Thoreau went and lived by Walden Pond.  He could enjoy living alone, for
the 'horrors' to which he was occasionally subject did not spring from
solitary living.  He was never disturbed by passion as was the
nature-worshipper who once played such selfish tricks with Sinfi Lovell,
and as Emily Bronte would certainly have been had she been placed in such
circumstances as Charlotte Bronte placed Shirley."

"But the most damning thing of all," said Hake, "is that umbrella,
gigantic and green: a painful thought that has often occurred to me."

"Passion has certainly never disturbed his nature-worship," said I.  "So
devoid of passion is he that to depict a tragic situation is quite beyond
his powers.  Picturesque he always is, powerful never.  No one reading an
account of the privations of Lavengro during the 'Joseph Sell' period
finds himself able to realise from Borrow's description the misery of a
young man tenderly reared, and with all the pride of an East Anglian
gentleman, living on bread and water in a garret, with starvation staring
him in the face.  It is not passion," I said to Hake, "that prevents
Borrow from enjoying the peace of the nature-worshipper.  It is Ambition!
His books show that he could never cleanse his stuffed bosom of the
perilous stuff of ambition.  To become renowned, judging from many a
peroration in 'Lavengro,' was as great an incentive to Borrow to learn
languages as to Alexander Smith's poet-hero it was an incentive to write
poetry."

"Ambition and the green gamp," said Hake.  "But, look, the rainbow is
fading from the sky without the intervention of gypsy sorceries, and see
how the ferns are changing colour with the change in the light."

But I soon found that if Borrow was not a perfect Child of the Open Air,
he was something better: a man of that deep sympathy with human kind,
which the "Child of the Open Air" must needs lack.



IX.  THE GYPSIES OF NORMAN CROSS.


Knowing Borrow's extraordinary shyness and his great dislike of meeting
strangers, Dr. Hake, while Borrow was trying to get as close to the deer
as they would allow, expressed to me his surprise at the terms of cordial
friendship that sprang up between us during that walk.  But I was not
surprised: there were several reasons why Borrow should at once take to
me--reasons that had nothing whatever to do with any inherent
attractiveness of my own.

By recalling what occurred I can throw a more brilliant light upon
Borrow's character than by any kind of analytical disquisition.

Two herons rose from the Ponds and flew away to where they probably had
their nests.  By the expression on Borrow's face as he stood and gazed at
them, I knew that, like myself, he had a passion for herons.

"Were there many herons around Whittlesea Mere before it was drained?" I
said.

"I should think so," said he, dreamily, "and every kind of water bird."

Then, suddenly turning round upon me with a start, he said, "But how do
you know that I knew Whittlesea Mere?"

"You say in 'Lavengro' that you played among the reeds of Whittlesea Mere
when you were a child."

"I don't mention Whittlesea Mere in 'Lavengro,'" he said.

"No," said I, "but you speak of a lake near the old State prison at
Norman Cross, and that was Whittlesea Mere."

"Then you know Whittlesea Mere?" said Borrow, much interested.

"I know the place that _was_ Whittlesea Mere before it was drained," I
said, "and I know the vipers around Norman Cross, and I think I know the
lane where you first met Jasper Petulengro.  He was a generation before
my time.  Indeed, I never was thrown much across the Petulengroes in the
Eastern Counties, but I knew some of the Hernes and the Lees and the
Lovells."

I then told him what I knew about Romanies and vipers, and also gave him
Marcianus's story about the Moors being invulnerable to the viper's bite,
and about their putting the true breed of a suspected child to the test
by setting it to grasp a viper--as he, Borrow, when a child, grasped one
of the vipers of Norman Cross.

"The gypsies," said Borrow, "always believed me to be a Romany.  But
surely you are not a Romany Rye?"

"No," I said, "but I am a student of folk-lore; and besides, as it has
been my fortune to see every kind of life in England, high and low, I
could not entirely neglect the Romanies, could I?"

"I should think not," said Borrow, indignantly.  "But I hope you don't
know the literary class among the rest."

"Hake is my only link to _that_ dark world," I said; "and even you don't
object to Hake.  I am purer than he, purer than you, from the taint of
printers' ink."

He laughed.  "Who are you?"

"The very question I have been asking myself ever since I was a child in
short frocks," I said, "and have never yet found an answer.  But Hake
agrees with me that no well-bred soul should embarrass itself with any
such troublesome query."  This gave a chance to Hake, who in such local
reminiscences as these had been able to take no part.  The humorous
mystery of Man's personality had often been a subject of joke between him
and me in many a ramble in the Park and elsewhere.  At once he threw
himself into a strain of whimsical philosophy which partly amused and
partly vexed Borrow, who stood waiting to return to the subject of the
gypsies and East Anglia.

"You are an Englishman?" said Borrow.

"Not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman," I said, using a phrase
of his own in "Lavengro"--"if not a thorough East Anglian an East
Midlander; who, you will admit, is nearly as good."

"Nearly," said Borrow.

And when I went on to tell him that I once used to drive a genuine
"Shales mare," a descendant of that same famous Norfolk trotter who could
trot fabulous miles an hour, to whom he with the Norfolk farmers raised
his hat in reverence at the Norwich horse fair, and when I promised to
show him a portrait of this same East Anglian mare with myself behind her
in a dogcart--an East Anglian dogcart--when I praised the stinging
saltness of the sea water off Yarmouth, Lowestoft, and Cromer, the
quality which makes it the best, the most buoyant, the most delightful of
all sea water to swim in--when I told him that the only English river in
which you could see reflected the rainbow he loved was "the glassy Ouse"
of East Anglia, and the only place in England where you could see it
reflected in the wet sand was the Norfolk coast, and when I told him a
good many things showing that I was in very truth not only an Englishman,
but an East Englishman, my conquest of the "Walking Lord of Gypsy Lore"
was complete, and from that moment we became friends.

Hake meanwhile stood listening to the rooks in the distance.  He turned
and asked Borrow whether he had never noticed a similarity between the
kind of muffled rattling roar made by the sea-waves upon a distant pebbly
beach and the sound of a large rookery in the distance.

"It is on _sand_ alone," said Borrow, "that the sea strikes its true
music--Norfolk sand: a rattle is not music."

"The best of the sea's lutes," I said, "is made by the sands of Cromer."

I have read over to my beloved old friend Dr. Hake, the above meagre
account of that my first delightful ramble with Borrow.  He whose memory
lets nothing escape, has reminded me of a score of interesting things
said and done on that memorable occasion.  But in putting into print any
record of one's intercourse with a famous man, there is always an
unpleasant sense of lapsing into egotism.  And besides, the reader has
very likely had enough now of talk between Borrow and me.



X.  THE FUTURE OF BORROW'S WORKS.


He whom London once tried hard, but in vain, to lionise, lived during
some of the last years of his life in Hereford Square, unknown to any
save about a dozen friends.  At the head of them stood Mr. John Murray,
whose virtues, both as publisher and as English gentleman, he was never
tired of extolling.

Afterwards he went down to East Anglia--that East Anglia he loved so
well--went there, as he told me, to die.

But it was not till one day in 1881 that Borrow achieved, in the Cottage
by the Oulton Broads which his genius once made famous, and where so much
of his best work had been written, the soul's great conquest over its
fleshly trammels, the conquest we call death, but which he believed to be
life.  His body was laid by the side of that of his wife at Brompton.

When I wrote his obituary notice in the _Athenaeum_ no little wonder was
expressed in various quarters that the "Walking Lord of Gypsy Lore" had
been walking so lately the earth.

And yet his "Bible in Spain" had still a regular sale.  His "Lavengro"
and "Romany Rye" were still allowed by all competent critics to be among
the most delightful books in the language.  Indeed, at his death, Borrow
was what he now is, and what he will continue to be long after Time has
played havoc with nine-tenths of the writers whose names are week by
week, and day by day, "paragraphed" in the papers as "literary
celebrities"--an English classic.

Apart from Borrow's undoubted genius as a writer the subject-matter of
his writings has an interest that will not wane but will go on growing.
The more the features of our "Beautiful England," to use his own phrase,
are changed by the multitudinous effects of the railway system, the more
attraction will readers find in books which depict her before her beauty
was marred--books which depict her in those antediluvian days when there
was such a thing as space in the island--when in England there was a
sense of distance, that sense without which there can be no romance--when
the stage-coach was in its glory--when the only magician who could convey
man and his belongings at any rate of speed beyond man's own walking rate
was the horse--the beloved horse whose praises Borrow loved to sing, and
whose ideal was reached in the mighty "Shales"--when the great high roads
were alive, not merely with the bustle of business, but with real
adventure for the traveller--days and scenes which Borrow better than any
one else could paint.  A time will come, I say, when not only books full
of descriptive genius, like "Lavengro," but even such comparatively tame
descriptions of England as the "Gleanings in England and Wales" of the
now forgotten East Midlander, Samuel Jackson Pratt, will be read with a
new interest.  But why was Borrow so entirely forgotten at the moment of
his death?  Simply because, like many another man of genius and many a
scholar, he refused to figure in the literary arena--went on his way
quietly influencing the world, but mixing only with his private friends.

                                                           THEODORE WATTS.




AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.


In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe a dream, partly of
study, partly of adventure, in which will be found copious notices of
books, and many descriptions of life and manners, some in a very unusual
form.

The scenes of action lie in the British Islands;--pray be not displeased,
gentle reader, if perchance thou hast imagined that I was about to
conduct thee to distant lands, and didst promise thyself much instruction
and entertainment from what I might tell thee of them.  I do assure thee
that thou hast no reason to be displeased, inasmuch as there are no
countries in the world less known by the British than these selfsame
British Islands, or where more strange things are every day occurring,
whether in road or street, house or dingle.

The time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century: this
information again may, perhaps, be anything but agreeable to thee; it is
a long time to revert to, but fret not thyself, many matters which at
present much occupy the public mind originated in some degree towards the
latter end of that period, and some of them will be treated of.

The principal actors in this dream, or drama, are, as you will have
gathered from the title-page, a Scholar, a Gypsy, and a Priest.  Should
you imagine that these three form one, permit me to assure you that you
are very much mistaken.  Should there be something of the Gypsy manifest
in the Scholar, there is certainly nothing of the Priest.  With respect
to the Gypsy--decidedly the most entertaining character of the
three--there is certainly nothing of the Scholar or the Priest in him;
and as for the Priest, though there may be something in him both of
scholarship and gypsyism, neither the Scholar nor the Gypsy would feel at
all flattered by being confounded with him.

Many characters which may be called subordinate will be found, and it is
probable that some of these characters will afford much more interest to
the reader than those styled the principal.  The favourites with the
writer are a brave old soldier and his helpmate, an ancient gentlewoman
who sold apples, and a strange kind of wandering man and his wife.

Amongst the many things attempted in this book is the encouragement of
charity, and free and genial manners, and the exposure of humbug, of
which there are various kinds, but of which the most perfidious, the most
debasing, and the most cruel, is the humbug of the Priest.

Yet let no one think that irreligion is advocated in this book.  With
respect to religious tenets, I wish to observe that I am a member of the
Church of England, into whose communion I was baptized, and to which my
forefathers belonged.  Its being the religion in which I was baptized,
and of my forefathers, would be a strong inducement to me to cling to it;
for I do not happen to be one of those choice spirits "who turn from
their banner when the battle bears strongly against it, and go over to
the enemy," and who receive at first a hug and a "viva," and in the
sequel contempt and spittle in the face; but my chief reason for
belonging to it is, because, of all Churches calling themselves Christian
ones, I believe there is none so good, so well founded upon Scripture, or
whose ministers are, upon the whole, so exemplary in their lives and
conversation, so well read in the book from which they preach, or so
versed in general learning, so useful in their immediate neighbourhoods,
or so unwilling to persecute people of other denominations for matters of
doctrine.

In the communion of this Church, and with the religious consolation of
its ministers, I wish and hope to live and die, and in its and their
defence will at all times be ready, if required, to speak, though humbly,
and to fight, though feebly, against enemies, whether carnal or
spiritual.

And is there no priestcraft in the Church of England?  There is
certainly, or rather there was, a modicum of priestcraft in the Church of
England, but I have generally found that those who are most vehement
against the Church of England are chiefly dissatisfied with her, because
there is only a modicum of that article in her--were she stuffed to the
very cupola with it, like a certain other Church, they would have much
less to say against the Church of England.

By the other Church, I mean Rome.  Its system was once prevalent in
England, and, during the period that it prevailed there, was more
prolific of debasement and crime than all other causes united.  The
people and the government at last becoming enlightened by means of the
Scripture, spurned it from the island with disgust and horror, the land
instantly after its disappearance becoming a fair field, in which arts,
sciences, and all the amiable virtues flourished, instead of being a
pestilent marsh where swine-like ignorance wallowed, and artful
hypocrites, like so many Wills-o'-the-wisp, played antic gambols about,
around, and above debased humanity.

But Popery still wished to play her old part, to regain her lost
dominion, to reconvert the smiling land into the pestilential morass,
where she could play again her old antics.  From the period of the
Reformation in England up to the present time, she has kept her
emissaries here, individuals contemptible in intellect, it is true, but
cat-like and gliding, who, at her bidding, have endeavoured, as much as
in their power has lain, to damp and stifle every genial, honest, loyal,
and independent thought, and to reduce minds to such a state of dotage as
would enable their old Popish mother to do what she pleased with them.

And in every country, however enlightened, there are always minds
inclined to grovelling superstition--minds fond of eating dust, and
swallowing clay--minds never at rest, save when prostrate before some
fellow in a surplice; and these Popish emissaries found always some weak
enough to bow down before them, astounded by their dreadful denunciations
of eternal woe and damnation to any who should refuse to believe their
Romania; but they played a poor game--the law protected the servants of
Scripture, and the priest with his beads seldom ventured to approach any
but the remnant of those of the eikonolatry--representatives of
worm-eaten houses, their debased dependants, and a few poor crazy
creatures amongst the middle classes--he played a poor game, and the
labour was about to prove almost entirely in vain, when the English
legislature, in compassion or contempt, or, yet more probably, influenced
by that spirit of toleration and kindness which is so mixed up with
Protestantism, removed almost entirely the disabilities under which
Popery laboured, and enabled it to raise its head, and to speak out
almost without fear.

And it did raise its head, and, though it spoke with some little fear at
first, soon discarded every relic of it; went about the land uttering its
damnation cry, gathering around it--and for doing so many thanks to
it--the favourers of priestcraft who lurked within the walls of the
Church of England; frightening with the loudness of its voice the weak,
the timid, and the ailing; perpetrating, whenever it had an opportunity,
that species of crime to which it has ever been most partial--_Deathbed
robbery_; for as it is cruel, so is it dastardly.  Yes, it went on
enlisting, plundering, and uttering its terrible threats till--till it
became, as it always does when left to itself, a fool, a very fool.  Its
plunderings might have been overlooked, and so might its insolence, had
it been common insolence, but it--, and then the roar of indignation
which arose from outraged England against the viper, the frozen viper
which it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom.

