Lavengro

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I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed,
notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I
had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result.
Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself
with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order
to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently
sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the
whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and
spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the
immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the
purchase of milk.

At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the
bookseller was in his shop. "Ah," said he, as soon as I entered, "I am
glad to see you." There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller's
tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. "So," said he, after a pause,
"you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like
taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think
your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great
regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist,
deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press."
"But," said I, "we have not yet agreed upon terms." "Terms, terms," said
the bookseller; "ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at
once. I will print the book, and allow you half the profit when the
edition is sold." "That will not do," said I; "I intend shortly to leave
London; I must have something at once." "Ah, I see," said the
bookseller, "in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially
young ones. Well, I don't care if I purchase it of you, but you must be
moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a
losing one, after all. Let me see, will five--hem"--he stopped. I
looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it.
Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded
in my ear, "Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of
establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble." "Well," said
I at last, "I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to
make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely
enough, everything considered." "Five-and-twenty guineas!" said the
bookseller; "are you--what was I going to say--I never meant to offer
half as much--I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas--I mean
pounds; I will, however, make it up guineas." "That will not do," said
I; "but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may
carry it to some one else." The bookseller looked blank. "Dear me,"
said he, "I should never have supposed that you would have made any
objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad
to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and
ballads that you brought me on a former occasion." "Well," said I, "if
you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall
have the present one for five pounds." "God forbid that I should make
any such bargain," said the bookseller; "I would publish neither on any
account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an
inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten
pounds." "No," said I, "ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my
manuscript." "Stay," said the bookseller, "my wife is in the next room,
I will go and consult her." Thereupon he went into his back room, where
I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes
he returned. "Young gentleman," said he, "perhaps you will take tea with
us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter."

That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both
of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was
not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the
press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining
narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable
profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to
my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller's wife
complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she
discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would
some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my
demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be
troubled with the correction of the work.

Before I departed I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light
heart to my lodgings.

Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever
be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of
Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged
resolution and perseverance may not liberate you.

CHAPTER LVIII.

Indisposition--A Resolution--Poor Equivalents--The Piece of Gold--Flashing
Eyes--How Beautiful!--Bon Jour, Monsieur.

I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be
in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great
City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the
career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and
have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me
encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always
happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the
one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the
bookseller's wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more
encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my
original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of
the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the
exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I
felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a
confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling
on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my
health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence.

But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking
home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and
enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very
much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the
said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I
wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid the people would
ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative
translations from Ab Gwilym--of which you were always talking, and with
which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such
interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled Newgate
Lives and Trials, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was
afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as
equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would
go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town.

But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time;
at present, I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the
people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With
respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their
curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at least
equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that
never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the
subject of the songs and ballads.

As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I
despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old
town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in
readiness to start.

Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the
apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring
under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the
hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter
punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of
gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said.
"Tell the poor thin lad," she added, "to keep it for himself, he wants it
more than I."

Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in
one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the south-
west: when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had
entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going home, I
determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to
home.

Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket, at the
lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing
along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone where I was,
a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its
haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A
small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of
fashion, sat beside him.

"Holloa, friend," said Francis Ardry, "whither bound?"

"I do not know," said I; "all I can say is, that I am about to leave
London."

"And the means?" said Francis Ardry.

"I have them," said I, with a cheerful smile.

"_Qui est celui-ci_?" demanded the small female, impatiently.

"_C'est_--_mon ami le plus intime_; so you were about to leave London
without telling me a word," said Francis Ardry, somewhat angrily.

"I intended to have written to you," said I: "what a splendid mare that
is!"

"Is she not?" said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with
difficulty; "she cost a hundred guineas."

"_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit_?" demanded his companion.

"_Il dit que le jument est bien beau_."

"_Allons_, _mon ami_, _il est tard_," said the beauty, with a scornful
toss of her head; "_allons_!"

"_Encore un moment_," said Francis Ardry; "and when shall I see you
again?"

"I scarcely know," I replied: "I never saw a more splendid turn out."

"_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit_?" said the lady again.

"_Il dit que tout l'equipage est en assez bon gout_."

"_Allons_, _c'est un ours_," said the lady; "_le cheval meme en a peur_,"
added she, as the mare reared up on high.

"Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?" said
Francis Ardry, reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought
the mare to order.

Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. "How
beautiful!" said I, looking the lady full in the face.

"_Comment_?" said the lady, inquiringly.

"_Il dit que vous etes belle comme un ange_," said Francis Ardry,
emphatically.

"_Mais_, _a la bonne heure! arretez_, _mon ami_," said the lady to
Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; "_je voudrais bien causer un
moment avec lui_; _arretez_, _il est delicieux_.--_Est-ce bien ainsi que
vous traitez vos amis_?" said she, passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted
up his whip. "_Bon jour_, _Monsieur_, _bon jour_," said she, thrusting
her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at
the rate of thirteen miles an hour.

CHAPTER LIX.

The Milestone--The Meditation--Want to Get Up?--The Off-hand
Leader--Sixteen Shillings--The Near-hand Wheeler--All Right.

In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the
suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was
travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not
whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great.
Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested
against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long
ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation.

I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in
that vast city--I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished
nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained
previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my
independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor
in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing, it may be, but
not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause
upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at
the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished
much more, and whose future was far more hopeful--Good! But there might
be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden
down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that
mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear
hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be
grateful? Truly, yes!

