Lavengro

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"What a life! what a dog's life!" I would frequently exclaim, after
escaping from the presence of the publisher.

One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have
described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford
Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did
lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly
occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing
in groups on the pavement--the upstair windows of the houses were
thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops
were partly, and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of
all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no
other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution;
some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end;
just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry
Symms--Gentleman Harry as they called him--is about to be carted along
this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had
long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good-
looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had
looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the city.
What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry "There it
comes!" and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse
was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just
opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it
proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were
three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, from the
partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind
these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without
one exception, were empty.

"Whose body is in that hearse?" said I to a dapper-looking individual,
seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at
the procession.

"The mortal relics of Lord Byron," said the dapper-looking individual
mouthing his words and smirking--"the illustrious poet, which have been
just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in
---shire."

"An illustrious poet, was he?" said I.

"Beyond all criticism," said the dapper man; "all we of the rising
generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in
particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is
formed on the Byronic model."

I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to
himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding
slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many
years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of
those who read, from the peer to the draper's assistant; all were
admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses;
and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher,
had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty
and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender
mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived, neglected and
despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them
to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half god of when living, and
now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very
sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the
sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out
that morning with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and
its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of
aristocratic carriages which followed behind.

"Great poet, sir," said the dapper-looking man, "great poet, but
unhappy."

Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed
about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing--that I had
heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness
assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in
him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy, and with reason. Was
he a real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have
a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he
was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of
fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous
lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his
celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top
of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I, eagerly to
myself--a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in
the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at
my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron's; and this
aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty
carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have
transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing.
Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his
poverty and blindness--witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender
mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real
pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world
would one day do them justice--fame after death is better than the top of
fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never
die, whilst this lordling--a time will come when he will be out of
fashion and forgotten. And yet I don't know; didn't he write Childe
Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a
time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires, and
cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold
and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must
have known it; a real poet, equal to--to--what a destiny! Rank, beauty,
fashion, immortality,--he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the
fate of men--I wish I could think he was unhappy--

I turned away.

"Great poet, sir," said the dapper man, turning away too, "but
unhappy--fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy."

Hurrying down a street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.

"What means the multitude yonder?" he demanded.

"They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron
up Tottenham Road."

"I have seen the man," said my friend, as he turned back the way he had
come, "so I can dispense with seeing the hearse--I saw the living man at
Venice--ah, a great poet."

"Yes," said I, "a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so--what a
destiny! What a difference in the fate of men; but 'tis said he was
unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?"

"Oh, beautiful!"

"But did he look happy?"

"Why, I can't say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two--very fair
ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy or not? Come,
where shall we go--to Joey's? His hugest bear--"

"O, I have had enough of bears, I have just been worried by one."

"The publisher?"

"Yes."

"Then come to Joey's, three dogs are to be launched at his bear: as they
pin him, imagine him to be the publisher."

"No," said I, "I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to London
Bridge."

"That's too far for me--farewell!"

CHAPTER XL.

London Bridge--Why not?--Every Heart has its Bitters--Wicked Boys--Give
me my Book--Such a Fright--Honour Bright.

So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the
booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was
empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall was to be seen. I looked
over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now as before, rolling
beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies
of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would
become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be
over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a
fascination; I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I
felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different
kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the
eddies--what had I to live for?--what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and
Struensee, and Yeoman Patch--should I yield to the impulse--why not? My
eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I
saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up
to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or--Where was the impulse
now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it--I looked
forward, far down the stream in the far distance. "Ha! what is that? I
thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a
rustic home; but in the far distance--I stared--I stared--a Fata
Morgana--it was gone--"

I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where
I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the
other side with the intention of returning home; just half way over the
bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had
formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up
behind her stall.

"Well, mother," said I, "how are you?" The old woman lifted her head
with a startled look.

"Don't you know me?" said I.

"Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes," said she, as her features beamed with
recollection, "I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the
tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?"

"Nothing at all," said I.

"Bad luck?"

"Yes," said I, "bad enough, and ill usage."

"Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next
time; I am glad to see you."

