It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that,
in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, the swifter
does it pass, until at last, as we approach the borders of the grave, it
assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river about to precipitate
itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the case, provided we can carry
to the grave those pleasant thoughts and delusions which alone render
life agreeable, and to which even to the very last we would gladly cling;
but what becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity
of human pursuits? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, dearest
hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed
secure. What becomes from that moment, I repeat, of the shortness of
time? I put not the question to those who have never known that trial;
they are satisfied with themselves and all around them, with what they
have done and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions with them to the
borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into it; a
beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such talk of the
shortness of time; through the medium of that cloud the world has ever
been a pleasant world to them; their only regret is that they are so soon
to quit it; but oh, ye dear deluded hearts, it is not every one who is so
fortunate!
To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. The
generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth, even to the
least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, for they are not only
disposed, but able to enjoy most things within their reach. With what
trifles at that period are we content; the things from which in after-
life we should turn away in disdain please us then, for we are in the
midst of a golden cloud, and everything seems decked with a golden hue.
Never during any portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than
during the two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which
we arrived in the preceding chapter. Since then it has flagged often
enough; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader
may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the circumstance of my
taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to write down the passages of my
life--a last resource with most people. But at the period to which I
allude I was just, as I may say, entering upon life; I had adopted a
profession, and--to keep up my character, simultaneously with that
profession--the study of a new language; I speedily became a proficient
in the one, but ever remained a novice in the other: a novice in the law,
but a perfect master in the Welsh tongue.
Yes! very pleasant times were those, when within the womb of a lofty deal
desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours every day, transcribing
(when I imagined eyes were upon me) documents of every description in
every possible hand, Blackstone kept company with Ab Gwilym--the polished
English lawyer of the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on
the rights of things--with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred
years before that time indited immortal cowydds and odes to the wives of
Cambrian chieftains--more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a
certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa
Bach--generally terminating with the modest request of a little private
parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no other witness than the
eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be
believed--rather a doubtful point--was seldom, very seldom, denied. And
by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so
exceedingly different, been thus brought together? From what the reader
already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me reading the
former; but what could have induced me to take up Blackstone, or rather
the law?
I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which account,
perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, the essence of
which is said to be ambiguity; most questions may be answered in a few
words, and this among the rest, though connected with the law. My
parents deemed it necessary that I should adopt some profession, they
named the law; the law was as agreeable to me as any other profession
within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that
Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab
Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lavengro.
So I sat behind a desk many hours in the day, ostensibly engaged in
transcribing documents of various kinds. The scene of my labours was a
strange old house, occupying one side of a long and narrow court, into
which, however, the greater number of the windows looked not, but into an
extensive garden, filled with fruit trees, in the rear of a large,
handsome house, belonging to a highly respectable gentleman, who,
_moyennant un douceur considerable_, had consented to instruct my
father's youngest son in the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah!
would that I could describe the good gentleman in the manner which he
deserves; he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in
the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable
marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye
wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below; to secure such
respectabilities in death, he passed a most respectable life. Let no one
sneer, he accomplished much; his life was peaceful, so was his death. Are
these trifles? I wish I could describe him, for I loved the man, and
with reason, for he was ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always
been shown; and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no
longer exists--a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would fain
describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do press forward
and keep him from my mind's eye; there they pass, Spaniard and Moor,
Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is that? what that thick pursy man
in the loose, snuff-coloured greatcoat, with the white stockings, drab
breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes? that man with the bull neck,
and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws,
but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small grey
eyes, replete with cat-like expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close,
and whose ear-lobes are pierced with small golden rings? Oh! that is not
my dear old master, but a widely different personage. _Bon jour_,
_Monsieur Vidocq_! _expressions de ma part a Monsieur le Baron Taylor_.
{115} But here comes at last my veritable old master!
