CHAPTER x.x.xI
The Walk--London"s Cheape--Street of the Lombards--Strange Bridge--Main Arch--The Roaring Gulf--The Boat--Clyfaking--A Comfort--The Book--The Blessed Woman--No Trap.
So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, as I have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the great city to advantage, and the wonders thereof: and much I admired all I saw; and, amongst other things, the huge cathedral, standing so proudly on the most commanding ground in the big city; and I looked up to the mighty dome, surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself, "That dome must needs be the finest in the world;" and I gazed upon it till my eyes reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome would fall and crush me; and I shrank within myself, and struck yet deeper into the heart of the big city.
"O Cheapside! Cheapside!" said I, as I advanced up that mighty thoroughfare, "truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise, and riches! Men talk of the bazaars of the East--I have never seen them--but I dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes, O thou pride of London"s east!--mighty mart of old renown!--for thou art not a place of yesterday:--long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist--a place of throng and bustle--a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen.
Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glendower"s bard, had a word of praise for London"s "Cheape," for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes.
Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present day, as I believe they do? But, let others do as they will, I, at least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the world--a place of wonder and astonishment!--and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should endure for ever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages--may it be the world"s resort for merchandise, world without end."
And when I had pa.s.sed through the Cheape I entered another street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its first founders; and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for it had no interest for me, though I had a kind of consciousness that mighty things were being transacted behind its walls; but it wanted the throng, bustle, and outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never been spoken of by "ruddy bards"! And, when I had got to the end of the street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, deliberating within myself whether I should turn to the right or the left, or go straight forward, and at last I turned to the right, down a street of rapid descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge which traversed the river which runs by the big city.
A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and ma.s.sive, and seemingly of great antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high bal.u.s.trade, and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular bench. Though the bridge was wide--very wide--it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and wagons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruit-stall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the princ.i.p.al arch, looking through the bal.u.s.trade at the scene that presented itself--and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; s.p.a.cious wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar"s Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the sky chimneys taller than Cleopatra"s Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of that black smoke which forms the canopy--occasionally a gorgeous one--of the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the Thames--the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch--a grisly pool, which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I should have leapt into its depths?--I have heard of such things--but for a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and woman sat at the stern. I shall never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!--a boat--a small boat--pa.s.sing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water-way, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow--there is no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex!
No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped over the threatening horror, and, the next moment, was out of danger, the boatman--a true boatman of c.o.c.kaigne that--elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman that--of a certain cla.s.s--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but n.o.body appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so excited, that I strove to clamber up the bal.u.s.trade of the bridge, in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me.
"Nay, dear! don"t--don"t!" said she. "Don"t fling yourself over--perhaps you may have better luck next time!"
"I was not going to fling myself over," said I, dropping from the bal.u.s.trade; "how came you to think of such a thing?"
"Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself."
"Ill luck," said I, going into the stone bower, and sitting down. "What do you mean? ill luck in what?"
"Why, no great harm, dear! clyfaking perhaps."
"Are you coming over me with dialects," said I, "speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?"
"Nay, dear! don"t look so strange with those eyes of your"n, nor talk so strangely; I don"t understand you."
"Nor I you; what do you mean by clyfaking?"
"Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then."
"Do you take me for a thief?"
"Nay, dear! don"t make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot"ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son"s own mother, I a.s.sure you."
"So you think there"s no harm in stealing?"
"No harm in the world, dear! Do you think my own child would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and, what"s more, would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking?
She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back--for come back she did, and rich too--for it is an a.s.surance to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her."
"What was her name?"
"Her name, blessed Mary Flanders."
"Will you let me look at the book?"
"Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it."
I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and dog"s-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no mistake! _His_ pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old volume--the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book which first taught me to read. {287} I covered my face with my hand, and thought of my childhood . . .
"This is a singular book," said I at last; "but it does not appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral."
"A deep what, dear?"
"A . . . but no matter; I will give you a crown for this volume."
"No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown."
"I am poor," said I; "but I will give you two silver crowns for your volume."
"No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for the golden one in the king"s Tower down there; without my book I should mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won"t sell you my book; but, if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for, if you had been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with; I love baccy, dear, more by token that it comes from the plantations to which the blessed woman was sent."
"What"s a tanner?" said I.
