CHAPTER XLII
A SHORT-TEMPERED PERSON--GRAVITATION--THE BEST ENDOWMENT--MARYFULCHER--FAIR DEALING--HORSE-WITCHERY--DARIUS AND HIS GROOM--THE JOCKEY'STRICKS--THE TWO CHARACTERS--THE JOCKEY'S SONG
The jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, as I havestated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry tone, 'This isthe third time you have interrupted me in my tale, Mr. Rye; I passed overthe two first times with a simple warning, but you will now please to getup and give me the satisfaction of a man.'
'I am really sorry,' said I, 'if I have given you offence, but you weretalking of our English habit of bestowing nicknames, and I could notrefrain from giving a few examples tending to prove what a very ancienthabit it is.'
'But you interrupted me,' said the jockey, 'and put me out of my tale,which you had no right to do; and as for your examples, how do you knowthat I wasn't going to give some as old or older than yourn. Now standup, and I'll make an example of you.'
'Well,' said I, 'I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt you, and I askyour pardon.'
'That won't do,' said the jockey, 'asking pardon won't do.'
'Oh,' said I, getting up, 'if asking pardon does not satisfy you, you area different man from what I considered you.'
But here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall form andpipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, 'Let there beno dispute! As for myself, I am very much obliged to the young man ofHorncastle for his interruption, though he has told me that one of hisdirty townsmen called me "Long-stockings." By Isten! there is morelearning in what he has just said, than in all the verdammt Englishhistories of Thor and Tzernebock I ever read.'
'I care nothing for his learning,' said the jockey. 'I consider myselfas good a man as he, for all his learning; so stand out of the way, Mr.Sixfoot-eleven, or--'
'I shall do no such thing,' said the Hungarian. 'I wonder you are notashamed of yourself. You ask young man to drink champagne with you, youmake him dronk, he interrupt you with very good sense; he ask yourpardon, yet you not--'
'Well,' said the jockey, 'I am satisfied. I am rather a short-temperedperson, but I bear no malice. He is, as you say, drinking my wine, andhas perhaps taken a drop too much, not being used to such high liquor;but one doesn't like to be put out of one's tale, more especially whenone was about to moralize, do you see, oneself, and to show off whatlittle learning one has. However, I bears no malice. Here is a hand toeach of you: we'll take another glass each, and think no more about it.'
The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our glasses andhis own with what champagne remained in the bottle, put on his coat, satdown, and resumed his pipe and story.
'Where was I? Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping Ned and BitingGiles. Those were happy days, and a merry and prosperous life we led.However, nothing continues under the sun in the same state in which itbegins, and our firm was soon destined to undergo a change. We came to avillage where there was a very high church steeple, and in a little timemy comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display my gift byflinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, whostood at the four corners on the top, carved in stone. The parson,seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his rectory to see what was goingon. After I had flung up the stones, letting them fall just were Iliked--and one, I remember, fell on the head of Mark, where I dare say itremains to the present day--the parson, who was one of the description ofpeople called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let thenext stone I flung up fall into it. He wished, do you see, to know withwhat weight the stone would fall down, and talked something aboutgravitation--a word which I could never understand to the present day,save that it turned out a grave matter to me. I, like a silly fellowmyself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height,contrived so that it fell into the parson's hand, which it cutdreadfully. The parson flew into a great rage, more particularly aseverybody laughed at him, and, being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, whowas likewise constable, to conduct me to prison as a rogue and avagabond, telling my comrades that if they did not take themselves off,he would serve them in the same manner. So Ned hopped off, and Giles ranafter him, without making any gathering, and I was led to Bridewell, mymittimus following at the end of a week, the parson's hand not permittinghim to write before that time. In the Bridewell I remained a month,when, being dismissed, I went in quest of my companions, whom, after sometime, I found up, but they refused to keep my company any