Lavengro

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Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to
be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the
brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where
England's yeomen triumphed over Scotland's king, his clans and chivalry.
Hail to thee, last of England's bruisers, after all the many victories
which thou hast achieved--true English victories, unbought by yellow
gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to
fame--sufficient to say that Bristol's Bull and Ireland's Champion were
vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst
overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm;
and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the
unvanquishable, the incorruptible. 'Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of
Bedford, in thy "public" in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with
thy well-earned bays. 'Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock.
There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his
friends: glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung
well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart--fists are
clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of
yore, Broughton, and Slack, and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to
smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold
chorus:

"Here's a health to old honest John Bull,
When he's gone we shan't find such another,
And with hearts and with glasses brim full,
We will drink to old England, his mother."

But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say? Little can
be said about it--it was soon over; some said that the brave from town,
who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect
model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be
vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose. One thing is
certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a
blow of by no means extraordinary power. Time, time! was called; but
there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did
not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his
adversary victor.

There were shouts; indeed, there's never a lack of shouts to celebrate a
victory, however acquired; but there was also much grinding of teeth,
especially amongst the fighting men from town. "Tom has sold us," said
they, "sold us to the yokels; who would have thought it?" Then there was
fresh grinding of teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven;
but what is this? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too? why, only a
quarter of an hour ago--but what may not happen in a quarter of an hour?
For many weeks the weather had been of the most glorious description, the
eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, and so it had continued till
some two hours after noon; the fight was then over; and about that time I
looked up--what a glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big fierce sun
swimming high above in the midst of that blue; not a cloud--there had not
been one for weeks--not a cloud to be seen, only in the far west, just on
the horizon, something like the extremity of a black wing; that was only
a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole northern side of the heaven
is occupied by a huge black cloud, and the sun is only occasionally seen
amidst masses of driving vapour; what a change! but another fight is at
hand, and the pugilists are clearing the outer ring;--how their huge
whips come crashing upon the heads of the yokels; blood flows, more blood
than in the fight: those blows are given with right good-will, those are
not sham blows, whether of whip or fist; it is with fist that grim
Shelton strikes down the big yokel; he is always dangerous, grim Shelton,
but now particularly so, for he has lost ten pounds betted on the brave
who sold himself to the yokels; but the outer ring is cleared: and now
the second fight commences; it is between two champions of less renown
than the others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall
thin boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle
size, with a frame of adamant; that's a gallant boy! he's a yokel, but he
comes from Brummagem, he does credit to his extraction; but his adversary
has a frame of adamant: in what a strange light they fight, but who can
wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud usurping now one-half of
heaven, and at the sun struggling with sulphurous vapour; the face of the
boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is
a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the
blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock; but there is a rush
and a roar over head, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break
loose; there's wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to
fight amidst such a commotion? yes! the fight goes on; again the boy
strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of no use striking that man,
his frame is of adamant. "Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way,
thou art becoming confused"; the man now goes to work, amidst rain and
hail. "Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain,
hail, and the blows of such an antagonist."

And now the storm was at its height; the black thunder-cloud had broken
into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours,
some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more
than one water-spout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is
hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and
yokels, prize-fighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are
now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and
horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud
and mire; there's a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached,
and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but
there's another town farther on--the good old city is farther on, only
twelve miles; what's that! who'll stay here? onward to the old town.

Hurry skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages,
all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad
throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular
fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it
peal before, I felt some one seize me by the arm--I turned round and
beheld Mr. Petulengro.

"I can't hear you, Mr. Petulengro," said I; for the thunder drowned the
words which he appeared to be uttering.

"Dearginni," I heard Mr. Petulengro say, "it thundereth. I was asking,
brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?"

"I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me
whether I believe in fortunes."

"Grondinni," said Mr. Petulengro, "it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens,
brother."

"And who has more right," said I, "seeing that you live by them? But
this tempest is truly horrible."

"Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundereth, it haileth, and also
flameth," said Mr. Petulengro. "Look up there, brother!"

I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which
I have already alluded--the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were
of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch.
The gipsy's finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky.

"What do you see there, brother?"

"A strange kind of cloud."

"What does it look like, brother?"

"Something like a stream of blood."

"That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen."

