CHAPTER XLII._The Romany Rye a sequel to "Lavengro"

A SHORT-TEMPERED PERSON--GRAVITATION--THE BEST ENDOWMENT--MARY

FULCHER--FAIR DEALING--HORSE-WITCHERY--DARIUS AND HIS GROOM--THE JOCKEY'S

TRICKS--THE TWO CHARACTERS--THE JOCKEY'S SONG.

The jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, as I have

stated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry tone, "This is

the third time you have interrupted me in my tale, Mr. Rye; I passed over

the two first times with a simple warning, but you will now please to get

up and give me the satisfaction of a man."

"I am really sorry," said I, "if I have given you offence, but you were

talking of our English habit of bestowing nicknames, and I could not

refrain from giving a few examples tending to prove what a very ancient

habit it is."

"But you interrupted me," said the jockey, "and put me out of my tale,

which you had no right to do; and as for your examples, how do you know

that I wasn't going to give some as old or older than yourn? Now stand

up, and I'll make an example of you."

"Well," said I, "I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt you, and I ask

your pardon."

"That won't do," said the jockey, "asking pardon won't do."

"Oh," said I, getting up, "if asking pardon does not satisfy you, you are

a different man from what I considered you."

But here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall form and

pipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, "Let there be

no dispute! As for myself, I am very much obliged to the young man of

Horncastle for his interruption, though he has told me that one of his

dirty townsmen called me 'Long-stockings.' By Isten! there is more

learning in what he has just said, than in all the verdammt English

histories of Thor and Tzernebock I ever read."

"I care nothing for his learning," said the jockey. "I consider myself

as good a man as he, for all his learning; so stand out of the way, Mr.

Sixfoot-eleven, or . . ."

"I shall do no such thing," said the Hungarian. "I wonder you are not

ashamed of yourself. You ask young man to drink champagne with you, you

make him dronk, he interrupt you with very good sense; he ask your

pardon, yet you not . . ."

"Well," said the jockey, "I am satisfied. I am rather a short-tempered

person, but I bear no malice. He is, as you say, drinking my wine, and

has perhaps taken a drop too much, not being used to such high liquor;

but one doesn't like to be put out of one's tale, more especially when

one was about to moralise, do you see, oneself, and to show off what

little learning one has. However, I bears no malice. Here is a hand to

each of you; we'll take another glass each, and think no more about it."

The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our glasses and

his own with what champagne remained in the bottle, put on his coat, sat

down, and resumed his pipe and story.

"Where was I? Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping Ned and Biting

Giles. Those were happy days, and a merry and prosperous life we led.

However, nothing continues under the sun in the same state in which it

begins, and our firm was soon destined to undergo a change. We came to a

village where there was a very high church steeple, and in a little time

my comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display my gift by

flinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who

stood at the four corners on the top, carved in stone. The parson,

seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his rectory to see what was going

on. After I had flung up the stones, letting them fall just where I

liked--and one, I remember, fell on the head of Mark, where I dare say it

remains to the present day--the parson, who was one of the description of

people called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let the

next stone I flung up fall into it. He wished, do you see, to know with

what weight the stone would fall down, and talked something about

gravitation--a word which I could never understand to the present day,

save that it turned out a grave matter to me. I, like a silly fellow

myself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height,

contrived so that it fell into the parson's hand, which it cut

dreadfully. The parson flew into a great rage, more particularly as

everybody laughed at him, and, being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, who

was likewise constable, to conduct me to prison as a rogue and a

vagabond, telling my comrades that if they did not take themselves off,

he would serve them in the same manner. So Ned hopped off, and Giles ran

after him, without making any gathering, and I was led to Bridewell, my

mittimus following at the end of a week, the parson's hand not permitting

him to write before that time. In the Bridewell I remained a month,

when, being dismissed, I went in quest of my companions, whom, after some

time, I found up, but they refused to keep my company any longer; telling

me that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more trouble

than profit; they had, moreover, filled up my place. Going into a

cottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country fellow making

faces to amuse his children; the faces were so wonderful that Hopping Ned

and Biting Giles at once proposed taking him into partnership, and the

man--who was a fellow not very fond of work--after a little entreaty,

went away with them. I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn't blame the