But thanks, Popery, you have done all that the friends of enlightenment
and religious liberty could wish; but if ever there were a set of foolish
ones to be found under Heaven, surely it is the priestly rabble who came
over from Rome to direct the grand movement--so long in its getting up.

But now again the damnation cry is withdrawn, there is a subdued meekness
in your demeanour, you are now once more harmless as a lamb.  Well, we
shall see how the trick--"the old trick"--will serve you.




CHAPTER I.


Birth--My Father--Tamerlane--Ben Brain--French Protestants--East
Anglia--Sorrow and Troubles--True Peace--A Beautiful Child--Foreign
Grave--Mirrors--Alpine Country Emblems--Slow of Speech--The Jew--Strange
Gestures.

On an evening of July, in the year 18--, at East D---, a beautiful little
town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first saw the light.

My father was a Cornish man, the youngest, as I have heard him say, of
seven brothers.  He sprang from a family of gentlemen, or, as some people
would call them, gentillatres, for they were not very wealthy; they had a
coat of arms, however, and lived on their own property at a place called
Tredinnock, which being interpreted means _the house on the hill_, which
house and the neighbouring acres had been from time immemorial in their
possession.  I mention these particulars that the reader may see at once
that I am not altogether of low and plebeian origin; the present age is
highly aristocratic, and I am convinced that the public will read my
pages with more zest from being told that I am a gentillatre by birth
with Cornish blood {1} in my veins, of a family who lived on their own
property at a place bearing a Celtic name signifying the house on the
hill, or more strictly the house on the _hillock_.

My father was what is generally termed a posthumous child--in other
words, the gentillatre who begot him never had the satisfaction of
invoking the blessing of the Father of All upon his head, having departed
this life some months before the birth of his youngest son.  The boy,
therefore, never knew a father's care; he was, however, well tended by
his mother, whose favourite he was; so much so, indeed, that his
brethren, the youngest of whom was considerably older than himself, were
rather jealous of him.  I never heard, however, that they treated him
with any marked unkindness; and it will be as well to observe here that I
am by no means well acquainted with his early history, of which, indeed,
as I am not writing his life, it is not necessary to say much.  Shortly
after his mother's death, which occurred when he was eighteen, he adopted
the profession of arms, which he followed during the remainder of his
life, and in which, had circumstances permitted, he would probably have
shone amongst the best.  By nature he was cool and collected, slow to
anger, though perfectly fearless, patient of control, of great strength;
and, to crown all, a proper man with his hands.

With far inferior qualifications many a man has become a field-marshal or
general; similar ones made Tamerlane, who was not a gentillatre, but the
son of a blacksmith, emperor of one-third of the world; but the race is
not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong, indeed I ought
rather to say very seldom; certain it is, that my father, with all his
high military qualifications, never became emperor, field-marshal, or
even general; indeed, he had never an opportunity of distinguishing
himself save in one battle, and that took place neither in Flanders,
Egypt, nor on the banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park.

Smile not, gentle reader, many a battle has been fought in Hyde Park, in
which as much skill, science, and bravery have been displayed as ever
achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus.  In such a combat as that
to which I allude I opine that even Wellington or Napoleon would have
been heartily glad to cry for quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and
even the Blacksmith Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk from the opponent
with whom, after having had a dispute with him, my father engaged in
single combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions shook
hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other's
prowess.  The name of my father's antagonist was Brain.

What! still a smile? did you never hear that name before?  I cannot help
it!  Honour to Brain, who four months after the event which I have now
narrated was champion of England, having conquered the heroic Johnson.
Honour to Brain, who, at the end of other four months, worn out by the
dreadful blows which he had received in his manly combats, expired in the
arms of my father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments--Big
Ben Brain.

You no longer smile, even _you_ have heard of Big Ben.

I have already hinted that my father never rose to any very exalted rank
in his profession, notwithstanding his prowess and other qualifications.
After serving for many years in the line, he at last entered as captain
in the militia regiment of the Earl of ---, at that period just raised,
and to which he was sent by the Duke of York to instruct the young levies
in military manoeuvres and discipline; and in this mission I believe he
perfectly succeeded, competent judges having assured me that the regiment
in question soon came by his means to be considered as one of the most
brilliant in the service, and inferior to no regiment of the line in
appearance or discipline.

As the head-quarters of this corps were at D---, the duties of my father
not unfrequently carried him to that place, and it was on one of these
occasions that he became acquainted with a young person of the
neighbourhood, for whom he formed an attachment, which was returned; and
this young person was my mother.

She was descended from a family of French Protestants, natives of Caen,
who were obliged to leave their native country when old Louis, at the
instigation of the Pope, thought fit to revoke the Edict of Nantes: their
name was Petrement, and I have reason for believing that they were people
of some consideration; that they were noble hearts and good Christians
they gave sufficient proof in scorning to bow the knee to the tyranny of
Rome.  So they left beautiful Normandy for their faith's sake, and with a
few louis d'ors in their purse, a Bible in the vulgar tongue, and a
couple of old swords, which, if report be true, had done service in the
Huguenot wars, they crossed the sea to the isle of civil peace and
religious liberty, and established themselves in East Anglia.

And many other Huguenot families bent their steps thither, and devoted
themselves to agriculture or the mechanical arts; and in the venerable
old city, the capital of the province, in the northern shadow of the
Castle of De Burgh, the exiles built for themselves a church where they
praised God in the French tongue, and to which, at particular seasons of
the year, they were in the habit of flocking from country and from town
to sing--

"Thou hast provided for us a goodly earth; Thou waterest her furrows,
Thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof, Thou makest it soft
with the drops of rain, and blessest the increase of it."

I have been told that in her younger days my mother was strikingly
handsome; this I can easily believe: I never knew her in her youth, for
though she was very young when she married my father (who was her senior
by many years), she had attained the middle age before I was born, no
children having been vouchsafed to my parents in the early stages of
their union.  Yet even at the present day, now that years threescore and
ten have passed over her head, attended with sorrow and troubles
manifold, poorly chequered with scanty joys, can I look on that
countenance and doubt that at one time beauty decked it as with a
glorious garment?  Hail to thee, my parent! as thou sittest there, in thy
widow's weeds, in the dusky parlour in the house overgrown with the
lustrous ivy of the sister isle, the solitary house at the end of the
retired court shaded by lofty poplars.  Hail to thee, dame of the oval
face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead; by thy table seated with
the mighty volume of the good Bishop Hopkins spread out before thee;
there is peace in thy countenance, my mother; it is not worldly peace,
however, not the deceitful peace which lulls to bewitching slumbers, and
from which, let us pray, humbly pray, that every sinner may be roused in
time to implore mercy not in vain!  Thine is the peace of the righteous,
my mother, of those to whom no sin can be imputed, the score of whose
misdeeds has been long since washed away by the blood of atonement, which
imputeth righteousness to those who trust in it.  It was not always thus,
my mother; a time was, when the cares, pomps, and vanities of this world
agitated thee too much; but that time is gone by, another and a better
has succeeded; there is peace now on thy countenance, the true peace;
peace around thee, too, in thy solitary dwelling, sounds of peace, the
cheerful hum of the kettle and the purring of the immense Angola, which
stares up at thee from its settle with its almost human eyes.

No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother!  Yes, one.  Why dost
thou suddenly raise thy dark and still brilliant eye from the volume with
a somewhat startled glance?  What noise is that in the distant street?
Merely the noise of a hoof; a sound common enough; it draws nearer,
nearer, and now it stops before thy gate.  Singular!  And now there is a
pause, a long pause.  Ha! thou hearest something--a footstep; a swift but
heavy footstep! thou risest, thou tremblest, there is a hand on the pin
of the outer door, there is some one in the vestibule, and now the door
of thy apartment opens, there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee,
a travelling hat, a gray head and sunburnt face.  My dearest Son!  My
darling Mother!

Yes, mother, thou didst recognize in the distant street the hoof-tramp of
the wanderer's horse.

I was not the only child of my parents; I had a brother some three years
older than myself.  He was a beautiful child; one of those occasionally
seen in England, and in England alone; a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes,
and light chestnut hair; it was not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance,
in which, by the by, there is generally a cast of loutishness and
stupidity; it partook, to a certain extent, of the Celtic character,
particularly in the fire and vivacity which illumined it; his face was
the mirror of his mind; perhaps no disposition more amiable was ever
found amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no
inconsiderable portion of high and dauntless spirit.  So great was his
beauty in infancy that people, especially those of the poorer classes,
would follow the nurse who carried him about in order to look at and
bless his lovely face.  At the age of three months an attempt was made to
snatch him from his mother's arms in the streets of London, at the moment
she was about to enter a coach; indeed, his appearance seemed to operate
so powerfully upon every person who beheld him that my parents were under
continual apprehension of losing him; his beauty, however, was perhaps
surpassed by the quickness of his parts.  He mastered his letters in a
few hours, and in a day or two could decipher the names of people on the
doors of houses and over the shop-windows.

As he grew up his personal appearance became less prepossessing, his
quickness and cleverness, however, rather increased; and I may say of
him, that with respect to everything which he took in hand he did it
better and more speedily than any other person.  Perhaps it will be asked
here, what became of him?  Alas! alas! his was an early and a foreign
grave.  As I have said before, the race is not always for the swift, nor
the battle for the strong.

And now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, painted in
the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive himself justified
in expecting a full-length one of myself, as a child, for as to my
present appearance, I suppose he will be tolerably content with that
flitting glimpse in the mirror.  But he must excuse me; I have no
intention of drawing a portrait of myself in childhood; indeed it would
be difficult, for at that time I never looked into mirrors.  No attempts,
however, were ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that
my parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by the
hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that people were in
the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more than at my brother;
from which premises the reader may form any conclusion with respect to my
appearance which seemeth good unto him and reasonable.  Should he, being
a good-natured person, and always inclined to adopt the charitable side
in any doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently
endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that I have no
objection whatever to his entertaining that idea; moreover, that I
heartily thank him, and shall at all times be disposed, under similar
circumstances, to exercise the same species of charity towards himself.

With respect to my mind and its qualities I shall be more explicit; for
were I to maintain much reserve on this point, many things which appear
in these memoirs would be highly mysterious to the reader, indeed
incomprehensible.  Perhaps no two individuals were ever more unlike in
mind and disposition than my brother and myself: as light is opposed to
darkness, so was that happy, brilliant, cheerful child to the sad and
melancholy being who sprang from the same stock as himself, and was
nurtured by the same milk.

Once, when travelling in an Alpine country, I arrived at a considerable
elevation; I saw in the distance, far below, a beautiful stream hastening
to the ocean, its rapid waters here sparkling in the sunshine, and there
tumbling merrily in cascades.  On its banks were vineyards and cheerful
villages; close to where I stood, in a granite basin, with steep and
precipitous sides, slumbered a deep, dark lagoon, shaded by black pines,
cypresses, and yews.  It was a wild, savage spot, strange and singular;
ravens hovered above the pines, filling the air with their uncouth notes,
pies chattered, and I heard the cry of an eagle from a neighbouring peak;
there lay the lake, the dark, solitary, and almost inaccessible lake;
gloomy shadows were upon it, which, strangely modified as gusts of wind
agitated the surface, occasionally assumed the shape of monsters.  So I
stood on the Alpine elevation, and looked now on the gay distant river,
and now at the dark granite-encircled lake close beside me in the lone
solitude, and I thought of my brother and myself.  I am no moralizer; but
the gay and rapid river and the dark and silent lake were, of a verity,
no bad emblems of us two.

So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able to rival the
literary feat which I have recorded of him, many years elapsed before I
was able to understand the nature of letters, or to connect them.  A
lover of nooks and retired corners, I was as a child in the habit of
fleeing from society, and of sitting for hours together with my head on
my breast.  What I was thinking about it would be difficult to say at
this distance of time; I remember perfectly well, however, being ever
conscious of a peculiar heaviness within me, and at times of a strange
sensation of fear, which occasionally amounted to horror, and for which I
could assign no real cause whatever.

By nature slow of speech, I took no pleasure in conversation, nor in
hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures.  When people addressed me I
not unfrequently, especially if they were strangers, turned away my head
from them, and if they persisted in their notice burst into tears, which
singularity of behaviour by no means tended to dispose people in my
favour.  I was as much disliked as my brother was deservedly beloved and
admired.  My parents, it is true, were always kind to me; and my brother,
who was good nature itself, was continually lavishing upon me every mark
of affection.

There was, however, one individual who, in the days of my childhood, was
disposed to form a favourable opinion of me.  One day a Jew--I have quite
forgotten the circumstance, but I was long subsequently informed of
it--one day a travelling Jew knocked at the door of a farmhouse in which
we had taken apartments; I was near at hand, sitting in the bright
sunshine, drawing strange lines on the dust with my fingers, an ape and
dog were my companions; the Jew looked at me and asked me some questions,
to which, though I was quite able to speak, I returned no answer.  On the
door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably relating to
pedlary, demanded who the child was, sitting in the sun; the maid replied
that I was her mistress's youngest son, a child weak _here_, pointing to
her forehead.  The Jew looked at me again, and then said, "'Pon my
conscience, my dear, I believe that you must be troubled there yourself
to tell me any such thing.  It is not my habit to speak to children,
inasmuch as I hate them, because they often follow me and fling stones
after me; but I no sooner looked at that child than I was forced to speak
to it--his not answering me shows his sense, for it has never been the
custom of the wise to fling away their words in indifferent talk and
conversation; the child is a sweet child, and has all the look of one of
our people's children.  Fool, indeed! did I not see his eyes sparkle just
now when the monkey seized the dog by the ear? they shone like my own
diamonds--does your good lady want any, real and fine?  Were it not for
what you tell me, I should say it was a prophet's child.  Fool, indeed!
he can write already, or I'll forfeit the box which I carry on my back,
and for which I should be loth to take two hundred pounds!"  He then
leaned forward to inspect the lines which I had traced.  All of a sudden
he started back, and grew white as a sheet; then, taking off his hat, he
made some strange gestures to me, cringing, chattering, and showing his
teeth, and shortly departed, muttering something about "holy letters,"
and talking to himself in a strange tongue.  The words of the Jew were in
due course of time reported to my mother, who treasured them in her
heart, and from that moment began to entertain brighter hopes of her
youngest-born than she had ever before ventured to foster.




CHAPTER II.


Barracks and Lodgings--A Camp--The Viper--A Delicate Child--Blackberry
Time--Meum and Tuum--Hythe--The Golgotha--Daneman's Skull--Superhuman
Stature--Stirring Times--The Sea-Board.

I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life; indeed I remember
only two periods, and these by no means lengthy, when I was, strictly
speaking, stationary.  I was a soldier's son, and as the means of my
father were by no means sufficient to support two establishments, his
family invariably attended him wherever he went, so that from my infancy
I was accustomed to travelling and wandering, and looked upon a monthly
change of scene and residence as a matter of course.  Sometimes we lived
in barracks, sometimes in lodgings, but generally in the former, always
eschewing the latter from motives of economy, save when the barracks were
inconvenient and uncomfortable; and they must have been highly so indeed
to have discouraged us from entering them; for though we were gentry
(pray bear that in mind, gentle reader), gentry by birth, and
incontestably so by my father's bearing the commission of good old George
the Third, we were _not fine gentry_, but people who could put up with as
much as any genteel Scotch family who find it convenient to live on a
third floor in London, or on a sixth at Edinburgh or Glasgow.  It was not
a little that could discourage us: we once lived within the canvas walls
of a camp, at a place called Pett, in Sussex; and I believe it was at
this place that occurred the first circumstance, or adventure, call it
which you will, that I can remember in connection with myself: it was a
strange one, and I will relate it.