"A bloody fortune!" said I. "And whom may it betide?"

"Who knows!" said the gypsy.

Down the way, dashing and splashing, and scattering man, horse, and cart
to the left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking
steeds, with postillions in scarlet jackets, and leather skull-caps. Two
forms were conspicuous in it; that of the successful bruiser, and of his
friend and backer, the sporting gentleman of my acquaintance.

"His!" said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore
a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded
in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by.

There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes, and in it one
whose boast it was that he was equal to "either fortune." Many have
heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I
have nothing to do with that man's after life--he fulfilled his
dukkeripen. "A bad, violent man!" Softly, friend; when thou wouldst
speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy
own dukkeripen!

CHAPTER XXVII.

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--Farewell to
Vanities.

My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by
nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that,
at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of
almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always
endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices
which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be
that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his
retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a
considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he
was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till
then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally,
more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen
taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog,
who sympathized entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he
improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this
manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great
apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my
mother's breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at
which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father
experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion.

He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of
his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His
sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken
fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness;
notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was
wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy chair, dressed in a faded
regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his
head from the hearth-rug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully
in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time,
sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading
the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him, though, as I entertained a
great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as
sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him.

"I wish to ask you a few questions," said he to me, one day, after my
mother had left the room.

"I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear father."

"What have you been about lately?"

"I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the appointed
hours."

"And what do you there?"

"Whatever I am ordered."

"And nothing else?"

"Oh, yes! sometimes I read a book."

"Connected with your profession?"

"Not always; I have been lately reading Armenian . . ."

"What's that?"

"The language of a people whose country is a region on the other side of
Asia Minor."

"Well!"

"A region abounding with mountains."

"Well!"

"Amongst which is Mount Ararat."

"Well!"

"Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested."

"Well!"

"It is the language of the people of those regions."

"So you told me."

"And I have been reading the Bible in their language."

"Well!"

"Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people; from
which I am told the modern Armenian differs considerably."

"Well!"

"As much as the Italian from the Latin."

"Well!"

"So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian."

"You told me so before."

"I found it a highly difficult language."

"Yes."

"Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am
acquainted."

"Yes."

"Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them."

"Yes."

"And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild
speech with which I became acquainted--"

"Irish?"

"No, father, not Irish--with which I became acquainted by the greatest
chance in the world."

"Yes."

"But of which I need say nothing further at present, and which I should
not have mentioned but for that fact."

"Well!"

"Which I consider remarkable."

"Yes."

"The Armenian is copious."

"Is it?"

"With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and guttural."

"Yes."

"Like the language of most mountainous people--the Armenians call it
Haik."

"Do they?"

"And themselves, Haik, also; they are a remarkable people, and, though
their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, they are to be
found, like the Jews, all over the world."

"Well!"

"Well, father, that's all I can tell you about Haiks, or Armenians."

"And what does it all amount to?"

"Very little, father; indeed, there is very little known about the
Armenians; their early history, in particular, is involved in
considerable mystery."

"And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about them, to what
would it amount? to what earthly purpose could you turn it? have you
acquired any knowledge of your profession?"

"Very little, father."

"Very little! Have you acquired all in your power?"

"I can't say that I have, father."

"And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how it is, you have
shamefully misused your opportunities; you are like one, who, sent into
the field to labour, passes his time in flinging stones at the birds of
heaven."

"I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father."

"You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt to evade
deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character with your
general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a want of frankness,
which has distressed me; you never speak of what you are about, your
hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself with mystery. I never knew
till the present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian."

"Because you never asked me, father; there's nothing to conceal in the
matter--I will tell you in a moment how I came to learn Armenian. A lady
whom I met at one of Mrs. ---'s parties took a fancy to me, and has done
me the honour to allow me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow
of a rich clergyman, and on her husband's death came to this place to
live, bringing her husband's library with her: I soon found my way to it,
and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for
amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or
relating to the language."

"And why did you not tell me of this before?"

"Because you never questioned me; but I repeat there is nothing to
conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of
the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put
her in mind of Alfieri's Saul."

"And do you still visit her?"

"No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very
stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however."

"Saul," said my father, musingly, "Saul, I am afraid she was only too
right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on
his head the vengeance of Heaven--he became a maniac, prophesied, and
flung weapons about him."

