"I am, sir, and proud I shall be to write for you."
"What can you do?"
"Here"s a specimen."
The MS. was a bundle of bills from a public-house, and the blank side was utilised. The Doctor never wasted money on paper when he could avoid it. The stuff was feeble, involved, useless. My face must have fallen, for the piteous Scarecrow said, "I have not your approval."
"We cannot use this."
Bending forward and clasping his hands, he said, "Could you not give me two shillings for it? There are two columns good. A shilling a column; surely that can"t hurt you."
"I"ll give you two shillings, and you can come back again if you are needy, but the MS. is of no use to us."
He took the money, and returned again and again for more. I found that he used to put fourpence in one pocket to meet the expense of his lodging-house bed, and he bought ten two-pennyworths of gin with the rest of the money. He always asked for two shillings, and always got it. I was not responsible for his mode of spending it.
And now the Doctor had turned up in the region of The Chequers. He was piteously, doggishly thankful for his drink, and he cried as he bleated out his prayers for my good health. Men cry readily when they come to be in the Doctor"s condition. I asked him to take some soup. "I"m no great eater," he said; "but I"d like just one more with you--only one."
"Where do you lodge, Doctor?"
"To tell you the truth, I"m forced to put up with a berth in the old fowl-house at the bottom of the garden here. They let me stay there, but "tis cold--cold."
"Do you work at all now?"
"Sometimes. But there is little doing--very little."
"How did you come to cease practising at the Bar, Doctor?"
"How do I come to be here? "Tis the old thing--the old thing--and has been all along."
This poor wretch could not be allowed to go about half-naked, so I let the potman run out and get him a slop suit. (The Doctor sold the clothes next day for half-a-crown, and was speechless when I went to see him.) A hopeless, helpless wretch was the Doctor--the most hopeless I ever knew. He entered the army, early in life, and for a time he was petted and courted in Dublin society. The man was handsome, accomplished, and brilliantly clever, and success seemed to follow him.
He sold out of the army and went to the Bar, where he succeeded during many years. No one could have lived a happier, fuller, or more fruitful life than he did before he slid into loose habits. His only pastime was the pursuit of literature, and he finished his big history of a certain great war while he was in full practice at the Chancery Bar. Power seemed to reside in him; fortune poured gifts on him; and he lost all.
In an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time he drank away his practice, his reputation, his hopes of high honour, his last penny.
Thus it was that my historian came to beg of me for that muddy penn"orth.
I may as well finish the Doctor"s story. If I were writing fiction the tale would be scouted as improbable, yet I am going to state plain facts. A firm of lawyers hunted up the Doctor, and informed him that he had succeeded to the sum of 30,000. There was no mistake about the matter; the long years of vile degradation, the rags, the squalor, the scorn, of men were all to disappear. The solicitors dressed the Doctor properly and advanced him money; he set off for Ireland to make some necessary arrangements, and he solemnly swore that he would become a total abstainer. At Swindon he chose to break his journey, took to drinking, and kept on for many hours. It was long since he had had such a chance of unlimited drink, and he greedily seized it. When he went to bed he took a bottle with him, and in the morning he was dead.
Suffocated by alcohol, they said. He had no living soul related to him, and I believe his money went to the Crown.
I have written this last fragment on separate sheets, and my journal is interleaved for the first time.
The Gentleman and I became very friendly. I never tried to keep him from drinking: it was useless. When he was sober his company was pleasant, and I was very sorry when he mysteriously migrated, and many of our crew missed his help badly.
Some time after the Gentleman"s flight, I was in a common lodging-house in Holborn, and in the kitchen I met a delightful vagabond of a Frenchman with whom I had a long talk. He happened to say, "One of our old friends died last week. He was a good man, and very well bred.
Figure it to yourself, he was brother of one of your judges!" Then I knew that the Gentleman had gone. I wish I could have seen him again. As I look back at the old leaves of my journal I seem to see that sweet, patient smile which he wore as he told the story of his fall. There are some things almost too sad to bear thinking about. This is one.
