AGREEABLE DELUSIONS--YOUTH--A PROFESSION--AB GWILYM--GLORIOUS ENGLISH
LAW--THERE THEY PASS--MY DEAR OLD MASTER--THE DEAL DESK--LANGUAGE OF THE
TENTS--WHERE IS MORFYDD?--GO TO--ONLY ONCE
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 greenwood 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 catlike 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. But here he 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 entrusted 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 everyday 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; 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.