longer; tellingme that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more troublethan profit; they had, moreover, filled up my place. Going into acottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country fellow makingfaces to amuse his children; the faces were so wonderful that Hopping Nedand Biting Giles at once proposed taking him into partnership, and theman--who was a fellow not very fond of work--after a little entreaty,went away with them. I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn't blame theothers for preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at alltimes, but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing human. Hewas called Ugly Moses. I was so amazed at his faces, that though poormyself I gave him sixpence, which I have never grudged to this day, for Inever saw anything like them. The firm throve wonderfully after he hadbeen admitted into it. He died some little time ago, keeper of apublic-house, which he had been enabled to take from the profits of hisfaces. A son of his, one of the children he was making faces to when mycomrades entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very risingone. He has his gift--he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, buthe has something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quietgrin; he would not have done to grin through a collar like his father,and would never have been taken up by Hopping Ned and Biting Giles, butthat grin of his caused him to be noticed by a much greater person thaneither; an attorney observing it took a liking to the lad, and prophesiedthat he would some day be heard of in the world; and in order to give himthe first lift, took him into his office, at first to light fires and dosuch kind of work, and after a little time taught him to write, thenpromoted him to a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried andwithout children, left him what he had when he died. The young fellow,after practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in a fewyears, helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to recommend him,he became, as I said before, a rising barrister. He comes our circuit,and I occasionally employ him, when I am obliged to go to law about sucha thing as an unsound horse. He generally brings me through--or ratherthat grin of his does--and yet I don't like the fellow, confound him, butI'm an oddity; no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is afellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face, butwith a look which seems to say I am an honest man, and what cares I foranyone. And an honest man he is, and something more. I have known coveswith a better gift of the gab, though not many, but he always speaks tothe purpose, and understands law thoroughly; and that's not all. When atcollege, for he has been at college, he carried off everything before himas a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they called matthew mattocks.I don't know exactly what it is, but I have heard that he who isfirst-rate at matthew mattocks {271} is thought more of than if he werefirst-rate Latiner.
'Well, the chap that I'm talking about, not only came out first-rateLatiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too; doing, in fact, as I amtold by those who knows, for I was never at college myself, what no onehad ever done before. Well, he makes his appearance at our circuit, doesvery well, of course, but he has a somewhat high front, as becomes anhonest man, and one who has beat every one at Latin and matthew mattocks;and who can speak first-rate law and sense;--but see now, the cove withthe grin, who has like myself never been at college; knows nothing ofLatin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift of the gab, hastwo briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, for that grin of hiscurries favour with the juries; and mark me, that grin of his will enablehim to beat the other in the long run.
We all know what all barristercoves looks forward to--a seat on the hop sack. Well, I'll bet a bull tofivepence, that the grinner gets upon it, and the snarler doesn't; at anyrate, that he gets there first. I calls my cove--for he is my cove--asnarler; because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are calledsnarlers, and for no other reason; for the chap, though with a highfront, is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, afterbuying an animal out of my stable. I have often thought it a pity thathe wasn't born with a grin on his face, like the son of Ugly _Moses_. Itis true he would scarcely then have been an out and outer at Latin andmatthew mattocks, but what need of either to a chap born with a grin?Talk of being born with a silver spoon in one's mouth; give me a coveborn with a grin on his face--a much better endowment.
