Lavengro

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My father's end was evidently at hand.

And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my
hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did
and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to
observe, that it is possible to feel deeply, and yet make no outward
sign.

And now for the closing scene.

At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from
sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in
which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother; and I also
knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment
paralyzed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless--the
stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by
a violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang
from the bed and rushed down stairs. My mother was running wildly about
the room; she had woke and found my father senseless in the bed by her
side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in
the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and, snatching
up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face. "The
surgeon, the surgeon!" he cried; then dropping the light, he ran out of
the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the
senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall,
and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed
heavily against my bosom--at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right,
there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words
which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and
then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes.
I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It
was an awful moment; I felt stupified, but I still contrived to support
my dying father. There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him
speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he
uttered another name, which at one period of his life was much in his
lips, the name of--but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I
shook, and thought all was over; but I was mistaken--my father moved, and
revived for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance.
I make no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was
then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly,
distinctly--it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the
brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still
clasped, yielded up his soul.

CHAPTER XXIX.

The Greeting--Queer Figure--Cheer Up--The Cheerful Fire--It Will Do--The
Sally Forth--Trepidation--Let Him Come In.

"One-and-ninepence, sir, or the things which you have brought with you
will be taken away from you!"

Such were the first words which greeted my ears, one damp misty morning
in March, as I dismounted from the top of a coach in the yard of a London
inn.

I turned round, for I felt that the words were addressed to myself.
Plenty of people were in the yard--porters, passengers, coachmen,
ostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on anything but myself,
with the exception of one individual, whose business appeared to lie with
me, and who now confronted me at the distance of about two yards.

I looked hard at the man--and a queer kind of individual he was to look
at--a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle size, dressed in a
coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight pantaloons of blue stuff,
tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings, and thin shoes, like those of
a dancing-master; his features were not ugly, but rather haggard, and he
appeared to owe his complexion less to nature than carmine; in fact, in
every respect, a very queer figure.

"One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away from you!" he
said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer to me.

I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word answered. Our
eyes met; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy impudent air which he
before wore. He glanced, for a moment, at my fist, which I had by this
time clenched, and his features became yet more haggard; he faltered; a
fresh "one-and-ninepence," which he was about to utter, died on his lips;
he shrank back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him.

"One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from me!" said I to
myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom I had delivered my
scanty baggage; "am I to expect many of these greetings in the big world?
Well, never mind! I think I know the counter-sign!" And I clenched my
fist yet harder than before.

So I followed the porter, through the streets of London, to a lodging
which had been prepared for me by an acquaintance. The morning, as I
have before said, was gloomy, and the streets through which I passed were
dank and filthy; the people, also, looked dank and filthy; and so,
probably, did I, for the night had been rainy, and I had come upwards of
a hundred miles on the top of a coach; my heart had sunk within me, by
the time we reached a dark narrow street, in which was the lodging.

"Cheer up, young man," said the porter, "we shall have a fine afternoon!"

And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been prepared for
me. It consisted of a small room, up two pair of stairs, in which I was
to sit, and another still smaller above it, in which I was to sleep. I
remember that I sat down, and looked disconsolate about me--everything
seemed so cold and dingy. Yet how little is required to make a
situation--however cheerless at first sight--cheerful and comfortable.
The people of the house, who looked kindly upon me, lighted a fire in the
dingy grate; and, then, what a change!--the dingy room seemed dingy no
more! Oh, the luxury of a cheerful fire after a chill night's journey! I
drew near to the blazing grate, rubbed my hands, and felt glad.

And, when I had warmed myself, I turned to the table, on which, by this
time, the people of the house had placed my breakfast; and I ate and I
drank; and, as I ate and drank, I mused within myself, and my eyes were
frequently directed to a small green box, which constituted part of my
luggage, and which, with the rest of my things, stood in one corner of
the room, till at last, leaving my breakfast unfinished, I rose, and,
going to the box, unlocked it, and took out two or three bundles of
papers tied with red tape, and, placing them on the table, I resumed my
seat and my breakfast, my eyes intently fixed upon the bundles of papers
all the time.

And when I had drained the last cup of tea out of a dingy teapot, and ate
the last slice of the dingy loaf, I untied one of the bundles, and
proceeded to look over the papers, which were closely written over in a
singular hand, and I read for some time, till at last I said to myself,
"It will do." And then I looked at the other bundle for some time,
without untying it; and at last I said, "It will do also." And then I
turned to the fire, and, putting my feet against the sides of the grate,
I leaned back on my chair, and, with my eyes upon the fire, fell into
deep thought.