others for preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at all

times, but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing human. He

was called Ugly Moses. I was so amazed at his faces, that though poor

myself I gave him sixpence, which I have never grudged to this day, for I

never saw anything like them. The firm throve wonderfully after he had

been admitted into it. He died some little time ago, keeper of a public-

house, which he had been enabled to take from the profits of his faces. A

son of his, one of the children he was making faces to when my comrades

entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very rising one. He

has his gift--he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, but he has

something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quiet grin; he

would not have done to grin through a collar like his father, and would

never have been taken up by Hopping Ned and Biting Giles, but that grin

of his caused him to be noticed by a much greater person than either; an

attorney observing it took a liking to the lad, and prophesied that he

would some day be heard of in the world; and in order to give him the

first lift, took him into his office, at first to light fires and do such

kind of work, and after a little time taught him to write, then promoted

him to a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried and without

children, left him what he had when he died. The young fellow, after

practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in a few years,

helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to recommend him, he

became, as I said before, a rising barrister. He comes our circuit, and

I occasionally employ him, when I am obliged to go to law about such a

thing as an unsound horse. He generally brings me through--or rather

that grin of his does--and yet I don't like the fellow, confound him, but

I'm an oddity--no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is a

fellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face, but

with a look which seems to say I am an honest man, and what cares I for

any one. And an honest man he is, and something more. I have known

coves with a better gift of the gab, though not many, but he always

speaks to the purpose, and understands law thoroughly; and that's not

all. When at college, for he has been at college, he carried off

everything before him as a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they

call matthew mattocks. I don't know exactly what it is, but I have heard

that he who is first-rate at matthew mattocks is thought more of than if

he were first-rate Latiner.

"Well, the chap that I'm talking about, not only came out first-rate

Latiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too; doing, in fact--as I am

told by those who knows, for I was never at college myself--what no one

had ever done before. Well, he makes his appearance at our circuit, does

very well, of course, but he has a somewhat high front, as becomes an

honest man, and one who has beat every one at Latin and matthew mattocks;

and who can speak first-rate law and sense;--but see now, the cove with

the grin, who has like myself never been at college, knows nothing of

Latin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift of the gab, has

two briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, for that grin of his

curries favour with the juries; and mark me, that grin of his will enable

him to beat the other in the long run. We all know what all barrister

coves looks forward to--a seat on the hop sack. Well, I'll bet a bull to

fivepence, that the grinner gets upon it, and the snarler doesn't; at any

rate, that he gets there first. I calls my cove--for he is my cove--a

snarler; because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are called

snarlers, and for no other reason; for the chap, though with a high

front, is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, after

buying an animal out of my stable. I have often thought it a pity that

he wasn't born with a grin on his face, like the son of Ugly _Moses_. It

is true he would scarcely then have been an out and outer at Latin and

matthew mattocks, but what need of either to a chap born with a grin?

Talk of being born with a silver spoon in one's mouth! give me a cove

born with a grin on his face--a much better endowment.

"I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have talked as

much as folks do during a whole night in the Commons' House, though, of

course, not with so much learning, or so much to the purpose,

because--why? They are in the House of Commons, and we in a public room

of an inn at Horncastle. The goodness of the ale, do ye see, never

depending on what it is made of, oh, no! but on the fashion and

appearance of the jug in which it is served up. After being turned out

of the firm, I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shall

not trouble you with describing. I did not like any of them, however, as

they did not exactly suit my humour; at last I found one which did. One

Saturday forenoon, I chanced to be in the cattle-market of a place about

eighty miles from here; there I won the favour of an old gentleman who

sold dickeys. He had a very shabby squad of animals, without soul or

spirit; nobody would buy them, till I leaped upon their hinder ends, and

by merely wriggling in a particular manner, made them caper and bound so

to people's liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold at

very sufficient prices. The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill,