'I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have talked asmuch as folks do during a whole night in the Commons' House, though, ofcourse, not with so much learning, or so much to the purpose,because--why? They are in the House of Commons, and we in a public roomof an inn at Horncastle. The goodness of the ale do you see, neverdepending on what it is made of, oh, no! but on the fashion andappearance of the jug in which it is served up. After being turned outof the firm, I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shallnot trouble you with describing. I did not like any of them, however, asthey did not exactly suit my humour; at last I found one which did. OneSaturday forenoon I chanced to be in the cattle-market of a place abouteighty miles from here; there I won the favour of an old gentleman whosold dickeys. He had a very shabby squad of animals, without soul orspirit; nobody would buy them, till I leaped upon their hinder ends, andby merely wriggling in a particular manner, made them caper and bound soto people's liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold atvery sufficient prices. The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill,that he took me home with him, and in a very little time intopartnership. It's a good thing to have a gift, but yet better to havetwo. I might have got a very decent livelihood by throwing stones, but Imuch question whether I should ever have attained to the position insociety which I now occupy, but for my knowledge of animals. I livedvery comfortably with the old gentleman till he died, which he did abouta fortnight after he had laid his old lady in the ground. Having nochildren, he left me what should remain after he had been burieddecently, and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings insilver. I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time Isaved a hundred pounds. I then embarked in the horse line. One day,being in the --- market on a Saturday, I saw Mary Fulcher with a halterround her neck, led about by a man, who offered to sell her foreighteenpence. I took out the money forthwith and bought her; the manwas her husband, a basket-maker, with whom she had lived several yearswithout having any children; he was a drunken, quarrelsome fellow, andhaving had a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid ofher, by putting a halter round her neck, and leading her to thecattle-market, as if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right todo; all women being considered mares by old English law, and, indeed,still called mares in certain counties, where genuine old English isstill preserved. That same afternoon, the man who had been her husband,having got drunk in a public-house with the money which he had receivedfor her, quarrelled with another man, and receiving a blow under the ear,fell upon the floor, and died of artiflex; and in less than three weeks Iwas married to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular bans. I am told shewas legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a halterround her neck; but, to tell you the truth, I think everybody should liveby his trade, and I didn't wish to act shabbily towards our parson, whois a good fellow, and has certainly a right to his fees. A better wifethan Mary Fulcher--I mean Mary Dale--no one ever had; she has borne meseveral children, and has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me,and to be my faithful wife. Amongst other things, I begged her to havedone with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since.
'I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being aperson who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely. I alwaysmakes a point when a gentleman comes to me, and says, "Mr. Dale," or"John"--for I have no objection to be called John by a gentleman--"Iwants a good horse, and I am ready to pay a good price"--I always makes apoint, I say, to furnish him with an animal worth the money; but when Isees a fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing tocircumvent me, what does I do? I doesn't quarrel with him, not I; but,letting him imagine he is taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screwfor thirty pounds, not worth forty shillings. All honest respectablepeople have at present great confidence in me, and frequently commissionsme to buy them horses at great fairs like this.
'This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landedproprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some greatprince in his own country, who had a long time ago been entertained atthe house of the landed proprietor, and the consequence is, that I bringsyoung six foot six to Horncastle, and purchases for him the horse of theRomany Rye. I don't do these kind things for nothing, it is true; thatcan't be expected; for every one must live by his trade; but, as I saidbefore, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, I havediscovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy;though, as I also said before, when I'm along with thieves, I can beatthem at their own game. If I am obliged to do it, I can pass off theveriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a child I hadfound out by various means what may be done with animals. I wish now toask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye. Certain folks have told me thatyou are a horse witch, are you one, or are you not?'
'I, like yourself,' said I, 'know, to a certain extent, what may be donewith animals.'
'Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in theworld for a flying drummedary?'
'By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel remainedin his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in a surprisingdegree.'
'And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter appear sotame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman of sixty, whowanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him for fifty pounds?'
'By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which wouldmake him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the heart tokick or bite anybody, for a season at least.'
'And where did you learn all this?' said the jockey.
'I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the makingdrunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told the samethings by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now tell me, do you bewitchhorses in this way?'
'I?' said the jockey; 'mercy upon us! I wouldn't do such things for ahatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels and hocussing! Andnow let me ask you, how you would spirit a horse out of a field?'
'How would I spirit a horse out of a field?'
'Yes! supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on takingup the horse-stealing line of business.'
'Why I should--. But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying topump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from you withrespect to your art, before I tell you anything more. Now, how would youwhisper a horse out of a field, provided you were down in the world, andso forth?'
'Ah, ah, I see you are up to game, Mr. Romany: however, I am a gentlemanin mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the unhandsome thing toanybody who has dealt fairly towards me. Now, you told me something Ididn't know, and I'll tell you something which perhaps you do know. Iwhispers a horse out of a field in this way: I have a mare in my stable;well, in the early season of the year I goes into my stable--Well, I putsthe sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked. I takes my bottlein my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by night, where there is avery fine stag horse. I manage with great difficulty to get within tenyards of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to run away. Ithen uncorks my bottle, presses my fore-finger to t
he sponge, and holdsit out to the horse; the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and comesnearer. I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket. My business isdone, for the next two hours the horse would follow me anywhere--thedifficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him. Now, is that your way ofdoing business?'
