Lavengro

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The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who departed, followed
by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he would willingly have
attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a small decanter of
wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of
which he handed to myself, and the other to his son; saying, "Suppose you
two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you," said he,
addressing himself to me, "but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with
respect to meat, I am a Mahometan with respect to wine."

So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the young man
asked me various questions; for example--How I liked London?--Whether I
did not think it a very fine place?--Whether I was at the play the night
before?--and whether I was in the park that afternoon? He seemed
preparing to ask me some more questions; but, receiving a furious look
from his father, he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank
it off, looked at the table for about a minute, then got up, pushed back
his chair, made me a bow, and left the room.

"Is that young gentleman, sir," said I, "well versed in the principles of
criticism?"

"He is not, sir," said the publisher; "and, if I place him at the head of
the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope of procuring him a
maintenance; of the principle of a thing he knows nothing, except that
the principle of bread is wheat, and that the principle of that wine is
grape. Will you take another glass?"

I looked at the decanter; but not feeling altogether so sure as the
publisher's son with respect to the principle of what it contained, I
declined taking any more.

"No, sir," said the publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, "he knows
nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more to do with the
reviewals than carrying about the books to those who have to review them;
the real conductor of the Review will be a widely different person, to
whom I will, when convenient, introduce you. And now we will talk of the
matter which we touched upon before dinner: I told you then that I had
changed my mind with respect to you; I have been considering the state of
the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the conclusion that,
though you might be profitably employed upon evangelical novels, you
could earn more money for me, sir, and consequently for yourself, by a
compilation of Newgate lives and trials."

"Newgate lives and trials!"

"Yes, sir," said the publisher, "Newgate lives and trials; and now, sir,
I will briefly state to you the services which I expect you to perform,
and the terms I am willing to grant. I expect you, sir, to compile six
volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain by no manner
of means less than one thousand pages; the remuneration which you will
receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is
likewise intended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books,
papers, and manuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one
of your employments, sir,--such the terms. In the second place, you will
be expected to make yourself useful in the Review--generally useful,
sir--doing whatever is required of you; for it is not customary, at least
with me, to permit writers, especially young writers, to choose their
subjects. In these two departments, sir, namely, compilation and
reviewing, I had yesterday, after due consideration, determined upon
employing you. I had intended to employ you no further, sir--at least
for the present; but, sir, this morning I received a letter from my
valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms of strong
admiration (I don't overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says
that it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German
language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he
entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be turned to account.
Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend,
and likewise to encourage merit and talent; I have, therefore, determined
to employ you in German."

"Sir," said I, rubbing my hands, "you are very kind, and so is our mutual
friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful in German; and if you
think a good translation from Goethe--his 'Sorrows' for example, or more
particularly his 'Faust'--"

"Sir," said the publisher, "Goethe is a drug; his 'Sorrows,' are a drug,
so is his 'Faustus,' more especially the last, since that fool ---
rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you to translate
Goethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate
anything from the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into
German. I am willing to encourage merit, sir, and, as my good friend in
his last letter has spoken very highly of your German acquirements, I
have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy into
German."

"Your book of philosophy into German, sir?"

"Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a drug, sir, in
Germany, as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend to print the
translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitable
speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be well
executed, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will
be determined by the success of your translation."

"But, sir--"

"Sir," said the publisher, interrupting me, "you have heard my
intentions. I consider that you ought to feel yourself highly gratified
by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with a
writer, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now,
sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday
afternoon, sir; I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending
part of every Sunday afternoon alone--profitably, I hope, sir--in musing
on the magnificence of nature, and the moral dignity of man."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The Two Volumes--A Young Author--Intended Editor--Quintilian--Loose
Money.

"What can't be cured must be endured," and "it is hard to kick against
the pricks."

At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought me of the
proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and determined to act up
to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face of the publisher,
and to bear--what I could not cure--his arrogance and vanity. At
present, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad
that I came to that determination, which I did my best to carry into
effect.

Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made his
appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes under his arm,
which he placed on the table. "I have brought you two volumes of lives,
sir," said he, "which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find them
of service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally
and encourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge
for them, though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware
that, by our agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which
may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?"

"No," said I, "not yet."

"Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; you must
visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the by-streets and
blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find the description of
literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; it will
not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town.
To-night you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for
the Review. And, by-the-bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review
my book of philosophy for the Review; the other reviews not having
noticed it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of
philosophy for the Review."

"I shall be happy to do my best, sir."

"Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable to expect anything beyond a
person's best. And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the
future editor of the Review. As you are to co-operate, sir, I deem it
right to make you acquainted."

The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden
pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the
city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilion were
covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable
portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The
publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in
literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young
gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The
conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we
separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read
Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise
that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read
Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could
supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by
himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on
the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or
other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of
Quintilian.

