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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In "Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The Priest," George Borrow weaves an intricate tapestry of 19th-century English life through the lens of a young scholar's adventures. This semi-autobiographical novel is characterized by its rich, lyrical prose and vivid character portrayals, notably the enigmatic Gypsies and spiritual figures that populate the narrative. Borrow's style, marked by a fervent enthusiasm for linguistic diversity and cultural authenticity, reflects his fascination with marginalized communities, deftly capturing the essence of their experiences amidst the rigid societal norms of Victorian England. The narrative flows seamlessly between personal anecdote and philosophical reflection, offering readers a glimpse into the complexities of identity and belonging. George Borrow, a passionate linguist and traveler, was deeply influenced by his encounters with the Romani people and other cultures during his extensive travels across England and Europe. His commitment to understanding and preserving their language and traditions stemmed from a profound respect for their way of life, often at odds with mainstream Victorian values. This background not only enriches the text but also underscores Borrow's belief in the power of storytelling as a means of cultural preservation and empathy. "Lavengro" is a compelling read for those interested in the intersection of culture, language, and personal identity. With its beautifully crafted prose and deep philosophical inquiries, the book invites readers to explore not only the narrator's journey but also their own understanding of the world. Borrow's work resonates with anyone drawn to the complexities of human experience, making it an essential addition to the canon of English literature.
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Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The Priest
Table of Contents
PREFACE
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 dependents, 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.
THE LIST OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Birth—My father—Tamerlane—Ben Brain—French Protestants—East Anglia—Sorrow and troubles—True peace—A beautiful child—Foreign grave—Mirrors—The Alpine country—Emblems—Slowness of speech—The Jew—Some strange gestures
1–9
CHAPTER TWO
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-bord
10–16
CHAPTER THREE
Pretty D---—The venerable church—The stricken heart—Dormant energies—The small packet—Nerves—The books—A picture—Mountain-like billows—The footprint—Spirit of De Foe—Reasoning powers—Terrors of God—Heads of the dragons—High-Church clerk—A journey—My father recalled to his regiment—The drowned country
17–26
CHAPTER FOUR
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—Frenchmen and water
27–34
CHAPTER FIVE
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—John Newton—The alarm—Gentle brothers
35–45
CHAPTER SIX
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—The feats of chivalry—Rivers—And over the brig
46–53
CHAPTER SEVEN
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, man?—The Nor’ Loch—Gestures wild—The bicker—Wild-looking figure
54–62
CHAPTER EIGHT
Expert climbers—The crags—Something red—The horrible edge—David Haggart—Fine materials—Victory—Extraordinary robber—Ruling passion
63–67
CHAPTER NINE
Napoleon—The storm—The cove—Up the country—The trembling hand—Irish—Tough battle—Tipperary hills—Elegant lodgings—Fair specimen
68–74
CHAPTER TEN
Protestant young gentlemen—The Greek letters—Open chimney—Murtagh—To Paris and Salamanca—Nothing to do—To whit, to whoo!—Christmas
75–79
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Templemore—Devil’s Mountain—No companion—Force of circumstance—Way of the world—Ruined castle—Grim and desolate—Donjon—My own house
80–85
CHAPTER TWELVE
A visit—Figure of a man—The dog of peace—The raw wound—The guardroom—Boy soldier—Person in authority—Never solitary—Clergyman and family—Still-hunting—Fairy man—Near sunset—Bagg—Left-handed hitter—At Swanton Morley
86–94
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Groom and cob—Strength and symmetry—Where’s the saddle?—The first ride—No more fatigue—Love for horses—The pursuit of words—Philologist and Pegasus—The smith—What more, agrah?
95–101
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A fine old city—Norman master-work—Lollards’ Hole—Good blood—The Spaniard’s sword—Old retired officer—Writing to a duke—God help the child—Nothing like Jacob—Irish brigades—Old Sergeant Meredith—I have been young—Idleness—The bookstall—A portrait—A banished priest
102–110
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Monsieur Dante—Condemned musket—Sporting—Sweet rivulet—The Earl’s Home—The pool—The sonorous voice—What dost thou read?—The man of peace—Of Zohar and of Mishna—The money-changers
111–117
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fair of horses—Looks of respect—The fast trotter—Pair of eyes—Strange men—Jasper, your pal—Force of blood—The young lady with diamonds
118–123
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The tents—Pleasant discourse—I am Pharaoh—Shifting for one’s self—Horse-shoes—This is wonderful—Bless your wisdom—A pretty manœuvre—Ill day to the Romans—My name is Herne—A singular people—An original speech
124–132
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
What profession?—Not fitted for a Churchman—Erratic course—The bitter draught—Principle of woe—Thou wouldst be joyous—What ails you?