that he took me home with him, and in a very little time into

partnership. It's a good thing to have a gift, but yet better to have

two. I might have got a very decent livelihood by throwing stones, but I

much question whether I should ever have attained to the position in

society which I now occupy, but for my knowledge of animals. I lived

very comfortably with the old gentleman till he died, which he did about

a fortnight after he had laid his old lady in the ground. Having no

children, he left me what should remain after he had been buried

decently, and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings in

silver. I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time I

saved a hundred pounds. I then embarked in the horse line. One day,

being in the . . . market on a Saturday, I saw Mary Fulcher with a halter

round her neck, led about by a man, who offered to sell her for eighteen-

pence. I took out the money forthwith and bought her; the man was her

husband, a basket-maker, with whom she had lived several years without

having any children; he was a drunken, quarrelsome fellow, and having had

a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid of her by

putting a halter round her neck and leading her to the cattle-market, as

if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right to do; all women

being considered mares by old English law, and, indeed, still called

mares in certain counties, where genuine old English is still preserved.

That same afternoon, the man who had been her husband, having got drunk

in a public-house with the money which he had received for her,

quarrelled with another man, and receiving a blow under the ear, fell

upon the floor, and died of artiflex; and in less than three weeks I was

married to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular bans. I am told she was

legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a halter round

her neck; but, to tell you the truth, I think everybody should live by

his trade, and I didn't wish to act shabbily towards our parson, who is a

good fellow, and has certainly a right to his fees. A better wife than

Mary Fulcher--I mean Mary Dale--no one ever had; she has borne me several

children, and has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me, and to

be my faithful wife. Amongst other things, I begged her to have done

with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since.

"I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being a

person who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely. I always

make a point when a gentleman comes to me and says, 'Mr. Dale,' or

'John'--for I have no objection to be called John by a gentleman--'I

wants a good horse, and I am ready to pay a good price'--I always makes a

point, I say, to furnish him with an animal worth the money; but when I

sees a fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing to

circumvent me, what does I do? I doesn't quarrel with him; not I; but,

letting him imagine he is taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screw

for thirty pounds, not worth forty shillings. All honest respectable

people have at present great confidence in me, and frequently commissions

me to buy them horses at great fairs like this.

"This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landed

proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some great

prince in his own country, who had a long time ago been entertained at

the house of the landed proprietor, and the consequence is, that I brings

young six foot six to Horncastle, and purchases for him the horse of the

Romany Rye. I don't do these kind things for nothing, it is true; that

can't be expected; for every one must live by his trade; but, as I said

before, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, I have

discovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy;

though, as I also said before, when I'm along with thieves, I can beat

them at their own game. If I am obliged to do it, I can pass off the

veriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a child I had

found out by various means what may be done with animals. I wish now to

ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye. Certain folks have told me that

you are a horse witch; are you one, or are you not?"

"I, like yourself," said I, "know, to a certain extent, what may be done

with animals."

"Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in the

world for a flying drummedary?"

"By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel remained

in his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in a surprising

degree."

"And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter appear so

tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman of sixty, who

wanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him for fifty pounds?"

"By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which would

make him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the heart to

kick or bite anybody, for a season at least."

"And where did you learn all this?" said the jockey.

"I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the making

drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told the same

things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now tell me, do you bewitch

horses in this way?"

"I?" said the jockey; "mercy upon us! I wouldn't do such things for a

hatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels and hocussing! And

now let me ask you how you would spirit a horse out of a field?"

"How would I spirit a horse out of a field?"

"Yes! supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on taking

up the horse-stealing line of business."

"Why, I should . . . But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying

to pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from you

with respect to your art, before I tell you anything more. Now, how

would you whisper a horse out of a field, provided you were down in the

world, and so forth?"

