Lavengro

Progress—Glorious John—Utterly Unintelligible—What a Difference!

The publisher was furious—I was silent.  For want of a pinch of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff, to those who can’t take it, silent contempt; at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation.  To be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!

The Old Spot—A Long History—Thou Shalt Not Steal—No Harm—Education—Necessity—Foam on Your Lip—Apples and Pears—What Will You Read?—Metaphor—The Fur Cap—I Don’t Know Him.

It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned to the other side of the bridge, to her place in the booth where I had originally found her.  This she had done after frequent conversations with me; “She liked the old place best,” she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which she experienced when the boys ran away with her book.  So I sat with her at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages.  I had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit of doing.  I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal.  “You may keep it, dear,” said the old woman, with a sigh; “you may carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own.”

Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again; also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to her.  Porter and beef-steaks were no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter.

“Ah,” said I, “you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health.”  I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected with her youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind.  There were certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, “Thou shalt not steal.”

But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on the words, “Thou shalt not steal;” she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with her.

On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her son.  That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing; her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though poor.

“Necessity!” I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints.

“Ah, it is a bad thing,” said the old woman.

“What is a bad thing?” said I.

“Why, to be poor, dear.”

“You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother a fool.”

“You are not my mother,” said I.

“Not your mother, dear?—no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool—and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip.”

“After all, I don’t know that you are not my mother.”

“Don’t you, dear?  I’m glad of it; I wish you would make it out.”

“How should I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth?  Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist.”

“What people, dear?”

“You and I.”

“Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so.”

“Don’t abuse it,” said I; “the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists.”

“I wish it did not,” said the old woman; “but it shan’t long; I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river—the voices at night tell me to do so.”

“Tell the voices,” said I, “that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?”

“All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.”

“Anything at all!  Why, a’n’t we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my—”

“Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say—I don’t know; all is a mystery, a deep question.  It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear.”

“Don’t talk so, dear.”

“I won’t; we will suppose that we all exist—world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?”

“Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.”

“I have read it, and have no farther use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books.”

“Then I will fling it into the river.”

“Don’t do that; here, give it me.  Now, what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it.”

“I am so no longer.”

“But how will you pass your time; what will you read?”

“I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school: the primer or the other.”

“What was the other?”

“I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus.”

“Ah, I know it.”

“True, true—I don’t know what to say; but if the world be true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don’t see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true.  By the bye, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book.”

“What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?”

“Yes, the language of those who bring you things.”

“The language of those who did, dear; they bring them now no longer.  They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calfskin.”

“That’s metaphor,” said I; “English, but metaphorical; what an odd language!  So you would like to have a Bible,—shall I buy you one?”

“I am poor, dear—no money since I left off the other trade.”

“Well, then, I’ll buy you one.”

“No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know—I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.”

“That will never do,” said I, “more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do—try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?”

“Yes,” said I, “seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt—I seem to think—these apples and pears seem to be—and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other.”

A person had stopped before the apple-woman’s stall, and was glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle stature; his features were keen, but rather hard; there was a slight obliquity in his vision.  Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinisingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of Southwark.

“Do you know who that man is?” said I to the old woman.

“No,” said she, “except that he is one of my best customers: he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day.  I don’t know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking men—Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them.”

Bought and Exchanged—Quite Empty—A New Firm—Bibles—Countenance of a Lion—Clap of Thunder—A Truce with This—I Have Lost It—Clearly a Right—Goddess of the Mint.

Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, “What am I to do?” said I; “I really want a Bible.”

“Can’t you buy one?” said the young man; “have you no money?”

“Yes,” said I, “I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?”

Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange—which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success.

I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square; and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, “Bibles, and other religious books.”

At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I,—Bibles, doubtless.  I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament.  “Come, young lad,” said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, “put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one.”

Deal, thought I, deal,—the man seems to know what I am coming about,—and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room.  Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold.

“What is your business, young man?” said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion.

“I want a Bible,” said I.

“What price, what size?” said the precise-looking man.

“As to size,” said I, “I should like to have a large one—that is, if you can afford me one—I do not come to buy.”

“Oh, friend,” said the precise-looking man, “if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken—we—”

“I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing,” said I, “or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter.”