It happened that my brother and myself were playing one evening in a
sandy lane, in the neighbourhood of this Pett camp; our mother was at a
slight distance.  All of a sudden a bright yellow, and, to my infantine
eye, beautiful and glorious object made its appearance at the top of the
bank from between the thick quickset, and, gliding down, began to move
across the lane to the other side, like a line of golden light.  Uttering
a cry of pleasure, I sprang forward, and seized it nearly by the middle.
A strange sensation of numbing coldness seemed to pervade my whole arm,
which surprised me the more as the object to the eye appeared so warm and
sunlike.  I did not drop it, however, but, holding it up, looked at it
intently, as its head dangled about a foot from my hand.  It made no
resistance; I felt not even the slightest struggle; but now my brother
began to scream and shriek like one possessed.  "O mother, mother!" said
he, "the viper! my brother has a viper in his hand!"  He then, like one
frantic, made an effort to snatch the creature away from me.  The viper
now hissed amain, and raised its head, in which were eyes like hot coals,
menacing, not myself, but my brother.  I dropped my captive, for I saw my
mother running towards me; and the reptile, after standing for a moment
nearly erect and still hissing furiously, made off, and disappeared.  The
whole scene is now before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday--the
gorgeous viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a
frightened hen clucking under the bushes: and yet I was not three years
old.

It is my firm belief that certain individuals possess an inherent power,
or fascination, over certain creatures, otherwise I should be unable to
account for many feats which I have witnessed, and, indeed, borne a share
in, connected with the taming of brutes and reptiles.  I have known a
savage and vicious mare, whose stall it was dangerous to approach, even
when bearing provender, welcome, nevertheless, with every appearance of
pleasure, an uncouth, wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed face,
and an iron hook supplying the place of his right arm, one whom the
animal had never seen before, playfully bite his hair and cover his face
with gentle and endearing kisses; and I have already stated how a viper
would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up in his hand,
whilst it showed its dislike to the approach of another by the fiercest
hissings.  Philosophy can explain many strange things, but there are some
which are a far pitch above her, and this is one.

I should scarcely relate another circumstance which occurred about this
time but for a singular effect which it produced upon my constitution.
Up to this period I had been rather a delicate child; whereas almost
immediately after the occurrence to which I allude I became both hale and
vigorous, to the great astonishment of my parents, who naturally enough
expected that it would produce quite a contrary effect.

It happened that my brother and myself were disporting ourselves in
certain fields near the good town of Canterbury.  A female servant had
attended us, in order to take care that we came to no mischief: she,
however, it seems, had matters of her own to attend to, and, allowing us
to go where we listed, remained in one corner of a field, in earnest
conversation with a red-coated dragoon.  Now it chanced to be blackberry
time, and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering anxiously
among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of their degree.
We did not find much of it however, and were soon separated in the
pursuit.  All at once I stood still, and could scarcely believe my eyes.
I had come to a spot where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of
what seemed fruit, deliciously-tempting fruit--something resembling
grapes of various colours, green, red, and purple.  Dear me, thought I,
how fortunate! yet have I a right to gather it? is it mine? for the
observance of the law of _meum_ and _tuum_ had early been impressed upon
my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender age, the utmost horror
for theft; so I stood staring at the variegated clusters, in doubt as to
what I should do.  I know not how I argued the matter in my mind; the
temptation, however, was at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth
my hand and ate.  I remember, perfectly well, that the taste of this
strange fruit was by no means so pleasant as the appearance; but the idea
of eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour
was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously.  How long
I continued eating I scarcely know.  One thing is certain, that I never
left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms of the
dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for several hours.
About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my
parents bending over my couch, whilst the regimental surgeon, with a
candle in his hand, stood nigh, the light feebly reflected on the
whitewashed walls of the barrack-room.

Another circumstance connected with my infancy, and I have done.  I need
offer no apology for relating it, as it subsequently exercised
considerable influence over my pursuits.  We were, if I remember right,
in the vicinity of a place called Hythe, in Kent.  One sweet evening, in
the latter part of summer, our mother took her two little boys by the
hand, for a wander about the fields.  In the course of our stroll we came
to the village church; an old gray-headed sexton stood in the porch, who,
perceiving that we were strangers, invited us to enter.  We were
presently in the interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the
walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead.  I can scarcely
state what we saw; how should I?  I was a child not yet four years old,
and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming in through a stained
window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, and flinging a rich lustre upon
the faded tints of an ancient banner.  And now once more we were outside
the building, where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into
which we looked.  It was half filled with substances of some kind, which
at first looked like large gray stones.  The greater part were lying in
layers; some, however, were seen in confused and mouldering heaps, and
two or three, which had perhaps rolled down from the rest, lay separately
on the floor.  "Skulls, madam," said the sexton; "skulls of the old
Danes!  Long ago they came pirating into these parts: and then there
chanced a mighty shipwreck, for God was angry with them, and He sunk
them; and their skulls, as they came ashore, were placed here as a
memorial.  There were many more when I was young, but now they are fast
disappearing.  Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, madam.
Only see that one; why, the two young gentry can scarcely lift it!"  And,
indeed, my brother and myself had entered the Golgotha, and commenced
handling these grim relics of mortality.  One enormous skull, lying in a
corner, had fixed our attention, and we had drawn it forth.  Spirit of
eld, what a skull was yon!

I still seem to see it, the huge grim thing; many of the others were
large, strikingly so, and appeared fully to justify the old man's
conclusion that their owners must have been strange fellows; but compared
with this mighty mass of bone they looked small and diminutive, like
those of pigmies; it must have belonged to a giant, one of those
red-haired warriors of whose strength and stature such wondrous tales are
told in the ancient chronicles of the north, and whose grave-hills, when
ransacked, occasionally reveal secrets which fill the minds of puny
moderns with astonishment and awe.  Reader, have you ever pored days and
nights over the pages of Snorro? probably not, for he wrote in a language
which few of the present day understand, and few would be tempted to read
him tamed down by Latin dragomans.  A brave old book is that of Snorro,
containing the histories and adventures of old northern kings and
champions, who seemed to have been quite different men, if we may judge
from the feats which they performed, from those of these days.  One of
the best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald
Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate,
now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became King of Norway, and
eventually perished at the battle of Stanford Bridge, whilst engaged in a
gallant onslaught upon England.  Now, I have often thought that the old
Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the Golgotha at Hythe my brother and
myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least
this Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a
determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence, and measuring
in height just _five ells_, {10} neither more nor less.

I never forgot the Daneman's skull; like the apparition of the viper in
the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording copious food
for the exercise of imagination.  From that moment with the name of Dane
were associated strange ideas of strength, daring, and superhuman
stature; and an undefinable curiosity for all that is connected with the
Danish race began to pervade me; and if, long after, when I became a
student, I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the
acquirement of the old Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain
the matter by the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the
old sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull.

And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe to-day, and
perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel-window upon the streets
of old Winchester, our motions ever in accordance with the "route" of the
regiment, so habituated to change of scene that it had become almost
necessary to our existence.  Pleasant were these days of my early
boyhood; and a melancholy pleasure steals over me as I recall them.
Those were stirring times of which I am speaking, and there was much
passing around me calculated to captivate the imagination.  The dreadful
struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which England bore so
prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we were at war, and
determination and enthusiasm shone in every face; man, woman, and child
were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but, thank God, never
dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race.  "Love your country and beat the
French, and then never mind what happens," was the cry of entire England.
Oh, those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the
bravest days of chivalry, at least; tall battalions of native warriors
were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the bayonet and
the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling
of the drum were heard in the streets of country towns, and the loyal
shouts of the inhabitants greeted the soldiery on their arrival or
cheered them at their departure.  And now let us leave the upland, and
descend to the sea-board; there is a sight for you upon the billows!  A
dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically out of port, their long
buntings streaming from the top-gallant masts, calling on the skulking
Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us
yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate towing behind her
the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but three short days ago
had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose crew of ferocious hearts are
now cursing their imprudence in an English hold.  Stirring times those,
which I love to recall, for they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm,
and were moreover the days of my boyhood.




CHAPTER III.


Pretty D-----The Venerable Church--The Stricken Heart--Dormant
Energies--The Small Packet--Nerves--The Books--A Picture--Mountain-like
Billows--The Foot-print--Spirit of De Foe--Reasoning Powers--Terrors of
God--Heads of the Dragons--High Church Clerk--A Journey--The Drowned
Country.

And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once more at
D---, the place of my birth, whither my father had been despatched on the
recruiting service.  I have already said that it was a beautiful little
town--at least it was at the time of which I am speaking; what it is at
present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last
trod its streets.  It will scarcely have improved, for how could it be
better than it then was?  I love to think on thee, pretty, quiet D---,
thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow
streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with thine
old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch,
with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady
Bountiful--she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick,
leaning on her gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a
respectful distance behind.  Pretty quiet D---, with thy venerable
church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England's sweetest and
most pious bard.

Yes, pretty D---, I could always love thee, were it but for the sake of
him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder quiet chancel.  It was
within thee that the long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the
crushed and gentle spirit escaped from a world in which it had known
nought but sorrow.  Sorrow! do I say?  How faint a word to express the
misery of that bruised reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself
is occasionally tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been
created than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have
undergone such intolerable woe!  But it is over now, for, as there is an
end of joy, so has affliction its termination.  Doubtless the All-wise
did not afflict him without a cause: who knows but within that unhappy
frame lurked vicious seeds which the sunbeams of joy and prosperity might
have called into life and vigour?  Perhaps the withering blasts of misery
nipped that which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and
lamentable.  But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; the
deathlike face is no longer occasionally seen timidly and mournfully
looking for a moment through the window-pane upon thy market-place, quiet
and pretty D---; the hind in thy neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall
views, and starts as he views, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the
hazels and alders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout
streams; and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church
reverently doff his hat as, supported by some kind friend, the
death-stricken creature totters along the church path to that mouldering
edifice with the low roof, inclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built
and devoted to some saint--if the legend over the door be true, by the
daughter of an East Anglian king.

But to return to my own history.  I had now attained the age of six:
shall I state what intellectual progress I had been making up to this
period?  Alas! upon this point I have little to say calculated to afford
either pleasure or edification.  I had increased rapidly in size and in
strength: the growth of the mind, however, had by no means corresponded
with that of the body.  It is true, I had acquired my letters, and was by
this time able to read imperfectly; but this was all: and even this poor
triumph over absolute ignorance would never have been effected but for
the unremitting attention of my parents, who, sometimes by threats,
sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant energies of my
nature, and to bend my wishes to the acquisition of the rudiments of
knowledge; but in influencing the wish lay the difficulty.  Let but the
will of a human being be turned to any particular object, and it is ten
to one that sooner or later he achieves it.  At this time I may safely
say that I harboured neither wishes nor hopes; I had as yet seen no
object calculated to call them forth, and yet I took pleasure in many
things which perhaps unfortunately were all within my sphere of
enjoyment.  I loved to look upon the heavens, and to bask in the rays of
the sun, or to sit beneath hedgerows and listen to the chirping of the
birds, indulging the while in musing and meditation as far as my very
limited circle of ideas would permit; but, unlike my brother, who was at
this time at school, and whose rapid progress in every branch of
instruction astonished and delighted his preceptors, I took no pleasure
in books, whose use, indeed, I could scarcely comprehend, and bade fair
to be as arrant a dunce as ever brought the blush of shame into the
cheeks of anxious and affectionate parents.

But the time was now at hand when the ice which had hitherto bound the
mind of the child with its benumbing power was to be thawed, and a world
of sensations and ideas awakened to which it had hitherto been an entire
stranger.  One day a young lady, an intimate acquaintance of our family,
and godmother to my brother, drove up to the house in which we dwelt; she
staid some time conversing with my mother, and on rising to depart she
put down on the table a small packet, exclaiming, "I have brought a
little present for each of the boys: the one is a History of England,
which I intend for my godson when he returns from school, the other is--"
and here she said something which escaped my ear, as I sat at some
distance, moping in a corner:--"I intend it for the youngest yonder,"
pointing to myself; she then departed, and, my mother going out shortly
after, I was left alone.

I remember for some time sitting motionless in my corner, with my eyes
bent upon the ground; at last I lifted my head and looked upon the packet
as it lay on the table.  All at once a strange sensation came over me,
such as I had never experienced before--a singular blending of curiosity,
awe, and pleasure, the remembrance of which, even at this distance of
time, produces a remarkable effect upon my nervous system.  What strange
things are the nerves--I mean those more secret and mysterious ones in
which I have some notion that the mind or soul, call it which you will,
has its habitation; how they occasionally tingle and vibrate before any
coming event closely connected with the future weal or woe of the human
being.  Such a feeling was now within me, certainly independent of what
the eye had seen or the ear had heard.  A book of some description had
been brought for me, a present by no means calculated to interest me;
what cared I for books?  I had already many into which I never looked but
from compulsion; friends, moreover, had presented me with similar things
before, which I had entirely disregarded, and what was there in this
particular book, whose very title I did not know, calculated to attract
me more than the rest? yet something within told me that my fate was
connected with the book which had been last brought; so, after looking on
the packet from my corner for a considerable time, I got up and went to
the table.

The packet was lying where it had been left--I took it up; had the
envelope, which consisted of whitish brown paper, been secured by a
string or a seal I should not have opened it, as I should have considered
such an act almost in the light of a crime; the books, however, had been
merely folded up, and I therefore considered that there could be no
possible harm in inspecting them, more especially as I had received no
injunction to the contrary.  Perhaps there was something unsound in this
reasoning, something sophistical; but a child is sometimes as ready as a
grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is inclined to
do.  But whether the action was right or wrong, and I am afraid it was
not altogether right, I undid the packet: it contained three books; two
from their similarity seemed to be separate parts of one and the same
work; they were handsomely bound, and to them I first turned my
attention.  I opened them successively, and endeavoured to make out their
meaning; their contents, however, as far as I was able to understand
them, were by no means interesting; whoever pleases may read these books
for me, and keep them too, into the bargain, said I to myself.