"Thank you," said I, sitting down on the stone bench; "I thought you had
left the bridge--why have you changed your side?"

The old woman shook.

"What is the matter with you," said I, "are you ill?"

"No, child, no; only--"

"Only what? Any bad news of your son?"

"No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child--every heart has
its bitters."

"That's true," said I; "well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come,
where's the book?"

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and
drew her cloak more closely about her than before. "Book, child, what
book?"

"Why, blessed Mary, to be sure."

"Oh, that; I ha'n't got it, child--I have lost it, have left it at home."

"Lost it," said I; "left it at home--what do you mean? Come, let me have
it."

"I ha'n't got it, child."

"I believe you have got it under your cloak."

"Don't tell any one, dear; don't--don't," and the apple-woman burst into
tears.

"What's the matter with you?" said I, staring at her.

"You want to take my book from me?"

"Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me
what's the matter?"

"Why, all about that book."

"The book?"

"Yes, they wanted to take it from me."

"Who did?"

"Why, some wicked boys. I'll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days
ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it
snatched from my hand; up I started, and see three rascals of boys
grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. 'What book is
this?' said he, grinning at it. 'What do you want with my book?' said I,
clutching at it over my stall, 'give me my book.' 'What do you want a
book for?' said he, holding it back; 'I have a good mind to fling it into
the Thames.' 'Give me my book,' I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell
over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the
boys--off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have
died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could; I thought
of my fruit, but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran
after my book. 'My book! my book!' I shrieked, 'murder! theft! robbery!'
I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn't care--I
followed the rascals. 'Stop them! stop them!' I ran nearly as fast as
they--they couldn't run very fast on account of the crowd. At last some
one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book
at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all
muddy as it was. 'Has he robbed you?' said the man. 'Robbed me, indeed;
why, he had got my book.' 'Oh, your book,' said the man, and laughed,
and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but--"

"Well, go on."

"My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall
and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn't keep my stall for
two days I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn't bide the
booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh,
the rascals, if I could but see them hanged."

"For what?"

"Why, for stealing my book."

"I thought you didn't dislike stealing,--that you were ready to buy
things--there was your son, you know--"

"Yes, to be sure."

"He took things."

"To be sure he did."

"But you don't like a thing of yours to be taken."

"No, that's quite a different thing; what's stealing handkerchiefs, and
that kind of thing, to do with taking my book; there's a wide
difference--don't you see?"

"Yes, I see."

"Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I'm glad you do. Would you like
to look at the book?"

"Well, I think I should."

"Honour bright?" said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes.

"Honour bright," said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes.

"Well then, dear, here it is," said she, taking it from under her cloak;
"read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the
booth--Don't sit so near the edge--you might--"

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair
round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon
engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes,
the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache,
whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and giving her another
tanner, walked away.

CHAPTER XLI.

Decease of the Review--Homer Himself--Bread and Cheese--Finger and
Thumb--Impossible to Find--Something Grand--Universal Mixture--Some Other
Publisher.

Time passed away, and with it the review, which, contrary to the
publisher's expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About
four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all reviews must
for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their
publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already
hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular
class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality
in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate
publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was
industriously circulated, namely, that the review was low, and that to be
reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who
could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder,
for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself
has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord
Chesterfield's remark, that the speeches of his heroes were frequently
exceedingly low.

So the review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such;
they forthwith returned to their proper avocations--the editor to compose
tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies
of his Quintilian--the inferior members to working for the publisher,
being to a man dependents of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another,
to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and
trials. Owing to the bad success of the review, the publisher became
more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked
him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication.

"Sir," said the publisher, "what do you want the money for?"

"Merely to live on," I replied; "it is very difficult to live in this
town without money."

"How much money did you bring with you to town?" demanded the publisher.

"Some twenty or thirty pounds," I replied.

"And you have spent it already?"

"No," said I, "not entirely; but it is fast disappearing."

"Sir," said the publisher, "I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir,
extravagant!"

"On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?"

"Sir," said the publisher; "you eat meat."

"Yes," said I, "I eat meat sometimes: what should I eat?"

"Bread, sir," said the publisher; "bread and cheese."