“Oh, we don’t barter,” said the precise man, “at least Bibles; you had better depart.”

“Stay, brother,” said the man with the countenance of a lion, “let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions.”

“Not I,” I exclaimed; “I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible—I don’t believe—”

At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly, “Were you about to say that you don’t believe in the Bible, young man?”

“No more than in anything else,” said I; “you were talking of convictions—I have no convictions.  It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible.”

“He seems to be insane,” said the prim-looking man; “we had better order the porter to turn him out.”

“I am by no means certain,” said I, “that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream.”

“Come,” said the lion-looking man, impatiently, “a truce with this nonsense.  If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point—you want a Bible?”

“I do,” said I, “but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.”

“And who is that person?”

“A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions,—heard voices, or thought she heard them—I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.”

“What has she sent to offer in exchange?” said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech.

“A book,” said I.

“Let me see it.”

“I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other; “perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection.  Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?”

I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket—the book was gone.

“What’s the matter?” repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.

“I have it not—I have lost it!”

“A pretty story, truly,” said the precise-looking man; “lost it!”

“You had better retire,” said the other.

“How shall I appear before the party who entrusted me with the book?  She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her,—appearances are certainly against me.”

“They are so—you had better retire.”

I moved towards the door.  “Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.”

“What is that?” said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously.

“The purchase of a Bible.”

“Purchase!” said I, “purchase!  I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?”

No answer.

“Yes,” I repeated, “I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection.  I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost . . . ” and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket.

The prim-looking man smiled: “I suppose,” said he, “that he has lost his money as well as book.”

“No,” said I, “I have not;” and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns.

“O noble goddess of the Mint!” as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, “great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man’s character!”

“Only half a crown for this Bible?” said I, putting down the money; “it is worth three;” and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase.

“Queer customer,” said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door—“don’t like him.”

“Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,” said he of the countenance of a lion.

The Pickpocket—Strange Rencounter—Drag Him Along—A Great Service—Things of Importance—Philological Matters—Mother of Languages—Zhats!

A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside.  Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a great-coat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, “My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket.”

The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling.  “You had better take up your book,” said I; “I can hold him.”  He followed my advice; and, taking up his pocket-book, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me.  Yes, I had seen him before—it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and great-coat.  “Well,” said I, at last, “what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?” nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling.  “Shall I let him go?”

“Go!” said the other; “go!  The knave—the rascal; let him go, indeed!  Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor.  Bring him along.”

“Oh, let me go,” said the other: “let me go; this is the first offence, I assure ye—the first time I ever thought to do anything wrong.”

“Hold your tongue,” said I, “or I shall be angry with you.  If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat me.”

“I never saw you before in all my life,” said the fellow, though his countenance seemed to belie his words.

“That is not true,” said I; “you are the man who attempted to cheat me of one-and-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said the other; “a confirmed thief;” and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; “I would fain see him hanged—crucified.  Drag him along.”

“Bid you let him go!” said the other almost furiously; “I command—stay, what was I going to say?  I was forgetting myself,” he observed more gently; “but he stole my pocket-book;—if you did but know what it contained.”

“Well,” said I, “if it contains anything valuable, be the more thankful that you have recovered it; as for the man, I will help you to take him where you please; but I wish you would let him go.”

The stranger hesitated, and there was an extraordinary play of emotion in his features: he looked ferociously at the pickpocket, and, more than once, somewhat suspiciously at myself; at last his countenance cleared, and, with a good grace, he said, “Well, you have done me a great service, and you have my consent to let him go; but the rascal shall not escape with impunity,” he exclaimed suddenly, as I let the man go, and starting forward, before the fellow could escape, he struck him a violent blow on the face.  The man staggered, and had nearly fallen; recovering himself, however, he said, “I tell you what, my fellow, if I ever meet you in this street in a dark night, and I have a knife about me, it shall be the worse for you; as for you, young man,” said he to me; but, observing that the other was making towards him, he left whatever he was about to say unfinished, and, taking to his heels, was out of sight in a moment.

The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and, after a word or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me.  Our discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters.

“What do you call bread in your language?” said I.