And there I continued in thought before the fire, until my eyes closed,
and I fell asleep; which was not to be wondered at, after the fatigue and
cold which I had lately undergone on the coach-top; and, in my sleep, I
imagined myself still there, amidst darkness and rain, hurrying now over
wild heaths, and now along roads overhung with thick and umbrageous
trees, and sometimes methought I heard the horn of the guard, and
sometimes the voice of the coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his
horses, _as_ they toiled through the deep and miry ways. At length a
tremendous crack of a whip saluted the tympanum of my ear, and I started
up broad awake, nearly oversetting the chair on which I reclined--and,
lo! I was in the dingy room before the fire, which was by this time half
extinguished. In my dream I had confounded the noise of the street with
those of my night-journey; the crack which had aroused me I soon found
proceeded from the whip of a carter, who, with many oaths, was flogging
his team below the window.

Looking at a clock which stood upon the mantel-piece, I perceived that it
was past eleven; whereupon I said to myself, "I am wasting my time
foolishly and unprofitably, forgetting that I am now in the big world,
without anything to depend upon save my own exertions;" and then I
adjusted my dress, and, locking up the bundle of papers which I had not
read, I tied up the other, and, taking it under my arm, I went down
stairs; and, after asking a question or two of the people of the house, I
sallied forth into the street with a determined look, though at heart I
felt somewhat timorous at the idea of venturing out alone into the mazes
of the mighty city, of which I had heard much, but of which, of my own
knowledge, I knew nothing.

I had, however, no great cause for anxiety in the present instance; I
easily found my way to the place which I was in quest of--one of the many
new squares on the northern side of the metropolis, and which was
scarcely ten minutes' walk from the street in which I had taken up my
abode. Arriving before the door of a tolerably large house which bore a
certain number, I stood still for a moment in a kind of trepidation,
looking anxiously at the door; I then slowly passed on till I came to the
end of the square, where I stood still, and pondered for awhile.
Suddenly, however, like one who has formed a resolution, I clenched my
right hand, flinging my hat somewhat on one side, and, turning back with
haste to the door before which I had stopped, I sprang up the steps, and
gave a loud rap, ringing at the same time the bell of the area. After
the lapse of a minute the door was opened by a maid-servant of no very
cleanly or prepossessing appearance, of whom I demanded, in a tone of
some hauteur, whether the master of the house was at home. Glancing for
a moment at the white paper bundle beneath my arm, the handmaid made no
reply in words, but, with a kind of toss of her head, flung the door
open, standing on one side as if to let me enter. I did enter; and the
handmaid, having opened another door on the right hand, went in, and said
something which I could not hear: after a considerable pause, however, I
heard the voice of a man say, "Let him come in;" whereupon the handmaid,
coming out, motioned me to enter, and, on my obeying, instantly closed
the door behind me.

CHAPTER XXX.

The Sinister Glance--Excellent Correspondent--Quite Original--My System--A
Losing Trade--Merit--Starting a Review--What Have You
Got?--Stop!--Dairyman's Daughter--Oxford Principles--More
Conversation--How is This?

There were two individuals in the room in which I now found myself; it
was a small study, surrounded with bookcases, the window looking out upon
the square. Of these individuals he who appeared to be the principal
stood with his back to the fireplace. He was a tall stout man, about
sixty, dressed in a loose morning gown. The expression of his
countenance would have been bluff but for a certain sinister glance, and
his complexion might have been called rubicund but for a considerable
tinge of bilious yellow. He eyed me askance as I entered. The other, a
pale, shrivelled-looking person, sat at a table apparently engaged with
an account-book; he took no manner of notice of me, never once lifting
his eyes from the page before him.

"Well, sir, what is your pleasure?" said the big man, in a rough tone, as
I stood there, looking at him wistfully--as well I might--for upon that
man, at the time of which I am speaking, my principal, I may say my only
hopes, rested.

"Sir," said I, "my name is so-and-so, and I am the bearer of a letter to
you from Mr. so-and-so, an old friend and correspondent of yours."

The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious and lowering
expression which it had hitherto exhibited; he strode forward and,
seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze.

"My dear sir," said he, "I am rejoiced to see you in London. I have been
long anxious for the pleasure--we are old friends, though we have never
before met. Taggart," said he to the man who sat at the desk, "this is
our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our other excellent
correspondent."

The pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately raised his head
from the account-book, and surveyed me for a moment or two; not the
slightest emotion was observable in his countenance. It appeared to me,
however, that I could detect a droll twinkle in his eye; his curiosity,
if he had any, was soon gratified; he made me a kind of bow, pulled out a
snuff-box, took a pinch of snuff, and again bent his head over the page.

"And now, my dear sir," said the big man, "pray sit down, and tell me the
cause of your visit. I hope you intend to remain here a day or two."

"More than that," said I, "I am come to take up my abode in London."

"Glad to hear it; and what have you been about of late? got anything
which will suit me? Sir, I admire your style of writing, and your manner
of thinking; and I am much obliged to my good friend and correspondent
for sending me some of your productions. I inserted them all, and wished
there had been more of them--quite original, sir, quite: took with the
public, especially the essay about the non-existence of anything. I
don't exactly agree with you, though; I have my own peculiar ideas about
matter--as you know, of course, from the book I have published.
Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy--no such
thing as matter--impossible that there should be--_ex nihilo_--what is
the Greek? I have forgot--very pretty indeed; very original."

"I am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to write such trash, and yet more to
allow it to be published."

"Trash! not at all; a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy; of
course you were wrong in saying there is no world. The world must exist,
to have the shape of a pear; and that the world is shaped like a pear,
and not like an apple, as the fools of Oxford say, I have satisfactorily
proved in my book. Now, if there were no world, what would become of my
system? But what do you propose to do in London?"

"Here is the letter, sir," said I, "of our good friend, which I have not
yet given to you; I believe it will explain to you the circumstances
under which I come."

He took the letter, and perused it with attention. "Hem!" said he, with
a somewhat altered manner, "my friend tells me that you are come up to
London with the view of turning your literary talents to account, and
desires me to assist you in my capacity of publisher in bringing forth
two or three works which you have prepared. My good friend is perhaps
not aware that for some time past I have given up publishing--was obliged
to do so--had many severe losses--do nothing at present in that line,
save sending out the Magazine once a month; and, between ourselves, am
thinking of disposing of that--wish to retire--high time at my age--so
you see--"

"I am very sorry, sir, to hear that you cannot assist me" (and I remember
that I felt very nervous); "I had hoped--"

"A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a drug. Taggart, what
o'clock is it?"

"Well, sir!" said I, rising, "as you cannot assist me, I will now take my
leave; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, and will trouble
you no longer."

"Oh, don't go. I wish to have some further conversation with you; and
perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you. I honour merit, and
always make a point to encourage it when I can; but,--Taggart, go to the
bank, and tell them to dishonour the bill twelve months after date for
thirty pounds which becomes due to-morrow. I am dissatisfied with that
fellow who wrote the fairy tales, and intend to give him all the trouble
in my power. Make haste."

Taggart did not appear to be in any particular haste. First of all, he
took a pinch of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly and
deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, rather
more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned his coat,
and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a corner, made me a
low bow, and quitted the room.

"Well, sir, where were we? Oh, I remember, we were talking about merit.
Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially when it comes so highly
recommended as in the present instance. Sir, my good friend and
correspondent speaks of you in the highest terms. Sir, I honour my good
friend, and have the highest respect for his opinion in all matters
connected with literature--rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend
has done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest of my
correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation caused by the
appearance of his article about a certain personage whom he proved--and I
think satisfactorily--to have been a legionary soldier--rather startling,
was it not? The S--- of the world a common soldier, in a marching
regiment--original, but startling; sir, I honour my good friend."

"So you have renounced publishing, sir," said I, "with the exception of
the Magazine?"

"Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you
know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am
thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle;
and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the
undertaking--what do you think of the matter?"

"I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid
the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess;
however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London
was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your
assistance--"

"Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we
must walk before we run, according to the old saying--what is that you
have got under your arm?"

"One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am
most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both
profit and reputation."

"Indeed! what do you call it?"

"Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself;
with notes philological, critical, and historical."

"Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely
flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to
the world to-morrow."

"I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise, if you would permit me to
read one to you;" and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor
indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not
to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and with a voice trembling with
eagerness, I read to the following effect:--

Buckshank bold and Elfinstone,
And more than I can mention here,
They caused to be built so stout a ship,
And unto Iceland they would steer.

They launched the ship upon the main,
Which bellowed like a wrathful bear;
Down to the bottom the vessel sank,
A laidly Trold has dragged it there.