Our friend d.i.c.ky had a bad misfortune lately. I should say that d.i.c.ky is an oldish man, who drifted into this ugly quarter some time ago, and took his place in the parlour, which is a room that I now prefer to the bar. I was holding a friendly discussion with a butcher when a strident voice said, "You are absolutely and irredeemably ignorant of the rudiments of your subject." I started. Where had I heard that voice before? The man was clad in an old shooting-jacket; his trousers were out at the knee, and his linen was very dirty; yet there was a something about him--a kind of distinction--which was impressive. After launching his expression of contempt at us, he buried his face in his pot and took a mighty drink. Slowly my memory aided me, and under that k.n.o.bby, pustuled skin I traced the features of d.i.c.ky Nash, the most dreaded political journalist of my time. Often I had heard that voice roaring blasphemies with a vigour that no other man could equal; often had I seen that st.u.r.dy form extended beside the editorial chair, while the fumes in the office told tales as to the cause of the fall. And now here was d.i.c.ky--ragged, dirty, and evidently down on his luck. I soon made friends with him by owning his superior authority, and he kindly took a quart of ale at my expense. This was a man who used to earn 2,000 a year after he resigned his University fellowship. He was the friend and adviser of statesmen; he might have ended as a Cabinet Minister, for no man ever succeeded in gauging the extent of his miraculous ability; he seemed to be the most powerful, as well as the most dreaded man in England. Woe is me! We had to carry him up to bed; and he stayed on until he spent a three-guinea cheque, which Mr. Landlord cashed for him.
I knew no good would come of his Fleet-street games, though he used to laugh things off himself. He would come in about seven in the evening, and seat himself at his table. Then he would hiccup, "Can"t write politics; no good. Give us a nice light subject."
"Try an article on the country at this season of the year."
"Good. I can"t hold the d.a.m.ned pen. You sit down, I"ll dictate: In this refulgent season, when the barred clouds bloom the soft dying day, it is pleasant to wander by the purple hedgerows where the stars of the (What d.a.m.ned flower is it that twinkles now? What do you say? Ragged Robin?
Not poetic enough. Clematis? That"ll do. d.a.m.n it, ride on!)--the stars of the clematis modestly twinkle, and the trailing--(What the h---- is it that trails? Honeysuckle? Good. Weigh in!)--trailing honeysuckle flings down that rich scent that falls like sweet music on the nerves.""
And so on. He managed in this way to turn out the regulation column of flummery, but I knew it could not last. And now he had come to be a sot and an outcast. Worse has befallen him. He screwed up his nerve to write an article in the old style, and I helped him by acting as amanuensis.
He violently attacked an editor who had persistently befriended him; then he wrote a London Letter for that editor"s paper; then he sent the violent attack away in the envelope intended for the letter. There was a terrible quarrel.
So far did the Gentleman, the Doctor, and d.i.c.ky come down. I may say that d.i.c.ky, the companion of statesmen, the pride of his university, died of cold and hunger in a cellar in the Borough. Oh, young man, boast not of thy strength!
POACHERS AND NIGHTBIRDS.
The Chequers stands in a very nasty place, yet we are within easy distance of a park which swarms with game. This game is preserved for the amus.e.m.e.nt of a royal duke, who is kind enough to draw about twelve thousand a year from the admiring taxpayer. He has not rendered any very brilliant service to his adopted country, unless we reckon his nearly causing the loss of the battle of Alma as a national benefit. He wept piteously during the battle of Inkerman when the Guards got into a warm corner, but, although he is pleasingly merciful towards Russians, he is most courageous in his a.s.saults on pheasants and rabbits, and the country provides him with the finest sporting ground in England. I should not like to say how many men make money by poaching in the park, but we have a regular school of them at The Chequers, and they seem to pick up a fair amount of drink money. The temptation is great. Every one of these poaching fellows has the hunter"s instinct strongly developed, and neither fines nor gaol can frighten them. The keepers catch one after another, but the work goes on all the same. You cannot stop men from poaching, and there is an end of the matter. You may shout yourself hoa.r.s.e in trying to bring a greyhound to heel after he sights a hare; but the dog _cannot_ obey you, for he is an automaton. The human predatory animal has his share of reason, but he also is automatic to some degree, and he will hunt in spite of all perils and all punishments when he sights his prey. One comic old rascal whom I know well has been caught thirty times and imprisoned eight times. While he is in gaol he always occupies himself in composing songs in praise of poaching, and on the evening of his release he is invariably called on to furnish the company in the tap-room with his new composition. He cannot read or write, but he learns his songs by heart, and I have taken down a large number of them from his own lips. The things are much like Jemmy Catnach"s stuff, so far as rhyme and rhythm are concerned, but they are interesting on account of the sly exultation that runs through them.
In one poem the lawless bard gives an account of a day"s life in gaol, and his coa.r.s.e phrases make you almost feel the cold and hunger. Here are some sc.r.a.ps from this descriptive work:--
"Till seven we walk around the yard, There is a man all to you guard.
