"The best man in England of my inches. That"s true, Tawno--however, here"s our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us."
"Not he," said the other, with a sigh; "he"ll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis {37}--my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that "there is nothing like blowing one"s own horn," which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one"s own lil."
After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. "Only eighteenpence in the world, brother!" said he, as we walked together.
"Nothing more, I a.s.sure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?"
"Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife"s looking-gla.s.s--I did not look as you do, brother."
"I believe your sole motive for inquiring," said I, "was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds."
"What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?"
said Mr. Petulengro. "It is not every one can read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?"
"I am not going to ask you to lend me any."
"Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully earnt money, got by fighting in the ring--I will lend you that, brother."
"You are very kind," said I; "but I will not take it."
"Then the half of it?"
"Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to the Great City."
"And what will you do in the Boro Foros?" {38}
"I know not," said I.
"Earn money?"
"If I can."
"And if you can"t?"
"Starve!"
"You look ill, brother," said Mr. Petulengro.
"I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take to the woods and fields."
"You may do that, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "whether you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill; come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna."
"What hill is that?" I demanded.
And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. "We shall stay on t"other side of the hill a fortnight," he continued; "and, as you are fond of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dook {39a} gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago."
"Who was he?" I demanded.
"Jemmy Abershaw," {39b} said Mr. Petulengro; "one of those whom we call Boro drom engroes, and the Gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna."
At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents" roof, and only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the individual and what he said--stigmatising my conversation as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City.
I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London; for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the gla.s.s by wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand--"A Novel or Tale is much wanted," was what was written.
CHAPTER LV
Bread and Water--Fair Play--Fashionable Life--Colonel B-----Joseph Sell--The Kindly Glow--Easiest Manner Imaginable.
"I must do something," said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me.
Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I was to do. "I have no idea what I am to do," said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, "unless"--and here I took a considerable draught--"I write a tale or a novel . . . That bookseller," I continued, speaking to myself, "is certainly much in need of a tale or a novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one; I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window."
"I will do it," said I, as I struck my hand against the table; "I will do it." Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it?
Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? "Yes, yes,"
said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, "I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything."
But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteenpence in the world.
Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so? or something to that effect, months before?
It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time that the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work.
Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel.
But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess Something?
But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant materials out of which to write the man"s life. It is probable, indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in pa.s.sing to and from Mr.
Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then--Harry Simms?
Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; some one like--like Colonel B---. By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B--- of Londonderry, in Ireland?
A truly singular man was this same Colonel B--- {43a} of Londonderry, in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partisan soldier, a bravo--who, a.s.sisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond, at Tyburn; {43b} and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets.
Of his life I had inserted an account in the "Newgate Lives and Trials"; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. "I am afraid," said I, "any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other." I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B---, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the "Life of Joseph Sell."
This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fict.i.tious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fict.i.tious narrative, called the "Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great traveller."
I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the "Life of Joseph Sell," but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow.
So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind"s eye so plentifully, that I knew not how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarra.s.sment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones.
Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved.
CHAPTER LVI
Considerably Sobered--Power of Writing--The Tempter--Hungry Talent--Work Concluded.