CHAPTER III
WHEREIN THE READER SHALL FIND SOME DESCRIPTION OF AN EXTRAORDINARYTINKER
I went at a good, round pace, being determined to cover as muchdistance as possible ere dawn, since I felt assured that so soon as myindomitable aunt Julia discovered my departure she would immediatelyhead a search party in quest of me; for which cogent reason Idetermined to abandon the high road as soon as possible and go by lessfrequented byways.
A distant church clock chimed the hour and, pausing to hearken, Ithrilled as I counted eleven, for, according to the laws which hadordered my life hitherto, at this so late hour I should have beenblissfully asleep between lavender-scented sheets. Indeed my lovedaunt abhorred the night air for me, under the delusion that I sufferedfrom a delicate chest; yet here was I out upon the open road andeleven o'clock chiming in my ears. Thus as I strode on into theunknown I experienced an exhilarating sense of high adventure unknowntill now.
It was a night of brooding stillness and the moon, high-risen, touchedthe world about me with her magic, whereby things familiar becametransformed into objects of wonder; tree and hedgerow took on shapesstrange and fantastic; the road became a gleaming causeway whereon Iwalked, godlike, master of my destiny. Beyond meadow and cornfield toright and left gloomed woods, remote and full of mystery, in whoseenchanted twilight elves and fairies might have danced or slenderdryads peeped and sported. Thus walked I in an ecstasy, scanning witheager eyes the novel beauties around me, my mind full of the poeticimaginations conjured up by the magic of this midsummer night, so thatI yearned to paint it, or set it to music, or write it into adequatewords; and knowing this beyond me, I fell to repeating Milton's nobleverses the while:
"I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wand'ring moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way."
After some while I espied a stile upon my right and climbing this, Icrossed a broad meadow to a small, rustic bridge spanning a streamthat flowed murmurous in the shade of alder and willow. Being uponthis bridge, I paused to look down upon these rippling waters and towatch their flash and sparkle where the moon caught them.
And hearkening to the melodious voice of this streamlet, I began tounderstand how great poems were written and books happened. At last Iturned and, crossing the bridge, went my way, pondering on Death, ofwhich I knew nothing, and on Life, of which I knew little more, and soat last came to the woods.
On I went amid the trees, following a grassy ride; but as I advanced,this grew ever narrower and I walked in an ever-deepening gloom,wherefore I turned about, minded to go back, but found myself quitelost and shut in, what with the dense underbrush around me and thetwisted, writhen branches above, whose myriad leaves obscured themoon's kindly beam. In this dim twilight I pushed on then, as well asI might, often running foul of unseen obstacles or pausing to loose mygarments from clutching thorns. Sudden there met me a wind, dank andchill, that sighed fitfully near and far, very dismal to hear.
And now, as I traversed the gloom of these leafy solitudes, what mustcome into my head but murders, suicides and death in lonely places. Iremembered that not so long ago the famous Buck and Corinthian SirMaurice Vibart had been found shot to death in just such anotherdesolate place as this. And there was my own long-dead father!
"They fought in a little wood not so far from here!"
These, my uncle George's words, seemed to ring in my ears and,shivering, I stopped to glance about me full of sick apprehension. Forall I knew, this might be the very wood where my youthful father hadstaggered and fallen, to tear at the tender grass with dying fingers;these sombre, leafy aisles perhaps had echoed to the shot--his gaspingmoan that had borne his young spirit up to the Infinite! At thisthought, Horror leapt upon me, wherefore I sought to flee these gloomyshades, only to trip and fall heavily, so that I lay breathless andhalf-stunned, and no will to rise.
It was at this moment, lying with my cheek against Mother Earth, thatI heard it,--a strange, uncanny sound that brought me to my hands andknees, peering fearfully into the shadows that seemed to be deepeningabout me moment by moment.
With breath held in check I crouched there, straining my ears for arepetition of this unearthly sound that was like nothing I had everheard before,--a quick, light, tapping chink, now in rhythm, now out,now ceasing, now recommencing, so that I almost doubted but that thiswood must be haunted indeed.
Suddenly these foolish apprehensions were quelled somewhat by thesound of a human voice, a full, rich voice, very deep and sonorous,upraised in song; and this voice being so powerful and the night sostill, I could hear every word.