"So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford
it--it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one
is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me
fourteen pence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must
drink porter, sir."

"Then, sir, eat bread--bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten
bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and
cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps,
drink water, sir."

However, I got paid at last for my writings in the review, not, it is
true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were
two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months
after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any
account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per
cent., consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces,
and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the
unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill,
indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch
them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was
very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did
not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would.

But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous
to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I
subsequently underwent was far more so; his great delight seemed to
consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions,
he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to
find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was
impossible to find; the personages whom he mentioned never having lived,
nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials
which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I
prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed
through the press. Amongst these was the life of "Gentleman Harry."
"They are drugs, sir," said the publisher, "drugs; that life of Harry
Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar--has it not,
Taggart?"

Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader has,
I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account
of my first morning's visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart's pardon for
having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man--yet
there was much in Taggart--and Taggart had always been civil and kind to
me in his peculiar way.

"Well, young gentleman," said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced
to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, "how do you
like authorship?"

"I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in," said I.

"What do you call authorship?" said Taggart.

"I scarcely know," said I; "that is, I can scarcely express what I think
it."

"Shall I help you out?" said Taggart, turning round his chair, and
looking at me.

"If you like," said I.

"To write something grand," said Taggart, taking snuff; "to be stared
at--lifted on people's shoulders--"

"Well," said I, "that is something like it."

Taggart took snuff. "Well," said he, "why don't you write something
grand?"

"I have," said I.

"What?" said Taggart.

"Why," said I, "there are those ballads."

Taggart took snuff.

"And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym."

Taggart took snuff again.

"You seem to be very fond of snuff," said I; looking at him angrily.

Taggart tapped his box.

"Have you taken it long?"

"Three-and-twenty years."

"What snuff do you take?"

"Universal mixture."

"And you find it of use?"

Taggart tapped his box.

"In what respect?" said I.

"In many--there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I
should scarcely be where I am now."

"Have you been long here?"

"Three-and-twenty years."

"Dear me," said I; "and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch--pah,
I don't like it," and I sneezed.

"Take another pinch," said Taggart.

"No," said I, "I don't like snuff."

"Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind."

"So I begin to think--what shall I do?"

Taggart took snuff.

"You were talking of a great work--what shall it be?"

Taggart took snuff.

"Do you think I could write one?"

Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, however.

"It would require time," said I, with half a sigh.

Taggart tapped his box.

"A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads--"

Taggart took snuff.

"If published, would do me credit. I'll make an effort, and offer them
to some other publisher."

Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.

CHAPTER XLII.

Francis Ardry--That Won't do, Sir--Observe My Gestures--I Think You
Improve--Better than Politics--Delightful Young Frenchwoman--A Burning
Shame--Magnificent Impudence--Paunch--Voltaire--Lump of Sugar.

Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in
handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a
livery servant, and, upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to
see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that
his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a
few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I
had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as
antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half open, I
could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and
gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some
confusion, was hastening to close the door; but, ere he could effect his
purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, "Come
in--come in by all means;" and then proceeded, as before, speechifying
and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons.

On entering the room I perceived another individual, to whom Francis
Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short spare man
of about sixty; his hair was of badger grey, and his face was covered
with wrinkles--without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was
black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest
attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a
sharp, cracked voice, "That won't do, sir; that won't do--more
vehemence--your argument is at present particularly weak; therefore, more
vehemence--you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir;" and, at
each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply
against the palm of the left. "Good, sir--good!" he occasionally
uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry
became more and more vehement. "Infinitely good!" he exclaimed, as
Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; "and now, sir,
abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline--gradually, sir; not too
fast. Good, sir--very good!" as the voice of Francis Ardry declined
gradually in vehemence. "And now a little pathos, sir--try them with a
little pathos. That won't do, sir--that won't do,"--as Francis Ardry
made an attempt to become pathetic,--"that will never pass for
pathos--with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress
the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay
attention to the tone of my voice, sir."

Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had
employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and
with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of
pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both
the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis Ardry
recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the
most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst
into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided
it were ever my wont to laugh. "Ha, ha!" said the other, good
humouredly, "you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give
you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole I think
you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before
four."