I now took up the third book: it did not resemble the others, being
longer and considerably thicker; the binding was of dingy calf-skin.  I
opened it, and as I did so another strange thrill of pleasure shot
through my frame.  The first object on which my eyes rested was a
picture; it was exceedingly well executed, at least the scene which it
represented made a vivid impression upon me, which would hardly have been
the case had the artist not been faithful to nature.  A wild scene it
was--a heavy sea and rocky shore, with mountains in the background, above
which the moon was peering.  Not far from the shore, upon the water, was
a boat with two figures in it, one of which stood at the bow, pointing
with what I knew to be a gun at a dreadful shape in the water; fire was
flashing from the muzzle of the gun, and the monster appeared to be
transfixed.  I almost thought I heard its cry.  I remained motionless,
gazing upon the picture, scarcely daring to draw my breath, lest the new
and wondrous world should vanish of which I had now obtained a glimpse.
"Who are those people, and what could have brought them into that strange
situation?" I asked of myself; and now the seed of curiosity, which had
so long lain dormant, began to expand, and I vowed to myself to become
speedily acquainted with the whole history of the people in the boat.
After looking on the picture till every mark and line in it were familiar
to me, I turned over various leaves till I came to another engraving; a
new source of wonder--a low sandy beach on which the furious sea was
breaking in mountain-like billows; cloud and rack deformed the firmament,
which wore a dull and leaden-like hue; gulls and other aquatic fowls were
toppling upon the blast, or skimming over the tops of the maddening
waves--"Mercy upon him! he must be drowned!" I exclaimed, as my eyes fell
upon a poor wretch who appeared to be striving to reach the shore; he was
upon his legs, but was evidently half smothered with the brine; high
above his head curled a horrible billow, as if to engulf him for ever.
"He must be drowned! he must be drowned!" I almost shrieked, and dropped
the book.  I soon snatched it up again, and now my eye lighted on a third
picture; again a shore, but what a sweet and lovely one, and how I wished
to be treading it; there were beautiful shells lying on the smooth white
sand, some were empty like those I had occasionally seen on marble
mantelpieces, but out of others peered the heads and bodies of wondrous
crayfish; a wood of thick green trees skirted the beach and partly shaded
it from the rays of the sun, which shone hot above, while blue waves
slightly crested with foam were gently curling against it; there was a
human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, clad in the skins of
animals, with a huge cap on his head, a hatchet at his girdle, and in his
hand a gun; his feet and legs were bare; he stood in an attitude of
horror and surprise; his body was bent far back, and his eyes, which
seemed starting out of his head, were fixed upon a mark on the sand--a
large distinct mark--a human footprint!

Reader, is it necessary to name the book which now stood open in my hand,
and whose very prints, feeble expounders of its wondrous lines, had
produced within me emotions strange and novel?  Scarcely, for it was a
book which has exerted over the minds of Englishmen an influence
certainly greater than any other of modern times, which has been in most
people's hands, and with the contents of which even those who cannot read
are to a certain extent acquainted; a book from which the most luxuriant
and fertile of our modern prose writers have drunk inspiration; a book,
moreover, to which, from the hardy deeds which it narrates and the spirit
of strange and romantic enterprise which it tends to awaken, England owes
many of her astonishing discoveries both by sea and land, and no
inconsiderable part of her naval glory.

Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe!  What does not my own poor self owe to
thee?  England has better bards than either Greece or Rome, yet I could
spare them easier far than De Foe, "unabashed De Foe," as the hunchbacked
rhymer styled him.

The true chord had now been touched; a raging curiosity with respect to
the contents of the volume, whose engravings had fascinated my eye,
burned within me, and I never rested until I had fully satisfied it;
weeks succeeded weeks, months followed months, and the wondrous volume
was my only study and principal source of amusement.  For hours together
I would sit poring over a page till I had become acquainted with the
import of every line.  My progress, slow enough at first, became by
degrees more rapid, till at last, under "a shoulder of mutton sail," I
found myself cantering before a steady breeze over an ocean of
enchantment, so well pleased with my voyage that I cared not how long it
might be ere it reached its termination.

And it was in this manner that I first took to the paths of knowledge.

About this time I began to be somewhat impressed with religious feelings.
My parents were, to a certain extent, religious people; but, though they
had done their best to afford me instruction on religious points, I had
either paid no attention to what they endeavoured to communicate, or had
listened with an ear far too obtuse to derive any benefit.  But my mind
had now become awakened from the drowsy torpor in which it had lain so
long, and the reasoning powers which I possessed were no longer inactive.
Hitherto I had entertained no conception whatever of the nature and
properties of God, and with the most perfect indifference had heard the
divine name proceeding from the mouths of people--frequently, alas! on
occasions when it ought not to be employed; but I now never heard it
without a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable
being, the maker of all things; that we were His children, and that we,
by our sins, had justly offended Him; that we were in very great peril
from His anger, not so much in this life as in another and far stranger
state of being yet to come; that we had a Saviour withal to whom it was
necessary to look for help: upon this point, however, I was yet very much
in the dark, as, indeed, were most of those with whom I was connected.
The power and terrors of God were uppermost in my thoughts; they
fascinated though they astounded me.  Twice every Sunday I was regularly
taken to the church, where, from a corner of the large spacious pew,
lined with black leather, I would fix my eyes on the dignified
high-church rector, and the dignified high-church clerk, and watch the
movement of their lips, from which, as they read their respective
portions of the venerable liturgy, would roll many a portentous word
descriptive of the wondrous works of the Most High.

_Rector_.  "Thou didst divide the sea, through Thy power: Thou brakest
the heads of the dragons in the waters."

_Philoh_.  "Thou smotest the heads of Leviathan in pieces: and gavest him
to be meat for the people in the wilderness."

_Rector_.  "Thou broughtest out fountains and waters out of the hard
rocks: Thou driedst up mighty waters."

_Philoh_.  "The day is Thine, and the night is Thine: Thou hast prepared
the light and the sun."

Peace to your memories, dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk!
By this time ye are probably gone to your long homes, and your voices are
no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the venerable church; nay,
doubtless, this has already long since been the fate of him of the
sonorous "Amen!"--the one of the two who, with all due respect to the
rector, principally engrossed my boyish admiration--he, at least, is
scarcely now among the living!  Living! why, I have heard say that he
blew a fife--for he was a musical as well as a Christian professor--a
bold fife, to cheer the Guards and the brave Marines as they marched with
measured step, obeying an insane command, up Bunker's height, whilst the
rifles of the sturdy Yankees were sending the leaden hail sharp and thick
amidst the red-coated ranks; for Philoh had not always been a man of
peace, nor an exhorter to turn the other cheek to the smiter, but had
even arrived at the dignity of a halberd in his country's service before
his six-foot form required rest, and the gray-haired veteran retired,
after a long peregrination, to his native town, to enjoy ease and
respectability on a pension of "eighteenpence a day;" and well did his
fellow-townsmen act when, to increase that ease and respectability, and
with a thoughtful regard for the dignity of the good church service, they
made him clerk and precentor--the man of the tall form and of the audible
voice, which sounded loud and clear as his own Bunker fife.  Well, peace
to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissenters, and hater of
papists, as became a dignified and high-church clerk; if thou art in thy
grave the better for thee; thou wert fitted to adorn a bygone time, when
loyalty was in vogue, and smiling content lay like a sunbeam upon the
land, but thou wouldst be sadly out of place in these days of cold
philosophical latitudinarian doctrine, universal tolerism, and
half-concealed rebellion--rare times, no doubt, for papists and
dissenters, but which would assuredly have broken the heart of the loyal
soldier of George the Third, and the dignified high-church clerk of
pretty D---.

We passed many months at this place: nothing, however, occurred requiring
any particular notice, relating to myself, beyond what I have already
stated, and I am not writing the history of others.  At length my father
was recalled to his regiment, which at that time was stationed at a place
called Norman Cross, in Lincolnshire, or rather Huntingdonshire, at some
distance from the old town of Peterborough.  For this place he departed,
leaving my mother and myself to follow in a few days.  Our journey was a
singular one.  On the second day we reached a marshy and fenny country,
which, owing to immense quantities of rain which had lately fallen, was
completely submerged.  At a large town we got on board a kind of
passage-boat, crowded with people; it had neither sails nor oars, and
those were not the days of steam-vessels; it was in a treck-schuyt, and
was drawn by horses.

Young as I was, there was much connected with this journey which highly
surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance particular scenes
described in the book which I now generally carried in my bosom.  The
country was, as I have already said, submerged--entirely drowned--no land
was visible; the trees were growing bolt upright in the flood, whilst
farmhouses and cottages were standing insulated; the horses which drew us
were up to the knees in water, and, on coming to blind pools and "greedy
depths," were not unfrequently swimming, in which case the boys or
urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, sometimes knelt, upon the
saddle and pillions.  No accident, however, either to the quadrupeds or
bipeds, who appeared respectively to be quite _au fait_ in their
business, and extricated themselves with the greatest ease from places in
which Pharaoh and all his hosts would have gone to the bottom.  Nightfall
brought us to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow in reaching
the place of our destination.




CHAPTER IV.


Norman Cross--Wide Expanse--Vive l'Empereur--Unpruned Woods--Man with the
Bag--Froth and Conceit--I beg your Pardon--Growing Timid--About Three
o'Clock--Taking One's Ease--Cheek on the Ground--King of the
Vipers--French King--Frenchmen and Water.

And a strange place it was, this Norman Cross, and, at the time of which
I am speaking, a sad cross to many a Norman, being what was then styled a
French prison, that is, a receptacle for captives made in the French war.
It consisted, if I remember right, of some five or six casernes, very
long, and immensely high; each standing isolated from the rest, upon a
spot of ground which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round
with lofty palisades, the whole being compassed about by a towering wall,
beneath which, at intervals, on both sides, sentinels were stationed,
whilst outside, upon the field, stood commodious wooden barracks, capable
of containing two regiments of infantry, intended to serve as guards upon
the captives.  Such was the station or prison at Norman Cross, where some
six thousand French and other foreigners, followers of the grand
Corsican, were now immured.

What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their blank
blind walls, without windows or grating, and their slanting roofs, out of
which, through orifices where the tiles had been removed, would be
protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the
wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height.  Ah! there was
much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs, doubtless, many a
wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France.  Much had the
poor inmates to endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of
England be it said--of England, in general so kind and bountiful.
Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very hounds
occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment even for the most
ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; and such, alas! was the fare
in those casernes.  And then, those visits, or rather ruthless inroads,
called in the slang of the place "straw-plait hunts," when in pursuit of
a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves
a few of the necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of
making, red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with
the bayonet's point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor convenience
which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavouring to raise around it;
and then the triumphant exit with the miserable booty; and, worst of all,
the accursed bonfire, on the barrack parade, of the plait contraband,
beneath the view of the glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst
the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down
from above like a tempest-shower, or in the terrific war-whoop of "_Vive
l'Empereur_!"

It was midsummer when we arrived at this place, and the weather, which
had for a long time been wet and gloomy, now became bright and glorious;
I was subjected to but little control, and passed my time pleasantly
enough, principally in wandering about the neighbouring country.  It was
flat and somewhat fenny, a district more of pasture than agriculture, and
not very thickly inhabited.  I soon became well acquainted with it.  At
the distance of two miles from the station was a large lake, styled in
the dialect of the country "a mere," about whose borders tall reeds were
growing in abundance, this was a frequent haunt of mine; but my favourite
place of resort was a wild sequestered spot at a somewhat greater
distance.  Here, surrounded with woods and thick groves, was the seat of
some ancient family, deserted by the proprietor, and only inhabited by a
rustic servant or two.  A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be
imagined; the garden and walks were overgrown with weeds and briars, and
the unpruned woods were so tangled as to be almost impervious.  About
this domain I would wander till overtaken by fatigue, and then I would
sit down with my back against some beech, elm, or stately alder tree,
and, taking out my book, would pass hours in a state of unmixed
enjoyment, my eyes now fixed on the wondrous pages, now glancing at the
sylvan scene around; and sometimes I would drop the book and listen to
the voice of the rooks and wild pigeons, and not unfrequently to the
croaking of multitudes of frogs from the neighbouring swamps and fens.

In going to and from this place I frequently passed a tall elderly
individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion, with a skin cap on his
head and stout gaiters on his legs; on his shoulders hung a moderate
sized leathern sack; he seemed fond of loitering near sunny banks, and of
groping amidst furze and low scrubby bramble bushes, of which there were
plenty in the neighbourhood of Norman Cross.  Once I saw him standing in
the middle of a dusty road, looking intently at a large mark which seemed
to have been drawn across it, as if by a walking-stick.  "He must have
been a large one," the old man muttered half to himself, "or he would not
have left such a trail, I wonder if he is near; he seems to have moved
this way."  He then went behind some bushes which grew on the right side
of the road, and appeared to be in quest of something, moving behind the
bushes with his head downwards, and occasionally striking their roots
with his foot: at length he exclaimed, "Here he is!" and forthwith I saw
him dart amongst the bushes.  There was a kind of scuffling noise, the
rustling of branches, and the crackling of dry sticks.  "I have him!"
said the man at last; "I have got him!" and presently he made his
appearance about twenty yards down the road, holding a large viper in his
hand.  "What do you think of that, my boy?" said he, as I went up to him;
"what do you think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?"
"What do I think?" said I.  "Why, that I could do as much myself."  "You
do," said the man, "do you?  Lord! how the young people in these days are
given to conceit; it did not use to be so in my time: when I was a child,
childer knew how to behave themselves; but the childer of these days are
full of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper;" and with
his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of foam from
the jaws of the viper down upon the road.  "The childer of these days are
a generation of--God forgive me, what was I about to say!" said the old
man; and opening his bag he thrust the reptile into it, which appeared
far from empty.  I passed on.  As I was returning, towards the evening, I
overtook the old man, who was wending in the same direction.  "Good
evening to you, sir," said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my head.
"Good evening," said the old man; and then, looking at me, "How's this?"
said he, "you ar'n't, sure, the child I met in the morning?"  "Yes," said
I, "I am; what makes you doubt it?"  "Why, you were then all froth and
conceit," said the old man, "and now you take off your cap to me."  "I
beg your pardon," said I, "if I was frothy and conceited, it ill becomes
a child like me to be so."  "That's true, dear," said the old man; "well;
as you have begged my pardon, I truly forgive you."  "Thank you," said I;
"have you caught any more of those things?"  "Only four or five," said
the old man; "they are getting scarce, though this used to be a great
neighbourhood for them."  "And what do you do with them?" said I; "do you
carry them home and play with them!"  "I sometimes play with one or two
that I tame," said the old man; "but I hunt them mostly for the fat which
they contain, out of which I make unguents which are good for various
sore troubles, especially for the rheumatism."  "And do you get your
living by hunting these creatures?" I demanded.  "Not altogether," said
the old man; "besides being a viper-hunter, I am what they call a
herbalist, one who knows the virtue of particular herbs; I gather them at
the proper season, to make medicines with for the sick."  "And do you
live in the neighbourhood?" I demanded.  "You seem very fond of asking
questions, child.  No, I do not live in this neighbourhood in particular,
I travel about; I have not been in this neighbourhood till lately for
some years."