A more respectable-looking individual was never seen; he really looked
what he was, a gentleman of the law--there was nothing of the pettifogger
about him. Somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in
person, he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long
enough to become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without
keenness; but the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of his
head, which was bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white,
smooth, and lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves,
probably because his black silk stockings never exhibited a wrinkle; they
might just as well have said that he waddled, because his shoes creaked;
for these last, which were always without a speck, and polished as his
crown, though of a different hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly.
I cannot say that I ever saw him walk fast.
He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very rich man, much
richer than he did, had he not been in the habit of giving rather
expensive dinners to certain great people, who gave him nothing in
return, except their company; I could never discover his reasons for
doing so, as he always appeared to me a remarkably quiet man, by nature
averse to noise and bustle; but in all dispositions there are anomalies.
I have already said that he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well
here add that he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked
exceedingly well.
So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents of various
kinds; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining ones,
there were others, some of whom likewise copied documents, while some
were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some
of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others,
like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which as
our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not
unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work intrusted to
our hands.
There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone,
I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I,
being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the
bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration
of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was
anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best
pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged
in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows
planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one
of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was
almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym.
Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on
my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my
history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a
poetical dissertation; no, no! I know my duty too well to introduce
anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and
amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea
that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab
Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have
dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have
no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really
great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the
present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first
became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick
volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my
hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very
strange chance. But before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be
permitted--I really must--to say a word or two about the language in
which he wrote, that same "Sweet Welsh". If I remember right, I found
the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived
unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon
found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue
which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older. And here I cannot
help observing cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this
Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain,
encountered words which, according to the lexicographers, were venerable
words, highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of
the Welsh, in which, however, they were no longer used in common
discourse, but were relics, precious relics, of the first speech of
Britain, perhaps of the world; with which words, however, I was already
well acquainted, and which I had picked up, not in learned books, classic
books, and in tongues of old renown, but whilst listening to Mr.
Petulengro and Tawno Chikno talking over their every-day affairs in the
language of the tents; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to
deep reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the deal
desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable that I should
have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very
superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym.
A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every
woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone--wild,
beautiful, solitary nature--her mountains and cascades, her forests and
streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy
pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or
ugly; little didst thou care for any of them, Dame Nature was thy love,
however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love-
message to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would
know? by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the
glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose
ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries
upwards through the flashing water. Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but
where is Morfydd the while? What, another message to the wife of Bwa
Bach? Ay, truly; and by whom?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of
the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the
mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor
ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power? But
where is Morfydd? And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the
wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees,
amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there. Quite
right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd? But another form is
nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the
mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest
thy bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just about
the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave,
which by thine own account reaches hell--and then thou ravest at the
misfortune of thy bow, and the non-appearance of Morfydd, and abusest
Reynard. Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou
merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described
him like thee? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of
melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil's in the
Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd; yes, she has stolen
from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee beneath those
rocks--she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym; but she is not long with
thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder shatters the rocks--Morfydd
flees! Quite right, Ab Gwilym; thou hadst no need of her, a better theme
for song is the voice of the Lord--the rock shatterer--than the frail
wife of the Bwa Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better
man than thou wouldst fain have had people believe.
But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed rapidly away; with
Ab Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I
experienced sensations akin to those I had felt of yore whilst spelling
my way through the wonderful book--the delight of my childhood. I say
akin, for perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder
and delight; and these I had already known.
[It was my own fault if I did not acquire considerable knowledge of life
and character, in the place to which my kind parents had sent me. I
performed the tasks that were allotted to me in the profession I had
embraced, if not very scrupulously, yet, perhaps as well as could be
expected in one who was occupied by many and busy thoughts of his own. I
copied what was set before me, and admitted those who knocked at the door
of the sanctuary of law and conveyancing, performing the latter office
indeed from choice, long after it had ceased to be part of my duty by the
arrival of another, and of course a junior, pupil.