"Lor! don"t you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; and, as you were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you that those of our trade never calls them crowns, but bulls; but I am talking nonsense, just as if you did not know all that already, as well as myself; you are only shamming--I"m no trap, dear, nor more was the blessed woman in the book. Thank you, dear--thank you for the tanner; if I don"t spend it, I"ll keep it in remembrance of your sweet face. What, you are going?--well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have any clies to sell at any time, I"ll buy them of you; all safe with me; I never "peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, G.o.d bless you! and give you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and thank you for the tanner."
CHAPTER x.x.xII
The Tanner--The Hotel--Drinking Claret--London Journal--New Field--Commonplaceness--The Three Individuals--Botheration--Frank and Ardent.
""Tanner!" said I, musingly, as I left the bridge; "Tanner! what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions?
Tanner! I can"t trace the connection between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I have it," I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, "tanner, in this instance, is not an English word." Is it not surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno is continually coming to my a.s.sistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed words in AEschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight a.s.sistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner--Tawno!
the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengres, though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation, signifieth a little child.
So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been wandering; I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere--the people, their language, the horses, the _tout ensemble_--even the stones of London are different from others--at least it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. "A regular Arabian Nights" entertainment!" said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with l.u.s.tres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors.
But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o"clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands. Without a moment"s hesitation I entered a well-lighted pa.s.sage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. "Bring me some claret," said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers of his right hand two large purple gla.s.ses; placing the latter on the table, he produced a cork-screw, drew the cork in a twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I don"t know how to drink a gla.s.s of claret, thought I to myself. I"ll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from; and, filling one of the gla.s.ses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the l.u.s.tre, and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the gla.s.s to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then, placing the empty gla.s.s upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, and said--nothing; whereupon the waiter, who had been observing the whole process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more low than before, and, turning on his heel, retired with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is all right; the young man is used to claret.
And when the waiter had retired I took a second gla.s.s of the wine, which I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of the London journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless true that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a newspaper of any description. {293} I of course had frequently seen journals, and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they to me?--I cared not for news. But here I was now with my claret before me, perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London journals--it was not the -----and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature appeared to be opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an unpleasant one; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so very common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big town, when, for the life of me, I don"t think I could write anything half so clever as what I have been reading. And then I laid down the paper, and fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a gla.s.s of wine, and, pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been reading, thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but talent and cleverness I think I have heard some one say are very commonplace things, only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever man; but, after all, was he not something much better? I don"t think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the book which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have written the article on which I now hold my forefinger--and I do not believe he could--why should I feel discouraged at the consciousness that I, too, could not write it? I certainly could no more have written the article than he could; but then, like him, though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote the book I saw upon the bridge, I think I could--and here I emptied the gla.s.s of claret--write something better.
Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before struck with the fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now equally so with its commonplaceness and want of originality on every subject; and it was evident to me that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, translated Koempe Viser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno.
And as I sat conning the newspaper three individuals entered the room, and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of which I was. They were all three very well dressed; two of them elderly gentlemen, the third a young man about my own age, or perhaps a year or two older: they called for coffee; and, after two or three observations, the two eldest commenced a conversation in French, which, however, though they spoke it fluently enough, I perceived at once was not their native language; the young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and when they addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but rarely, merely replied by a monosyllable. I have never been a listener, and I paid but little heed to their discourse, nor indeed to themselves; as I occasionally looked up, however, I could perceive that the features of the young man, who chanced to be seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of constraint and vexation. This circ.u.mstance caused me to observe him more particularly than I otherwise should have done: his features were handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair and a high-arched forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two elder individuals, having finished their coffee, called for the waiter, and then rose as if to depart, the young man, however, still remaining seated in the box. The others, having reached the door, turned round, and, finding that the youth did not follow them, one of them called to him with a tone of some authority; whereupon the young man rose, and, p.r.o.nouncing half audibly the word "botheration," rose and followed them. I now observed that he was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about ten minutes, finding nothing more worth reading in the newspaper, I laid it down, and though the claret was not yet exhausted, I was thinking of betaking myself to my lodgings, and was about to call the waiter, when I heard a step in the pa.s.sage, and in another moment the tall young man entered the room, advanced to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to me, again p.r.o.nounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same word.
"A troublesome world this, sir," said I, looking at him.
"Yes," said the young man, looking fixedly at me; "but I am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads--at least I can say so of myself," he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, "I beg pardon," he said, "but am I not addressing one of my own country?"
"Of what country are you?" said I.
"Ireland."
"I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a gla.s.s of wine?"