From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaintance; I often
accompanied him in his wanderings about the neighbourhood, and on two or
three occasions assisted him in catching the reptiles which he hunted.
He generally carried a viper with him which he had made quite tame, and
from which he had extracted the poisonous fangs; it would dance and
perform various kinds of tricks.  He was fond of telling me anecdotes
connected with his adventures with the reptile species.  "But," said he
one day, sighing, "I must shortly give up this business, I am no longer
the man I was, I am become timid, and when a person is timid in
viper-hunting he had better leave off, as it is quite clear his virtue is
leaving him.  I got a fright some years ago, which I am quite sure I
shall never get the better of; my hand has been shaky more or less ever
since."  "What frightened you?" said I.  "I had better not tell you,"
said the old man, "or you may be frightened too, lose your virtue, and be
no longer good for the business."  "I don't care," said I; "I don't
intend to follow the business: I dare say I shall be an officer, like my
father."  "Well," said the old man, "I once saw the king of the vipers,
and since then--"  "The king of the vipers!" said I, interrupting him;
"have the vipers a king?"  "As sure as we have," said the old man, "as
sure as we have King George to rule over us, have these reptiles a king
to rule over them."  "And where did you see him?" said I.  "I will tell
you," said the old man, "though I don't like talking about the matter.
It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down yonder to
the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hundred miles from
here, following my business.  It was a very sultry day, I remember, and I
had been out several hours catching creatures.  It might be about three
o'clock in the afternoon, when I found myself on some heathy land near
the sea, on the ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as
the sea, was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had
been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered--oats or
barley, I know not which--but I remember that the ground was covered with
stubble.  Well, about three o'clock, as I told you before, what with the
heat of the day and from having walked about for hours in a lazy way, I
felt very tired; so I determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down,
my head just on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body
over the side down amongst the heath; my bag, which was nearly filled
with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face; the creatures were
struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more
comfortably off I was than they; I was taking my ease on the nice open
hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in the nasty close bag,
coiling about one another, and breaking their very hearts all to no
purpose: and I felt quite comfortable and happy in the thought, and
little by little closed my eyes, and fell into the sweetest snooze that
ever I was in in all my life; and there I lay over the hill's side, with
my head half in the field, I don't know how long, all dead asleep.  At
last it seemed to me that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a
thing moving, very faint, however, far away; then it died, and then it
came again upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I
heard crackle, crackle; then it died again, or I became yet more dead
asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some time
without hearing it.  All of a sudden I became awake, and there was I, on
the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground towards the stubble,
with a noise in my ear like that of something moving towards me, among
the stubble of the field; well, I lay a moment or two listening to the
noise, and then I became frightened, for I did not like the noise at all,
it sounded so odd; so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the
stubble.  Mercy upon us! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful
viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing its
head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling
beneath its outrageous belly.  It might be about five yards off when I
first saw it, making straight towards me, child, as if it would devour
me.  I lay quite still, for I was stupified with horror, whilst the
creature came still nearer; and now it was nearly upon me, when it
suddenly drew back a little, and then--what do you think?--it lifted its
head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up,
flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face.  Child,
what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient
punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I
looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering
at me with its tongue.  It was only the kindness of God that saved me:
all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a fowler was
shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the stubble.  Whereupon
the viper sunk its head and immediately made off over the ridge of the
hill, down in the direction of the sea.  As it passed by me, however--and
it passed close by me--it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful
whether it should not seize me; it did not, however, but made off down
the hill.  It has often struck me that he was angry with me, and came
upon me unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have
always been in the habit of doing."

"But," said I, "how do you know that it was the king of the vipers?"

"How do I know?" said the old man, "who else should it be?  There was as
much difference between it and other reptiles as between King George and
other people."

"Is King George, then, different from other people?" I demanded.

"Of course," said the old man; "I have never seen him myself, but I have
heard people say that he is a ten times greater man than other folks;
indeed, it stands to reason that he must be different from the rest, else
people would not be so eager to see him.  Do you think, child, that
people would be fools enough to run a matter of twenty or thirty miles to
see the king, provided King George--"

"Haven't the French a king?" I demanded.

"Yes," said the old man, "or something much the same, and a queer one he
is; not quite so big as King George, they say, but quite as terrible a
fellow.  What of him?"

"Suppose he should come to Norman Cross!"

"What should he do at Norman Cross, child?"

"Why, you were talking about the vipers in your bag breaking their
hearts, and so on, and their king coming to help them.  Now, suppose the
French king should hear of his people being in trouble at Norman Cross,
and--"

"He can't come, child," said the old man, rubbing his hands, "the water
lies between.  The French don't like the water; neither vipers nor
Frenchmen take kindly to the water, child."

When the old man left the country, which he did a few days after the
conversation which I have just related, he left me the reptile which he
had tamed and rendered quite harmless by removing the fangs.  I was in
the habit of feeding it with milk, and frequently carried it abroad with
me in my walks.




CHAPTER V.


The Tent--Man and Woman--Dark and Swarthy--Manner of Speaking--Bad
Money--Transfixed--Faltering Tone--Little Basket--High Opinion--Plenty of
Good--Keeping Guard--Tilted Cart--Rubricals--Jasper--The Right Sort--The
Horseman of the Lane--John Newton--The Alarm--Gentle Brothers.

One day it happened that, being on my rambles, I entered a green lane
which I had never seen before; at first it was rather narrow, but as I
advanced it became considerably wider; in the middle was a driftway with
deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted with a sward of
trefoil and clover; there was no lack of trees, chiefly ancient oaks,
which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly formed a canopy,
and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of the sun, which was
burning fiercely above.  Suddenly a group of objects attracted my
attention.  Beneath one of the largest of the trees upon the grass, was a
kind of low tent or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was
curling; beside it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three
lean horses or ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh.
Wondering to whom this odd tent could belong, I advanced till I was close
before it, when I found that it consisted of two tilts, like those of
waggons, placed upon the ground and fronting each other, connected behind
by a sail or large piece of canvas which was but partially drawn across
the top; upon the ground, in the intervening space, was a fire, over
which, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a caldron; my advance
had been so noiseless as not to alarm the inmates, who consisted of a man
and woman, who sat apart, one on each side of the fire; they were both
busily employed--the man was carding plaited straw, whilst the woman
seemed to be rubbing something with a white powder, some of which lay on
a plate beside her; suddenly the man looked up, and, perceiving me,
uttered a strange kind of cry, and the next moment both the woman and
himself were on their feet and rushing out upon me.

I retreated a few steps, yet without turning to flee.  I was not,
however, without apprehension, which, indeed, the appearance of these two
people was well calculated to inspire; the woman was a stout figure,
seemingly between thirty and forty; she wore no cap, and her long hair
fell on either side of her head like horse-tails half way down her waist;
her skin was dark and swarthy, like that of a toad, and the expression of
her countenance was particularly evil; her arms were bare, and her bosom
was but half concealed by a slight boddice, below which she wore a coarse
petticoat, her only other article of dress.  The man was somewhat
younger, but of a figure equally wild; his frame was long and lathy, but
his arms were remarkably short, his neck was rather bent, he squinted
slightly, and his mouth was much awry; his complexion was dark, but,
unlike that of the woman, it was more ruddy than livid; there was a deep
scar on his cheek, something like the impression of a halfpenny.  The
dress was quite in keeping with the figure: in his hat, which was
slightly peaked, was stuck a peacock's feather; over a waistcoat of hide,
untanned and with the hair upon it, he wore a rough jerkin of russet hue;
smallclothes of leather, which had probably once belonged to a soldier,
but with which pipeclay did not seem to have come in contact for many a
year, protected his lower man as far as the knee; his legs were cased in
long stockings of blue worsted, and on his shoes he wore immense
old-fashioned buckles.

Such were the two beings who now came rushing upon me; the man was rather
in advance, brandishing a ladle in his hand.

"So I have caught you at last," said he; "I'll teach ye, you young
highwayman, to come skulking about my properties!"

Young as I was, I remarked that his manner of speaking was different from
that of any people with whom I had been in the habit of associating.  It
was quite as strange as his appearance, and yet it nothing resembled the
foreign English which I had been in the habit of hearing through the
palisades of the prison; he could scarcely be a foreigner.

"Your properties!" said I; "I am in the King's Lane.  Why did you put
them there, if you did not wish them to be seen?"

"On the spy," said the woman, "hey?  I'll drown him in the sludge in the
toad-pond over the hedge."

"So we will," said the man, "drown him anon in the mud!"

"Drown me, will you?" said I; "I should like to see you!  What's all this
about?  Was it because I saw you with your hands full of straw plait, and
my mother there--"

"Yes," said the woman; "what was I about?"

_Myself_.  How should I know?  Making bad money, perhaps!

And it will be as well here to observe, that at this time there was much
bad money in circulation in the neighbourhood, generally supposed to be
fabricated by the prisoners, so that this false coin and straw plait
formed the standard subjects of conversation at Norman Cross.

"I'll strangle thee," said the beldame, dashing at me.  "Bad money, is
it?"

"Leave him to me, wifelkin," said the man, interposing; "you shall now
see how I'll baste him down the lane."

_Myself_.  I tell you what, my chap, you had better put down that thing
of yours; my father lies concealed within my tepid breast, and if to me
you offer any harm or wrong, I'll call him forth to help me with his
forked tongue.

_Man_.  What do you mean, ye Bengui's bantling?  I never heard such
discourse in all my life: playman's speech or Frenchman's talk--which, I
wonder?  Your father! tell the mumping villain that if he comes near my
fire I'll serve him out as I will you.  Take that--Tiny Jesus! what have
we got here!  Oh, delicate Jesus! what is the matter with the child?

I had made a motion which the viper understood; and now, partly
disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, it raised its
head to a level with my face, and stared upon my enemy with its
glittering eyes.

The man stood like one transfixed, and the ladle with which he had aimed
a blow at me, now hung in the air like the hand which held it: his mouth
was extended, and his cheeks became of a pale yellow, save alone that
place which bore the mark which I have already described, and this shone
now portentously, like fire.  He stood in this manner for some time; at
last the ladle fell from his hand, and its falling appeared to rouse him
from his stupor.

"I say, wifelkin," said he in a faltering tone, "did you ever see the
like of this here?"

But the woman had retreated to the tent, from the entrance of which her
loathly face was now thrust, with an expression partly of terror and
partly of curiosity.  After gazing some time longer at the viper and
myself, the man stooped down and took up the ladle; then, as if somewhat
more assured, he moved to the tent, where he entered into conversation
with the beldame in a low voice.  Of their discourse, though I could hear
the greater part of it, I understood not a single word; and I wondered
what it could be, for I knew by the sound that it was not French.  At
last the man, in a somewhat louder tone, appeared to put a question to
the woman, who nodded her head affirmatively, and in a moment or two
produced a small stool, which she delivered to him.  He placed it on the
ground, close by the door of the tent, first rubbing it with his sleeve,
as if for the purpose of polishing its surface.

_Man_.  Now, my precious little gentleman, do sit down here by the poor
people's tent; we wish to be civil in our slight way.  Don't be angry,
and say no; but look kindly upon us, and satisfied, my precious little
God Almighty.

_Woman_.  Yes, my georgeous angel, sit down by the poor bodies' fire, and
eat a sweatmeat.  We want to ask you a question or two; only first put
that serpent away.

_Myself_.  I can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleep, that's easy
enough; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that?  I have not got
one, and where am I to get it?

_Woman_.  Never fear, my tiny tawny, we can give you one, such as you
never ate, I dare say, however far you may have come from.

The serpent sunk into his usual resting-place, and I sat down on the
stool.  The woman opened a box, and took out a strange little basket or
hamper, not much larger than a man's fist, and formed of a delicate kind
of matting.  It was sewed at the top; but ripping it open with a knife,
she held it to me, and I saw, to my surprise, that it contained candied
fruits of a dark green hue, tempting enough to one of my age.  "There, my
tiny," said she; "taste, and tell me how you like them."

"Very much," said I; "where did you get them?"

The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding her head thrice,
with a knowing look, said, "Who knows better than yourself, my tawny?"

Now, I knew nothing about the matter; but I saw that these strange people
had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities of their visitor,
which I was nothing loath to encourage.  I therefore answered boldly,
"Ah! who indeed!"

"Certainly," said the man; "who should know better than yourself, or so
well?  And now, my tiny one, let me ask you one thing--you didn't come to
do us any harm?"

"No," said I, "I had no dislike to you; though, if you were to meddle
with me--"

_Man_.  Of course, my gorgeous, of course you would; and quite right too.
Meddle with you!--what right have we?  I should say, it would not be
quite safe.  I see how it is; you are one of them there;--and he bent his
head towards his left shoulder.

_Myself_.  Yes, I am one of them--for I thought he was alluding to the
soldiers,--you had best mind what you are about, I can tell you.

_Man_.  Don't doubt we will for our own sake; Lord bless you, wifelkin,
only think that we should see one of them there when we least thought
about it.  Well, I have heard of such things, though I have never thought
to see one; however, seeing is believing.  Well! now you are come, and
are not going to do us any mischief, I hope you will stay; you can do us
plenty of good if you will.

_Myself_.  What good can I do you?

_Man_.  What good? plenty!  Would you not bring us luck?  I have heard
say, that one of them there always does, if it will but settle down.
Stay with us, you shall have a tilted cart all to yourself if you like.
We'll make you our little God Almighty, and say our prayers to you every
morning!

_Myself_.  That would be nice; and if you were to give me plenty of these
things, I should have no objection.  But what would my father say?  I
think he would hardly let me.

_Man_.  Why not? he would be with you; and kindly would we treat him.
Indeed, without your father you would be nothing at all.

_Myself_.  That's true; but I do not think he could be spared from his
regiment.  I have heard him say that they could do nothing without him.

_Man_.  His regiment!  What are you talking about?--what does the child
mean?

_Myself_.  What do I mean!--why, that my father is an officer-man at the
barracks yonder, keeping guard over the French prisoners.

_Man_.  Oh! then that sap is not your father?

_Myself_.  What, the snake?  Why, no!  Did you think he was?

_Man_.  To be sure we did.  Didn't you tell me so?

_Myself_.  Why, yes; but who would have thought you would have believed
it?  It is a tame one.  I hunt vipers, and tame them.

_Man_.  O-h!

"O-h!" grunted the woman, "that's it, is it?"

The man and woman, who during this conversation had resumed their former
positions within the tent, looked at each other with a queer look of
surprise, as if somewhat disconcerted at what they now heard.  They then
entered into discourse with each other in the same strange tongue which
had already puzzled me.  At length the man looked me in the face, and
said, somewhat hesitatingly, "So you are not one of them there, after
all?"

_Myself_.  One of them there?  I don't know what you mean.

_Man_.  Why, we have been thinking you were a goblin--a devilkin!
However, I see how it is; you are a sapengro, a chap who catches snakes,
and plays tricks with them!  Well, it comes very nearly to the same
thing; and if you please to list with us, and bear us pleasant company,
we shall be glad of you.  I'd take my oath upon it that we might make a
mort of money by you and that sap, and the tricks it could do; and, as
you seem fly to everything, I shouldn't wonder if you would make a prime
hand at telling fortunes.

"I shouldn't wonder," said I.

_Man_.  Of course.  And you might still be our God Almighty, or at any
rate our clergyman, so you should live in a tilted cart by yourself, and
say prayers to us night and morning--to wifelkin here, and all our
family; there's plenty of us when we are all together; as I said before,
you seem fly, I shouldn't wonder if you could read?

