“Perfectly well,” said Francis; “I am standing in the presence of Torlough O’ Donahue, formerly captain in a foreign service, and at present resident in London for the express purpose of beating all the English—”

“And some of the Irish too, sir, if necessary,” said the captain with a menacing look.  “I do not like to be broken in upon as if I were a nobody.  However, as you are here, I suppose I must abide by it.  I am not so little of a gentleman as to be deficient in the rudiments of hospitality.  You may both of you sit down and make yourselves aisy.”

But this was no such easy matter, the only two chairs in the room being occupied by the captain and the other.  I therefore leaned against the door, while Ardry strolled about the apartment.

The captain might be about forty.  His head was immensely large, his complexion ruddy, and his features rough, coarse and strongly expressive of sullenness and ill-nature.  He was about the middle height, with a frame clumsily made, but denoting considerable strength.  He wore a blue coat, the lappets of which were very narrow, but so long that they nearly trailed upon the ground.  Yellow leathern breeches unbuttoned at the knee, dazzling white cotton stockings and shoes with buckles, adorned his nether man.

His companion, who was apparently somewhat older than himself, was dressed in a coarse greatcoat and a glazed hat exactly resembling those worn by hackneys.  He had a quiet, droll countenance, very much studded with carbuncles, and his nose, which was very long, was of so hooked a description that the point of it nearly entered his mouth.

“Who may this friend of yours be?” said the captain to Ardry, after staring at me.

“A young gentleman much addicted to philosophy, poetry and philology.”

“Is he Irish?”

“No, he is English; but I have heard him say that he has a particular veneration for Ireland.”

“He has, has he; by my shoul, then, all the better for him.  If he had not . . . Can he fight?”

“I think I have heard him say that he can use his fists when necessary.”

These last words seemed to have a rather quieting effect upon the captain, who at the commencement of the speech had grasped his pipe somewhat below the bowl and appeared by his glance to be meditating a lunge at the eye of his eccentric servant, who continued smoking and talking with great composure.  Suddenly replacing the end of his pipe in his mouth, the man turned to me, and in a tone of great hauteur said:—

“So, sir, I am told by your friend there, that you are fond of the humanities.”

“Yes,” said I, “I am very fond of humanity, and was always a great admirer of the lines of Gay:—

‘Cowards are cruel, but the brave
Love mercy and delight to save’.”

“By my shoul, sir, it’s an ignorant beast I’m thinking ye.  It was not humanity I was speaking of, but the humanities, which have nothing at all to do with it.”  Then turning to Frank, he demanded, “Was it not yourself, Mr. Francis Ardry, that told me, when you took the liberty of introducing this person to me, that he was addicted to philosophy, prosody, and what not?”

“To be sure I did,” said Frank.

“Well, sir, and are not those the humanities, or are you as ignorant as your friend here?”

“You pretend to be a humanist, sir,” said he to me, “but I will take the liberty of showing your utter ignorance.  Now, sir, do you venture to say that you can answer a question connected with the Irish humanities?”

“I must hear it first,” said I.

“You must hear it, must ye?  Then you shall hear it to your confusion.  A pretty humanist I will show you to be; open your ears, sir!”—

“The devil, the worms, and his children,” said I, “who are looking after three things which they can’t hope to get before he is dead—the children his property, the worms his body, and the devil his soul, as the man says a little farther on.”

The captain looked at me malignantly.

“Now, sir, are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“Wherefore?” said I.  “Have I not given the meaning of the poem?”

“You have expounded the elegy, sir, fairly enough; I find no fault with your interpretation.  What I mean is this: Are you not ashamed to be denying your country?”

“I never denied my country; I did not even mention it.  My friend there told you I was an Englishman, and he spoke the truth.”