I scarcely know what induced me to take pleasure in this task, yet there
can be no doubt that I did take pleasure in it, otherwise I should
scarcely have performed it so readily. It has been said, I believe, that
whatever we do _con amore_, we are sure to do well, and I dare say that,
as a general rule, this may hold good. One thing is certain, that with
whatever satisfaction to myself I performed the task, I was not equally
fortunate in pleasing my employer, who complained of my want of
discrimination and yet, strange as it may seem, this last is a quality
upon which I not only particularly valued myself at the time, but still
do in a high degree. I made a point never to admit any persons without
subjecting them to the rigorous investigation of the pair of eyes that
providence had been pleased to place in my head. To those who pleased me
not, I was little better than a Cerberus whom it was very difficult to
pass; whilst to others, I was all easiness and condescension, ushering
them straight to the sanctum sanctorum, in which, behind a desk covered
with letters and papers, stood--for he never sat down to his desk--the
respectable individual whose lawful commands to obey and whose secrets to
keep I had pledged myself by certain articles duly stamped and signed.
"This will never do," said he to me one day; "you will make me a
bankrupt, unless you alter your conduct. There is scarcely one of my
respectable clients but complains of your incivility. I speak to you, my
poor boy, as much on your own account as on mine. I quite tremble for
you. Are you aware of the solecisms you commit? Only yesterday you
turned Sir Edward from the door, and immediately after you admitted
Parkinson the poet! What an insult to a gentleman to be turned from the
door, and a strolling vagabond to be admitted before his eyes!"
"I can't help it," said I; "I used my best powers of discrimination; I
looked both full in the face, and the one struck me as being an honest
man, whilst the other had the very look of a slave driver."
"In the face? Bless me! But you looked at their dress, I suppose? You
looked at Sir Edward's dress?"
"No," said I, "I merely looked at his countenance."
"Which you thought looked like that of a slave driver. Well, he's been
in the Indies, where he made his fortune; so, perhaps, you may not be so
far out. However, be more cautious in future; look less at people's
countenances and more at their--I dare say you understand me: admit every
decent person, and if you turn away anybody, pray let it be the poet
Parkinson . . ."
Keeping the admonition of my principal in view, I admitted without word
or comment, provided the possessors had a decent coat to their backs, all
kinds of countenances--honest countenances, dishonest countenances, and
those which were neither. Amongst all these, some of which belonged to
naval and military officers, notaries public, magistrates, bailiffs, and
young ecclesiastics--the latter with spotless neck-cloths and
close-shaven chins--there were three countenances which particularly
pleased me: the first being that of an ancient earl, who wore a pig-tail,
and the back of whose coat was white with powder; the second, that of a
yeoman ninety years old and worth 90,000 pounds, who, dressed in an
entire suit of whitish corduroy, sometimes slowly trotted up the court on
a tall heavy steed, which seemed by no means unused to the plough. The
third was that of the poet Parkinson.
I am not quite sure that I remember the business which brought this last
individual so frequently to our office, for he paid us a great many
visits.
I am inclined to believe, however, that he generally carried in his
pocket a bundle of printed poems of his own composition, on the sale of
which he principally depended for his subsistence. He was a man of a
singular, though to me by no means unpleasant countenance; he wore an old
hat and a snuff-coloured greatcoat, and invariably carried in his hand a
stout cudgel like a man much in the habit of walking, which he probably
was, from the circumstance of his being generally covered with dust in
summer, and in winter splashed with mud from head to foot.
"You cannot see the principal to-day, Mr. Parkinson," said I to him once,
as unannounced he entered the room where I sat alone; "he is gone out and
will not return for some time."
"Well, that's unfortunate, for I want to consult him on some particular
business."
"What business is it? Perhaps I can be of service to you. Does it
relate to the common law?"
"I suppose so, for I am told it is a common assault; but I had better
wait till the gentleman comes home. You are rather too young; and
besides I have other matters to consult him about; I have two or three
papers in my pocket . . ."
