Lavengro

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_Myself_. A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive.

_John_. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he
got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick. But
with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow,
he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and
supernatural.

_Myself_. I dare say he's right. I have read of witchcraft in the
Bible.

_John_. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he
says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that he
could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions. He says
that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he
wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live
respectably.

_Myself_. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I
must go back through the bog to Templemore.

CHAPTER XIII.

Groom and Cob--Strength and Symmetry--Where's the Saddle--The First
Ride--No more Fatigue--Love for Horses--Pursuit of Words--Philologist and
Pegasus--The Smith--What more, Agrah?--Sassanach Ten Pence.

And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack
stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, "I say, young
gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning."

"Why do you wish me to mount him?" said I; "you know; he is dangerous. I
saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago."

"Why, that's the very thing, master. I'd rather see anybody on his back
than myself; he does not like me; but, to them he does, he can be as
gentle as a lamb."

"But suppose," said I, "that he should not like me?"

"We shall soon see that, master," said the groom; "and if so be he shows
temper, I will be the first to tell you to get down. But there's no fear
of that; you have never angered or insulted him, and to such as you, I
say again, he'll be as gentle as a lamb."

"And how came you to insult him," said I, "knowing his temper as you do?"

"Merely through forgetfulness, master: I was riding him about a month
ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, thinking I was on
another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at all. He has never
forgiven me, though before that time he was the only friend I had in the
world; I should like to see you on him, master." "I should soon be off
him: I can't ride."

"Then you are all right, master; there's no fear. Trust him for not
hurting a young gentleman, an officer's son, who can't ride. If you were
a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, 'twere another thing; as
it is, he'll treat you as if he were the elder brother that loves you.
Ride! he'll soon teach you to ride, if you leave the matter with him.
He's the best riding master in all Ireland, and the gentlest."

The cob was led forth; what a tremendous creature! I had frequently seen
him before, and wondered at him; he was barely fifteen hands, but he had
the girth of a metropolitan dray-horse; his head was small in comparison
with his immense neck, which curved down nobly to his wide back: his
chest was broad and fine, and his shoulders models of symmetry and
strength; he stood well and powerfully upon his legs, which were somewhat
short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish cob, a
species at one time not uncommon, but at the present day nearly extinct.

"There!" said the groom, as he looked at him, half-admiringly, half
sorrowfully, "with sixteen stone on his back, he'll trot fourteen miles
in one hour, with your nine stone, some two and a half more, ay, and
clear a six-foot wall at the end of it."

"I'm half afraid," said I; "I had rather you would ride him."

"I'd rather so, too, if he would let me; but he remembers the blow. Now,
don't be afraid, young master, he's longing to go out himself. He's been
trampling with his feet these three days, and I know what that means;
he'll let anybody ride him but myself, and thank them; but to me he says,
'No! you struck me.'"

"But," said I, "where's the saddle?"

"Never mind the saddle; if you are ever to be a frank rider, you must
begin without a saddle; besides, if he felt a saddle, he would think you
don't trust him, and leave you to yourself. Now, before you mount, make
his acquaintance--see there, how he kisses you and licks your face, and
see how he lifts his foot, that's to shake hands. You may trust him--now
you are on his back at last; mind how you hold the bridle--gently,
gently! It's not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes
to be off. Mind what I tell you--leave it all to him."

Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too fast, however, for so
inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal
perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till I had righted
myself; and now the groom came up: "When you feel yourself going," said
he, "don't lay hold of the mane, that's no use; mane never yet saved man
from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it's his sides you must
cling to with your calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself.
That's it, now abroad with you; I'll bet my comrade a pot of beer that
you'll be a regular rough rider by the time you come back."

And so it proved; I followed the directions of the groom, and the cob
gave me every assistance. How easy is riding, after the first timidity
is got over, to supple and youthful limbs; and there is no second fear.
The creature soon found that the nerves of his rider were in proper tone.
Turning his head half round he made a kind of whining noise, flung out a
little foam, and set off.

In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil's Mountain,
and was returning along the road, bathed with perspiration, but screaming
with delight; the cob laughing in his equine way, scattering foam and
pebbles to the left and right, and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles
an hour.

Oh, that ride! that first ride!--most truly it was an epoch in my
existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and
regret. People may talk of first love--it is a very agreeable event, I
dare say--but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a
first ride, like mine on the mighty cob! My whole frame was shaken, it
is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but
what of that? By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the
whole equine species. No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints,
after that first ride round the Devil's Hill on the cob.

