MY ADVENTURE WITH A MERRY ROGUE
Here
With my beer
I sit,
While golden moments flit.
Alas!
They pass
Unheeded by;
And, as they fly,
I,
Being dry,
Sit idly sipping here
My beer.
Oh, finer far
Than fame or riches are
The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar!
Why
Should I
Weep, wail, or sigh?
What if luck has passed me by?
What if my hopes are dead,
My pleasures fled?
Have I not still
My fill
Of right good cheer,--
Cigars and beer?
I like inns, and I like old ale, and all the old curious glasses, mugs
and pewters which were so dear to our forefathers, and I begin this
chapter in this way to forestall any possible charges of heresy that my
narrative may call forth. I would almost go further, and say that my
affection for such things is wholly a private matter concerning only
myself, or, at least, no more than a few very intimate friends. That, I
think, is how sentimentalism should be conducted. When it is managed
otherwise, when it becomes a public thing, it becomes a public nuisance,
besides being contemptible. But, as I have gone so far, I might as well
go the length of admitting that I am addicted to the habit of collecting
old drinking vessels, and I have allowed the disease to get the upper
hand. I cannot pass a curio shop in which willow-pattern mugs, tapering
glasses and "leather bottels" are displayed without a burning longing to
possess them. I like to have these things about me, not merely as
ornaments or to drink from, but for---- Well, when I come to think of
it, I cannot quite say; there is not sufficient reason. That is enough
to brand me an incurable curio-hunter. Curios and ancient drinking
vessels are to me what the sea is to a sailor. It is a passion which has
become interwoven with my blood and fibre, and I can never again wholly
break loose from it.
But all this is by the way; the point is, why do I commence this chapter
by talking about such things?
For the reason that in this chapter I am going to tell of a singular
adventure in which a "black jack" loomed very solidly.
It happened at Morcombe Lake. I will not write of this place. You must
get it out of a guide-book, for the village is not a thing for fine
words; it stirred me in no way. But it shall not be said that Morcombe
Lake has not a small share of fame, for in this village is produced the
famous Dorset Knob Biscuit, without which no Dorset table is really
complete. Mr Moores, who "magics" butter, milk and sugar in his small
bake-house and brings forth these golden-brown "Knobs," informs me that
his family has been busy sending them out in tins for over a hundred
years.
I had walked from Bridport, passing through Chideock, with its
venerable-looking church beside the Castle Inn, and coming to Morcombe,
where there is a deep-eaved, comfortable, ramshackle, go-as-you-please
kind of a little inn, I could hear somebody singing inside. It was a
clear, mellow voice, and I listened to the cadences of the song with a
thrill of pleasure. It was a humorous trio, and the lonely singer
changed his voice for each verse with a largeness and confidence in his
vocal powers that quite carried me away. Indeed, it was a song which we
all should know, which runs:
"A little farm well tilled,
A little barn well filled,
A little wife well willed--
Give me, give me.
A larger farm well tilled,
A bigger house well filled,
A taller wife well willed--
Give me, give me.
I like the farm well tilled,
And I like the house well filled,
But no wife at all--
Give me, give me."
Entering, I saw one of the kind of men God loves. He was of middle age,
very honest and simple in the face, good-humoured and cheerful. He was
sitting before a tall, leather black jack--one of the finest specimens
of the old-fashioned leather jugs I have ever seen--quaffing his morning
ale from it. He paused from his song and lifted his wide straw hat in a
grandiloquent way.
[Illustration: The Lonely Singer]
"Good marning, sir! Fine marning's marning! Tez mortel 'ot ta-day," he
said, in a mellow voice, and he looked up at me with large, china-blue
eyes. I passed the time of day with him, but the fine leathern flagon
had already claimed all my attention; I had no eyes for anything else at
the moment. I dealt hotly with speculations over the ownership of the
flagon. Did it belong to the rustic or the innkeeper? Did they know its
value? This and a hundred other thoughts flashed through my mind. As I
stood there I dwelt avariciously upon thought of possession. I said to
myself: "I must have that flagon. I will buy. Beg it. Steal it, if
necessary." The desire to possess it consumed my soul.