"You cannot see him to-day," said I; "but you were talking of an assault.
Has any one been beating you?"
"Not exactly; I got into a bit of a ruffle, and am threatened with an
action."
"Oh! so you have been beating somebody."
"And if I did, how could I help it? I'll tell you how it happened. I
have a gift of making verses, as perhaps you know--in fact, everybody
knows. When I had sowed my little trifle of corn in the bit of ground
that my father left me, having nothing better to do, I sat down and wrote
a set of lines to my lord, in which I told him what a fine old gentleman
he was. Then I took my stick and walked off to ---, where, after a
little difficulty, I saw my lord, and read the verses to him which I had
made, offering to print them if he thought proper. Well, he was mightily
pleased with them, and said they were too good to be printed, and begged
that I would do no such thing, which I promised him I would not, and left
him, not before, however, he had given me a King James' guinea, which
they say is worth two of King George's. Well, I made my bow and went to
the village, and in going past the ale-house I thought I would just step
in, which I did. The house was full of people, chiefly farmers, and when
they saw me they asked me to sit down and take a glass with them, which I
did, and being called upon for a song I sang one, and then began talking
about myself and how much my lord thought of me, and I repeated the lines
which I had written to him, and showed them the James' guinea he had
given me. You should have seen the faces they cast upon me at the sight
of the gold; they couldn't stand it, for it was a confirmation to their
envious hearts of all I had told them. Presently one called me a
boasting fool, and getting up said that my lord was a yet greater fool
for listening to me, and then added that the lines I had been reading
were not of my own making. 'No, you dog,' said he, 'they are not of your
own making; you got somebody to make them for you.' Now, I do not mind
being called a boaster, nor a dog either, but when he told me that my
verses were not my own, I couldn't contain myself, so I told him he lied,
whereupon he flung a glass of liquor in my face, and I knocked him down."
"Mr. Parkinson," said I, "are you much in the habit of writing verses to
great people?"
"Great and small. I consider nothing too high or too low. I have
written verses upon the king, and upon a prize ox; for the first I got
nothing, but the owner of the ox at Christmas sent me the better part of
the chine."
"In fact, you write on all kinds of subjects."
"And I carry them to the people whom I think they'll please."
"And what subjects please best?"
"Animals; my work chiefly lies in the country, and people in the country
prefer their animals to anything else."
"Have you ever written on amatory subjects?"
"When young people are about to be married, I sometimes write in that
style; but it doesn't take. People think, perhaps, that I am jesting at
them, but no one thinks I am jesting at his horse or his ox when I speak
well of them. There was an old lady who had a peacock; I sent her some
lines upon the bird; she never forgot it, and when she died she left me
the bird stuffed and ten pounds."
"Mr. Parkinson, you put me very much in mind of the Welsh bards."
"The Welsh what?"
"Bards. Did you never hear of them?"
"Can't say that I ever did."
"You do not understand Welsh?"
"I do not."
"Well, provided you did, I should be strongly disposed to imagine that
you imitated the Welsh bards."
"I imitate no one," said Mr. Parkinson; "though if you mean by the Welsh
bards the singing bards of the country, it is possible we may resemble
one another; only I would scorn to imitate anybody, even a bard."
"I was not speaking of birds, but bards--Welsh poets--and it is
surprising how much the turn of your genius coincides with theirs. Why,
the subjects of hundreds of their compositions are the very subjects
which you appear to delight in, and are the most profitable to
you--beeves, horses, hawks--which they described to their owners in
colours the most glowing and natural, and then begged them as presents. I
have even seen in Welsh an ode to a peacock."
"I can't help it," said Parkinson, "and I tell you again that I imitate
nobody."
"Do you travel much about?"
"Aye, aye. As soon as I have got my seed into the ground, or my crop
into my barn, I lock up my home and set out from house to house and
village to village, and many is the time I sit down beneath the hedges
and take out my pen and inkhorn. It is owing to that, I suppose, that I
have been called the flying poet." . . . [_Wanting_.]
