Lavengro

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And when I had passed through the Cheape I entered another street, which
led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the
Lombards, called so from the name of its founders; and I walked rapidly
up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for
it had no interest for me, though I had a kind of consciousness that
mighty things were being transacted behind its walls; but it wanted the
throng, bustle, and outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never
been spoken of by "ruddy bards!" And, when I had got to the end of the
street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, deliberating within
myself whether I should turn to the right or the left, or go straight
forward, and at last I turned to the right, down a street of rapid
descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge which traversed the
river which runs by the big city.

A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and seemingly of great
antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high balustrade,
and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the
river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular
bench. Though the bridge was wide--very wide--it was all too narrow for
the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the
bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts
and waggons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each
row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought
to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the
carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed
the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge,
which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion,
below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was
fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured
beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river
below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the
roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs,
which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and
frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I
came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of
the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruitstall, sat an old woman, with a
pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she
appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal
arch, looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented
itself--and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest
of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; spacious
wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar's
Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and
a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the sky
chimneys taller than Cleopatra's Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of
that black smoke which forms the canopy--occasionally a gorgeous one--of
the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of
the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the
Thames--the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch--a grisly pool,
which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I
should have leapt into its depths?--I have heard of such things--but for
a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the
bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly
through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an
oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and woman sat at the stern. I shall
never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden
apparition. What!--a boat--a small boat--passing beneath that arch into
yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water-way, with
more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into
the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow--there is
no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex.
No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped
over the threatening horror, and the next moment was out of danger, the
boatman--a true boatman of Cockaigne, that--elevating one of his sculls
in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman
that--of a certain class--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed
them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but
nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so
excited, that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in
order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could
accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and,
turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me.

"Nay, dear! don't--don't!" said she. "Don't fling yourself over--perhaps
you may have better luck next time!"

"I was not going to fling myself over," said I, dropping from the
balustrade; "how came you to think of such a thing?"

"Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill
luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself."

"Ill luck," said I, going into the stone bower and sitting down. "What
do you mean? ill luck in what?"

"Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking, perhaps."

"Are you coming over me with dialects," said I, "speaking unto me in
fashions I wot nothing of?"

"Nay, dear! don't look so strange with those eyes of your'n, nor talk so
strangely; I don't understand you."

"Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?"

"Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then."

"Do you take me for a thief?"

"Nay, dear! don't make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves
here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you
spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at
Bot'ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself
over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did
fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless,
the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you
see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line,
for I am my son's own mother, I assure you."

"So you think there's no harm in stealing?"

"No harm in the world, dear! Do you think my own child would have been
transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and what's more,
would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has
done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking?
She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was
transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have
told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a
comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back--for
come back she did, and rich too--for it is an assurance to me that my
dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her."

"What was her name?"

"Her name, blessed Mary Flanders."

"Will you let me look at the book?"

"Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it."

I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century
old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and
dog's-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no
mistake! _His_ pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every
line of the uncouth-looking old volume--the air, the style, the spirit of
the writer of the book which first taught me to read. I covered my face
with my hand, and thought of my childhood--

"This is a singular book," said I at last; "but it does not appear to
have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show
the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral."

"A deep what, dear?"

"A--but no matter, I will give you a crown for this volume."

"No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown."

"I am poor," said I; "but I will give you two silver crowns for your
volume."

"No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for
the golden one in the king's tower down there; without my book I should
mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you
like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one
of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me
just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won't sell you my book; but, if
you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I
shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for if you had
been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn
such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say
you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with; I love
baccy, dear, more by token that it comes from the plantations to which
the blessed woman was sent."

"What's a tanner?" said I.

"Lor'! don't you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; and, as you were
talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you that those
of our trade never calls them crowns, but bulls; but I am talking
nonsense, just as if you did not know all that already, as well as
myself; you are only shamming--I'm no trap, dear, nor more was the
blessed woman in the book. Thank you, dear--thank you for the tanner; if
I don't spend it, I'll keep it in remembrance of your sweet face. What,
you are going?--well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have
any clies to sell at any time, I'll buy them of you; all safe with me; I
never 'peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, God bless you! and give
you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and thank you for
the tanner."

CHAPTER XXXII.

The Tanner--The Hotel--Drinking Claret--London Journal--New Field--Common-
placeness--The Three Individuals--Botheration--Frank and Ardent.

"Tanner!" said I musingly, as I left the bridge; "Tanner! what can the
man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak-bark and other
materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call
themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions?
Tanner! I can't trace the connection between the man of bark and the
silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for
sixpence a day. But I have it," I continued, flourishing my hat over my
head, "tanner, in this instance, is not an English word." Is it not
surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno, is
continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus
with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed
words in AEschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro; and
even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from
it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner--Tawno!
the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally
identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the
language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver
coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengros, though bestowed
upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation,
signifieth a little child.

So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I
thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been
wandering; I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles
about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but
still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything
that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything
is different in London from what it is elsewhere--the people, their
language, the horses, the _tout ensemble_--even the stones of London are
different from others--at least, it appeared to me that I had never
walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country
town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came
on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me.
"A regular Arabian Nights' entertainment!" said I, as I looked into one
on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with
lustres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors.

But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about
nine o'clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I
drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment,
and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in
the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an
hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy
Lands. Without a moment's hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage,
and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room,
with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. "Bring me some
claret," said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed
to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter
looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I
sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter
returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the
fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses; placing the latter on
the table, he produced a cork-screw, drew the cork in a twinkling, set
the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared
to watch my movements. You think I don't know how to drink a glass of
claret, thought I to myself. I'll soon show you how we drink claret
where I come from; and, filling one of the glasses to the brim, I
flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and then held
it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of
the wine, I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the
wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might
likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second
mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then, placing the empty glass upon
the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, and said--nothing; whereupon
the waiter, who had been observing the whole process with considerable
attention, made me a bow yet more low than before, and turning on his
heel, retired with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is
all right; the young man is used to claret.