'My way of doing business? Mercy upon us! I wouldn't steal a horse inthat way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the world:however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick somewhat similaris described in the history of Herodotus.'
'In the history of Herod's ass!' said the jockey; 'well, if I did write abook, it should be about something more genteel than a dickey.'
'I did not say Herod's ass!' said I, 'but Herodotus, a very genteelwriter, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel people, in alanguage no less genteel than Greek, more than two thousand years ago.There was a dispute as to who should be king amongst certain imperiouschieftains. At last they agreed to obey him whose horse should neighfirst on a certain day, in front of the royal palace, before the risingof the sun; for you must know that they did not worship the person whomade the sun as we do, but the sun itself. So one of these chieftains,talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would beking, the fellow said, "Why, you, master, or I don't know much abouthorses." So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do buttake his master's horse before the palace and introduce him to a mare inthe stable, and then lead him forth again. Well, early the next day allthe chieftains on their horses appeared in front of the palace before thedawn of day. Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of himwho had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the animal within thestable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings rang. His rider wasforthwith elected king, and a brave king he was. So this shows whatseemingly wonderful things may be brought about by a little preparation.'
'It doth,' said the jockey; 'what was the chap's name?'
'His name--his name--Darius Hystaspes.'
'And the groom's?'
'I don't know.'
'And he made a good king?'
'First-rate.'
'Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king thegroom would have made, through whose knowledge of 'orses he was put onthe throne. And now another question, Mr. Romany Rye, have youparticular words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?'
'You should ask me,' said I, 'whether I have horses that can beaggravated or soothed by particular words. No words have any particularpower over horses or other animals who have never heard them before--howshould they? But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoymentwith particular words which they are acquainted with. I'll give you anexample. I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state ofkicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in aparticular tone; but that word was connected with a very painfuloperation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who hadfrequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had beenunder his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a moment byanother word, used by the same individual in a very different kind oftone--the word was deaghblasda, or sweet tasted. Some time after theoperation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow--who waswhat the Irish call a fairy smith--had done all he could to soothe thecreature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, ofwhich the cob became passionately fond. Invariably, however, beforegiving it a button, he said, "Deaghblasda," with which word the cob bydegrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse thecob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance,he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew wouldbe instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to givehim after using the word deaghblasda.'
'There is nothing wonderful to be done,' said the jockey, 'without a gooddeal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks stare and wonder at certainthings which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done;and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples.Can either of you lend me a handkerchief? That won't do,' said he, as Ipresented him with a silk one. 'I wish for a delicate whitehandkerchief. That's just the kind of thing,' said he, as the Hungarianoffered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked withgold at the hems; 'now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire.''Don't let him do so by any means,' said the Hungarian, speaking to me inGerman, 'it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would nothave it burnt for the world.' 'He has no occasion to be under anyapprehension,' said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what theHungarian had said, 'I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name isnot Jack Dale.' Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the leftside of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time had burnt verylow, and holding his head back, he applied the flame to the handkerchief,which instantly seemed to catch fire. 'What do you think of that?' saidhe to the Hungarian. 'Why, that you have ruined me,' said the latter.'No harm done, I assure you,' said the jockey, who presently, clappinghis hand on his bosom, extinguished the fire, and returned thehandkerchief to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. 'I see noburn upon it,' said the Hungarian; 'but in the name of Gott how could youset it on fire without burning it?' 'I never set it on fire at all,'said the jockey; 'I set this on fire,' showing us a piece of half-burntcalico. 'I placed this calico above it, and lighted not thehandkerchief, but the rag. Now, I will show you something else. I havea magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along my arm.But, first of all, I would gladly know whether either of you can do thelike.' Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into ourpockets, took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them run up ourarms, but utterly failed; both shillings, after we had made two or threeattempts, falling to the ground. 'What noncomposses you both are,' saidthe jockey; and, placing a shilling on the end of the fingers of hisright hand, he made strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereuponthe shilling instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping andjumping as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards thehead of the jockey.