"Sir," said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the
editor, "you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir,
to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am
prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap
of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you
may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for
your compilation."

The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very
forlorn-looking street. "Sir," said he, after looking down it with
attention, "I should not wonder if in that street you find works
connected with the description of literature which is required for your
compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind
alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that
street, sir, whilst I continue my way."

I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the
course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I
did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to
be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended
much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even
for the first volume of my compilation.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Francis Ardry--Certain Sharpers--Brave and Eloquent--Opposites--Flinging
the Bones--Strange Places--Dog Fighting--Learning and Letters--Batch of
Dogs--Redoubled Application.

One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry,
whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. As it is necessary
that the reader should know something more about this young man, who will
frequently appear in the course of these pages, I will state in a few
words who and what he was. He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic
family in Ireland; his parents, whose only child he was, had long been
dead. His father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a
spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property considerably
embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell into the
hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by whom the
property was managed to the best advantage, and every means taken to
educate the young man in a manner suitable to his expectations. At the
age of sixteen he was taken from a celebrated school in England at which
he had been placed, and sent to a small French University, in order that
he might form an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand
language of the continent. There he continued three years, at the end of
which he went, under the care of a French abbe, to Germany and Italy. It
was in this latter country that he first began to cause his guardians
serious uneasiness. He was in the hey-day of youth when he visited
Italy, and he entered wildly into the various delights of that
fascinating region, and, what was worse, falling into the hands of
certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, he was fleeced of
considerable sums of money. The abbe, who, it seems, was an excellent
individual of the old French school, remonstrated with his pupil on his
dissipation and extravagance; but, finding his remonstrances vain, very
properly informed the guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They
were not slow in commanding Francis Ardry home; and, as he was entirely
in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been about three months
in London when I met him in the coffee-room, and the two elderly
gentlemen in his company were his guardians. At this time they were very
solicitous that he should choose for himself a profession, offering to
his choice either the army or law--he was calculated to shine in either
of these professions--for, like many others of his countrymen, he was
brave and eloquent; but he did not wish to shackle himself with a
profession. As, however, his minority did not terminate till he was
three-and-twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years, during which
he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it expedient
to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, temporising with the old
gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his many irregularities, he was a
great favourite, and at whose death he expected to come into a yet
greater property than that which he inherited from his parents.

Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry--of my friend Francis Ardry; for
the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner with which the reader
is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friendship which endured through
many long years of separation, and which still endures certainly on my
part, and on his--if he lives; but it is many years since I have heard
from Francis Ardry.

And yet many people would have thought it impossible for our friendship
to have lasted a week--for in many respects no two people could be more
dissimilar. He was an Irishman--I, an Englishman;--he, fiery,
enthusiastic, and open-hearted;--I, neither fiery, enthusiastic, nor open-
hearted;--he, fond of pleasure and dissipation;--I, of study and
reflection. Yet it is of such dissimilar elements that the most lasting
friendships are formed: we do not like counterparts of ourselves. "Two
great talkers will not travel far together," is a Spanish saying; I will
add, "Nor two silent people;" we naturally love our opposites.

So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see him, for I
had just flung my books and papers aside, and was wishing for a little
social converse; and when we had conversed for some little time together,
Francis Ardry proposed that we should go to the play to see Kean; so we
went to the play, and saw--not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show
himself, but--a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who people
said was a much better man than Kean--as I have no doubt he was--though
whether he was a better actor I cannot say, for I never saw Kean.

Two or three evenings after, Francis Ardry came to see me again, and
again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took me to--shall I
say?--why not?--a gaming house, where I saw people playing, and where I
saw Francis Ardry play and lose five guineas, and where I lost nothing,
because I did not play, though I felt somewhat inclined; for a man with a
white hat and a sparkling eye held up a box which contained something
which rattled, and asked me to fling the bones. "There is nothing like
flinging the bones!" said he, and then I thought I should like to know
what kind of thing flinging the bones was; I however, restrained myself.
"There is nothing like flinging the bones!" shouted the man, as my friend
and myself left the room.

Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry! but for him I should not have
obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and eccentric places of
London. Some of the places to which he took me were very strange places
indeed; but, however strange the places were, I observed that the
inhabitants thought there were no places like their several places, and
no occupations like their several occupations; and, among other strange
places to which Francis Ardry conducted me, was a place not far from the
abbey church of Westminster.

Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a confused hubbub
of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, and the cries of
various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of cock-pit, around which a
great many people, seeming of all ranks, but chiefly of the lower, were
gathered, and in it we saw a dog destroy a great many rats in a very
small period; and when the dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight
between a dog and a bear, then a fight between two dogs, then--

After the diversions of the day were over, my friend introduced me to the
genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, with a very
sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey coat, and top boots.
"Joey," said he, "this is a friend of mine." Joey nodded to me with a
patronizing air. "Glad to see you, sir!--want a dog?"