"It appears to me, young man," said Parkinson, "that you are making game
of me."
"I should as much scorn to make game of any one, as you would scorn to
imitate any one, Mr. Parkinson."
"Well, so much the better for us both. But we'll now talk of my affair.
Are you man enough to give me an opinion upon it?"
"Quite so," said I, "Mr. Parkinson. I understand the case clearly, and I
unhesitatingly assert that any action for battery brought against you
would be flung out of court, and the bringer of said action be obliged to
pay the costs, the original assault having been perpetrated by himself
when he flung the liquor in your face; and to set your mind perfectly at
ease I will read to you what Lord Chief Justice Blackstone says upon the
subject."
"Thank you," said Parkinson, after I had read him an entire chapter on
the rights of persons, expounding as I went along. "I see you understand
the subject, and are a respectable young man--which I rather doubted at
first from your countenance, which shows the folly of taking against a
person for the cast of his face or the glance of his eye. Now, I'll
maintain that you are a respectable young man, whoever says to the
contrary; and that some day or other you will be an honour to your
profession and a credit to your friends. I like chapter and verse when I
ask a question, and you have given me both; you shall never want my good
word; meanwhile, if there is anything that I can oblige you in--"
"There is, Mr. Parkinson, there is."
"Well, what is it?"
"It has just occurred to me that you could give me a hint or two at
versification. I have just commenced, but I find it no easy matter, the
rhymes are particularly perplexing."
"Are you quite serious?"
"Quite so; and to convince you, here is an ode of Ab Gwilym which I am
translating, but I can get no farther than the first verse."
"Why, that was just my case when I first began," said Parkinson.
"I think I have been tolerably successful in the first verse, and that I
have not only gotten the sense of the author, but that alliteration,
which, as you may perhaps be aware, is one of the most peculiar features
of Welsh poetry. In the ode to which I allude the poet complains of the
barbarity of his mistress, Morfydd, and what an unthankful task it is to
be the poet of a beauty so proud and disdainful, which sentiment I have
partly rendered thus:--
_Mine is a task by no means merry_,
in which you observe that the first word of the line and the last two
commence with the same letter, according to the principle of Welsh
prosody. But now cometh the difficulty. What is the rhyme for _merry_?"
"_Londonderry_," said the poet without hesitation, "as you will see by
the poem which I addressed to Mr. C., the celebrated Whig agriculturist,
on its being reported that the king was about to pay him a visit:--
_But if in our town he would wish to be merry_
_Pray don't let him bring with him Lord Londonderry_,
which two lines procured me the best friend I ever had in my life."
"They are certainly fine lines," I observed, "and I am not at all
surprised that the agriculturist was pleased with them; but I am afraid
that I cannot turn to much account the hint which they convey. How can I
possibly introduce Londonderry into my second line?"
"I see no difficulty," said Parkinson; "just add:--
_I sing proud Mary of Londonderry_
to your first line, and I do not see what objection could be made to the
couplet, as they call it."
"No farther," said I, "than that she was not of Londonderry, which was
not even built at the time she lived."
"Well, have your own way," said Parkinson; "I see that you have not had
the benefit of a classical education."
"What makes you think so?"
"Why, you never seem to have heard of poetical license."
"I see," said I, "that I must give up alliteration. Alliteration and
rhyme together will, I am afraid, be too much for me. Perhaps the
couplet had best stand thus:--
_I long have had a duty hard_,
_I long have been fair Morfydd's bard_.
"That won't do," said Parkinson.
"Why not?"
"Because 'tis not English. Bard, indeed! I tell you what, young man,
you have no talent for poetry; if you had, you would not want my help.
No, no; cleave to your own profession and you will be an honour to it,
but leave poetry to me. I counsel you as a friend. Good-morning to
you."]