Lavengro

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* * * * *

"What ails you, my child?" said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch
under the influence of the dreadful one; "what ails you? you seem
afraid!"

_Boy_. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me.

_Mother_. But of what? there is no one can harm you; of what are you
apprehensive?

_Boy_. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of,
but afraid I am.

_Mother_. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was
continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was
only an imagination, a phantom of the brain.

_Boy_. No armed man threatens me; and 'tis not a thing that would cause
me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and fight him;
weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I
should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and there the
horror lies.

_Mother_. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know
where you are?

_Boy_. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are
beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a
Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid.
I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain--but, but--

And then there was a burst of "gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai." Alas,
alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast thou born to
sorrow--Onward!

CHAPTER XIX.

Agreeable Delusions--Youth--A Profession--Ab Gwilym--Glorious English
Law--There They Pass--My Dear Old Master--The Deal Desk--Language of the
Tents--Where is Morfydd--Go to--Only Once.

It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that in
proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, the swifter does
it pass, until at last, as we approach the borders of the grave, it
assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river about to precipitate
itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the case, provided we can carry
to the grave those pleasant thoughts and delusions which alone render
life agreeable, and to which even to the very last we would gladly cling;
but what becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity
of human pursuits? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, dearest
hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed
secure. What becomes from that moment, I repeat, of the shortness of
time? I put not the question to those who have never known that trial,
they are satisfied with themselves and all around them, with what they
have done, and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions with them to
the borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into it;
a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such talk of the
shortness of time: through the medium of that cloud the world has ever
been a pleasant world to them; their only regret is that they are so soon
to quit it; but oh, ye dear deluded hearts, it is not every one who is so
fortunate!

To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. The
generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth, even to the
least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, for they are not only
disposed, but able to enjoy most things within their reach. With what
trifles at that period are we content; the things from which in after-
life we should turn away in disdain please us then, for we are in the
midst of a golden cloud, and everything seems decked with a golden hue.
Never during any portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than
during the two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which
we arrived in the preceding chapter: since then it has flagged often
enough; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader
may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the circumstance of my
taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to write down the passages of my
life--a last resource with most people. But at the period to which I
allude I was just, as I may say, entering upon life; I had adopted a
profession, and--to keep up my character, simultaneously with that
profession--the study of a new language--I speedily became a proficient
in the one, but ever remained a novice in the other: a novice in the law,
but a perfect master in the Welsh tongue.

Yes! very pleasant times were those, when within the womb of a lofty deal
desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours every day, transcribing
(when I imagined eyes were upon me) documents of every description in
every possible hand, Blackstone kept company with Ab Gwilym--the polished
English lawyer of the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on
the rights of things--with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred
years before that time indited immortal cowydds and odes to the wives of
Cambrian chieftains--more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a
certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa
Bach--generally terminating with the modest request of a little private
parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no other witness than the
eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be
believed, rather a doubtful point, was seldom, very seldom, denied. And
by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so
exceedingly different, been thus brought together? From what the reader
already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me reading the
former; but what could have induced me to take up Blackstone, or rather
the law?

I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which account,
perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, the essence of
which is said to be ambiguity; most questions may be answered in a few
words, and this among the rest, though connected with the law. My
parents deemed it necessary that I should adopt some profession, they
named the law; the law was as agreeable to me as any other profession
within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that
Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab
Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lav-engro.

So I sat behind a desk many hours in a day, ostensibly engaged in
transcribing documents of various kinds; the scene of my labours was a
strange old house, occupying one side of a long and narrow court, into
which, however, the greater number of the windows looked not, but into an
extensive garden, filled with fruit trees, in the rear of a large,
handsome house, belonging to a highly respectable gentleman, who,
_moyennant une douceur considerable_, had consented to instruct my
father's youngest son in the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah!
would that I could describe the good gentleman in the manner which he
deserves; he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in
the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable
marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye
wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below; to secure such
respectabilities in death, he passed a most respectable life. Let no one
sneer, he accomplished much; his life was peaceful, so was his death. Are
these trifles? I wish I could describe him, for I loved the man, and
with reason, for he was ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always
been shown; and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no
longer exists--a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would fain
describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do press forward
and keep him from my mind's eye; there they pass, Spaniard and Moor,
Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is that? what that thick pursy man
in the loose, snuff-coloured great-coat, with the white stockings, drab
breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes; that man with the bull neck,
and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws,
but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small grey
eyes, replete with cat-like expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close,
and whose ear-lobes are pierced with small golden rings? Oh! that is not
my dear old master, but a widely different personage. _Bon jour_,
_Monsieur Vidocq_! _expressions de ma part a Monsieur Le Baron Taylor_.
But here comes at last my veritable old master!