If you put your hand out so, Untoe the guv"nor you must go; Eight o"clock is our breakfast hour, Those wittles they do soon devour; Oh! dear me, how they eat and stuff, Lave off with less than half enough.
Nine o"clock you mount the mill, That you mayn"t cramp from settin" still.
If that be ever so against your will, You must mount on the traadin" mill.
There is a turnkey that you"ll find He is a raskill most unkind.
To rob poor prisoners he is that man, To chaate poor prisoners where he can.
At eleven o"clock we march upstairs To hear the parson read the prayers.
Then we are locked into a pen-- It"s almost like a lion"s den.
There"s iron bars big round as your thigh, To make you of a prison shy.
At twelve o"clock the turnkey come; The locks and bolts sound like a drum.
If you be ever so full of game, The traadin" mill it will you tame.
At one you mount the mill again, That is labour all in vain If that be ever so wrong or right, You must traade till six at night.
Thursdays we have a jubal fraa Wi" bread and cheese for all the day.
I"ll tell you raally, without consate, For a hungry pig "tis a charmin" bait.
At six you"re locked into your cell, There until the mornin" dwell; There"s a bed o" straw all to lay on, There"s Hobson"s choice, there"s that or none."
That is a bleak picture; but the old man winds up by bidding all his mates "go it again, my merry boys, and never mind if they you taake." He told me that on several occasions he was out ferreting, or with his lurcher, on the next night after coming out of prison. Can you keep such a fellow out of a well-stocked park? He likes the money that he gets for game, but what he likes far better is the wild pleasure of seeing the deadly dogs wind on the trail of the doomed quarry; he likes the danger, the strategy, the gambling chances.
One night I got this old man to drive me about for some hours. He is a smart hand with horses, and when I said, "Can you manage without lamps in this dark?"--he answered, "I could find my way for twenty miles round here if you tie my eyes up. There"s nary gate that my nets hasn"t been under; there"s hardly a field that I haven"t been chased on." As our trotter swung on, I found that the poacher a.s.sociated almost every gate and outhouse and copse with some wild story. For example, we pa.s.sed a clump of farm-buildings, and the poacher said; "I had a queer job in there. Three of us had had a good night--a dozen hares--and we got half-a-crown apiece for them, so we drank all day, and came out on the game again at night. We put down a master lot o" wires about eleven, and then we takes a bottle o" rum and goes to lie down on a load of hay.
Well, we all takes too much, and sleeps on and on. When I wakes, Lord, we was covered with snow, and a marcy we was alive. We dursn"t go for our wires in the daylight, and there we has to stand and see a keeper go and take out three hares, one after another. It was a fortnight before I had a chance of picking up the wires again, and we was about perished."
Cold, wet, and all other inconveniences are nothing to the poacher.
Presently my man chuckled grimly. "Had a near shave over there where you see them ar" trees. I had my old dorg out one night, and two commarades along with me. We did werra well at that gate we just pa.s.sed, so we tries another field. Do you think that there owd dorg "ud go in? Not he.
There never was such a one for "cuteness. We was all in our poachin"
clothes, faces blacked, women"s nightcaps on, and shirts on over our coats. Well, the light come in the sky, and I separates from my mates, for I sees the owd dorg put up a hare and coorse her. I follows him, and he gits up for first turn; then puss begins to turn very quick to throw the dorg out before she made her last run to cover. He was on the scut, the old rip--catch him leave her--and I gits excited, and, like a fool, I chevies him on. In a minute I sees a man running at me, and off I goes for the gate. Now, I could run any man round here from 300 yards up to a mile; but I knew I must be took at the gate, unless I could stop the keeper. I had a big stick with me--about six foot long it was--and did sometimes to beat fuzz with; so I takes the stick by one end. He come up very sharp, and I made up my mind to let him gain on me. As soon as I _feels_ him on me, I swings round, and the stick got him on the side of the head. He went flat down, and I got on to the road. I picked up my mates, and we washes our faces in a pond; then we leaves our clothes with one of the school, and walks off to the pub. Half an hour after, in comes the keeper and says, "See what some of you blackguards has done for me?" I stands him a drink and says how sorry, and we parted. Ah!
Years after that I was at a harvest supper with that keeper, and we talks of that affair. I says, "I"ll tell you now, I was the man as knocked you over," and he says, "Shake hands, Tom. It was the cleanest thing I ever saw done."
"Do you really like the game, then?"