133–136
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Agreeable delusions—Youth—A profession—Ab Gwilym—Glorious English law—There they pass—My dear old master—The deal desk—The Language of the tents—Where is Morfydd?—Go to—Only once
137–144
CHAPTER TWENTY
Silver grey—Good word for everybody—A remarkable youth—The archdeacon—Reading the Bible
145–148
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The eldest son—Saying of wild Finland—The critical time—Vaunting polls—One thing wanted—A father’s blessing—Miracle of art—The Pope’s house—The young enthusiast—Pictures of England—Persist and wrestle—Of the little dark man
149–154
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Desire for novelty—Lives of the lawless—Countenances—Old yeoman and dame—We live near the sea—Uncouth-looking volume—The other condition—Draoitheac—A dilemma—The Antinomian—Lodowick Muggleton—Anders Vedel
155–162
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The two individuals—The long pipe—The Germans—Werther—The female Quaker—Suicide—Gibbon—Jesus of Bethlehem—Fill your glass—Shakespeare—English at Minden—Melancholy Swayne Vonved—Are you happy?—Improve yourself in German
163–171
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The alehouse-keeper—Compassion for the rich—Old English gentleman—How is this?—Madeira—The Greek Parr—Twenty languages—Winter’s health—About the fight—A sporting gentleman—Flattened nose—That pightle—The surly nod
172–179
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Doubts—Wise king of Jerusalem—Let me see—A thousand years—Nothing new—The crowd—The hymn—Faith—Charles Wesley—There he stood—Farewell, brother—Death—Wind on the heath
180–187
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The flower of the grass—Days of pugilism—The rendezvous—Jews—Bruisers of England—Winter, spring—Well-earned bays—The fight—The huge black cloud—A frame of adamant—The storm—Dukkeripens—The barouche—The rain-gushes
188–195
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My father—Premature decay—The easy-chair—A few questions—So you told me—A difficult language—They call it Haik—Misused opportunities—Saul—Want of candour—Don’t weep—Heaven forgive me—Dated from Paris—I wish he were here—A father’s reminiscences—Vanities
196–204
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My brother’s arrival—A dying father—Christ
205–207
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The greeting—Queer figure—Cheer up—The cheerful fire—The trepidation—Let him come in
208–211
CHAPTER THIRTY
The sinister glance—Excellent correspondent—Quite original—My system—A losing trade—Merit—Starting a Review—What have you got?—Dairyman’s Daughter—Oxford principles—How is this?
212–218
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The walk—London’s Cheape—Street of the Lombards—Strange bridge—Main arch—The roaring gulf—The boat—Cly-faking—A comfort—No trap
219–225
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The tanner—The hotel—Drinking claret—London journal—New field—Commonplaceness—The three individuals—Botheration—Both frank and ardent
226–231
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dine with the publisher—Religions—No animal food—Unprofitable discussions—principles of criticism—The book market—Newgate lives—Goethe—German acquirements—Moral dignity
232–237
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Two volumes—Editor—Quintilian—Loose money
238–240
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Francis Ardry—Certain sharpers—Brave and eloquent—Opposites—Flinging the bones—In strange places—A batch of dogs—Redoubled application
241–245
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Occupations—Traduttore traditore—Ode to the Mist—Apple and pear—Reviewing—Current literature—Oxford-like manner—A plain story—Ill-regulated mind—Unsnuffed candle—Dreams
246–251
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
My brother—Fits of crying—Mayor-elect—The committee—The Norman arch—A word of Greek—The Church and the State—At my own expense
252–256
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Painter of the heroic—I’ll go!—A modest peep—Who is this?—A capital Pharaoh—Disproportionably short—Imaginary picture—About English figures
257–260
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
No authority whatever—Interference—Wondrous farrago—Brandt and Struensee—What a life!—The hearse—Mortal relics—Great poet—Fashion and fame—A difference—Good for nothing
261–267
CHAPTER FORTY
London Bridge—Why not?—Every heart has its own bitters—Wicked boys—Give me my book—A fright
268–271
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Decrease of the Review—Homer himself—Bread and cheese—Finger and thumb—Impossible to find—Something grand—Universal mixture—Publisher
272–276