"Wantee plaize to take a seat? The cider here be a prime sort, I
shuree!" said the rustic, breaking in upon my thoughts. He spoke very
slowly and, as I have said, had a nice mellow voice, and he did what
only honest men do--looked straight at me when he spoke.
"Surely," I said, and sat down beside him. "Pray excuse me," I
continued, waving my hand towards the leather jack, "but that is a
remarkable old drinking vessel."
"Thickee there is the ownly wan I ever see like it," said he, holding it
up and looking at it with admiration. "Yes, sir, it be a brave good mug,
and I have taken my cider and ale out of he for twenty year. It's just a
fancy of mine to bring it along with me when I drink. I tellee that mug
has been with my folk for two hundred years. Parson says it is just a
'miracle' of an old thing."
"Aha!" said I to myself, "the parson is after it too."
"They tell me," he said, "that it may be worth a pound or two. Well,
well! It is an old friend, and I should be loath to part with the cheel,
but----"
"But," I repeated eagerly.
"But," he continued, "things have been cruel bad with me o' late, and I
have thought, whatever is the good o' keeping it when like 'nuff we can
sell it for a pound or so and buy the chillern a few clothes against the
winter."
"True, true!" I said, trying to keep my excitement undermost. "But you
would only get a few shillings for it, I am afraid. Such things have no
market value."
"No market value?" he answered. "Well, I suppose I dunnow much
't-al-'bout-et!"
He mused for a few moments. I narrowly watched him out of half-closed
eyes--"Oh, yes; I was playing the old grey wolf, sure enough"--and said,
very carelessly: "I should hate drinking my ale out of a 'leather
bottel.' They may look picturesque, but I am certain the beer would
taste vile. I have no sympathy with the enthusiast who sang:
"'And I wish in heaven his soul may dwell
That first devised the leather bottel.'
However, I would not mind giving you a few shillings for it."
I happened to glance up as I said this. He sat there looking at me with
a troubled expression in his blue eyes.
He then said a number of things in broad Dorset, and the "tellees" and
"thickees" and "dallees" became unintelligible, but he meant that I
could but be joking when I said "a few shillings."
"Well, I won't disturb your peace of mind any more," I said. "We will
let the matter drop."
Then he stepped up close to me, put the black jack in my hand, and said,
with an appealing note in his voice: "Two hundred years in my family,
maister. Just say what you've a-mind to give me; only let it be a fair
price. I would not be so anxious to sell it, but my rent is a bit
behind, and I shall have to sleep with Miss Green----"
"Sleep with Miss Green?" I gasped, somewhat shocked.
"Sleep under the hedge, then," he continued, making the expression clear
to me. "Now, you see the fix I'm in, maister."
Then I was ashamed. Deep shame covered me, and I had a great revulsion
of feeling. How could I be so niggardly as to beat down this poor
fellow's price? Perhaps, after all, it was his only possession of any
value at all. I turned the jack over in my hands. It was strong and
black and very highly polished with age--and the curves and proportions
of it were exactly satisfying to the eye that looked upon it. It was a
benediction of a flagon....
I held it up, and said, "How much?"
"Aw! dally-buttons! Take it for two pounds," he said, "you nidden
begridge me that."
And he added, in passing, that two pounds made it a kind of gift to
me--just a token to signify it had changed hands: it was an act of pure
charity on his part.
"Then," I said, "thirty shillings," and he waved his hand about
genially, and remarked that it "twidden" be worth his while to stretch
out his hand for such a paltry sum.
So then I pulled out thirty shillings, and he pushed the flagon over to
me and took the money. Thus the bargain was struck.
So this being settled, and I eager for a drink of ale, called the
innkeeper, who was in another room. Beer was brought and my friend
insisted on paying for it.
I asked him about his wife and children. But I could get very little
from him, and that little in a low voice. I felt sorry for him, for I
understood that parting with his flagon had rather upset him. He seemed
as different as one could imagine from the singer I had seen when I
entered. He told me that his was a very old family in this place, and
his name was Ralph Copplestone. He also quoted the following adage to
strengthen his statement:--
"Crocker, Cruwys and Copplestone,
When the Conqueror came were all at home."