'How do I do that?' said he, addressing himself to me. 'I really do notknow,' said I, 'unless it is by the motion of your arm.' 'The motion ofmy nonsense,' said the jockey, and, making a dreadful grimace, theshilling hopped upon his knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climbhis breast. 'How is that done?' said he again. 'By witchcraft, Isuppose,' said I. 'There you are right,' said the jockey; 'by thewithcraft of one of Miss Berners' hairs; the end of one of her long hairsis tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the other end goesround my neck by means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my head, theshilling follows it. I suppose you wish to know how I got the hair,'said he, grinning at me. 'I will tell you. I once, in the course of myridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long hair,and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get off myhorse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter intoconversation with her. After giving her the sele of the day, andcomplimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one of the threads;whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me fellow, told me totake myself off. "I must have a hair first," said I, making a snatch atone. I believe I hurt her; but, whether I did or not, up she started,and, though her hair was unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had inmy life. Lor! how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held meround the neck with her left arm; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on myknees, which she gave me in a moment when she saw me in that condition,being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her pardon,but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put through a shilling,with which I have on evenings after fairs, like this, frequently workedwhat seemed to those who looked on downright witchcraft, but which isnothing more than pleasant deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, totestify my regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair. I thinkyou have a kind of respect fo
r Miss Berners; but whether you have or not,keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of thefinest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle. Ibelieve I have told you my history,' said he--'no, not quite; there isone circumstance I had passed over. I told you that I have thriven verywell in business, and so I have upon the whole: at any rate, I findmyself comfortably off now. I have horses, money, and owe nobody agroat; at any rate, nothing but what I could pay to-morrow. Yet I havehad my dreary day, ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in theworld. All of a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to gowrong with me--horses became sick or died, people who owed me money brokeor ran away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went against me;and not from any mismanagement of my own. I looked round for help,but--what do you think?--nobody would help me. Somehow or other it hadgot abroad that I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed toavoid me, as if I had got the plague. Those who were always offering mehelp when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble, talked ofarresting me. Yes, two particular friends of mine, who had always beenoffering me their purses when my own was stuffed full, now talked ofarresting me, though I only owed the scoundrels a hundred pounds each;and they would have done so, provided I had not paid them what I owedthem; and how did I do that? Why, I was able to do it because I found afriend--and who was that friend? Why, a man who has since been hung, ofwhom everybody has heard, and of whom everybody for the next hundredyears will occasionally talk.
'One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person {279} I hadoccasionally met at sporting dinners. He came to look after a SuffolkPunch, the best horse, by-the-by, that anybody can purchase to drive, itbeing the only animal of the horse kind in England that will pull twiceat a dead weight. I told him that I had none at that time that I couldrecommend; in fact, that every horse in my stable was sick. He theninvited me to dine with him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go withhim, in the hope of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner,during which he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked melancholy,he asked me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened bythe wine he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without reserve.With an oath or two for not having treated him at first like a friend, hesaid he would soon set me all right; and pulling out two hundred pounds,told me to pay him when I could. I felt as I never felt before; however,I took his notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was rightagain, and had returned him his money. On paying it to him, I said thatI had now a Punch which would just suit him, saying that I would give itto him--a free gift--for nothing. He swore at me; telling me to keep myPunch, for that he was suited already. I begged him to tell me how Icould requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadfuloath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when his time wascome. I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word. Thenight before the day he was hanged at H---, {280} I harnessed a SuffolkPunch to my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered to him, which Ihave ever since kept, and which brought me and this short young man toHorncastle, and in eleven hours I drove that Punch one hundred and tenmiles. I arrived at H--- just in the nick of time. There was the uglyjail--the scaffold--and there upon it stood the only friend I ever had inthe world. Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst ofthe crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stoodup in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted, "God Almighty bless you,Jack!" The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me--for his facewas always somewhat grim, do you see--nodded and said, or I thought Iheard him say, "All right, old chap." The next moment . . . my eyeswater. He had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines,lost his half-pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut thethroat of a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he hadgood qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the badthings laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver tofight cross, as it was said he did, on the day of the awful thunderstorm.{281a} Ned Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was notwhat's called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he couldput in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was twoinches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently hisright fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself round, andput in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take away the sensesof anybody in the world. It was by putting in that blow in his secondfight with Spring that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack inthe first battle, but in the second Ned Painter--for that was his realname--contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring;and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver.
'Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of thosewho are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many agood quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to getthe horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a singlegood quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so.You ask the reason why, perhaps. I'll tell you; the lack of a certainquality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preservehim; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing whichcan bring him to the gallows. {281b} In my rough way I'll draw theircharacters from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not thebest character of the two. Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond offighting, going a birds'-nesting, but I never heard he did anythingparticularly cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher'sdog's tail; whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast,and when a boy would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set themrunning on the ice and in the snow, and was particularly fond of burningcats alive in the fire. Jack, when a lad, gets a commission on board aship as an officer of horse marines, and in two or three engagementsbehaves quite up to the mark--at least of a marine; the marines having noparticular character for courage you know--never having run to the gunsand fired them like madmen after the blue jackets had had more thanenough. Oh, dear me, no! My lord gets into the valorous British army,where cowardice--oh, dear me!--is a thing almost entirely unknown; andbeing on the field of Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off hishorse, and, pretending to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on thesick list--a pretty excuse--hurting his back--for not being present atsuch a fight. Old Benbow, after part of both his legs had been shot awayin a sea-fight, made the carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloodystumps, and continued on deck cheering his men till he died. Jackreturns home, and gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by buthis wits, gets his living by the ring, and the turf, and gambling, doingmany an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to hischarge. My lord does much the same without the excuse for doing so whichJack had, for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and a black, only in amore polished way, and with more cunning, and I may say success, havingdone many a rascally thing never laid to his charge. Jack at last cutsthe throat of a villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world,and who, I am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw andwhite feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly takingaway a man's life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad?Whitefeather will cut no person's throat--I will not say who has cheatedhim, for, being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobodycheats him, but he'll do something quite as bad; out of envy to a personwho never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever andrespected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by backbiting andevery unfair means, to do that person a mortal injury. But Jack ishanged, and my lord is not. Is that right? My wife, Mary Fulcher--I begher pardon, Mary Dale--who is a Methodist, and has heard the mightypreacher, Peter Williams, says some people are preserved from hanging bythe grace of God. With her I differs, and says it is from want ofcourage. This Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack's courage, andwith one tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago,for he has ten times Jack's
malignity. Jack was hanged because, alongwith his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow isnot, because with all Jack's bad qualities, and many more, amongst whichis cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. Think of a fellowlike that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a distressedfellow-creature; why he would rob, but for the law and the fear it fillshim with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying is--and hasbeen heard to say that he would not trust his own father for sixpence,and he can't imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever given. Inever heard a person give him a good word--stay, stay, yes! I once heardan old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art ofreceiving company gracefully, and dismissing them without refreshment. Idon't wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of thatcompliment. Well! he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not quiteenviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard ones--everybodyknows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him with so doing;whilst he has been rejected by a woman--what a mortification to the lowpride of which the scoundrel has plenty! There's a song about bothcircumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It'sa funny kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant orDeputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it'spast one.' The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung thefollowing song:
THE JOCKEY'S SONG.
Now list to a ditty both funny and true!-- Merrily moves the dance along-- A ditty that tells of a coward and screw, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all-- Merrily moves the dance along-- Had yet resolution to go to a _ball_, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
'Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?'-- Merrily moves the dance along-- Said she, 'Sir, to dance I should like very well,' My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
They danc'd to the left, and they danc'd to the right-- Merrily moves the dance along-- And her troth the fair damsel bestow'd on the knight, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
'Now what shall I fetch you mademoiselle?'_--_ Merrily moves the dance along-- Said she, 'Sir, an ice I should like very well, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
But the ice, when he'd got it, he instantly ate-- Merrily moves the dance along-- Although his pool partner was all in a fret, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord-- Merrily moves the dance along-- For he saw 'twas the very last ice on the board, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
'Now when shall we marry?' the gentleman cried-- Merrily moves the dance along-- 'Sir, get you to Jordan,' the damsel replied, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
'I never will wed with the pitiful elf'-- Merrily moves the dance along-- 'Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself,' My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
'I'd pardon your backing from red Waterloo,'-- Merrily moves the dance along-- 'But I never will wed with a coward and screw,' My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.
The Romany Rye Page 47