And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the wine, which
I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up
and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who
are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently
struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they
display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who
was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of
the London journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless
true, that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a
newspaper of any description. I of course had frequently seen journals,
and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they to me?--I
cared not for news. But here I was now, with my claret before me,
perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London journals--it was not the ---
and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature appeared to be
opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an
unpleasant one; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so very
common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very name
denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I have
been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big town,
when, for the life of me, I don't think I could write anything half so
clever as what I have been reading. And then I laid down the paper, and
fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a glass of wine,
and pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been reading,
thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but talent and
cleverness I think I have heard some one say are very commonplace things,
only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man who wrote
the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever man; but, after all,
was he not something much better? I don't think he could have written
this article, but then he wrote the book which I saw on the bridge. Then,
if he could not have written the article on which I now hold my
forefinger--and I do not believe he could--why should I feel discouraged
at the consciousness that I, too, could not write it? I certainly could
no more have written the article than he could; but then, like him,
though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote the book I saw
upon the bridge, I think I could--and here I emptied the glass of
claret--write something better.

Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before struck with the
fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now
equally so with its common-placeness and want of originality on every
subject; and it was evident to me that, whatever advantage these
newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never
studied the Welsh bards, translated Kaempe Viser, or been under the
pupilage of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno.

And as I sat conning the newspaper, three individuals entered the room,
and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of which I was. They
were all three very well dressed; two of them elderly gentlemen, the
third a young man about my own age, or perhaps a year or two older: they
called for coffee; and, after two or three observations, the two eldest
commenced a conversation in French, which, however, though they spoke it
fluently enough, I perceived at once was not their native language; the
young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and when they
addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but rarely, merely replied
by a monosyllable. I have never been a listener, and I paid but little
heed to their discourse, nor indeed to themselves; as I occasionally
looked up, however, I could perceive that the features of the young man,
who chanced to be seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of
constraint and vexation. This circumstance caused me to observe him more
particularly than I otherwise should have done: his features were
handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair, and a high-arched
forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two elder individuals,
having finished their coffee, called for the waiter, and then rose as if
to depart, the young man, however, still remaining seated in the box. The
others, having reached the door, turned round, and finding that the youth
did not follow them, one of them called to him with a tone of some
authority; whereupon the young man rose, and, pronouncing half audibly
the word "botheration," rose and followed them. I now observed that he
was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about ten minutes,
finding nothing more worth reading in the newspaper, I laid it down, and,
though the claret was not yet exhausted, I was thinking of betaking
myself to my lodgings, and was about to call the waiter, when I heard a
step in the passage, and in another moment, the tall young man entered
the room, advanced to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to
me, again pronounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same
word.

"A troublesome world this, sir," said I, looking at him.

"Yes," said the young man, looking fixedly at me; "but I am afraid we
bring most of our troubles on our own heads--at least I can say so of
myself," he added, laughing. Then after a pause, "I beg pardon," he
said, "but am I not addressing one of my own country?"

"Of what country are you?" said I.

"Ireland."

"I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for
your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass
of wine?"

"Ah, _de tout mon coeur_, as the parasite said to Gil Blas," cried the
young man, laughing. "Here's to our better acquaintance!"

And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the
acquaintance of the young man, I had indeed made a valuable acquisition;
he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis
Ardry. Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me
much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general
outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but
laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the
morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of.

We left the house together.

"We shall soon see each other again," said he, as we separated at the
door of my lodging.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Dine with the Publisher--Religions--No Animal Food--Unprofitable
Discussions--Principles of Criticism--The Book Market--Newgate
Lives--Goethe a Drug--German Acquirements--Moral Dignity.

On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the
publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my
thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man, that I passed by him
without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I
was about to knock at the door. "Let us take a turn in the square," said
he; "we shall not dine for half an hour."

"Well," said he, as we were walking in the square, "what have you been
doing since I last saw you?"

"I have been looking about London," said I, "and I have bought the
'Dairyman's Daughter'; here it is."

"Pray put it up," said the publisher; "I don't want to look at such
trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?"

"I do not," said I.

"How is that?" said the publisher, looking at me.

"Because," said I, "the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well
acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart."

"By the subject you mean--"

"Religion."

"And a'n't you acquainted with religion?"

"Very little."

"I am sorry for that," said the publisher seriously, "for he who sets up
for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but
religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the
country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the 'Dairyman's
Daughter,' or I really don't know whom I could apply to on the subject at
the present moment, unless to himself; and after all I question whether
his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel."

"Then you do not wish for an imitation of the 'Dairyman's Daughter?'"

"I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to
employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions
after dinner."

At dinner, beside the publisher and myself, were present his wife and
son, with his newly-married bride; the wife appeared a quiet respectable
woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so
the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike.
Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher
took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on
rice and vegetables, prepared in various ways.

"You eat no animal food, sir?" said I.

"I do not, sir," said he; "I have forsworn it upwards of twenty years. In
one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away life--the brutes
have as much right to live as ourselves."

"But," said I, "if the brutes were not killed, there would be such a
superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun with them."

"I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there is plenty
of room."

"But," said I, "Nature intended that they should be destroyed, and the
brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is well for themselves
and the world that they do so. What would be the state of things if
every insect, bird, and worm were left to perish of old age?"

"We will change the subject," said the publisher; "I have never been a
friend of unprofitable discussions."

I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been accustomed
to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance was dressed in a
portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; at that
moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read in
the history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power,
thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed,
for I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man.