"Oh, yes!" said I, "I can read;" and, eager to display my
accomplishments, I took my book out of my pocket, and, opening it at
random, proceeded to read how a certain man, whilst wandering about a
certain solitary island, entered a cave, the mouth of which was overgrown
with brushwood, and how he was nearly frightened to death in that cave by
something which he saw.

"That will do," said the man; "that's the kind of prayers for me and my
family, ar'n't they, wifelkin?  I never heard more delicate prayers in
all my life!  Why, they beat the rubricals hollow!--and here comes my son
Jasper.  I say, Jasper, here's a young sap-engro that can read, and is
more fly than yourself.  Shake hands with him; I wish ye to be two
brothers."

With a swift but stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from the farther
part of the lane; on reaching the tent he stood still, and looked fixedly
upon me as I sat upon the stool; I looked fixedly upon him.  A queer look
had Jasper; he was a lad of some twelve or thirteen years, with long
arms, unlike the singular being who called himself his father; his
complexion was ruddy, but his face was seamed, though it did not bear the
peculiar scar which disfigured the countenance of the other; nor, though
roguish enough, a certain evil expression which that of the other bore,
and which the face of the woman possessed in a yet more remarkable
degree.  For the rest, he wore drab breeches, with certain strings at the
knee, a rather gay waistcoat, and tolerably white shirt; under his arm he
bore a mighty whip of whalebone with a brass knob, and upon his head was
a hat without either top or brim.

"There, Jasper! shake hands with the sap-engro."

"Can he box, father?" said Jasper, surveying me rather contemptuously.
"I should think not, he looks so puny and small."

"Hold your peace, fool!" said the man; "he can do more than that--I tell
you he's fly: he carries a sap about, which would sting a ninny like you
to dead."

"What, a sap-engro!" said the boy, with a singular whine, and stooping
down, he leered curiously in my face, kindly, however and then patted me
on the head.  "A sap-engro," he ejaculated; "lor!"

"Yes, and one of the right sort," said the man; "I am glad we have met
with him, he is going to list with us, and be our clergyman and God
Almighty, a'n't you, my tawny?"

"I don't know," said I; "I must see what my father will say."

"Your father; bah!"--but here he stopped, for a sound was heard like the
rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and distinct as on a road, but dull
and heavy as if upon a grass sward; nearer and nearer it came, and the
man, starting up, rushed out of the tent, and looked around anxiously.  I
arose from the stool upon which I had been seated, and just at that
moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and sticks, a man on horseback
bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few yards' distance from where
we were: from the impetus of the leap the horse was nearly down on his
knees; the rider, however, by dint of vigorous handling of the reins,
prevented him from falling, and then rode up to the tent.  "'Tis Nat,"
said the man; "what brings him here?"  The new comer was a stout burly
fellow, about the middle age; he had a savage determined look, and his
face was nearly covered over with carbuncles; he wore a broad slouching
hat, and was dressed in a grey coat cut in a fashion which I afterwards
learnt to be the genuine Newmarket cut, the skirts being exceedingly
short; his waistcoat was of red plush, and he wore broad corduroy
breeches and white top-boots.  The steed which carried him was of iron
grey, spirited and powerful, but covered with sweat and foam.  The fellow
glanced fiercely and suspiciously around, and said something to the man
of the tent in a harsh and rapid voice.  A short and hurried conversation
ensued in the strange tongue.  I could not take my eyes off this new
comer.  Oh, that half jockey half bruiser countenance, I never forgot it!
More than fifteen years afterwards I found myself amidst a crowd before
Newgate; a gallows was erected, and beneath it stood a criminal, a
notorious malefactor.  I recognised him at once; the horseman of the lane
is now beneath the fatal tree, but nothing altered; still the same man;
jerking his head to the right and left with the same fierce and under
glance, just as if the affairs of this world had the same kind of
interest to the last; grey coat of Newmarket cut, plush waistcoat,
corduroys, and boots, nothing altered; but the head, alas! is bare, and
so is the neck.  Oh, crime and virtue, virtue and crime!--it was old John
Newton, I think, who, when he saw a man going to be hanged, said, "There
goes John Newton, but for the grace of God!"

But the lane, the lane, all was now in confusion in the lane; the man and
woman were employed in striking the tents and in making hurried
preparations for departure; the boy Jasper was putting the harness upon
the ponies and attaching them to the carts; and, to increase the
singularity of the scene, two or three wild-looking women and girls, in
red cloaks and immense black beaver bonnets, came from I know not what
direction, and, after exchanging a few words with the others, commenced
with fierce and agitated gestures to assist them in their occupation.
The rider meanwhile sat upon his horse, but evidently in a state of great
impatience; he muttered curses between his teeth, spurred the animal
furiously, and then reined it in, causing it to rear itself up nearly
perpendicular.  At last he said, "Curse ye, for Romans, how slow ye are!
well, it is no business of mine, stay here all day if you like; I have
given ye warning, I am off to the big north road.  However, before I go,
you had better give me all you have of that."

"Truly spoken, Nat, my pal," said the man; "give it him, mother.  There
it is; now be off as soon as you please, and rid us of evil company."

The woman had handed him two bags formed of stocking, half full of
something heavy, which looked through them for all the world like money
of some kind.  The fellow, on receiving them, thrust them without
ceremony into the pockets of his coat, and then, without a word of
farewell salutation, departed at a tremendous rate, the hoofs of his
horse thundering for a long time on the hard soil of the neighbouring
road, till the sound finally died away in the distance.  The strange
people were not slow in completing their preparations, and then, flogging
their animals terrifically, hurried away seemingly in the same direction.

The boy Jasper was last of the band.  As he was following the rest, he
stopped suddenly, and looked on the ground appearing to muse; then,
turning round, he came up to me where I was standing, leered in my face,
and then, thrusting out his hand, he said, "Good-bye, Sap, I dare say we
shall meet again, remember we are brothers; two gentle brothers."

Then whining forth, "What a sap-engro, lor!" he gave me a parting leer,
and hastened away.

I remained standing in the lane gazing after the retreating company.  "A
strange set of people," said I at last; "I wonder who they can be."




CHAPTER VI.


Three Years--Lilly's Grammar--Proficiency--Ignorant of Figures--The
School Bell--Order of Succession--Persecution--What are we to
do?--Northward--A Goodly Scene--Haunted Ground--Feats of
Chivalry--Rivers--Over the Brig.

Years passed on, even three years; during this period I had increased
considerably in stature and in strength, and, let us hope, improved in
mind; for I had entered on the study of the Latin language.  The very
first person to whose care I was intrusted for the acquisition of Latin
was an old friend of my father's, a clergyman who kept a seminary at a
town the very next we visited after our departure from "the Cross."
Under his instruction, however, I continued only a few weeks, as we
speedily left the place.  "Captain," said this divine, when my father
came to take leave of him on the eve of our departure, "I have a
friendship for you, and therefore wish to give you a piece of advice
concerning this son of yours.  You are now removing him from my care; you
do wrong, but we will let that pass.  Listen to me: there is but one good
school book in the world--the one I use in my seminary--Lilly's Latin
Grammar, in which your son has already made some progress.  If you are
anxious for the success of your son in life, for the correctness of his
conduct and the soundness of his principles, keep him to Lilly's Grammar.
If you can by any means, either fair or foul, induce him to get by heart
Lilly's Latin Grammar, you may set your heart at rest with respect to
him; I, myself, will be his warrant.  I never yet knew a boy that was
induced, either by fair means or foul, to learn Lilly's Latin Grammar by
heart, who did not turn out a man, provided he lived long enough."

My father, who did not understand the classical languages, received with
respect the advice of his old friend, and from that moment conceived the
highest opinion of Lilly's Latin Grammar.  During three years I studied
Lilly's Latin Grammar under the tuition of various schoolmasters, for I
travelled with the regiment, and in every town in which we were stationed
I was invariably (God bless my father!) sent to the classical academy of
the place.  It chanced, by good fortune, that in the generality of these
schools the grammar of Lilly was in use; when, however, that was not the
case, it made no difference in my educational course, my father always
stipulating with the masters that I should be daily examined in Lilly.
At the end of the three years I had the whole by heart; you had only to
repeat the first two or three words of any sentence in any part of the
book, and forthwith I would open cry, commencing without blundering and
hesitation, and continue till you were glad to beg me to leave off, with
many expressions of admiration at my proficiency in the Latin language.
Sometimes, however, to convince you how well I merited these encomiums, I
would follow you to the bottom of the stair, and even into the street,
repeating in a kind of sing-song measure the sonorous lines of the golden
schoolmaster.  If I am here asked whether I understood anything of what I
had got by heart, I reply--"Never mind, I understand it all now, and
believe that no one ever yet got Lilly's Latin Grammar by heart when
young, who repented of the feat at a mature age."

And, when my father saw that I had accomplished my task, he opened his
mouth, and said, "Truly, this is more than I expected.  I did not think
that there had been so much in you, either of application or capacity;
you have now learnt all that is necessary, if my friend Dr. B---'s
opinion was sterling, as I have no doubt it was.  You are still a child,
however, and must yet go to school, in order that you may be kept out of
evil company.  Perhaps you may still contrive, now you have exhausted the
barn, to pick up a grain or two in the barnyard.  You are still ignorant
of figures, I believe, not that I would mention figures in the same day
with Lilly's Grammar."

These words were uttered in a place called ---, in the north, or in the
road to the north, to which, for some time past, our corps had been
slowly advancing.  I was sent to the school of the place, which chanced
to be a day school.  It was a somewhat extraordinary one, and a somewhat
extraordinary event occurred to me within its walls.

It occupied part of the farther end of a small plain, or square, at the
outskirts of the town, close to some extensive bleaching fields.  It was
a long low building of one room, with no upper story; on the top was a
kind of wooden box, or sconce, which I at first mistook for a
pigeon-house, but which in reality contained a bell, to which was
attached a rope, which, passing through the ceiling, hung dangling in the
middle of the school-room.  I am the more particular in mentioning this
appurtenance, as I had soon occasion to scrape acquaintance with it in a
manner not very agreeable to my feelings.  The master was very proud of
his bell, if I might judge from the fact of his eyes being frequently
turned to that part of the ceiling from which the rope depended.  Twice
every day, namely, after the morning and evening tasks had been gone
through, were the boys rung out of school by the monotonous jingle of
this bell.  This ringing out was rather a lengthy affair, for, as the
master was a man of order and method, the boys were only permitted to go
out of the room one by one; and as they were rather numerous, amounting,
at least, to one hundred, and were taught to move at a pace of suitable
decorum, at least a quarter of an hour elapsed from the commencement of
the march before the last boy could make his exit.  The office of
bell-ringer was performed by every boy successively; and it so happened
that, the very first day of my attendance at the school, the turn to ring
the bell had, by order of succession, arrived at the place which had been
allotted to me; for the master, as I have already observed, was a man of
method and order, and every boy had a particular seat, to which he became
a fixture as long as he continued at the school.

So, upon this day, when the tasks were done and completed, and the boys
sat with their hats and caps in their hands, anxiously expecting the
moment of dismissal, it was suddenly notified to me, by the urchins who
sat nearest to me, that I must get up and ring the bell.  Now, as this
was the first time that I had been at the school, I was totally
unacquainted with the process, which I had never seen, and, indeed, had
never heard of till that moment.  I therefore sat still, not imagining it
possible that any such duty could be required of me.  But now, with not a
little confusion, I perceived that the eyes of all the boys in the school
were fixed upon me.  Presently there were nods and winks in the direction
of the bell-rope; and, as these produced no effect, uncouth visages were
made, like those of monkeys when enraged; teeth were gnashed, tongues
thrust out, and even fists were bent at me.  The master, who stood at the
end of the room, with a huge ferule under his arm, bent full upon me a
look of stern appeal; and the ushers, of whom there were four, glared
upon me, each from his own particular corner, as I vainly turned, in one
direction and another, in search of one reassuring look.

But now, probably in obedience to a sign from the master, the boys in my
immediate neighbourhood began to maltreat me.  Some pinched me with their
fingers, some buffeted me, whilst others pricked me with pins, or the
points of compasses.  These arguments were not without effect.  I sprang
from my seat, and endeavoured to escape along a double line of benches,
thronged with boys of all ages, from the urchin of six or seven, to the
nondescript of sixteen or seventeen.  It was like running the gauntlet;
every one, great or small, pinching, kicking, or otherwise maltreating me
as I passed by.

Goaded on in this manner, I at length reached the middle of the room,
where dangled the bell-rope, the cause of all my sufferings.  I should
have passed it--for my confusion was so great, that I was quite at a loss
to comprehend what all this could mean, and almost believed myself under
the influence of an ugly dream--but now the boys, who were seated in
advance in the row, arose with one accord, and barred my farther
progress; and one, doubtless more sensible than the rest, seizing the
rope, thrust it into my hand.  I now began to perceive that the dismissal
of the school, and my own release from torment, depended upon this self
same rope.  I therefore, in a fit of desperation, pulled it once or
twice, and then left off, naturally supposing that I had done quite
enough.  The boys who sat next the door, no sooner heard the bell, than
rising from their seats, they moved out at the door.  The bell, however,
had no sooner ceased to jingle, than they stopped short, and, turning
round, stared at the master, as much as to say, "What are we to do now?"
This was too much for the patience of the man of method, which my
previous stupidity had already nearly exhausted.  Dashing forward into
the middle of the room, he struck me violently on the shoulders with his
ferule, and snatching the rope out of my hand, exclaimed, with a
stentorian voice, and genuine Yorkshire accent.  "Prodigy of ignorance!
dost not even know how to ring a bell?  Must I myself instruct thee?"  He
then commenced pulling at the bell with such violence, that long before
half the school was dismissed the rope broke, and the rest of the boys
had to depart without their accustomed music.

But I must not linger here, though I could say much about the school and
the pedagogue highly amusing and diverting, which, however, I suppress,
in order to make way for matters of yet greater interest.  On we went,
northward, northward! and, as we advanced, I saw that the country was
becoming widely different from those parts of merry England in which we
had previously travelled.  It was wilder, and less cultivated, and more
broken with hills and hillocks.  The people, too, of those regions
appeared to partake of something of the character of their country.  They
were coarsely dressed; tall and sturdy of frame; their voices were deep
and guttural; and the half of the dialect which they spoke was
unintelligible to my ears.

I often wondered where we could be going, for I was at this time about as
ignorant of geography as I was of most other things.  However, I held my
peace, asked no questions, and patiently awaited the issue.

Northward, northward, still!  And it came to pass that, one morning, I
found myself extended on the bank of a river.  It was a beautiful morning
of early spring; small white clouds were floating in the heaven,
occasionally veiling the countenance of the sun, whose light, as they
retired, would again burst forth, coursing like a racehorse over the
scene--and a goodly scene it was!  Before me, across the water, on an
eminence, stood a white old city, surrounded with lofty walls, above
which rose the tops of tall houses, with here and there a church or
steeple.  To my right hand was a long and massive bridge, with many
arches and of antique architecture, which traversed the river.  The river
was a noble one; the broadest that I had hitherto seen.  Its waters, of a
greenish tinge, poured with impetuosity beneath the narrow arches to meet
the sea, close at hand, as the boom of the billows breaking distinctly
upon a beach declared.  There were songs upon the river from the
fisher-barks; and occasionally a chorus, plaintive and wild, such as I
had never heard before, the words of which I did not understand, but
which at the present time, down the long avenue of years, seem in
memory's ear to sound like "Horam, coram, dago."  Several robust fellows
were near me, some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon
the strand.  Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes--princely
salmon--their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the morning
beam; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never greeted my boyish
eye.