"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I, A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die; If the King in his crown would change places wi' me I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he: 'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I, A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll'--"
The voice checked suddenly and I cowered down again as in upon merushed the shadows, burying me in a pitchy gloom so that my fearsracked me anew, until I bethought me this sudden darkness could be nomore than a cloud veiling the moon, and I waited, though veryimpatiently, for her to light me again.
Now as I crouched there, I beheld a light that was not of the moon,but a red and palpitant glow that I judged must be caused by a fire atno great distance; therefore I arose and made my way towards it aswell as I could for the many leafy obstacles that beset my way. Andthus at last I came upon a glade where burned a fire and beyond this,flourishing a tin kettle in highly threatening fashion, stood a small,fierce-eyed man.
"Hold hard!" quoth he in mighty voice, peering at me over the fire."I've a blunderbuss here and two popps, so hold hard or I'll be forcedto brain ye wi' this here kettle. Now then--come forward slow, mycovey, slow, and gi'e us a peep o' you _churi_--step cautious nowor I'll be the gory death o' you!"
Not a little perturbed by these ferocious expressions, I advancedslowly and very unwillingly into the firelight and, halting well outof his reach, spoke in tone as conciliatory as possible.
"Pray pardon my intrusion, but--"
"Your what?" he demanded, while his quick, bright eyes roved over myshrinking person.
"Intrusion," I repeated, "and now, if you will kindly allow--"
"Intrusion," quoth he, mouthing the word, "intrusion! Why, here's oneas don't come my way often! Intrusion! 'T is a good word and rhymeswi' confusion, don't it?"
"It does!" said I, wondering at his manner.
"And 'oo might you be--and what?" he questioned, beckoning me nearerwith a motion of the kettle.
"One who has lost his way--"
"In silver buttons an' a jerry 'at--hum! You're a young nob, you are,a swell, a tippy, a go--that's what you are! Wherefore and therefore Iask what you might be a-doing in this here wood at midnight's lonehour?"
"I am lost--"
"Aha!" said he, eyeing me dubiously and scratching his long, blue chinwith the spout of his kettle. "A young gent in a jerry 'at--lost an'wandering far from a luxurious 'ome in a wood at midnight! Andwherefore? It ain't murder, is it? You aren't been doing to death anypore, con-fiding young fe-male, have ye?"
"Good God--no!" I answered in indignant horror.
"Why then, you don't 'appen to ha' been robbing your rich uncle andnow on your way to London wi' the family jew-ells to make yourfortun', having set fire to the fam-ly mansion to cover the traces o'your dark an' desp'ret doin's?"
"Certainly not!"
"Ha!" said he, with rueful shake of his head, "I knew it--from thefirst. I suppose you'll tell me you ain't even forged your'oary-'eaded grandfather's name for to pay off your gambling debts andother gentlemanly dissipations--come now?"
"No," said I, a little haughtily, "I am not the rogue and scoundrelyou seem determined to take me for."
"True!" he sighed. "And what's more, you ain't even got the look ofit. Life's full o' disapp'intments to a romantic soul like me and nothalf so inter-esting as a good nov-el. Now if you'd only 'appened tobe
a murderer reeking wi' crime an' blood--but you ain't, you tellme?" he questioned, his keen eyes twinkling more brightly than ever.
"I am not!"
"Why, very well then!" said he, nodding and seating himself upon asmall stool. "So be it, young master, and if you'm minded to talk wi'a lonely man an' share his fire, sit ye down an' welcome. Though beingof a nat'rally enquiring turn o' mind, I'd like to know what you'vebeen a-doing or who, to be hiding in this wood at this witching hourwhen graves do yawn?"
"I might as well ask you why you sit mending a kettle and singing?"
"Because I'm a tinker an' foller my trade, an' trade's uncommon briskhereabouts. But as to yourself--"
"You are a strange tinker, I think!" said I, to stay his questioning.
"And why strange?"
"You quote Shakespeare, for one thing--"
"Aha! That's because, although I'm a tinker, I'm a literary covebesides. I mend kettles and such for a living and make verses for apleasure!"
"What, are you a poet?"
"'Ardly that, young sir, 'ardly that!" said he, rubbing his chin withthe shaft of his hammer. "No, 'ardly a poet, p'raps,--but thereabouts.My verses rhyme an' go wi' a swing, which is summat, arter all, ain'tit? I made the song I was a-singing so blithe an' 'earty--did ye likeit?"
"Indeed, yes."