My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the
same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always
been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not
having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy
walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of
putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive
at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me.
Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked
wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach,
seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses--there was no one upon it
but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped.
"Want to get up?" sounded a voice, in the true coachman-like tone--half
querulous, half authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but
I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much
like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very
inconsiderable a distance. "Come, we can't be staying here all night,"
said the voice, more sharply than before. "I can ride a little way, and
get down whenever I like," thought I; and springing forward I clambered
up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman.
"No, no," said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked
nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably cut great coat, with a
fashionable black castor on his head. "No, no, keep behind--the box
a'n't for the like of you," said he, as he drove off; "the box is for
lords, or gentlemen at least." I made no answer. "D--- that off-hand
leader," said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a
desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he
with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on
the off cheek. "These seem to be fine horses," said I. The coachman
made no answer. "Nearly thorough-bred," I continued; the coachman drew
his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. "Come,
young fellow, none of your chaff. Don't you think, because you ride on
my mail, I'm going to talk to you about 'orses. I talk to nobody about
'orses except lords." "Well," said I, "I have been called a lord in my
time." "It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then," said the coachman,
bending back, and half turning his face round with a broad leer. "You
have hit the mark wonderfully," said I. "You coachmen, whatever else you
may be, are certainly no fools." "We a'n't, a'n't we?" said the
coachman. "There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I'll now
trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers
you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going?--to ---? I
think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip
us the blunt; them that has no money can't ride on my mail."

Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a
considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I
would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at
once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter
ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a
tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing
whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round,
shouted to the guard--"All right, Jem; got fare to ---;" and forthwith
whipped on his horses, especially the off-hand leader, for whom he seemed
to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before--the horses
flew.

A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road
which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having
paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying
vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the
coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself--hawk nose,
red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had
driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the
horses. "D--- this near-hand wheeler," said he, "the brute has got a
corn." "Whipping him won't cure him of his corn," said I. "Who told you
to speak?" said the driver, with an oath; "mind your own business;
'tisn't from the like of you I am to learn to drive 'orses." Presently I
fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a
rough voice--"Got to --- young man; get down if you please." I opened my
eyes--there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes
dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below
me stood the guard. "Do you mean to get down," said he, "or will you
keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up." Scarcely knowing
what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people
mounted. "All right, John," said the guard to the coachman, springing up
behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were
standing by disappeared, and I was left alone.

CHAPTER LX.

The Still Hour--A Thrill--The Wondrous Circle--The Shepherd--Heaps and
Barrows--What do you Mean?--Milk of the Plains--Hengist spared it--No
Presents.

After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I
moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town;
presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand;
anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I
reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the
direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I
have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours.
"What stream is this, I wonder?" said I, as I looked down from the
parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below.

Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached
what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now
tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my
seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the
early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived
where the road divided into two, at an angle or tongue of dark green
sward. "To the right or the left?" said I, and forthwith took, without
knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred
yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads,
collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a
small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and grey. I stood still
for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it
over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had
attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not
trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just
before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of
proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming
a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick
and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself--it
was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did--cast myself, with my
face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath
the transverse stone.

The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!

And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I
arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle,
wandered around the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone,
from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door,
seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was
supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth;
and there in deep meditation, I sat for an hour or two, till the sun
shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side.

And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a
large number of sheep came browzing past the circle of stones; two or
three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also
entered the circle at the northern side.

"Early here, sir," said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark
green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; "a traveller, I
suppose?"

"Yes," said I, "I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?"

"They are, sir; that is, they are my master's. A strange place this,
sir," said he, looking at the stones; "ever here before?"

"Never in body, frequently in mind."

"Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder--all the people of the plain
talk of them."

"What do the people of the plain say of them?"

"Why, they say--How did they ever come here?"

"Do they not suppose them to have been brought?"

"Who should have brought them?"

"I have read that they were brought by many thousand men."

"Where from?"

"Ireland."

"How did they bring them?"

"I don't know."

"And what did they bring them for?"

"To form a temple, perhaps."

"What is that?"

"A place to worship God in."

"A strange place to worship God in."

"Why?"

"It has no roof."

"Yes, it has."

"Where?" said the man, looking up.

"What do you see above you?"

"The sky."

"Well?"

"Well!"

"Have you anything to say?"

"How did those stones come here?"

"Are there other stones like these on the plains?" said I.

"None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs."

"What are they?"

"Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the top of
hills."

"Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?"

"They do not."

"Why?"

"They were raised by hands."

"And these stones?"

"How did they ever come here?"

"I wonder whether they are here?" said I.

"These stones?"

"Yes."

"So sure as the world," said the man; "and as the world, they will stand
as long."

"I wonder whether there is a world."

"What do you mean?"

"An earth and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men."

"Do you doubt it?"

"Sometimes."

"I never heard it doubted before."

"It is impossible there should be a world."

"It ain't possible there shouldn't be a world."

"Just so." At this moment a fine ewe attended by a lamb, rushed into the
circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. "I suppose you would not
care to have some milk," said the man.

"Why do you suppose so?"

"Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there
ben't is not worth having."

"You could not have argued better," said I; "that is, supposing you have
argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please."

"Be still, Nanny," said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his
scrip, he milked the ewe into it. "Here is milk of the plains, master,"
said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.

"Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of,"
said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; "are there any near where we
are?"

"Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away," said the shepherd,
pointing to the south-east. "It's a grand place, that, but not like
this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire
in the world."

"I must go to it," said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk;
"yonder, you say."

"Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies
between."

"What river?"

"The Avon."

"Avon is British," said I.

"Yes," said the man, "we are all British here."

"No, we are not," said I.

"What are we then?"

"English."

"A'n't they one?"

"No."

"Who were the British?"

"The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who
raised these stones."

"Where are they now?"