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Francis Ardry—That won’t do, sir—Observe my gestures—I think you improve—Better than politics—Delightful young Frenchwoman—A burning shame—Paunch—Voltaire—Lump of sugar
277–282
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Progress—Glorious John—Utterly unintelligible
283–284
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The old spot—A long history—Thou shalt not steal—No harm—Education—Necessity—Foam on your lip—Metaphor—Fur cap—I don’t know him
285–291
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Bought and exchanged—Quite empty—A new firm—Bibles—Countenance of a lion—Clap of thunder—Lost it—Clearly a right—Goddess of the Mint
292–297
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The pickpocket—Strange rencounter—Drag him along—A great service—Things of importance—Philological matters—A mother of languages
298–301
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
New acquaintance—Wired cases—Bread and wine—Armenian colonies—Learning without money—What a language—The tide—Your foible—Learning of the Haiks—Pressing invitation
302–307
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
What to do—Strong enough—Fame and profit—Alliterative euphony—A plan—Bagnigge Wells
308–311
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Singular personage—A large sum—Papa of Rome—Armenians—Roots of Ararat—Regular features
312–315
CHAPTER FIFTY
Wish fulfilled—Extraordinary figure—Bueno—Noah—The two faces—I don’t blame him—Of money
316–319
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The one half-crown—Merit in patience—Cementer of friendship—Dreadful perplexity—The usual guttural—Armenian letters—Pure helplessness
320–324
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Kind of stupor—Peace of God—Divine hand—Farewell, child—The fair—The massive edifice—The battered tars—Lost! lost!—Good-day, gentlemen
325–329
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Singular table—No money—Out of employ—My bonnet—We of the thimble—Good wages—Wisely resolved—Strangest way in the world—Fat gentleman—Not such another—First edition—Not easy—Won’t close—Avella gorgio—Alarmed look
330–338
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Mr. Petulengro—Rommany Rye—Lil-writers—One’s own horn—Lawfully-earnt money—The wooded hill—A favourite—Shop window—Much wanted
339–343
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Bread and water—Fair play—Fashionable life—Colonel B--- or Joseph Sell—The kindly glow
344–347
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Considerably sobered—The power of writing—The tempter—The hungry talent—Work concluded
348–350
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Nervous look—The bookseller’s wife—The last stake—Terms—God forbid!—Will you come to tea?
351–354
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Indisposition—A resolution—Poor equivalents—The piece of gold—Flashing eyes—How beautiful
355–358
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The milestone—Meditation—Want to get up?—Sixteen shillings—Near-hand wheeler—All right
359–362
CHAPTER SIXTY
The still hour—A thrill—The wondrous circle—The shepherd—Heaps and barrows—What do you mean?—The milk of the plains—Hengist spared it
363–367
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The river—The arid downs—A prospect
368–369
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The hostelry—Life uncertain—Open countenance—The grand point—Thank you, master—A hard mother—Poor dear!—The odds—The better country—English fashion—Landlord-looking person
370–375
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Primitive habits—Rosy-faced damsel—A pleasant moment—Suit of black—The furtive glance—The mighty round—These degenerate times—The newspaper—The evil chance—I must congratulate you
376–381
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
New acquaintance—Old French style—The portrait—Taciturnity—The evergreen tree—The dark hour—The flash—Ancestors—A fortunate man—A posthumous child—Antagonist ideas—The hawks—Flaws—The pony—Irresistible impulse—Favourable crisis—Topmost branch—Ashamed
382–392
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Maternal anxiety—The baronet—Little zest—Mr. Speaker!—Craving—Spirited address—Author
393–397
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Trepidations—Subtle principle—Perverse imagination—Are they mine?—Another book—How hard!—Agricultural dinner—Incomprehensible actions—Inmost bosom—Give it up—Rascally newspaper
398–404
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Disturbed slumbers—The bed-post—Two wizards—What can I do?—Real library—The Rev. Mr. Platitude—Toleration to Dissenters—Paradox—Sword of St. Peter—Enemy to humbug—High principles—False concord—The damsel—What religion?—The further conversation—That would never do!