"No, but did ye though?" he questioned wistfully, slanting his headat me. "Honest an' true?"
"Honest and true!"
At this, his bright eyes danced and a smile curved his grim lips;setting by hammer and kettle, he rose and disappeared into the smalldingy tent behind him, whence he presently emerged bearing a largecase-bottle, which he uncorked and proffered to me.
"Rum!" said he, nodding. "Any cove as likes verses, 'specially myverses, is a friend--so drink hearty, friend, to our betteracquaintance."
"Thank you, but I never drink!"
"Lord!" he exclaimed, and stood bottle in hand, like one quite at aloss; whereupon, perceiving his embarrassment, I took the bottle andswallowed a gulp for good-fellowship's sake and straightway gasped.
"Why, 'tis a bit strong," quoth he, "but for the concocting, or, asyou might say, com-posing o' verses there's nothing like a drop o'rum, absorbed moderate, to hearten the muse now and then--here'shealth an' long life!"
Having said which, he swallowed some of the liquor in turn, sighed,corked the bottle and, having deposited it in the little tent, satdown to his work again with a friendly nod to me.
"Young sir," quoth he, "'tis very plain you are one o' the real sortwi' nothing flash about you, therefore I am the more con-sarned onyour account, and wonder to see the likes o' you sitting alongside thelikes o' me at midnight in Dead Man's Copse--"
"Dead Man's Copse!" I repeated, glancing into the shadows and drawingnearer the fire. "It is a very dreadful name--"
"But very suitable, young sir. There's many a dead 'un been foundhereabouts, laying so quiet an' peaceful at last--pore souls as ha'found this big world and life too much for 'em an' have crept here toend their misery--and why not? There's the poor woman that's lost,say, and wandering in the dark, but with her tired eyes lifted up tothe kindly stars; so she struggles on awhile, but by an' by come stormclouds an' one by one the stars go out till only one remains, a littletwinkling light that is for her the very light of Hope itself--an'presently that winks an' goes, an' with it goes Hope as well, an'she--poor helpless, weary soul--comes a-creeping into some quiet placelike this, an' presently only her poor, bruised body lies here, forthe soul of her flies away--up an' up a-singing an' a-carolling--backto the stars!"
"This is a great thought--that the soul may not perish!" said I,staring into the Tinker's earnest face.
"Ah, young sir, where does the soul come from--where does it go to?Look yonder!" said he, pointing upwards with his hammer where starstwinkled down upon us through the leaves. "So they've been for ages,and so they will be, winking down through the dark upon you an' me an'others like us, to teach us by their wisdom. An' as to oursouls--Lord, I've seen so many corpses in my time I know the soulcan't die. Corpses? Aye, by goles, I'm always a-finding of 'em. Foundone in this very copse none so long ago--very young she was--poor,lonely lass! Ah, well! Her troubles be all forgot, long ago. An'here's the likes o' you sitting along o' the likes o' me in a wood atmidnight--you as should be snug in sheets luxoorious, judging by yourlooks--an' wherefore not, young friend?"
Now there was about this small, quick, keen-eyed tinker a latentkindliness, a sympathy that attracted me involuntarily, so that, aftersome demur, I told him my story in few words as possible and carefulto suppress all names. Long before I had ended he had laid by hammerand kettle and turned, elbows on knees and chin on sinewy fists,viewing me steadfastly where I sat in the fireglow.
"So you make verses likewise, do you?" he questioned, when I had done.
"Yes."
"And can paint pic-toors, beside?"
"Yes--of a sort!" I answered, finding myself suddenly and strangelydiffident.
"An' you so young!" said he in hushed and awestruck tones. "Have youwrit many poems, sir?"
"I have published only one volume so far."
"Lord!" he whispered. "Published a vollum--in print--a book! Ah--whatwouldn't I give t' see my verses in print--in a book--to know theywere good enough--"
"Ah, pray don't mistake!" said I hastily, my new diffidence growing byreason of his unfeigned and awestruck wonder. "I published themmyself--no bookseller would take them, so I--I paid to have themprinted."
"And did it cost much--very much?" he enquired eagerly. "Anywherenear, well, say--five pound?"
"A great deal nearer a hundred!"
"A hun--" he gasped. "By goles!" he ejaculated after a moment, "poetrycomes expensive, don't it? A hundred pound! Lord love me, I don't makeso much in a year! So I'll never see any o' my verses in a book, 'tisvery sure. Ah, well," said he with a profound sigh, "that won't stopme a-thinking or a-making of 'em, will it?"