"Ah, ah, I see you are up to game, Mr. Romany: however, I am a gentleman

in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the unhandsome thing to

anybody who has dealt fairly towards me. Now you told me something I

didn't know, and I'll tell you something which perhaps you do know. I

whispers a horse out of a field in this way: I have a mare in my stable;

well, in the early season of the year I goes into my stable . . . Well, I

puts the sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked. I takes my

bottle in my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by night, where there

is a very fine stag horse. I manage with great difficulty to get within

ten yards of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to run away.

I then uncorks my bottle, presses, my fore-finger to the sponge, and

holds it out to the horse; the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and

comes nearer. I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket. My

business is done, for the next two hours the horse would follow me

anywhere--the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him. Now is

that your way of doing business?"

"My way of doing business? Mercy upon us! I wouldn't steal a horse in

that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the world:

however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick somewhat similar

is described in the history of Herodotus."

"In the history of Herod's ass!" said the jockey; "well, if I did write a

book it should be about something more genteel than a dickey."

"I did not say Herod's ass," said I, "but Herodotus, a very genteel

writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel people, in a

language no less genteel than Greek, more than two thousand years ago.

There was a dispute as to who should be king amongst certain imperious

chieftains. At last they agreed to obey him whose horse should neigh

first on a certain day, in front of the royal palace, before the rising

of the sun; for you must know that they did not worship the person who

made the sun as we do, but the sun itself. So one of these chieftains,

talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would be

king, the fellow said, 'Why you, master, or I don't know much about

horses.' So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do, but

take his master's horse before the palace and introduce him to a mare in

the stable, and then lead him forth again. Well, early the next day all

the chieftains on their horses appeared in front of the palace before the

dawn of day. Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of him

who had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the animal within the

stable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings rang. His rider was

forthwith elected king, and a brave king he was. So this shows what

seemingly wonderful things may be brought about by a little preparation."

"It doth," said the jockey; "what was the chap's name?"

"His name--his name--Darius Hystaspes."

"And the groom's?"

"I don't know."

"And he made a good king?"

"First-rate."

"Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king the

groom would have made, through whose knowledge of 'orses he was put on

the throne. And now another question, Mr. Romany Rye: have you

particular words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?"

"You should ask me," said I, "whether I have horses that can be

aggravated or soothed by particular words. No words have any particular

power over horses or other animals who have never heard them before--how

should they? But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoyment

with particular words which they are acquainted with. I'll give you an

example. I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of

kicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a

particular tone; but that word was connected with a very painful

operation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had

frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been

under his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a moment by

another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind of

tone--the word was deaghblasda, or sweet tasted. Some time after the

operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow--who was

what the Irish call a fairy smith--had done all he could to soothe the

creature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of

which the cob became passionately fond. Invariably, however, before

giving it a button, he said, 'Deaghblasda,' with which word the cob by

degrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse the

cob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance,

he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would

be instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to give

him after using the word deaghblasda."

"There is nothing wonderful to be done," said the jockey, "without a good

deal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks stare and wonder at certain

things which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done;

and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples. Can

either of you lend me a handkerchief? That won't do," said he, as I

presented him with a silk one. "I wish for a delicate white

handkerchief. That's just the kind of thing," said he, as the Hungarian

offered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with

gold at the hems; "now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire."

"Don't let him do so by any means," said the Hungarian, speaking to me in

German; "it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would not

have it burnt for the world." "He has no occasion to be under any

apprehension," said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the

Hungarian had said; "I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name is

not Jack Dale." Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the left

side of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time had burnt very

low, and holding his head back, he applied the flame to the handkerchief,

which instantly seemed to catch fire. "What do you think of that?" said

he to the Hungarian. "Why, that you have ruined me," said the latter.

"No harm done, I assure you," said the jockey, who presently, clapping

his hand on his bosom, extinguished the fire, and returned the

handkerchief to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. "I see no

burn upon it," said the Hungarian; "but in the name of Gott how could you

set it on fire without burning it?" "I never set it on fire at all,"

said the jockey; "I set this on fire," showing us a piece of half-burnt

calico. "I placed this calico above it, and lighted not the

handkerchief, but the rag. Now I will show you something else. I have a

magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along my arm. But,

first of all, I would gladly know whether either of you can do the like."

Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into our pockets,

took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them run up our arms, but

utterly failed; both shillings, after we had made two or three attempts,

falling to the ground. "What noncomposses you both are," said the

jockey; and placing a shilling on the end of the fingers of his right

hand he made strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the

shilling instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and

jumping as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards the

head of the jockey.

"How do I do that?" said he, addressing himself to me. "I really do not

know," said I, "unless it is by the motion of your arm." "The motion of

my nonsense," said the jockey, and, making a dreadful grimace, the

shilling hopped upon his knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climb

his breast. "How is that done?" said he again. "By witchcraft, I

suppose," said I. "There you are right," said the jockey; "by the

witchcraft of one of Miss Berners' hairs; the end of one of her long

hairs is tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the other

end goes round my neck by means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my

head, the shilling follows it. I suppose you wish to know how I got the

hair," said he, grinning at me. "I will tell you. I once, in the course

of my ridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long

hair, and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get

off my horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter

into conversation with her. After giving her the sele of the day, and

complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one of the threads;

whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me fellow, told me to

take myself off. 'I must have a hair first,' said I, making a snatch at

one. I believe I hurt her; but, whether I did or not, up she started,

and, though her hair was unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had in

my life. Lor! how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held me

round the neck with her left arm; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on my

knees, which she gave me in a moment when she saw me in that condition,

being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her pardon,

but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put through a shilling,

with which I have on evenings after fairs, like this, frequently worked

what seemed to those who looked on downright witchcraft, but which is

nothing more than pleasant deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to

testify my regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair. I think

you have a kind of respect for Miss Berners; but whether you have or not,

keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of the

finest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle. I

believe I have told you my history," said he--"no, not quite; there is

one circumstance I had passed over. I told you that I have thriven very

well in business, and so I have upon the whole: at any rate, I find

myself comfortably off now. I have horses, money, and owe nobody a

groat; at any rate, nothing but what I could pay to-morrow. Yet I have

had my dreary day, ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in the

world. All of a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to go

wrong with me--horses became sick or died, people who owed me money broke

or ran away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went against me;

and not from any mismanagement of my own. I looked round for help,

but--what do you think? nobody would help me. Somehow or other it had

got abroad that I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to

avoid me, as if I had got the plague. Those who were always offering me

help when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble, talked of

arresting me. Yes, two particular friends of mine, who had always been

offering me their purses when my own was stuffed full, now talked of

arresting me, though I only owed the scoundrels a hundred pounds each;

and they would have done so, provided I had not paid them what I owed

them; and how did I do that? Why, I was able to do it because I found a

friend--and who was that friend? Why, a man who has since been hung, of

whom everybody has heard, and of whom everybody for the next hundred

years will occasionally talk.

"One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had occasionally

met at sporting-dinners. He came to look after a Suffolk Punch, the best

horse, by-the-bye, that anybody can purchase to drive, it being the only

animal of the horse kind in England that will pull twice at a dead

weight. I told him that I had none at that time that I could recommend;

in fact, that every horse in my stable was sick. He then invited me to

dine with him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the

hope of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner, during which

he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, he asked

me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened by the wine

he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without reserve. With an

oath or two for not having treated him at first like a friend, he said he

would soon set me all right; and pulling out two hundred pounds, told me

to pay him when I could. I felt as I never felt before; however, I took

his notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was right again,

and had returned him his money. On paying it to him, I said that I had

now a Punch which would just suit him, saying that I would give it to

him--a free gift--for nothing. He swore at me; telling me to keep my

Punch, for that he was suited already. I begged him to tell me how I

could requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadful

oath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when his time was

come. I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word. The

night before the day he was hanged at H . . ., I harnessed a Suffolk

Punch to my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered to him, which I