And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, and my tears
to trickle.  Was it the beauty of the scene which gave rise to these
emotions?  Possibly; for though a poor ignorant child--a half-wild
creature--I was not insensible to the loveliness of nature, and took
pleasure in the happiness and handiworks of my fellow-creatures.  Yet,
perhaps, in something more deep and mysterious the feelings which then
pervaded me might originate.  Who can lie down on Elvir Hill without
experiencing something of the sorcery of the place?  Flee from Elvir
Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power over you, and you
will go elf-wild!--so say the Danes.  I had unconsciously laid myself
down on haunted ground; and I am willing to imagine that what I then
experienced was rather connected with the world of spirits and dreams
than with what I actually saw and heard around me.  Surely the elves and
genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the
principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod!
Perhaps to that ethereal principle the wonders of the past, as connected
with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the
future, were at that moment being revealed!  Of how many feats of
chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended
for their possession?--how many an army from the south and from the north
had trod that old bridge?--what red and noble blood had crimsoned those
rushing waters?--what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung on
its banks?--some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of
Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete with wild and wizard force as
Finland's runes, singing of Kalevale's moors, and the deeds of
Woinomoinen!  Honour to thee, thou island stream!  Onward may thou ever
roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious
present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future!  Flow on, beautiful
one!--which of the world's streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and
renown?  Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands
romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar!  Lovely is
the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old
keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from
picturesque crags and airy headlands!--yet neither the stately Danube,
nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst
thou envy, thou pure island stream!--and far less yon turbid river of
old, not modern renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud
Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter's town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome,
Batuscha's town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone
fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of
modern Rome--how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream!

And as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the
habiliments of a fisher.  He was bare-legged, of a weather-beaten
countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic.  "What is the
callant greeting for?" said he, as he stopped and surveyed me.  "Has ony
body wrought ye ony harm?"

"Not that I know of," I replied, rather guessing at than understanding
his question; "I was crying because I could not help it!  I say, old one,
what is the name of this river?"

"Hout!  I now see what you was greeting at--at your ain ignorance, nae
doubt--'tis very great!  Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but
even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man's bairn, and you speir a
civil question.  Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the
brig, is Scotland.  Did ye never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?"

"No," said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross the bridge
to the town at which we had arrived the preceding night; "I never heard
of it; but now I have seen it, I shall not soon forget it!"




CHAPTER VII.


The Castle--A Father's Inquiries--Scotch Language--A Determination--Bui
Hin Digri--Good Scotchman--Difference of Races--Ne'er a
Haggis--Pugnacious People--Wha are Ye, Mon--The Nor Loch--Gestures
Wild--The Bicker--New Town Champion--Wild-Looking Figure--Headlong.

It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, or rather in the
Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums beating, colours
flying, and a long train of baggage-waggons behind.  The Castle was, as I
suppose it is now, a garrison for soldiers.  Two other regiments were
already there; the one an Irish, if I remember right, the other a small
Highland corps.

It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which everybody has
seen; on which account, doubtless, nobody has ever yet thought fit to
describe it--at least that I am aware.  Be this as it may, I have no
intention of describing it, and shall content myself with observing, that
we took up our abode in that immense building, or caserne, of modern
erection, which occupies the entire eastern side of the bold rock on
which the Castle stands.  A gallant caserne it was--the best and roomiest
that I had hitherto seen--rather cold and windy, it is true, especially
in the winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant
hills, which I was told were "the hieland hills," and of a broad arm of
the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of Forth.

My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in
a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to
pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on
my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother:--"During my journey
down hither I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these
people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I
have observed them attentively.  From what I have heard and seen, I
should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they
seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education
is so excellent, that every person is learned--more or less acquainted
with Greek and Latin.  There is one thing, however, connected with them,
which is a great drawback--the horrid jargon which they speak.  However
learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and
yet I'm told it is not so bad as it was.  I was in company the other day
with an Englishman who has resided here many years.  We were talking
about the country and the people.  'I should like both very well,' said
I, 'were it not for the language.  I wish sincerely our Parliament, which
is passing so many foolish acts every year, would pass one to force these
Scotch to speak English.'  'I wish so, too,' said he.  'The language is a
disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years
ago, captain!--if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to
Edinburgh!'"

"Only custom," said my mother.  "I dare say the language is now what it
was then."

"I don't know," said my father; "though I dare say you are right; it
could never have been worse than it is at present.  But now to the point.
Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up,
might ruin their prospects in life,--were it not for that, I should very
much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which
everybody talks about--the High School, I think they call it.  'Tis said
to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one's children
speaking Scotch--broad Scotch!  I must think the matter over."

And he did think the matter over; and the result of his deliberation was
a determination to send us to the school.  Let me call thee up before my
mind's eye, High School, to which, every morning, the two English
brothers took their way from the proud old Castle through the lofty
streets of the Old Town.  High School!--called so, I scarcely know why;
neither lofty in thyself nor by position, being situated in a flat
bottom; oblong structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with
iron netting--with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, for
the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred urchins,
who styled thee instructress, were divided.  Thy learned rector and his
four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall form and
grizzled hair, hight Boee, and doubtless of Norse ancestry, as his name
declares; perhaps of the blood of Bui hin Digri, the hero of northern
song--the Jomsborg Viking who clove Thorsteinn Midlaagr asunder in the
dread sea battle of Horunga Vog, and who, when the fight was lost and his
own two hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody
stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the scanty relics
of his crew, "Overboard now, all Bui's lads!"  Yes, I remember all about
thee, and how at eight of every morn we were all gathered together with
one accord in the long hall, from which, after the litanies had been read
(for so I will call them, being an Episcopalian), the five classes from
the five sets of benches trotted off in long files, one boy after the
other, up the five spiral staircases of stone, each class to its
destination; and well do I remember how we of the third sat hushed and
still, watched by the eye of the dux, until the door opened, and in
walked that model of a good Scotchman, the shrewd, intelligent, but
warm-hearted and kind dominie, the respectable Carson.

And in this school I began to construe the Latin language, which I had
never done before, notwithstanding my long and diligent study of Lilly,
which illustrious grammar was not used at Edinburgh, nor indeed known.
Greek was only taught in the fifth or highest class, in which my brother
was; as for myself, I never got beyond the third during the two years
that I remained at this seminary.  I certainly acquired here a
considerable insight in the Latin tongue; and, to the scandal of my
father and horror of my mother, a thorough proficiency in the Scotch,
which, in less than two months, usurped the place of the English, and so
obstinately maintained its ground, that I still can occasionally detect
its lingering remains.  I did not spend my time unpleasantly at this
school, though, first of all, I had to pass through an ordeal.

"Scotland is a better country than England," said an ugly, blear-eyed
lad, about a head and shoulders taller than myself, the leader of a gang
of varlets who surrounded me in the play-ground, on the first day, as
soon as the morning lesson was over.  "Scotland is a far better country
than England, in every respect."

"Is it?" said I.  "Then you ought to be very thankful for not having been
born in England."

"That's just what I am, ye loon; and every morning when I say my prayers,
I thank God for not being an Englishman.  The Scotch are a much better
and braver people than the English."

"It may be so," said I, "for what I know--indeed, till I came here, I
never heard a word either about the Scotch or their country."

"Are ye making fun of us, ye English puppy?" said the blear-eyed lad;
"take that!" and I was presently beaten black and blue.  And thus did I
first become aware of the difference of races and their antipathy to each
other.

"Bow to the storm, and it shall pass over you."  I held my peace, and
silently submitted to the superiority of the Scotch--_in numbers_.  This
was enough; from an object of persecution I soon became one of patronage,
especially amongst the champions of the class.  "The English," said the
blear-eyed lad, "though a wee bit behind the Scotch in strength and
fortitude, are nae to be sneezed at, being far ahead of the Irish, to say
nothing of the French, a pack of cowardly scoundrels.  And with regard to
the English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude
properties; and, though there is ne'er a haggis in a' the land, there's
an unco deal o' gowd and siller.  I respect England, for I have an auntie
married there."

The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their whole history
proves it.  Witness their incessant wars with the English in the olden
time, and their internal feuds, highland with lowland, clan with clan,
family with family, Saxon with Gael.  In my time, the schoolboys, for
want, perhaps, of English urchins to contend with, were continually
fighting with each other; every noon there was at least one pugilistic
encounter, and sometimes three.  In one month I witnessed more of these
encounters than I had ever previously seen under similar circumstances in
England.  After all, there was not much harm done.  Harm! what harm could
result from short chopping blows, a hug, and a tumble?  I was witness to
many a sounding whack, some blood shed, "a blue ee" now and then, but
nothing more.  In England, on the contrary, where the lads were
comparatively mild, gentle, and pacific, I had been present at more than
one death caused by blows in boyish combats, in which the oldest of the
victors had scarcely reached thirteen years; but these blows were in the
jugular, given with the full force of the arm shot out horizontally from
the shoulder.

But, the Scotch--though by no means proficients in boxing (and how should
they box, seeing that they have never had a teacher?)--are, I repeat, a
most pugnacious people; at least they were in my time.  Anything served
them, that is, the urchins, as a pretence for a fray, or, Dorically
speaking, a _bicker_; every street and close was at feud with its
neighbour; the lads of the school were at feud with the young men of the
college, whom they pelted in winter with snow, and in summer with stones;
and then the feud between the Old and New Town!

One day I was standing on the ramparts of the castle on the southwestern
side which overhangs the green brae, where it slopes down into what was
in those days the green swamp or morass, called by the natives of Auld
Reekie the Nor Loch; it was a dark gloomy day, and a thin veil of mist
was beginning to settle down upon the brae and the morass.  I could
perceive, however, that there was a skirmish taking place in the latter
spot.  I had an indistinct view of two parties--apparently of
urchins--and I heard whoops and shrill cries: eager to know the cause of
this disturbance, I left the castle, and descending the brae reached the
borders of the morass, where was a runnel of water and the remains of an
old wall, on the other side of which a narrow path led across the swamp:
upon this path at a little distance before me there was "a bicker."  I
pushed forward, but had scarcely crossed the ruined wall and runnel, when
the party nearest to me gave way, and in great confusion came running in
my direction.  As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, "Wha are ye,
mon? are ye o' the Auld Toon?"  I made no answer.  "Ha! ye are of the New
Toon; De'il tak ye, we'll murder ye;" and the next moment a huge stone
sung past my head.  "Let me be, ye fule bodies," said I, "I'm no of
either of ye, I live yonder aboon in the castle."  "Ah! ye live in the
castle; then ye're an auld tooner; come gie us your help, man, and dinna
stand there staring like a dunnot, we want help sair eneugh.  Here are
stanes."

For my own part I wished for nothing better, and, rushing forward, I
placed myself at the head of my new associates, and commenced flinging
stones fast and desperately.  The other party now gave way in their turn,
closely followed by ourselves; I was in the van, and about to stretch out
my hand to seize the hindermost boy of the enemy, when, not being
acquainted with the miry and difficult paths of the Nor Loch, and in my
eagerness taking no heed of my footing, I plunged into a quagmire, into
which I sank as far as my shoulders.  Our adversaries no sooner perceived
this disaster, than, setting up a shout, they wheeled round and attacked
us most vehemently.  Had my comrades now deserted me, my life had not
been worth a straw's purchase, I should either have been smothered in the
quag, or, what is more probable, had my brains beaten out with stones;
but they behaved like true Scots, and fought stoutly around their
comrade, until I was extricated, whereupon both parties retired, the
night being near at hand.

"Ye are na a bad hand at flinging stanes," said the lad who first
addressed me, as we now returned up the brae; "your aim is right
dangerous, mon, I saw how ye skelpit them, ye maun help us agin thae New
Toon blackguards at our next bicker."

So to the next bicker I went, and to many more, which speedily followed
as the summer advanced; the party to which I had given my help on the
first occasion consisted merely of outlyers, posted about half way up the
hill, for the purpose of overlooking the movements of the enemy.

Did the latter draw nigh in any considerable force, messengers were
forthwith despatched to the "auld toon," especially to the filthy alleys
and closes of the High Street, which forthwith would disgorge swarms of
bare-headed and bare-footed "callants," who, with gestures wild and
"eldrich screech and hollo," might frequently be seen pouring down the
sides of the hill.  I have seen upwards of a thousand engaged on either
side in these frays, which I have no doubt were full as desperate as the
fights described in the Iliad, and which were certainly much more bloody
than the combats of modern Greece in the war of independence: the
callants not only employed their hands in hurling stones, but not
unfrequently slings; at the use of which they were very expert, and which
occasionally dislodged teeth, shattered jaws, or knocked out an eye.  Our
opponents certainly laboured under considerable disadvantage, being
compelled not only to wade across a deceitful bog, but likewise to
clamber up part of a steep hill before they could attack us;
nevertheless, their determination was such, and such their impetuosity,
that we had sometimes difficulty enough to maintain our own.  I shall
never forget one bicker, the last indeed which occurred at that time, as
the authorities of the town, alarmed by the desperation of its character,
stationed forthwith a body of police on the hill side, to prevent, in
future, any such breaches of the peace.

It was a beautiful Sunday evening, the rays of the descending _sun_ were
reflected redly from the grey walls of the castle, and from the black
rocks on which it was founded.  The bicker had long since commenced,
stones from sling and hand were flying; but the callants of the New Town
were now carrying everything before them.

A full-grown baker's apprentice was at their head; he was foaming with
rage, and had taken the field, as I was told, in order to avenge his
brother, whose eye had been knocked out in one of the late bickers.  He
was no slinger, or flinger, but brandished in his right hand the spoke of
a cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom Hickathrift of old in his encounter
with the giant of the Lincolnshire fen.  Protected by a piece of
wicker-work attached to his left arm, he rushed on to the fray,
disregarding the stones which were showered against him, and was ably
seconded by his followers.  Our own party was chased half way up the
hill, where I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been
foiled in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into
his eyes.  All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full retreat.  I
myself lay at the baker's feet, who had just raised his spoke, probably
to give me the _coup de grace_,--it was an awful moment.  Just then I
heard a shout and a rushing sound; a wild-looking figure is descending
the hill with terrible bounds; it is a lad of some fifteen years; he is
bare-headed, and his red uncombed hair stands on end like hedgehogs'
bristles; his frame is lithy, like that of an antelope, but he has
prodigious breadth of chest; he wears a military undress, that of the
regiment, even of a drummer, for it is wild Davy, whom a month before I
had seen enlisted on Leith Links to serve King George with drum and
drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, ere a week
had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major Elzigood, who, incensed
at his inaptitude, had threatened him with his cane; he has been in
confinement for weeks, this is the first day of his liberation, and he is
now descending the hill with horrid bounds and shoutings; he is now about
five yards distant, and the baker, who apprehends that something
dangerous is at hand, prepares himself for the encounter; but what avails
the strength of a baker, even full grown?--what avails the defence of a
wicker shield? what avails the wheel-spoke, should there be an
opportunity of using it, against the impetus of an avalanche or a cannon
ball?--for to either of these might that wild figure be compared, which,
at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with head, hands, feet and
body, all together, upon the champion of the New Town, tumbling him to
the earth amain.  And now it was the turn of the Old Town to triumph.
Our late discomfited host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen
champion with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher who
had assumed his arms, namely, the wheelspoke and wicker shield, fairly
cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom they drove down headlong into
the morass.