“Sorrow befall you for saying so,” said the captain.  “But I see how it is, you have been bought; yes, sir, paid money, to deny your country; but such has ever been the policy of the English; they can’t bate us, so they buy us.  Now here’s myself.  No sooner have I sent this challenge to Bishop Sharpe by the hands of my hired servant, than I expect to have a hundred offers to let myself be beat.  What is that you say, sir?” said he, addressing his companion who had uttered a kind of inaudible sound—“No hopes of that, did you say?  Do you think that I could be bate without allowing myself to be bate?  By the powers!—but you are beneath my notice.”

“Well, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on me, “though you have cheek enough to deny your own country, I trust you have not enough to deny the merit of the elegy.  What do you think of the elegy, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff,” said I.

“Hear him!” said the captain looking about him.  “But he has been bought, paid money, to deny his own country and all that belongs to it.  Well, sir, what do you think of Carolan, Carolan the Great?  What do you think of his Receipt, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff, too.”

“Very well, sir, very well; but I hope to make you give me a receipt for all this before you leave.  One word more.  I suppose you’ll next deny that we have any poetry or music at all.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir; there is one piece of Irish poetry and music which meets your approbation!  Pray name the piece, sir.”

“Croppies Lie Down!”

The captain sprang to his feet like one electrified.

“What, sir?” said he.

“Croppies Lie Down!”

The captain dashed his pipe to shivers against the table; then tucking up the sleeves of his coat, he advanced to within a yard of me, and pushing forward his head somewhat in the manner of a bull-dog when about to make a spring, he said in a tone of suppressed fury: “I think I have heard of that song before, sir; but nobody ever yet cared to sing it to me.  I should admire to hear from your lips what it is.  Perhaps you will sing me a line or two.”

“With great pleasure,” said I:—

“There are many brave rivers run into the sea,
But the best of them all is Boyne water for me;
There Croppies were vanquished and terrified fled,
With Jamie the runagate king at their head.
      When crossing the ford
      In the name of the Lord,
The conqueror brandished his conquering sword;
Then down, down, Croppies lie down!’

“By the powers! a very pretty song, and much obliged am I to ye for singing it, more especially as it gives me an opportunity of breaking your head, you long-limbed descendant of a Boyne trooper.  You must deny your country, must ye? ye dingy renegade!—the black North, but old Ireland still.  But here’s Connemara for ye—take this—and this—Och, murther!—What have we got here . . .?”

* * * * *

“Who and what is this O’Donahue?” said I to Frank Ardry after we had descended into the street.

“Well,” said I, “I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there be, should not be settled in the ring.”

“Nor I either,” said Frank, “and I could wish my countrymen to choose none other than O’Donahue.  With respect to England and Bishop Sharpe . . .”

At that moment a voice sounded close by me: “Coach, your honour, coach?  Will carry you anywhere you like.”  I stopped, and lo the man of the greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side.

“What do you want?” said I.  “Have you brought me any message from your master?”

“Master?  What master?  Oh! you mean the captain.  I left him rubbing his head.  No, I don’t think you will hear anything from him in a hurry; he has had enough of you.  All I wish to know is whether you wish to ride.”

“I thought you were the captain’s servant.”

“Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about the Park, but he’s no master of mine—he doesn’t pay me.  Who cares?  I don’t serve him for money.  I like to hear his talk about Bishop Sharpe and beating the English—Lord help him!  Now, where do you wish to go?  Any coach you like—any coachman—and nothing to pay.”

“Why do you wish me to ride?” said I.

“Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain.  I think what he got will satisfy him for a time.  No more talk about Bishop Sharpe for a week at least.  Come, come along, both of you.  The stand is close by, and I’ll drive you myself.”

“Will you ride?” said I to Francis Ardry.

“No,” said Frank.

“Then come alone.  Where shall I drive you?”

“To London Bridge.”]

So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion.  The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall were to be seen.  I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity.  As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over.  When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse—a fascination: I had resisted it—I did not plunge into it.  At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life.  I looked wistfully at the eddies—what had I to live for?—what, indeed!  I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch—should I yield to the impulse—why not?  My eyes were fixed on the eddies.  All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or—Where was the impulse now?  I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it—I looked forward, far down the stream in the distance.  “Ha! what is that?  I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance—I stared—I stared—a Fata Morgana—it was gone—”

I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with the intention of returning home; just half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall.