"He was, indeed, an awful character--I hope I shan't turn out like him."

"God forbid!" said my father solemnly; "but in many respects you are
headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and
besought you to make yourself master of it, by giving it your undivided
attention. This, however, you did not do, you know nothing of it, but
tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is
your want of candour--you are my son, but I know little of your real
history, you may know fifty things for what I am aware; you may know how
to shoe a horse, for what I am aware."

"Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes."

"Perhaps so," said my father; "and it only serves to prove what I am just
saying, that I know little about you."

"But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you
may wish to know--shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?"

"No," said my father; "as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well
continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I
could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But
I now wish to ask you a serious question--what do you propose to do?"

"To do, father?"

"Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon
be expired, and I shall be no more."

"Do not talk so, my dear father; I have no doubt that you will soon be
better."

"Do not flatter yourself; I feel that my days are numbered, I am soon
going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am weary. There, there,
don't weep! Tears will help me as little as they will you, you have not
yet answered my question. Tell me what you intend to do?"

"I really do not know what I shall do."

"The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my life. The
property which I shall leave behind me will be barely sufficient for the
maintenance of your mother respectably. I again ask you what you intend
to do. Do you think you can support yourself by your Armenian or your
other acquirements?"

"Alas! I think little at all about it; but I suppose I must push into
the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son of him who fought
Big Ben: if I can't succeed, and am driven to the worst, it is but
dying--"

"What do you mean by dying?"

"Leaving the world; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have never held
life in much value, and every one has a right to dispose as he thinks
best of that which is his own."

"Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and where you imbibed that
horrible doctrine, and many similar ones which I have heard from your
mouth; but I wish not to reproach you--I view in your conduct a
punishment for my own sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil
have been my days upon the earth; little have I done to which I can look
back with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years,
and I have fought with--Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say!--but
you mentioned the man's name, and our minds willingly recall our ancient
follies. Few and evil have been my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob
of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he
had many undutiful children, whilst I have only ---; but I will not
reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope,
who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful;
perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look
up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, don't weep; but
take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his
children."

My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first
his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was
following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather
rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last
letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it
was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After
describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French
capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a
celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian
nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. "He wishes me to go
with him to Italy," added he; "but I am fond of independence, and, if
ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my
attention." But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter,
and we had heard no farther intelligence of my brother. My father's
complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted
high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it
from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost
the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also
lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was
his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought
might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather
depressed. The absence of my brother appeared to prey upon his mind. "I
wish he were here," he would frequently exclaim; "I can't imagine what
can have become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time." He
still sometimes rallied; and I took advantage of those moments of
comparative ease, to question him upon the events of his early life. My
attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly,
and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these
moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had
no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased,
and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in
general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest
stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the
brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed--almost
on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had known the
conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when
Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of
Montcalm. "Pity," he added, "that when old--old as I am now--he should
have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so
it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if
ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's; she was almost
too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy,
that you would wish to ask me? now is the time."

"Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you."

"Who is it; shall I tell you about Elliot?"

"No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to
know something about Big Ben."

"You are a strange lad," said my father; "and, though of late I have
begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is
still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that
name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations; you wish to know
something about him. Well, I will oblige you this once, and then
farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell you--his
skin when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular knack in
doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat,
and when he fought he stood, so--if I remember right--his skin, I say,
was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was
here."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

My Brother's Arrival--The Interview--Night--A Dying Father--Christ.

At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the
door. "You have been long absent!" said I.

"Yes," said he, "perhaps too long; but how is my father?"

"Very poorly," said I, "he has had a fresh attack; but where have you
been of late?"

"Far and wide," said my brother; "but I can't tell you anything now, I
must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his
illness."

"Stay a moment," said I. "Is the world such a fine place as you supposed
it to be before you went away?"

"Not quite," said my brother, "not quite; indeed I wish--but ask me no
questions now, I must hasten to my father."

There was another question on my tongue, but I forbore; for the eyes of
the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the
young man hastened past me to the arms of his father.

I forbore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome.

What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview,
no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my
brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father
which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised
his spirits. He was composed enough, however: "I ought to be grateful,"
said he; "I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what
more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?"