CHAPTER VIII.


Expert Climbers--The Crags--Something Red--The Horrible Edge--David
Haggart--Fine Materials--The Greatest Victory--Extraordinary Robber--The
Ruling Passion.

Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English
lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are
neither crags nor mountains.  Of these, however, as is well known, there
is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in
harmony with the country in which they dwell.  The Scotch are expert
climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language.
The castle on which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one,
which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those
of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable
mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible.
Indeed, what is there above man's exertions?  Unwearied determination
will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and
assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and
sureness of foot.  To scale the rock was merely child's play for the
Edinbro' callants.  It was my own favourite diversion.  I soon found that
the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses,
where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and
there were small natural platforms overgrown with long grass and various
kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch
himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for
capital places were these same platforms, either for repose or
meditation.  The boldest features of the rock are descried on the
southern side, where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some
distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of
some three hundred feet at least, as if the axe of nature had been here
employed cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor
spur--a dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in
the flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant
resemblance to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the
neutral ground.

It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to
occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon
the rocks.  Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a
sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch tower, I found
myself on the southern side.  Still keeping close to the wall, I was
proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should
embrace half the circuit of the castle, when suddenly my eye was
attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped
short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being
in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice,
which I have already made a faint attempt to describe.  Wondering who it
could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as
immovable as the rock on which it sat.  "I should never have thought of
going near that edge," said I to myself; "however, as you have done it,
why should not I?  And I should like to know who you are."  So I
commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet
never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the
palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat
dizzy--and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had
recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle
in the bicker on the Castle Brae.  A small stone which I dislodged now
rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him.  He
turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly,
he resumed his former attitude.  I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge;
not close, however, for fear was on me.

"What are you thinking of, David?" said I, as I sat behind him and
trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid.

_David Haggart_.  I was thinking of Willie Wallace.

_Myself_.  You had better be thinking of yourself, man.  A strange place
this to come to and think of William Wallace.

_David Haggart_.  Why so?  Is not his tower just beneath our feet?

_Myself_.  You mean the auld ruin by the side of Nor Loch--the ugly stane
bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the
watercresses grow?

_David Haggart_.  Just sae, Geordie.

_Myself_.  And why were ye thinking of him?  The English hanged him long
since, as I have heard say.

_David Haggart_.  I was thinking that I should wish to be like him.

_Myself_.  Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged?

_David Haggart_.  I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a
great man first.

_Myself_.  And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without
hanging?  Are ye not in the high road of preferment?  Are ye not a bauld
drummer already?  Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general,
or drum-major.

_David Haggart_.  I hae na wish to be drum-major; it were na great things
to be like the doited carle, Elsethan-gude, as they call him; and, troth,
he has nae his name for naething.  But I should have nae objection to be
a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name
and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been
reading about in his story book.

_Myself_.  Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies.
Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel!  I have heard my father say that the
Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace.

_David Haggart_.  Ye had better sae naething agin Willie Wallace,
Geordie, for, if ye do, de'il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the
craig.

                                * * * * *

Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say.  Yes, indeed, for a
hero, or for what he afterwards became.  In other times, and under other
circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a
patriot, or a conqueror.  As it was, the very qualities which might then
have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin.  The
war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious
spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry.

"Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?" cries the fatalist.
Nonsense!  A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being,
and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct.  The greatest
victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those
unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place.  David
did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing
it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood--under peculiar
circumstances, it is true, and without _malice prepense_--and for that
blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a
prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his
stalwart arm.

Tamerlane and Haggart!  Haggart and Tamerlane!  Both these men were
robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on an ignoble scaffold, and
the other died emperor of the world.  Is this justice?  The ends of the
two men were widely dissimilar--yet what is the intrinsic difference
between them?  Very great indeed; the one acted according to his lights
and his country, not so the other.  Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted
according to his lights; he was a robber where all around were robbers,
but he became the avenger of God--God's scourge on unjust kings, on the
cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers' eyes; he became to a
certain extent the purifier of the East, its regenerator; his equal never
was before, nor has it since been seen.  Here the wild heart was
profitably employed the wild strength, the teeming brain.  Onward, Lame
one!  Onward, Tamurlank!  Haggart. . . .

But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in
judgment over thee?  The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and
perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not
be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed,
and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but
forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be
forgotten.  Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived
within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England,
too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when,
fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy
wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and race-course, and also
in the solitary place.  Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her
brogue better than thyself?--she felt proud of thee, and said, "Sure,
O'Hanlon is come again."  What might not have been thy fate in the far
west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, "I will go
there, and become an honest man!"  But thou wast not to go there,
David--the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of
thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood.  Seized, manacled,
brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy
narrow cell, and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short; and
there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the
crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself,
penned by thine own hand in the robber tongue.  Thou mightest have been
better employed, David!--but the ruling passion was strong with thee,
even in the jaws of death.  Thou mightest have been better employed!--but
peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty's grace and pardon.




CHAPTER IX.


Napoleon--The Storm--The Cove--Up the Country--The Trembling
Hand--Irish--Tough Battle--Tipperary Hills--Elegant Lodgings--A
Speech--Fair Specimen--Orangemen.

Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years,
the long continental war had been brought to an end, Napoleon was humbled
for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could well have
dispensed with them; we returned to England, where the corps was
disbanded, and my parents with their family retired to private life.  I
shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of
interest as far as connected with me and mine.  Suddenly, however, the
sound of war was heard again, Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and
everything was in confusion.  Vast military preparations were again made,
our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it;
but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled, and chained
for ever, like Prometheus, to his rock.  As the corps, however, though so
recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my
father's energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to
turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland
about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than
despatch it to that country.

In the autumn of the year 1815 we set sail from a port in Essex; we were
some eight hundred strong, and were embarked in two ships, very large,
but old and crazy; a storm overtook us when off Beachy Head, in which we
had nearly foundered.  I was awakened early in the morning by the howling
of the wind, and the uproar on deck.  I kept myself close, however, as is
still my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result
with that apathy and indifference which violent sea-sickness is sure to
produce.  We shipped several seas, and once the vessel missing
stays--which, to do it justice, it generally did at every third or fourth
tack--we escaped almost by a miracle from being dashed upon the foreland.
On the eighth day of our voyage we were in sight of Ireland.  The weather
was now calm and serene, the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain
green hills in the distance, on which I descried what at first sight I
believed to be two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our
nearer approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for
some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what.

We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful
and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and being nearly
land-locked, was sheltered from every wind.  A small island, every inch
of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the
waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills,
which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the
west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green,
and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a
strange old castle half way up the ascent, a village on a crag--but the
mists of the morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and
the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer
youthful eye; I may not describe it;--nor will I try.

Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we
came to a city, where we disembarked.  It was a large city, as large as
Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little
neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled
along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars
abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of
laughter were heard on every side.  It appeared a city of contradictions.
After a few days' rest we marched from this place in two divisions.  My
father commanded the second, I walked by his side.

Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very
remarkable feature; it was pretty, but tame.  On the second day, however,
its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant
mountains bound the horizon.  We passed through several villages, as I
suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones
without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they
seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were
naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the
doors on low stools, spinning.  We saw, however, both men and women
working at a distance in the fields.

I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner
which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face,
appeared to consider a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently
reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a
trembling hand.  I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly
refreshing.  I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she
shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand,
murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before.

I walked on by my father's side, holding the stirrup-leather of his
horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved
cattle: the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic
frames--they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last,
however, dangled unoccupied: these cloaks appeared in tolerably good
condition, not so their under garments.  On their heads were broad
slouching hats: the generality of them were bare-footed.  As they passed,
the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the
fellows laughed, and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they
said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild.
The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent.

"A strange language that!" said a young officer to my father, "I don't
understand a word of it; what can it be?"

"Irish," said my father, with a loud voice, "and a bad language it is; I
have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a
guardsman in London.  There's one part of London where all the Irish
live--at least all the worst of them--and there they hatch their
villanies to speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and
makes them dangerous: I was once sent there to seize a couple of
deserters--Irish--who had taken refuge amongst their companions; we found
them in what was in my time called a ken, that is, a house where only
thieves and desperadoes are to be found.  Knowing on what kind of
business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party; it was well
I did so.  We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty
ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking,
swearing, and talking Irish.  Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the
two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but
the rest, with an ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine,
sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry
sticks with them even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their
sleep, striking left and right."

"Did you take the deserters?" said the officer.

"Yes," said my father; "for we formed at the end of the room, and charged
with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding
their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the
whole district had become alarmed and hundreds came pouring down upon
us--men, women, and children.  Women, did I say!--they looked fiends,
half-naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up
the very pavement to hurl at us sticks rang about our ears, stones, and
Irish--I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially
as I did not understand it.  It's a bad language."

"A queer tongue," said I, "I wonder if I could learn it?"

"Learn it!" said my father; "what should you learn it for?--however, I am
not afraid of that.  It is not like Scotch, no person can learn it, save
those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do
not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed."

Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running
north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the
skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the principal one of
these regions.  It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated
it from the mountains.  It was rather an ancient place, and might contain
some ten thousand inhabitants--I found that it was our destination; there
were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up
its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house
which stood in the principal street.

"You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain," said the
master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man, who came up
whilst our little family were seated at dinner late in the afternoon of
the day of our arrival; "they beat anything in this town of Clonmel.  I
do not let them for the sake of interest, and to none but gentlemen in
the army, in order that myself and my wife, who is from Londonderry, may
have the advantage of pleasant company, a genteel company; ay, and
Protestant company, captain.  It did my heart good when I saw your honour
ride in at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I'll
engage, not a Papist among them, they are too good-looking and
honest-looking for that.  So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of
your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your stirrup,
than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from Londonderry, 'God
bless me,' said I, 'what a truly Protestant countenance, what a noble
bearing, and what a sweet young gentleman.  By the silver hairs of his
honour--and sure enough I never saw hairs more regally silver than those
of your honour--by his honour's gray silver hairs, and by my own soul,
which is not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them--it
would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome such a
father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military.'  And
then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the
face like a fairy as she is, 'You may say that,' says she.  'It would be
but decent and civil, honey.'  And your honour knows how I ran out of my
own door and welcomed your honour riding in company with your son, who
was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment,
and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your
honour, and your honour's son, and your honour's royal military
Protestant regiment.  And now I have you in the house, and right proud I
am to have ye one and all; one, two, three, four, true Protestants every
one, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret
which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your
family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from
Londonderry, to introduce to your honour's lady, and then we'll drink to
the health of King George, God bless him; to the 'glorious and
immortal'--to Boyne water--to your honour's speedy promotion to be Lord
Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of
Padua."

Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the
long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the high street
of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after
saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was.

"A bigot and an Orangeman!"  Oh, yes!  It is easier to apply epithets of
opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history
and position.  He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most
remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight
in Ireland in the cause of civilization and religious truth; they were
sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country,
where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they
have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have
their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have
held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children
like these her adopted ones.  "But they are fierce and sanguinary," it is
said.  Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the
savage pike.  "But they are bigoted and narrow-minded."  Ay, ay! they do
not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone!  "But their
language is frequently indecorous."  Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever
listen to the voice of Papist cursing?

The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number
of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position:
but they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own,
their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their
own.  They have been vilified and traduced--but what would Ireland be
without them?  I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons
no worse than these much calumniated children of her adoption.




CHAPTER X.


Protestant Young Gentlemen--The Greek Letters--Open
Chimney--Murtagh--Paris and Salamanca--Nothing to do--To Whit, to
Whoo!--The Pack of Cards--Before Christmas.

We continued at this place for some months, during which time the
soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were; and I, having no
duties to perform, was sent to school.  I had been to English schools,
and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh; but my education, at the present
day, would not be what it is--perfect, had I never had the honour of
being _alumnus_ in an Irish seminary.

"Captain," said our kind host, "you would, no doubt, wish that the young
gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the town may afford towards
helping him on in the path of genteel learning.  It's a great pity that
he should waste his time in idleness--doing nothing else than what he
says he has been doing for the last fortnight--fishing in the river for
trouts which he never catches; and wandering up the glen in the mountain,
in search of the hips that grow there.  Now, we have a school here, where
he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into the Greek
letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he will have an
opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Protestant young
gentlemen of the place, the handsome well-dressed young persons whom your
honour sees in the church on the Sundays, when your honour goes there in
the morning, with the rest of the Protestant military; for it is no
Papist school, though there may be a Papist or two there--a few poor
farmers' sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your
honour's child to form any acquaintance at all, at all!"

And to the school I went, where I read the Latin tongue and the Greek
letters, with a nice old clergyman, who sat behind a black oaken desk,
with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in a long gloomy kind of hall,
with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned with cobwebs, the walls
considerably dilapidated, and covered over with strange figures and
hieroglyphics, evidently produced by the application of burnt stick; and
there I made acquaintance with the Protestant young gentlemen of the
place, who, with whatever _eclat_ they might appear at church on a
Sunday, did assuredly not exhibit to much advantage in the school-room on
the week days, either with respect to clothes or looks.  And there I was
in the habit of sitting on a large stone, before the roaring fire in the
huge open chimney, and entertaining certain of the Protestant young
gentlemen of my own age, seated on similar stones, with extraordinary
accounts of my own adventures, and those of the corps, with an occasional
anecdote extracted from the story-books of Hickathrift and Wight Wallace,
pretending to be conning the lesson all the while.

And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the land lord,
with the Papist "gasoons," as they were called, the farmers' sons from
the country; and of these gasoons, of which there were three two might be
reckoned as nothing at all; in the third, however, I soon discovered that
there was something extraordinary.

He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, dressed in a
gray suit; the coat, from its size, appeared to have been made for him
some ten years before.  He was remarkably narrow-chested and
round-shouldered, owing, perhaps, as much to the tightness of his garment
as to the hand of nature.  His face was long, and his complexion swarthy,
relieved, however, by certain freckles, with which the skin was
plentifully studded.  He had strange wandering eyes, gray, and somewhat
unequal in size; they seldom rested on the book, but were generally
wandering about the room, from one object to another.  Sometimes he would
fix them intently on the wall; and then suddenly starting, as if from a
reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious movements with his
thumbs and fore-fingers, as if he were shuffling something from him.

One morning, as he s

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