“Well, mother,” said I, “how are you?”  The old woman lifted her head with a startled look.

“Don’t you know me?” said I.

“Nothing at all,” said I.

“Bad luck?”

“Yes,” said I, “bad enough, and ill usage.”

“Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” said I, sitting down on the stone bench; “I thought you had left the bridge—why have you changed your side?”

The old woman shook.

“What is the matter with you,” said I, “are you ill?”

“No, child, no; only—”

“Only what?  Any bad news of your son?”

“No child, no; nothing about my son.  Only low, child—every heart has its bitters.”

“That’s true,” said I; “well, I don’t want to know your sorrows; come, where’s the book?”

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before.  “Book, child, what book?”

“Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.”

“Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child—I have lost it, have left it at home.”

“Lost it,” said I; “left it at home—what do you mean?  Come, let me have it.”

“I ha’n’t got it, child.”

“I believe you have got it under your cloak.”

“Don’t tell any one, dear; don’t—don’t,” and the apple-woman burst into tears.

“What’s the matter with you?” said I, staring at her.

“You want to take my book from me?”

“Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what’s the matter?”

“Why, all about that book.”

“The book?”

“Yes, they wanted to take it from me.”

“Who did?”

“Well, go on.”

“My heart beats so.  Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them.  I couldn’t keep my stall for two days, I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn’t bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side.  Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged.”

“For what.”

“Why for stealing my book.”

“I thought you didn’t dislike stealing, that you were ready to buy things—there was your son, you know—”

“Yes, to be sure.”

“He took things.”

“To be sure he did.”

“But you don’t like a thing of yours to be taken.”

“No, that’s quite a different thing; what’s stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book; there’s a wide difference—don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I’m glad you do.  Would you like to look at the book?”

“Well, I think I should.”

“Honour bright?” said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes.

“Well then, dear, here it is,” said she, taking it from under her cloak; “read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth.  Don’t sit so near the edge—you might—”

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me.  I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and giving her another tanner, walked away.

Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to the publisher’s expectation, did not prove a successful speculation.  About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must for which there is no demand.  Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages.  The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else.  So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low.  Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield’s remark, that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low.

So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations—the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian—the inferior members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials.  Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious than ever.  My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication.

“Sir,” said the publisher, “what do you want the money for?”

“Merely to live on,” I replied; “it is very difficult to live in this town without money.”

“How much money did you bring with you to town?” demanded the publisher.

“And you have spent it already?”

“No,” said I, “not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.”

“Sir,” said the publisher, “I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!”

“On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?”

“Sir,” said the publisher, “you eat meat.”

“Yes,” said I, “I eat meat sometimes: what should I eat?”

“Bread, sir,” said the publisher; “bread and cheese.”

“So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it—it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am.  My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteen pence.  There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.”

“Then, sir, eat bread—bread alone.  As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir.  If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.”

However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date.  It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent., consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb.  So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away.  I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would.

Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff.  The reader has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning’s visit to the publisher.  I beg Taggart’s pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man—yet there was much in Taggart—and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way.

“Well, young gentleman,” said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, “how do you like authorship?”

“I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,” said I.

“What do you call authorship?” said Taggart.

“I scarcely know,” said I; “that is, I can scarcely express what I think it.”

“Shall I help you out?” said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me.

“If you like,” said I.

“To write something grand,” said Taggart, taking snuff; “to be stared at—lifted on people’s shoulders—”

“Well,” said I, “that is something like it.”

Taggart took snuff.  “Well,” said he, “why don’t you write something grand?”

“I have,” said I.

“What?” said Taggart.

“Why,” said I, “there are those ballads.”

Taggart took snuff.

“And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.”

Taggart took snuff again.

“You seem to be very fond of snuff,” said I, looking at him angrily.

Taggart tapped his box.

“Have you taken it long?”

“Three-and-twenty years.”

“What snuff do you take?”

“Universal mixture.”

