Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The Priest

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 FIFTY-EIGHT

INDISPOSITION – A RESOLUTION – POOR EQUIVALENTS – THE PIECE OF GOLD – FLASHING EYES – HOW BEAUTIFUL

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 that 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, 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’équipage est en assez bon goût.’

‘Allons, c’est un ours,’ said the lady; ‘le cheval même 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 êtes belle comme un ange,’ said Francis Ardry, emphatically.

‘Mais, à la bonne heure! arrêtez, mon ami,’ said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; ‘je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui; arrêtez, il est délicieux. – 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 FIFTY-NINE

THE MILESTONE – MEDITATION – WANT TO GET UP? – SIXTEEN SHILLINGS – 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 greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. ‘No, no, keep behind – the box ain’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 thoroughbred,’ 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 ain’t, ain’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 SIXTY

THE STILL HOUR – A THRILL – THE WONDROUS CIRCLE – THE SHEPHERD – HEAPS AND BARROWS – WHAT DO YOU MEAN? – THE MILK OF THE PLAINS – HENGIST SPARED IT

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 round 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 browsing 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 these 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 tops 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.’

‘Ain’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?’

‘Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another.’

‘Yes, they did,’ said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone.

‘And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it! – Here is sixpence.’

‘I won’t have it,’ said the man.

‘Why not?’

‘You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them.’

‘I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here?’

‘How did they ever come here?’ said the shepherd.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

THE BANKS OF A RIVER – THE ARID DOWNS – A PROSPECT

Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place where the water ran dark and still.

Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high-road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind.

After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world.