405–414
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Elastic step—Disconsolate party—Not the season—Mend your draught—Good ale—Crotchet—Hammer and tongs—Schoolmaster—True Eden life—Flaming Tinman—Twice my size—Hard at work—My poor wife—Grey Moll—A Bible—Half-and-half—What to do—Half inclined—In no time—On one condition only—Don’t stare—Like unto the wind
415–426
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Effects of corn—One night longer—The hoofs—A stumble—Are you hurt?—What a difference—Drowsy—Maze of bushes—Housekeeping—Sticks and furze—The driftway—An account of stock
427–434
CHAPTER SEVENTY
New profession—Beautiful night—Jupiter—Sharp and shrill—Rommany chi—All alone—Three-and-sixpence—What is Rommany?—Be civil—Parraco tute—Slight start—Grateful—The rustling
435–442
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Friend of Slingsby—All quiet—Danger—The two cakes—Children in the wood—Don’t be angry—In deep thought—Temples throbbing—Deadly sick—Another blow—No answer—How old are you?—Play and sacrament—Heavy heart—Song of poison—The drow of gypsies—The dog—Of Ely’s church—Get up, bebee—The vehicle—Can you speak?—The oil
443–454
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Desired effect—The three oaks—Winifred—Things of time—With God’s will—The preacher—Creature comforts—Croesaw—Welsh and English—Chester
455–460
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Morning hymn—Much alone—John Bunyan—Beholden to nobody—Sixty-five—Sober greeting—Early Sabbaths—Finny brood—The porch—No fortune-telling—The master’s niece—Doing good—The groans and voices—Pechod Ysprydd Glan
461–468
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The following day—Pride—Thriving trade—Tylwyth Teg—About Ellis Wyn—Sleeping bard—The incalculable good—Fearful agony—The tale
469–473
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Taking a cup—Getting to heaven—After breakfast—Wooden gallery—Mechanical habit—Reserved and gloomy—Last words—A long time—From the clouds—Momentary chill—Pleasing anticipation
474–480
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Hasty farewell—Lofty rock—Wrestlings of Jacob—No rest—Ways of Providence—Two females—Foot of the Cross—Enemy of souls—Perplexed—Lucky hour—Valetudinarian—Methodists—Fervent in your prayer—You Saxons—Weak creatures—Very agreeable—Almost happy—Kindness and solicitude
481–490
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Getting late—Seven years old—Chastening—Go forth—London—Same eyes—Common occurrence
491–494
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Low and calm—Much better—The blessed effect
495–497
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Deep interest—Goodly country—Two mansions—Welshman’s Candle—Beautiful universe—Godly discourse—Fine church—Points of doctrine—Strange adventures—The Pontiff—Evil spirit
498–504
CHAPTER EIGHTY
The border—Thank you both—Pipe and fiddle
505–507
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
At a funeral—Two days ago—Very coolly—Roman woman—Well and hearty—Somewhat dreary—Plum pudding—Roman fashion—Quite different—The dark lane—Beyond time—Fine fellow—Like a wild cat—Pleasant enough spot—No gloves
508–517
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Offence and defence—I’m satisfied—Fond of solitude—Possession of property—Winding path
518–520
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Highly poetical—Volundr—Grecian mythology—Making a petul—Spite of dukkerin—Heaviness
521–525
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Several causes—Frogs and eftes—Gloom and twilight—What should I do?—‘Our Father’—Fellow-men—What a mercy!—History of Saul—Pitch dark
526–531
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Free and independent—I don’t see why—Oats—A noise—Unwelcome visitors—What’s the matter?—Good-day to ye—The tall girl—Dovrefeld—Blow on the face—Civil enough—What’s this?—Vulgar woman—Hands off—Gasping for breath—Long Melford—A pretty manœuvre—A long draught—Animation—It won’t do—Nomalice—Bad people
532–544
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
At tea—Vapours—Of Isopel Berners—So softly and kindly—Sweet pretty creature—Bread and water—Truth and constancy—Very strangely
545–549
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Hubbub of voices—No offence—The guests
550–551
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
A Radical—Simple-looking man—Church of England—The President—Aristocracy—Gin and water—Mending the roads—Persecuting Church—Simon de Montfort—Broken bells—Get up—Not for the Pope—Quay of New York—Mumpers’ Dingle—No wish to fight—First draught—Half a crown broke
552–561
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
The dingle—Give them ale—Not over complimentary—America—Many people—Washington—Promiscuous company—Language of the roads—The old women—Some numerals—The man in black
562–567
CHAPTER NINETY
Buona sera—Rather apprehensive—The steep bank—Lovely virgin—Hospitality—Tory minister—Custom of the country—Sneering smile—Wandering Zigan—Gypsies’ cloaks—Certain faculty—Acute answer—Various ways—Addio—The best Hollands
568–575
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Excursions—Adventurous English—Opaque forests
576–577
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