“You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I shan’t buy any more; it’s no language of mine, dear—they call bread pannam in their language.”

New Acquaintance—Wired Cases—Bread and Wine—Armenian Colonies—Learning Without Money—What a Language—The Tide—Your Foible—Learning of the Haiks—Old Proverb—Pressing Invitation.

Just as I was about to reply to the interrogation of my new-formed acquaintance, a man, with a dusky countenance, probably one of the Lascars, or Mulattos, of whom the old woman had spoken, came up and whispered to him, and with this man he presently departed,—not, however, before he had told me the place of his abode, and requested me to visit him.

The apartment above stairs, to which he led me, was large, with three windows, which opened upon the street.  The walls were hung with wired cases, apparently containing books.  There was a table and two or three chairs; but the principal article of furniture was a long sofa, extending, from the door by which we entered, to the farther end of the apartment.  Seating himself upon the sofa, my new acquaintance motioned to me to sit beside him, and then, looking me full in the face, repeated his former inquiry.  “In the name of all that is wonderful, how came you to know aught of my language?”

“There is nothing wonderful in that,” said I; “we are at the commencement of a philological age, every one studies languages: that is, every one who is fit for nothing else; philology being the last resource of dulness and ennui, I have got a little in advance of the throng, by mastering the Armenian alphabet; but I foresee the time when every unmarriageable miss, and desperate blockhead, will likewise have acquired the letters of Mesroub, and will know the term for bread, in Armenian, and perhaps that for wine.”

“Kini,” said my companion; and that and the other word put me in mind of the duties of hospitality.  “Will you eat bread and drink wine with me?”

“I like your bread,” said I, “for it is stale; I like not your wine; it is sweet, and I hate sweet wine.”

“It is wine of Cyprus,” said my entertainer; and, when I found that it was wine of Cyprus, I tasted it again, and the second taste pleased me much better than the first, notwithstanding that I still thought it somewhat sweet.  “So,” said I, after a pause, looking at my companion, “you are an Armenian?”

“Yes,” said he, “an Armenian born in London, but not less an Armenian on that account.  My father was a native of Ispahan, one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world.  In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with considerable success.  Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his property behind.  Travelling in the direction of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and where he eventually died, leaving behind a large property and myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian English woman, who did not survive my birth more than three months.”

And, when he had related to me his history, he expressed a desire to know something more of myself, whereupon I gave him the outline of my history, concluding with saying, “I am now a poor author, or rather philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world.”

“Learning without money is anything but desirable,” said the Armenian, “as it unfits a man for humble occupations.  It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends; I confess to you that your understanding something of my language weighs more with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocket-book the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that pocket-book papers and documents of considerable value.  Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm towards you, for I am proud of my language—as I indeed well may be—what a language, noble and energetic! quite original, differing from all others both in words and structure.”

“You are mistaken,” said I; “many languages resemble the Armenian both in structure and words.”

“For example,” said I, “the English.”

“The English?” said the Armenian; “show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian.”

“You walk on London Bridge,” said I.

“Yes,” said the Armenian.

“I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning.”

“True,” said the Armenian.

“Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with noise and foam?”

“What was it?” said the Armenian.  “What was it?—you don’t mean the tide?”

“Do I not?” said I.

“Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?”

“Much,” said I; “what is the tide?”

“The ebb and flow of the sea,” said the Armenian.

“The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?”

The Armenian gave a strong gasp; then, nodding his head thrice, “You are right,” said he; “the English word tide is the Armenian for sea; and now I begin to perceive that there are many English words which are Armenian; there is --- and ---, and there again in French there is --- and --- derived from the Armenian.  How strange, how singular!—I thank you.  It is a proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much influence over the languages of the world.”

“I have heard you mention that name before,” said the Armenian; “who is Mr. Petulengro?”

And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was.  The Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race.  “Don’t speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro,” said I, “nor of anything belonging to him.  He is a dark mysterious personage; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem—Mr. Petulengro—”

“You appear agitated,” said the Armenian; “take another glass of wine; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service to you.  Can you cast accounts?”

I shook my head.

“Keep books?”

“I have an idea that I could write books,” said I; “but, as to keeping them . . . ” and here again I shook my head.