"And what do you write about?" I enquired, vastly interested.
"All sorts o' things--common things, trees an' brooks, fields an'winding roads, and then--there's always the stars. Wrote one about 'emthis very week, if you'd care to--"
"I should," cried I eagerly. "Indeed I should!"
"Should you, friend?" said he, fumbling in a pocket of his sleevedwaistcoat. "Why, then, so you shall, though there ain't much of it,which is p'raps just as well!"
From his pocket he brought forth a strange collection of oddmentswhence he selected a crumpled wisp of paper; this he smoothed out andbending low to the fire, read aloud as follows:
"When night comes down, where'er I be I want no roof to shelter me; I love to lie where I may see The blessed stars.
"Though I am one not over-wise They seem to me like friendly eyes That watch us kindly from the skies, These winking stars.
"Though I've no friend to share my woe And bitter tears unseen may flow, To soothe my grief I silent go To tell the stars.
"And when my time shall come to die I care not where my flesh shall lie Because I know my soul shall fly Back to the stars!"
"Did you write that?" I exclaimed.
"Aye, I did!" he answered, a little anxiously. "Rhymes true, don'tit?"
"Yes."
"Goes wi' a swing, don't it?"
"Yes."
"Very well then; what more can you want in a verse?"
"But you've got more--much more!"
"What more?"
"A great deal! Atmosphere, for one thing--"
"Why, 't was writ under a hedge," he explained. "And now, friend,p'raps you'll oblige me wi' one o' yourn?"
"Indeed I would rather not," said I, finding myself oddly ill at easefor once.
"Come, fair is fair!" he urged. Hereupon, after some littlereflection, I began reciting this, one of my latest efforts:
"Hail, gentle Dian, goddess-queen Throned 'mid th' Olympian vasts Majestic, splendidly serene 'Spite Boreas' rageful blasts. Immacu
late, 'midst starry fires Incalculable thou--"
here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head.
"Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker.
"Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!"
"It--sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly.
"But it is just sound and nothing more--it is fatuous--trivial--it hasno soul, no meaning, nothing of value--I shall never be a poet!" Andknowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility whollyunknown until this moment.
"Nay--never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on mybowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got--words! Allyou need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much foryourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be areal poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or someone! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tisonly to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going tolive?"
"I haven't thought of it yet."
"Hum! Any money?"
"Only eighteen guineas."
"Why, 'tis a tidy sum! But even eighteen pound can't last for ever,an' when 'tis all gone--how then?"
"I don't know."
"Hum!" quoth the Tinker again and sat rubbing his chin and staringinto the fire, while I, lost in my new humility, wondered if mypainting was not as futile as my poetry.
"Can ye work?" enquired my companion suddenly.
"I think so!"
"What at?"
"I don't know!"
"Hum! Any trade or profession?"
"None!"
"Ha! too well eddicated, I suppose. Well, 'tis a queer kettle o' fish,but so's life, yet, though heaviness endure for a night, j'y cometh inthe morning, and mind, I'm your friend if you're so minded. And now,what I says is--let's to sleep, for I must be early abroad." Here hereached into the little tent and presently brought thence twoblankets, one of which he proffered me, but the night being very hotand oppressive, I declined it and presently we were lying side byside, staring up at the stars. But suddenly upon the stillness, fromsomewhere amid the surrounding boskages that shut us in, came thesound of one sighing gustily, and I sat up, peering.
"All right, friend," murmured the Tinker drowsily; "'tis only myDiogenes!"
"And who is Diogenes?"
"My pony, for sure!"
"But why do you call him Diogenes?"
"Because Diogenes lived in a tub an'--he don't! Good night, youngfriend! Never thought o' writing a nov-el, I s'pose?" he enquiredsuddenly.
"Never! Why do you ask?"
"I met a young cove once, much like you only bigger, and this youngcove threatened to write a nov-el an' put me into it. That was yearsago, an' I've sold and read a good many nov-els since then, but nevercame across myself in ever a one on 'em."
"Good night!" said I and very presently heard him snore. But as for meI lay wakeful, busied with my thoughts and staring up at the radiantheaven. "No!" said I to myself at last, speaking my thought aloud,"No, I shall never be a poet!"
Peregrine's Progress Page 5