A more respectable-looking individual was never seen; he really looked
what he was, a gentleman of the law--there was nothing of the pettifogger
about him: somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in person,
he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long enough to
become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without keenness; but
the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of his head, which was
bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white, smooth, and
lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves, probably
because his black silk stockings never exhibited a wrinkle; they might
just as well have said that he waddled, because his shoes creaked; for
these last, which were always without a speck, and polished as his crown,
though of a different hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly. I
cannot say that I ever saw him walk fast.

He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very rich man, much
richer than he did, had he not been in the habit of giving rather
expensive dinners to certain great people, who gave him nothing in
return, except their company; I could never discover his reasons for
doing so, as he always appeared to me a remarkably quiet man, by nature
averse to noise and bustle; but in all dispositions there are anomalies:
I have already said that he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well
here add that he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked
exceedingly well.

So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents of various
kinds; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining ones,
there were others, some of them likewise copied documents, while some
were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some
of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others,
like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which,
as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not
unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work intrusted to
our hands.

There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone,
I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I,
being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the
bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration
of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was
anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best
pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged
in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows
planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one
of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was
almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym.

Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on
my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my
history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a
poetical dissertation; no, no! I know my duty too well to introduce
anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and
amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea
that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab
Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have
dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have
no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really
great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the
present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first
became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick
volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my
hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very
strange chance. But before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be
permitted--I really must--to say a word or two about the language in
which he wrote, that same "Sweet Welsh." If I remember right, I found
the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived
unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon
found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue
which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older. And here I cannot
help observing cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this
Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain,
encountered words which, according to the lexicographers, were venerable
words, highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of
the Welsh, in which, however, they were no longer used in common
discourse, but were relics, precious relics, of the first speech of
Britain, perhaps of the world; with which words, however, I was already
well acquainted, and which I had picked up, not in learned books, classic
books, and in tongues of old renown, but whilst listening to Mr.
Petulengro and Tawno Chikno talking over their everyday affairs in the
language of the tents; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to
deep reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the deal
desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable that I should
have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very
superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym.

A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every
woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone--wild,
beautiful, solitary nature--her mountains and cascades, her forests and
streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy
pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or
ugly; little didst thou care for any of them, Dame Nature was thy love,
however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love-
message to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would
know? by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the
glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose
ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries
upwards through the flashing water. Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but
where is Morfydd the while? What, another message to the wife of Bwa
Bach? Ay, truly; and by whom?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of
the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the
mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor
ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power? But
where is Morfydd? And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the
wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees,
amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there. Quite
right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd? But another form is
nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the
mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest
thy bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just above
the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave,
which by thine own account reaches hell--and then thou ravest at the
misfortune of thy bow, and the non-appearance of Morfydd, and abusest
Reynard. Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou
merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described
him like thee? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of
melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil's in the
Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd; yes, she has stolen
from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee beneath those
rocks--she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym; but she is not long with
thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder shatters the rocks--Morfydd
flees! Quite right, Ab Gwilym; thou hadst no need of her, a better theme
for song is the voice of the Lord--the rock shatterer--than the frail
wife of the Bwa Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better
man than thou wouldst fain have had people believe.

But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed rapidly; with Ab
Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I
experienced sensations akin to those I had felt of yore whilst spelling
my way through the wonderful book--the delight of my childhood. I say
akin, for perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder
and delight; and these I had already known.

CHAPTER XX.

Silver Gray--Good Word for Everybody--A Remarkable Youth--Clients--Grades
in Society--The Archdeacon--Reading the Bible.

"I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of
ours to the law," said my father to my mother, as they sat together one
summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall
poplars.

Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the
wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and,
praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly requited toil;
there he sat, with locks of silver gray which set off so nobly his fine
bold but benevolent face, his faithful consort at his side, and his
trusty dog at his feet--an eccentric animal of the genuine regimental
breed, who, born amongst red-coats, had not yet become reconciled to
those of any other hue, barking and tearing at them when they drew near
the door, but testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by
hospitable waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance--at
present a very unfrequent occurrence.

"I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the law," said my
father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo cane.

"Why, what makes you think so?" said my mother.