“No,” said I, “all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible.”

“You have never read Z---?”

“No,” said I, “I have never read Z---.”

“I have a plan,” said the Armenian; “I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z--- in an English dress; you shall translate Z---.  If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z---.  He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers—his philosophy—”

“I will have nothing to do with him,” said I.

“Wherefore?” said the Armenian.

“There is an old proverb,” said I, ‘“that a burnt child avoids the fire.’  I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;” and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; “and who knows,” said I, “but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences.”

The Armenian smiled.  “You would find me very different from the publisher.”

“He is a Moldave,” said the Armenian; “the dog [and here his eyes sparkled] deserves to be crucified; he is continually making mistakes.”

The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z---, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes.  I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed.

What to Do—Strong Enough—Fame and Profit—Alliterative Euphony—Excellent Fellow—Listen to Me—A Plan—Bagnigge Wells.

What was I to do? turn porter?  I was strong; but there was something besides strength required to ply the trade of a porter—a mind of a particularly phlegmatic temperament, which I did not possess.  What should I do?—enlist as a soldier?  I was tall enough; but something besides height is required to make a man play with credit the part of soldier, I mean a private one—a spirit, if spirit it can be called, which will not only enable a man to submit with patience to insolence and abuse, and even to cuffs and kicks, but occasionally to the lash.  I felt that I was not qualified to be a soldier, at least a private one; far better be a drudge to the most ferocious of publishers, editing Newgate Lives, and writing in eighteenpenny Reviews—better to translate the Haik Esop, under the superintendence of ten Armenians, than be a private soldier in the English service; I did not decide rashly—I knew something of soldiering.  What should I do?  I thought that I would make a last and desperate attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym.

I returned an evasive answer.  The truth was, that for some time past my appearance, owing to the state of my finances, had been rather shabby; and I did not wish to expose a fashionable young man like Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neighbourhood, to the imputation of having a shabby acquaintance.  I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow; but, on that very account, I felt, under existing circumstances, a delicacy in visiting him.

It is very possible that he had an inkling of how matters stood, as he presently began to talk of my affairs and prospects.  I told him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed against their blindness to their own interest in refusing to publish my translations.  “The last that I addressed myself to,” said I, “told me not to trouble him again unless I could bring him a decent novel or a tale.”

“Well,” said Frank, “and why did you not carry him a decent novel or a tale?”

“Because I have neither,” said I; “and to write them is, I believe, above my capacity.  At present I feel divested of all energy—heartless, and almost hopeless.”

“I see how it is,” said Francis Ardry, “you have overworked yourself, and, worst of all, to no purpose.  Take my advice; cast all care aside, and only think of diverting yourself for a month at least.”

“Be that care on my shoulders,” said Francis Ardry.  “Listen to me—my uncles have been so delighted with the favourable accounts which they have lately received from T--- of my progress in oratory, that, in the warmth of their hearts, they made me a present yesterday of two hundred pounds.  This is more money than I want, at least for the present; do me the favour to take half of it as a loan—hear me,” said he, observing that I was about to interrupt him; “I have a plan in my head—one of the prettiest in the world.  The sister of my charmer is just arrived from France; she cannot speak a word of English; and, as Annette and myself are much engaged in our own matters, we cannot pay her the attention which we should wish, and which she deserves, for she is a truly fascinating creature, although somewhat differing from my charmer, having blue eyes and flaxen hair; whilst Annette, on the contrary . . . But I hope you will shortly see Annette.  Now, my plan is this—Take the money, dress yourself fashionably, and conduct Annette’s sister to Bagnigge Wells.”

“And what should we do at Bagnigge Wells?”

“Do!” said Francis Ardry.  “Dance!”

“But,” said I, “I scarcely know anything of dancing.”

“I never heard a more foolish plan,” said I, “or one less likely to terminate profitably or satisfactorily.  I thank you, however, for your offer, which is, I dare say, well meant.  If I am to escape from my cares and troubles, and find my mind refreshed and invigorated, I must adopt other means than conducting a French demoiselle to Brighton or Bagnigge Wells, defraying the expense by borrowing from a friend.”

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