“And you find it of use?”

Taggart tapped his box.

“In what respect?” said I.

“Have you been long here?”

“Three-and-twenty years.”

“Dear me,” said I; “and snuff brought you through?  Give me a pinch—pah, I don’t like it,” and I sneezed.

“Take another pinch,” said Taggart.

“No,” said I, “I don’t like snuff.”

“Then you will never do for authorship—at least for this kind.”

“So I begin to think—what shall I do?”

Taggart took snuff.

“You were talking of a great work—what shall it be?”

Taggart took snuff.

“Do you think I could write one?”

Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, however.

“It would require time,” said I, with half a sigh.

Taggart tapped his box.

“A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads—”

Taggart took snuff.

“If published would do me credit.  I’ll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher.”

Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.

Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry.  This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and upon the whole, lived in very good style.  Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty.  Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half-open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner.  The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door, but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, “Come in—come in by all means,” and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating.  Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons.

Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous.  After a pause, Francis recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable manner.  Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh.  “Ha, ha!” said the other, good humouredly, “you are laughing at me.  Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole, I think you improve.  But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four.”

Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half-bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed.

“Who is that gentleman?” said I to Francis Ardry as soon as we were alone.

“Oh, that is ---” said Frank smiling, “the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution.”

“And what need have you of elocution?”

After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing: “So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?”

“Well,” said I, “whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up—I love religious liberty.”

“We shall succeed,” said Francis Ardry; “John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself.”

“There is one thing,” said I, “connected with this matter which surprises me—your own lukewarmness.  Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable.”

“You would not have cause to complain of my indifference,” said Frank, “provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it.  The priests are the originators, ‘and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?’ so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read.  By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland.  I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly.  A strange fellow—a half-Italian, half-English priest,—who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a temporal guide—has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water, and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent.  Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics and religious movements, to a considerable distance.  And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her.”

By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some progress in translating the publisher’s philosophy into German.  But about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what other resource had I? another publisher?  But what had I to offer?  There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym; but then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff.  However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them.  One asked me if I had anything else—he was a snuff-taker—I said yes; and going home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded.  After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not do.  There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never opened it.

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being—to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour.  One day, on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of paper.

“Sir,” said he, “you know nothing of German; I have shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it is utterly unintelligible to them.”  “Did they see the Philosophy?” I replied.  “They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand English.”  “No more do I,” I replied, “if that Philosophy be English.”

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!

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 repeated 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 mid-winter, 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.”

Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed: “Is it possible that you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of comfort so long?”

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 talk like a fool,” said I, “riches and poverty are only different forms of necessity.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all.”

“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 further 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.”

“You have read it? is it a nice book—all true?”

“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.”

“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 calf-skin.”

“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?”

“Well, dear,” said the old woman, “do as you please; I should like to see the—what do you call it?—Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true.”

“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 scrutinizingly 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.”

In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had intrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket.  I went to several shops, and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty.  When, however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined treating with me, saying that they did not do business in that way.  At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw written, “Books bought and exchanged”: there was a smartish young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers.  “You exchange?” said I.  “Yes,” said he, “sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?”  “A Bible,” said I.  “Ah,” said he, “there’s a great demand for Bibles just now; all kinds of people are become very pious of late,” he added, grinning at me; “I am afraid I can’t do business with you, more especially as the master is not at home.  What book have you brought?”  Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter.  The young fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into a loud laugh.  “What do you laugh for?” said I, angrily, and half clenching my fist.  “Laugh!” said the young fellow; “laugh! who could help laughing?”  “I could,” said I; “I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this book for a Bible.”  “You do?” said the young fellow; “well, I daresay there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared.  I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either.  Master’s a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I’d buy it of you, but, to tell you the truth, I am quite empty here,” said he, pointing to his pocket, “so I am afraid we can’t deal.”

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.

Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men—he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion.

“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.

“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—”

“Hey!” said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped.  But with that “Hey” the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door.

There was silence for about a minute—the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder.

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.”