"I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with the animal
here," said my father; "and, as I walked along, I overtook the boy's
master, Mr. S---. We shook hands, and, after walking a little way
farther, we turned back together, talking about this and that; the state
of the country, the weather, and the dog, which he greatly admired; for
he is a good-natured man, and has a good word for everybody, though the
dog all but bit him when he attempted to coax his head; after the dog, we
began talking about the boy; it was myself who introduced that subject: I
thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting on, so I
asked what he thought of my son; he hesitated at first, seeming scarcely
to know what to say; at length he came out with 'Oh, a very extraordinary
youth, a most remarkable youth indeed, captain!' 'Indeed,' said I, 'I am
glad to hear it, but I hope you find him steady?' 'Steady, steady,' said
he, 'why, yes, he's steady, I cannot say that he is not steady.' 'Come,
come,' said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, 'I see plainly that you are
not altogether satisfied with him; I was afraid you would not be, for,
though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his imperfections:
but do tell me what particular fault you have to find with him; and I
will do my best to make him alter his conduct.' 'No fault to find with
him, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a remarkable
youth, an extraordinary youth, only'--As I told you before, Mr. S--- is
the best-natured man in the world, and it was only with the greatest
difficulty that I could get him to say a single word to the disadvantage
of the boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last
I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear it; though I must
confess that I was somewhat prepared for it. It appears that the lad has
a total want of discrimination."

"I don't understand you," said my mother.

"You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the
conduct of that child. I am not, however, so blind; want of
discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive.
It appears that, since he has been placed where he is, he has been guilty
of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S--- told me, as he was
engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy
came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him;
and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to
ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private
room, and installed in an arm chair, like a justice of the peace, instead
of telling him to go about his business--now what did that show, but a
total want of discrimination?"

"I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with," said my
mother.

"I don't know what worse we could reproach him with," said my father: "I
mean of course as far as his profession is concerned: discrimination is
the very key-stone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become
a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and
according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there
would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that
the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors
he is apt to be unbending enough; I don't believe that would do in the
world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote
with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had
done. It appears that his wife, who, by the by, is a very fine woman,
and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one
evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a
great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many
fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly
for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great
gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding
that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the
classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that
the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some
horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an
Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course
horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has seven
thousand a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S--- turned up her
eyes, Mr. S---, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to
spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a
capital joke."

"I think so too," said my mother.

"I do not," said my father; "that a boy of his years should entertain an
opinion of his own--I mean one which militates against all established
authority--is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an
unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is
preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one
of an independent spirit get on in the army; the secret of success in the
army is the spirit of subordination."

"Which is a poor spirit after all," said my mother; "but the child is not
in the army."

"And it is well for him that he is not," said my father; "but you do not
talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks,
what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour
leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only
chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he
can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years--I
confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad."

"You make me uneasy too," said my mother; "but I really think you are too
hard upon the child; after all, though not, perhaps, all you could wish
him; he is always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in; he is in the
room above us; at least he was two hours ago, I left him there bending
over his books; I wonder what he has been doing all this time, it is now
getting late; let us go in, and he shall read to us."

"I am getting old," said my father; "and I love to hear the Bible read to
me, for my own sight is something dim; yet I do not wish the child to
read to me this night, I cannot so soon forget what I have heard; but I
hear my eldest son's voice, he is now entering the gate; he shall read
the Bible to us this night. What say you?"

CHAPTER XXI.

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--Young Enthusiast--Pictures of England--Persist and Wrestle--The
Little Dark Man.

The eldest son! The regard and affection which my father entertained for
his first-born were natural enough, and appeared to none more so than
myself, who cherished the same feelings towards him. What he was as a
boy the reader already knows, for the reader has seen him as a boy; fain
would I describe him at the time of which I am now speaking, when he had
attained the verge of manhood, but the pen fails me, and I attempt not
the task; and yet it ought to be an easy one, for how frequently does his
form visit my mind's eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of
day, and in the night watches; but last night I saw him in his beauty and
his strength; he was about to speak, and my ear was on the stretch, when
at once I awoke, and there was I alone, and the night storm was howling
amidst the branches of the pines which surround my lonely dwelling:
"Listen to the moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,"--a
saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom; I listened, and
thought of life and death. . . . Of all human beings that I had ever
known, that elder brother was the most frank and generous, ay, and the
quickest and readiest, and the best adapted to do a great thing needful
at the critical time, when the delay of a moment would be fatal. I have
known him dash from a steep bank into a stream in his full dress, and
pull out a man who was drowning; yet there were twenty others bathing in
the water, who might have saved him by putting out a hand, without
inconvenience to themselves, which, however, they did not do, but stared
with stupid surprise at the drowning one's struggles. Yes, whilst some
shouted from the bank to those in the water to save the drowning one, and
those in the water did nothing, my brother neither shouted nor stood
still, but dashed from the bank and did the one thing needful, which,
under such circumstances, not one man in a million would have done. Now,
who can wonder that a brave old man should love a son like this, and
prefer him to any other?