"No," said I.

"You have got one, then--want to match him?"

"We have a dog at home," said I, "in the country; but I can't say I
should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog-fighting."

"Not like dog-fighting!" said the man, staring.

"The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town."

"So I should think; he looks rather green--not like dog-fighting!"

"Nothing like it, is there, Joey?"

"I should think not; what is like it? A time will come, and that
speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow
dog-fighting."

"Do you think so?" said I.

"Think so? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn't give up for it?"

"Why," said I, modestly, "there's religion."

"Religion! How you talk. Why, there's myself, bred and born an
Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn't I give up religion for
dog-fighting? Religion, indeed! If it were not for the rascally law, my
pit would fill better on Sundays than any other time. Who would go to
church when they could come to my pit? Religion! why, the parsons
themselves come to my pit; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one
of them, asking me to send him a dog."

"Well, then, politics," said I.

"Politics! Why, the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt himself, if he
were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of the best of them here
to-night, all great horators.--Get on with you, what comes next?"

"Why, there's learning and letters."

"Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting. Why, there's
the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here in shoals, leaving
books, and letters, and masters too. To tell you the truth, I rather
wish they would mind their letters, for a more precious set of young
blackguards I never seed. It was only the other day I was thinking of
calling in a constable for my own protection, for I thought my pit would
have been torn down by them."

Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random. "You show
by your own conduct," said I, "that there are other things worth
following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat-catching and badger-
baiting as well."

The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt.

"Your friend here," said he, "might well call you a new one. When I
talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching and badger-baiting,
ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks religiously, when I says
one I means not one but three. And talking of religion puts me in mind
that I have something else to do besides chaffing here, having a batch of
dogs to send off by this night's packet to the Pope of Rome."

But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, whether strange
or commonplace, so at least I thought, and I ceased to accompany my
friend in his rambles about town, and to partake of his adventures. Our
friendship, however, still continued unabated, though I saw, in
consequence, less of him. I reflected that time was passing on--that the
little money I had brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had
nothing to depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I
returned with redoubled application to my pursuits.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Occupations--Traduttore Traditore--Ode to the Mist--Apple and
Pear--Reviewing--Current Literature--Oxford-like Manner--A Plain
Story--Ill-regulated Mind--Unsnuffed Candle--Strange Dreams.

I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate; I reviewed books for the Review
established on an entirely new principle; and I occasionally tried my
best to translate into German portions of the publisher's philosophy. In
this last task I experienced more than one difficulty. I was a tolerable
German scholar, it is true, and I had long been able to translate German
into English with considerable facility; but to translate from a foreign
language into your own, is a widely different thing from translating from
your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to render the
publisher into German, I was conscious of making miserable failures, from
pure ignorance of German grammar; however, by the assistance of grammars
and dictionaries, and by extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all
the difficulties connected with the German language. But, alas! another
difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German--a
difficulty connected with the language of the publisher--the language
which the great man employed in his writings was very hard to understand;
I say in his writings--for his colloquial English was plain enough.
Though not professing to be a scholar, he was much addicted, when
writing, to the use of Greek and Latin terms, not as other people used
them, but in a manner of his own, which set the authority of dictionaries
at defiance; the consequence was, that I was sometimes utterly at a loss
to understand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour
did I pass at this period, staring at periods of the publisher, and
wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a shake of
the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally
into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of
my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed;
the awful words, Traduttore traditore, commenced ringing in my ears, and
I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the
publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him
into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him
speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed
himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any
principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these
mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to
his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English,
had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the
minstrels of the Kaempe Viser in this manner?--No. Had I treated Ab
Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his Ode to the Mist, in
which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty?
No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands
was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured
to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands
for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my
own thoughts and ideas for the publisher's, who had put himself into my
hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling!--so I told the
Germans in the publisher's own way, the publisher's tale of an apple and
a pear.

I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher's opinion with
respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be
shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?--it would certainly gain in
appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit
than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say
that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of
his publication for the Review. And yet I don't know--said I, after a
long fit of musing--I don't know but what there is more to be said for
the Oxford theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don't know
that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a
pear; I have always liked pears, but I don't like the world. The world
to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have never liked apples. I
will uphold the Oxford theory--besides, I am writing in an Oxford Review,
and am in duty bound to uphold the Oxford theory. So in my notice I
asserted that the world was round; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to
prove that the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to
shape and properties. "An apple is round," said I, "and the world is
round--the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit; and who has tasted much
of the world without having his teeth set on edge?" I, however, treated
the publisher, upon the whole, in the most urbane and Oxford-like manner;
complimenting him upon his style, acknowledging the general soundness of
his views, and only differing with him in the affair of the apple and
pear.