Lavengro George Borrow (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📖

question. Do you think you shall ever grow tired of authorship?”

“I have my fears,” said my friend, advancing his hand to one of the iron bars of the gate.

“Don’t touch,” said I, “it is a bad habit. I have but one word to add: should you ever grow tired of authorship follow your first idea of getting into Parliament; you have words enough at command; perhaps you want manner and method; but, in that case, you must apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of a master of elocution.”

“That would never do!” said my host; “I know myself too well to think of applying for assistance to anyone. Were I to become a parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original one, even if not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take in any speech I might make, however original as to thought, provided the gestures I employed and the very modulation of my voice were not my own? Take lessons, indeed! why, the fellow who taught me, the professor, might be standing in the gallery whilst I spoke; and, at the best parts of my speech, might say to himself: ‘That gesture is mine⁠—that modulation is mine.’ I could not bear the thought of such a thing.”

“Farewell,” said I, “and may you prosper. I have nothing more to say.”

I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round suddenly; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of the gate.

“He has been touching,” said I, as I proceeded on my way; “I wonder what was the evil chance he wished to baffle.”

LXVIII

After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade of which stood a little pony and cart, which seemed to contain various articles. I was going past, when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, “Good beer sold here;” upon which, feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and taste the beverage.

I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy-looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron⁠—a rather pretty-looking woman, but sunburnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next to him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed.

“House!” said I; “House!” and then as nobody appeared, I cried again as loud as I could, “House! do you hear me, House!”

“What’s your pleasure, young man?” said an elderly woman, who now made her appearance from a side apartment.

“To taste your ale,” said I.

“How much?” said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the empty mug upon the table.

“The largest measure-full in your house,” said I, putting back her hand gently. “This is not the season for half-pint mugs.”

“As you will, young man,” said the landlady, and presently brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and which foamed and frothed withal.

“Will this pay for it?” said I, putting down sixpence.

“I have to return you a penny,” said the landlady, putting her hand into her pocket.

“I want no change,” said I, flourishing my hand with an air.

“As you please, young gentleman,” said the landlady, and then making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment.

“Here is your health, sir,” said I to the grimy-looking man, as I raised the pitcher to my lips.

The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a draught of the ale, which I found excellent; “won’t you drink?” said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker.

The man again lifted his eyes, looked at me, and then at the pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was about to shake his head in sign of refusal, but no, he looked once more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher down before me upon the table.

“You had better mend your draught,” said I to the tinker; “it is a sad heart that never rejoices.”

“That’s true,” said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a larger quantity than before.

“Pass it to your wife,” said I.

The poor woman took the pitcher from the man’s hand; before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True mother’s heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug, I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each to take a draught.