have ever since kept, and which brought me and this short young man to

Horncastle, and in eleven hours I drove that Punch one hundred and ten

miles. I arrived at H . . . just in the nick of time. There was the

ugly jail--the scaffold--and there upon it stood the only friend I ever

had in the world. Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the

midst of the crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for,

I stood up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted, 'God Almighty bless

you, Jack!' The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me--for his

face was always somewhat grim, do you see--nodded and said, or I thought

I heard him say, 'All right, old chap.' The next moment . . . my eyes

water. He had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines,

lost his half-pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the

throat of a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he had

good qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the bad

things laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to

fight cross, as it was said he did, on the day of the awful

thunder-storm. Ned Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was

not what's called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he

could put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was two

inches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently his

right fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself round, and

put in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take away the senses

of anybody in the world. It was by putting in that blow in his second

fight with Spring that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack in

the first battle, but in the second Ned Painter--for that was his real

name--contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring;

and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver.

"Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those

who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many a

good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get

the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single

good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so.

You ask the reason why, perhaps. I'll tell you: the lack of a certain

quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve

him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing that

can bring him to the gallows. In my rough way I'll draw their characters

from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not the best

character of the two. Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond of fighting,

going a birds'-nesting, but I never heard he did anything particularly

cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher's dog's tail;

whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast, and when a boy

would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set them running on the ice

and in the snow, and was particularly fond of burning cats alive in the

fire. Jack, when a lad, gets a commission on board a ship as an officer

of horse marines, and in two or three engagements behaves quite up to the

mark--at least of a marine; the marines having no particular character

for courage, you know--never having run to the guns and fired them like

madmen after the blue jackets had had more than enough. Oh, dear me, no!

My lord gets into the valorous British army, where cowardice--oh, dear

me!--is a thing almost entirely unknown; and being on the field of

Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending

to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on the sick list--a pretty

excuse--hurting his back--for not being present at such a fight. Old

Benbow, after part of both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight,

made the carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and

continued on deck cheering his men till he died. Jack returns home, and

gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets

his living by the ring, and the turf, and gambling, doing many an odd

kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to his charge. My

lord does much the same without the excuse for doing so which Jack had,

for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and a black, only in a more

polished way, and with more cunning, and I may say success, having done

many a rascally thing never laid to his charge. Jack at last cuts the

throat of a villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world, and

who, I am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw and

white feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly taking

away a man's life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad?

Whitefeather will cut no person's throat--I will not say who has cheated

him, for, being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobody

cheats him, but he'll do something quite as bad; out of envy to a person

who never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever and

respected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by backbiting and

every unfair means, to do that person a mortal injury. But Jack is

hanged, and my lord is not. Is that right? My wife, Mary Fulcher--I beg

her pardon, Mary Dale--who is a Methodist, and has heard the mighty

preacher, Peter Williams, says some people are preserved from hanging by

the grace of God. With her I differs, and says it is from want of

courage. This Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack's courage, and

with one tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago,

for he has ten times Jack's malignity. Jack was hanged because, along

with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow is

not, because with all Jack's bad qualities, and many more, amongst which

is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. Think of a fellow

like that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a distressed fellow-

creature; why, he would rob, but for the law and the fear it fills him

with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying is--and has been

heard to say that he would not trust his own father for sixpence, and he

can't imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever given. I never

heard a person give him a good word--stay, stay, yes! I once heard an

old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of receiving

company gracefully, and dismissing them without refreshment. I don't

wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of that

compliment. Well, he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not quite

enviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard ones--everybody

knows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him with so doing;

whilst he has been rejected by a woman--what a mortification to the low

pride of which the scoundrel has plenty! There's a song about both

circumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It's

a funny kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant or

Deputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it's

past one." The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung the

following song:--

THE JOCKEY'S SONG.

Now list to a ditty both funny and true!--

Merrily moves the dance along--

A ditty that tells of a coward and screw,