The landlord—Rather too old—Without a shilling—Reputation—A fortnight ago—Liquids—Irrational beings—Parliament cove—My brewer
578–583
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Another visit—Clever man—Another statue
584–586
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Prerogative—Feeling of gratitude—A long history—Alliterative style—Advantageous specimen—Jesuit benefice—Not sufficient—Queen Stork’s tragedy—Good sense—Grandeur and gentility—Ironmonger’s daughter—Clan Mac-Sycophant—Lickspittles—A curiosity—Newspaper editors—Charles the Simple—High-flying ditty—Dissenters—Lower classes—Priestley’s house—Ancestors—Austin—Renovating glass—Money—Quite original
587–601
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Wooded retreat—Fresh shoes—Wood fire—Ash, when green—Queen of China—Cleverest people—Declensions—Armenian—Thunder—Deep olive—What do you mean?—Bushes—Wood pigeon—Old Göthe
602–610
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
A shout—A fireball—See to the horses—Passing away—Gap in the hedge—On three wheels—Why do you stop?—No craven heart—The cordial—Bags
611–616
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
Fire of charcoal—The new-comer—No wonder!—Not a blacksmith—A love affair—Gretna Green—A cool thousand—Family estates—Borough interest—Grand education—Let us hear—Already quarrelling—Honourable parents—Not common people
617–625
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
An exordium—Fine ships—High Barbary captains—Free-born Englishmen—Monstrous figure—Swashbuckler—The grand coaches—The footmen—A travelling expedition—Black Jack—Nelson’s cannon—Pharaoh’s butler—A diligence—Two passengers—Sharking priest—Virgilio—Lessons in Italian—Two opinions—Holy Mary—Priestly confederates—Methodist—Like a sepulchre—All for themselves
626–639
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
A cloister—Half English—New acquaintance—Mixed liquors—Turning Papist—Purposes of charity—Foreign religion—Melancholy—Elbowing and pushing—Outlandish sight—The figure—I don’t care for you—Merry-andrews—One good—Religion of my country—Fellow of spirit—A dispute—The next morning—Proper dignity—Fetish country
640–651
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
Nothing but gloom—Sporting character—Gouty Tory—Reformado footman—Peroration—Good-night
652–655
THE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
From water-colour drawings byEdmund J. Sullivan
‘As I read over the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my mind about virtue and crime’
Frontispiece
‘Fool, indeed! . . . or I’ll forfeit the box’
page8
‘Once I saw him standing in the middle of a dusty road’
32
‘A wild grimy figure of a man . . . fashioning a piece of iron’
96
‘There’s night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?’
186
‘All safe with me; I never peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, God bless you!’
224
‘I am willing to encourage merit, sir; . . . I have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy’
240
‘The bar of the gate’
416
Mrs. Herne
512
‘The blow which I struck the Tinker’
544
Isopel Berners
560
‘The man in black’
600
CHAP. ONE
birth—my father—tamerlane—ben brain—french protestants—east anglia—sorrow and troubles—true peace—a beautiful child—foreign grave—mirrors—the alpine country—emblems—slowness of speech—the jew—some 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, gentillâtres, 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 gentillâtre 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 gentillâtre 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 gentillâtre, 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 manœuvres 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 headquarters 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 grey head and sunburnt face. My dearest Son!—My darling Mother!
Yes, mother, thou didst recognise 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 bye, 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 premisses 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 moraliser; 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 pedlery, 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 TWO
barracks and lodgings—a camp—the viper—a delicate child—blackberry time—meumandtuum—hythe—the golgotha—daneman’s skull—superhuman stature—stirring times—the sea-bord
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 hand, 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, grey-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 grey 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 Stamford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. Now, I have often thought that the old Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the Golgotha of 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 [14] just five ells, 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-bord; 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 THREE
pretty d---—the venerable church—the stricken heart—dormant energies—the small packet—nerves—the books—a picture—mountain-like billows—the footprint—spirit of de foe—reasoning powers—terrors of god—heads of the dragons—high-church clerk—a journey—my father recalled to his regiment—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.