Oh, that cob; that Irish cob!--may the sod lie lightly over the bones of
the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its kind! Oh! the days
when, issuing from the barrack-gate of Templemore, we commenced our hurry-
skurry just as inclination led--now across the fields--direct over stone
walls and running brooks--mere pastime for the cob!--sometimes along the
road to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir!--what was distance
to the cob?

It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first awakened
within me--a passion which, up to the present time, has been rather on
the increase than diminishing. It is no blind passion; the horse being a
noble and generous creature, intended by the All-Wise to be the helper
and friend of man, to whom he stands next in the order of creation. On
many occasions of my life I have been much indebted to the horse, and
have found in him a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy
were not to be obtained. It is therefore natural enough that I should
love the horse; but the love which I entertain for him has always been
blended with respect; for I soon perceived that, though disposed to be
the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to be his slave;
in which respect he differs from the dog, who will crouch when beaten;
whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware of his own worth, and that he
carries death within the horn of his heel. If, therefore, I found it
easy to love the horse, I found it equally natural to respect him.

I much question whether philology, or the passion for languages, requires
so little of an apology as the love for horses. It has been said, I
believe, that the more languages a man speaks, the more a man is he;
which is very true, provided he acquires languages as a medium for
becoming acquainted with the thoughts and feelings of the various
sections into which the human race is divided; but, in that case, he
should rather be termed a philosopher than a philologist--between which
two the difference is wide indeed! An individual may speak and read a
dozen languages, and yet be an exceedingly poor creature, scarcely half a
man; and the pursuit of tongues for their own sake, and the mere
satisfaction of acquiring them, surely argues an intellect of a very low
order; a mind disposed to be satisfied with mean and grovelling things;
taking more pleasure in the trumpery casket than in the precious treasure
which it contains, in the pursuit of words, than in the acquisition of
ideas.

I cannot help thinking that it was fortunate for myself, who am, to a
certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of languages has
been always modified by the love of horses; for scarcely had I turned my
mind to the former, when I also mounted the wild cob, and hurried forth
in the direction of the Devil's Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on
every side; that ride, amongst other things, taught me that a lad with
thews and sinews was intended by nature for something better than mere
word-culling; and if I have accomplished anything in after life worthy of
mentioning, I believe it may partly be attributed to the ideas which that
ride, by setting my blood in a glow, infused into my brain. I might,
otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil
night and day in culling useless words for some _opus magnum_ which
Murray will never publish, and nobody ever read; beings without
enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a
good point in Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though
acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and Latin
languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the most glorious
of Homer's rhapsodies. What knew he of Pegasus? he had never mounted a
generous steed; the merest jockey, had the strain been interpreted to
him, would have called it a brave song!--I return to the brave cob.

On a certain day I had been out on an excursion. In a cross-road, at
some distance from the Satanic hill, the animal which I rode cast a shoe.
By good luck a small village was at hand, at the entrance of which was a
large shed, from which proceeded a most furious noise of hammering.
Leading the cob by the bridle, I entered boldly. "Shoe this horse, and
do it quickly, a gough," said I to a wild grimy figure of a man, whom I
found alone, fashioning a piece of iron.

"Arrigod yuit?" said the fellow, desisting from his work, and staring at
me.

"O yes, I have money," said I, "and of the best;" and I pulled out an
English shilling.

"Tabhair chugam?" said the smith, stretching out his grimy hand.

"No, I sha'n't," said I; "some people are glad to get their money when
their work is done."

The fellow hammered a little longer, and then proceeded to shoe the cob,
after having first surveyed it with attention. He performed his job
rather roughly, and more than once appeared to give the animal
unnecessary pain, frequently making use of loud and boisterous words. By
the time the work was done, the creature was in a state of high
excitement, and plunged and tore. The smith stood at a short distance,
seeming to enjoy the irritation of the animal, and showing, in a
remarkable manner, a huge fang, which projected from the under jaw of a
very wry mouth.

"You deserve better handling," said I, as I went up to the cob and
fondled it; whereupon it whinnied, and attempted to touch my face with
its nose.

"Are ye not afraid of that beast?" said the smith, showing his fang.
"Arrah, it's vicious that he looks!"

"It's at you, then!--I don't fear him;" and thereupon I passed under the
horse, between his hind legs.