Before he left me, however, he had recovered his cheerfulness. He set
off down the road, and as he passed he began singing:
"Dorset gives us butter and cheese,
Devonshire gives us cream,
Zummerzet zyder's zure to please
And set your hearts a-dream;
Cornwall, from her inmost soul,
Brings tin for the use of man,
And the four of 'em breed the prettiest girls--
So _damme_, beat that if you can!"
Finally his voice, still singing, died away in the distance. I sat
before the flagon with a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with sadness.
The fresh breeze dropped, and it seemed as if the little inn parlour
grew dark and grey. He was a strange fellow!
It was not till the next day, in the late afternoon, when the air was
already full of the golden dust that comes before the fall of the
evening, that I came down Broad Street into Lyme Regis. In passing, I
was attracted by a little curiosity shop. The dusty window was full of
all sorts of things--red-heeled slippers, old bits of brass, quaint,
twisted candlesticks, blue enamel snuffboxes, jewellery--value and
rubbish being mixed in confusion together. And there right in the
fore-front was an exact counterpart of my black jack! It was truly an
amazing coincidence! I looked into the doorway, and saw the owner of the
shop, a very old gentleman. His face was a network of wrinkles, which
time so pleasantly writes on some old faces that they possess a
sweetness which even youth lacks. I made up my mind to seek information
from him about the flagon. He was examining a piece of china with a
magnifying-glass when I entered.
"Good evening--good evening!" he said, putting down the glass, and
looking up at me with a smile. "What can I show you, sir?"
The old man drew in his wrinkled lips expectingly.
"The odd black jack in your window," I said boldly.
The old man went to a corner of the window, and after much fumbling
produced the black jack, which he set upon the counter. As I examined it
he watched me in silence from beneath his penthouse brows. It was,
indeed, a facsimile of the one I had purchased from the rustic.
[Illustration: The River Buddle, Lyme Regis]
"It is not really antique. It is a very clever imitation, not more than
a few months old," came the old man's voice. He paused, the smile still
lighting his face. "A genuine specimen like this one is not to be found
anywhere--outside the museums." He lifted his arm with a peculiar
gesture that seemed to take in the whole world.
Outwardly I remained calm, swinging my foot nonchalantly against the
wooden panel of his counter. If I had burst out laughing that moment I
cannot think what the old curio-dealer would have thought, but it was
with difficulty that I restrained myself from doing so. Little did he
know that I had just picked up a genuine black jack for a mere song!
Then I told him, with gusto, my adventure with the rustic at the inn.
Suddenly he broke out:
"What was his name?"
"Copplestone--Ralph Copplestone," I replied.
"Why, he's the very rogue that sold me this one," said the old man,
shaking his simple head.
"Is that possible?" I said, and I jumped down from the counter where I
had perched myself. The strangest sensation came over me. I thought of
the honest, open face and the innocent blue eyes of my friend the
tavern-haunter.
The curio-dealer smiled quietly, sadly.
"Yes, he imposed upon me, too. He is a very clever rogue. A
harness-maker by trade, and all his people before him for three hundred
years have been of the same calling. So you see the secret of making a
black jack has been handed down from father to son. It is one of the
traditions of his family; a knowledge which is mingled with his blood
and fibre, so to speak. Such skill is older than five thousand years. He
has the spirit of the artist--but the soul of the rogue."
"Why," I said, "then if he is a rogue, then I'm a rogue too, for I knew
I was paying him a paltry sum for an article I thought to be worth ten
pounds--perhaps twenty."
So I laughed, and I've been laughing gloriously ever since--at myself,
at the merry rogue in the inn, at the silly old hypocritical world.
As I passed out of the dim old shop and walked down to the sea it came
over me, with a sudden feeling of satisfaction in my soul, that the sun
shone on Ralph Copplestone just as joyfully as it did on me, that the
good God had endowed him with strong arms and a mighty voice for songs.
"After all," I said to myself, "we are all rogues if we are only
scratched deep enough."