Down to the bottom sank young Roland,
And round about he groped awhile;
Until he found the path which led
Unto the bower of Ellenlyle.

"Stop!" said the publisher; "very pretty indeed, and very original; beats
Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone
by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott, either, save as a
novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do! What else
have you got?"

"The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with
notes critical, philological, and historical."

"Pass on--what else?"

"Nothing else," said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, "unless it
be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little
value."

"Wild?"

"Yes, sir, very wild."

"Like the Miller of the Black Valley?"

"Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley."

"Well, that's better," said the publisher; "and yet, I don't know, I
question whether any one at present cares for the miller himself. No,
sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a
drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more
than my good friend and correspondent;--but, sir, I see you are a young
gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don't
you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?"

"Evangelical tales, sir?"

"Yes, sir, evangelical novels."

"Something in the style of Herder?"

"Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder--thanks to my good
friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I
dare not insert in my periodical; it would sink it, sir. No, sir,
something in the style of the 'Dairyman's Daughter.'"

"I never heard of the work till the present moment."

"Then, sir, procure it by all means. Sir, I could afford as much as ten
pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the 'Dairyman's Daughter;'
that is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present day! It
is not the Miller of the Black Valley--no, sir, nor Herder either, that
will suit the present taste; the evangelical body is becoming very
strong, sir; the canting scoundrels--"

"But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly taste?"

"Then, sir, I must give up business altogether. Sir, I have a great
respect for the goddess Reason--an infinite respect, sir; indeed, in my
time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her; but, sir, I cannot
altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason. Sir, I am a friend to
Liberty, as is well known; but I must also be a friend to my own family.
It is with the view of providing for a son of mine that I am about to
start the review of which I am speaking. He has taken into his head to
marry, sir, and I must do something for him, for he can do but little for
himself. Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and
likewise a friend to Reason; but I tell you frankly that the Review which
I intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is
established, will be conducted on Oxford principles."

"Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir?"

"I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are synonymous."
Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed that I should
become a contributor to the Oxford Review. I stipulated, however, that,
as I knew little of politics, and cared less, no other articles should be
required from me than such as were connected with belles-lettres and
philology; to this the big man readily assented. "Nothing will be
required from you," said he, "but what you mention; and now and then,
perhaps, a paper on metaphysics. You understand German, and perhaps it
would be desirable that you should review Kant; and in a review of Kant,
sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about _ex
nihilo_." He then reverted to the subject of the "Dairyman's Daughter,"
which I promised to take into consideration. As I was going away, he
invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday.

"That's a strange man!" said I to myself, after I had left the house, "he
is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his
Oxford Reviews and Dairyman's Daughters. But what can I do? I am almost
without a friend in the world. I wish I could find some one who would
publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym. In spite of what the big
man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much
fame and profit. But how is this?--what a beautiful sun!--the porter was
right in saying that the day would clear up--I will now go to my dingy
lodging, lock up my manuscripts, and then take a stroll about the big
city."

CHAPTER XXXI.

The Walk--London's Cheape--Street of the Lombards--Strange Bridge--Main
Arch--The Roaring Gulf--The Boat--Cly-Faking--A Comfort--The Book--The
Blessed Woman--No Trap.

So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as
chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, as I
have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the great city to
advantage, and the wonders thereof: and much I admired all I saw; and,
amongst other things, the huge cathedral, standing so proudly on the most
commanding ground in the big city; and I looked up to the mighty dome,
surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself, "That dome must
needs be the finest in the world;" and I gazed upon it till my eyes
reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome would fall
and crush me; and I shrank within myself, and struck yet deeper into the
heart of the big city.

"O Cheapside! Cheapside!" said I, as I advanced up that mighty
thoroughfare, "truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise, and
riches! Men talk of the bazaars of the East--I have never seen them--but
I dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places,
abounding with empty boxes, O thou pride of London's east!--mighty mart
of old renown!--for thou art not a place of yesterday:--long before the
Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist--a place of
throng and bustle--a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen.
Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes
of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy
praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius
himself, wild Glendower's bard, had a word of praise for London's
"Cheape," for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes.
Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected
therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior
to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call
themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present
day, as I believe they do? But, let others do as they will, I, at least,
who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up
my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the
world--a place of wonder and astonishment!--and, were it right and
fitting to wish that anything should endure for ever, I would say
prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages--may it be the world's
resort for merchandise, world without end."