"And is that all you can do, agrah?" said the smith.

"No," said I, "I can ride him."

"Ye can ride him, and what else, agrah?"

"I can leap him over a six-foot wall," said I.

"Over a wall, and what more, agrah?"

"Nothing more," said I; "what more would you have?"

"Can you do this, agrah?" said the smith; and he uttered a word which I
had never heard before, in a sharp pungent tone. The effect upon myself
was somewhat extraordinary, a strange thrill ran through me; but with
regard to the cob it was terrible; the animal forthwith became like one
mad, and reared and kicked with the utmost desperation.

"Can you do that, agrah?" said the smith.

"What is it?" said I, retreating, "I never saw the horse so before."

"Go between his legs, agrah," said the smith, "his hinder legs;" and he
again showed his fang.

"I dare not," said I, "he would kill me."

"He would kill ye! and how do ye know that, agrah?"

"I feel he would," said I, "something tells me so."

"And it tells ye truth, agrah; but it's a fine beast, and it's a pity to
see him in such a state: Is agam an't leigeas"--and here he uttered
another word in a voice singularly modified, but sweet and almost
plaintive; the effect of it was as instantaneous as that of the other,
but how different!--the animal lost all its fury, and became at once calm
and gentle. The smith went up to it, coaxed and patted it, making use of
various sounds of equal endearment, then turning to me, and holding out
once more the grimy hand, he said, "And now ye will be giving me the
Sassanach ten pence, agrah?"

CHAPTER XIV.

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--Only Course Open--The Bookstall--A Portrait--A
Banished Priest.

From the wild scenes which I have attempted to describe in the latter
pages I must now transport the reader to others of a widely different
character. He must suppose himself no longer in Ireland, but in the
eastern corner of merry England. Bogs, ruins, and mountains have
disappeared amidst the vapours of the west: I have nothing more to say of
them; the region in which we are now is not famous for objects of that
kind: perhaps it flatters itself that it can produce fairer and better
things, of some of which let me speak; there is a fine old city before
us, and first of that let me speak.

A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you will; but
it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and elevated,
overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. Gazing from
those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail to awaken, even
in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure and admiration. At
the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique
bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either
side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the
city; the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present
extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north
to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice
twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was
raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king,
who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand, and his gold and
silver treasures about him. There is a grey old castle upon the top of
that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil,
from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work,
that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of
rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder
that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up
prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her
walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her
cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may
never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry! the reign of idolatry has been
over there for many a long year, never more, let us hope, to return;
brave hearts in that old town have borne witness against it, and sealed
their testimony with their hearts' blood--most precious to the Lord is
the blood of His saints! we are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye
not yon chalky precipice, to the right of the Norman bridge? On this
side of the stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined wall, the last
relic of what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its foot is a place
called the Lollards' Hole; and with good reason, for many a saint of God
has breathed his last beneath that white precipice, bearing witness
against popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch; many a grisly procession
has advanced along that suburb, across the old bridge, towards the
Lollards' Hole: furious priests in front, a calm pale martyr in the
midst, a pitying multitude behind. It has had its martyrs, the venerable
old town!

Ah! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole circumjacent
region of which it is the capital. The Angles possessed the land at an
early period, which, however, they were eventually compelled to share
with hordes of Danes and Northmen, who flocked thither across the sea to
found hearthsteads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of
Angles and Danes, still preserve much which speaks strongly of their
northern ancestry; amongst them ye will find the light-brown hair of the
north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild superstition,
ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient history of the north
and its sublime mythology; the warm heart, and the strong heart of the
old Danes and Saxons still beat in those regions, and there ye will find,
if anywhere, old northern hospitality and kindness of manner, united with
energy, perseverance, and dauntless intrepidity; better soldiers or
mariners never bled in their country's battles than those nurtured in
those regions, and within those old walls. It was yonder, to the west,
that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; he who
annihilated the sea pride of Spain, and dragged the humbled banner of
France in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder, towards the west,
and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint
guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze
of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine,
in which the relic is to be seen; a sword of curious workmanship, the
blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl.
'Tis the sword of Cordova, won in bloodiest fray off Saint Vincent's
promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved
land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard's sword is to be seen in
yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall: many other
relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's sword.

Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my father retired: it
was here that the old tired soldier set himself down with his little
family. He had passed the greater part of his life in meritorious
exertion, in the service of his country, and his chief wish now was to
spend the remainder of his days in quiet and respectability; his means,
it is true, were not very ample; fortunate it was that his desires
corresponded with them: with a small fortune of his own, and with his
half-pay as a royal soldier, he had no fears for himself or for his
faithful partner and helpmate; but then his children! how was he to
provide for them? how launch them upon the wide ocean of the world? This
was, perhaps, the only thought which gave him uneasiness, and I believe
that many an old retired officer at that time, and under similar
circumstances, experienced similar anxiety; had the war continued, their
children would have been, of course, provided for in the army, but peace
now reigned, and the military career was closed to all save the scions of
the aristocracy, or those who were in some degree connected with that
privileged order, an advantage which few of these old officers could
boast of; they had slight influence with the great, who gave themselves
very little trouble either about them or their families.

"I have been writing to the Duke," said my father one day to my excellent
mother, after we had been at home somewhat better than a year, "I have
been writing to the Duke of York about a commission for that eldest boy
of ours. He, however, affords me no hopes; he says that his list is
crammed with names, and that the greater number of the candidates have
better claims than my son."

"I do not see how that can be," said my mother.

"Nor do I," replied my father. "I see the sons of bankers and merchants
gazetted every month, and I do not see what claims they have to urge,
unless they be golden ones. However, I have not served my king fifty
years to turn grumbler at this time of life. I suppose that the people
at the head of affairs know what is most proper and convenient; perhaps
when the lad sees how difficult, nay, how impossible it is that he should
enter the army, he will turn his mind to some other profession; I wish he
may!"

"I think he has already," said my mother; "you see how fond he is of the
arts, of drawing and painting, and, as far as I can judge, what he has
already done is very respectable; his mind seems quite turned that way,
and I heard him say the other day that he would sooner be a Michael
Angelo than a general officer. But you are always talking of him; what
do you think of doing with the other child?"

"What, indeed!" said my father; "that is a consideration which gives me
no little uneasiness. I am afraid it will be much more difficult to
settle him in life than his brother. What is he fitted for, even were it
in my power to provide for him? God help the child! I bear him no ill-
will, on the contrary, all love and affection; but I cannot shut my eyes;
there is something so strange about him! How he behaved in Ireland! I
sent him to school to learn Greek, and he picked up Irish!"

"And Greek as well," said my mother. "I heard him say the other day that
he could read St. John in the original tongue."

"You will find excuses for him, I know," said my father. "You tell me I
am always thinking of my first-born; I might retort by saying you are
always thinking of the other; but it is the way of women always to side
with the second-born. There's what's her name in the Bible, by whose
wiles the old blind man was induced to give to his second son the
blessing which was the birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his
place! I should not have been so easily deceived! no disguise would ever
have caused me to mistake an impostor for my first-born. Though I must
say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob; he is neither smooth nor
sleek, and, though my second-born, he is already taller and larger than
his brother."

"Just so," said my mother, "his brother would make a far better Jacob
than he."

"I will hear nothing against my first-born," said my father, "even in the
way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride; the very image of myself in
my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben; though perhaps not quite
so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love
him, I'm sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him
and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes; and then his
countenance! why, 'tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost
said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the
boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and
eyes; but, then, his ways and manners!--I confess I do not like them, and
that they give me no little uneasiness--I know that he kept very strange
company when he was in Ireland; people of evil report, of whom terrible
things were said--horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once or
twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no use; he
put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular Irish look, just
such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence
and simplicity, and they full of malice and deceit all the time. I don't
like them; they are no friends to old England, or its old king, God bless
him! They are not good subjects, and never were; always in league with
foreign enemies. When I was in the Coldstream, long before the
Revolution, I used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the
French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever
opportunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me, that in the time
of the Pretender there were always, in London alone, a dozen of fellows
connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing the king's
soldiers from their allegiance, and persuading them to desert to France
to join the honest Irish, as they were called. One of these traitors
once accosted him and proposed the matter to him, offering handfuls of
gold if he could induce any of his comrades to go over. Meredith
appeared to consent, but secretly gave information to his colonel; the
fellow was seized, and certain traitorous papers found upon him; he was
hanged before Newgate, and died exulting in his treason. His name was
Michael Nowlan. That ever son of mine should have been intimate with the
Papist Irish, and have learnt their language!"