Paul Clifford

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

  ‘Follow me now!’ said Augustus, as he took to his heels; and Paul pursued him through a labyrinth of alleys and lanes, through which he shot and dodged with a variable and shifting celerity that, had not Paul kept close upon him, would very soon (combined with the fog) have snatched him from the eyes of his young ally. Happily the immaturity of the morning, the obscurity of the streets passed through, and, above all, the extreme darkness of the atmosphere, prevented that detection and arrest which their prisoners’ garb would otherwise have insured them. At length, they found themselves in the fields; and, skulking along hedges, and diligently avoiding the highroad, they continued to fly onward, until they had advanced several miles into ‘the bowels of the land.’ At that time ‘the bowels’ of Augustus Tomlinson began to remind him of their demands; and he accordingly suggested the desirability of their seizing the first peasant they encountered, and causing him to exchange clothes with one of the fugitives, who would thus be enabled to enter a public-house and provide for their mutual necessities. Paul agreed to this proposition, and, accordingly, they watched their opportunity and caught a ploughman. Augustus stripped him of his frock, hat, and worsted stockings; and Paul, hardened by necessity and companionship, helped to tie the poor ploughman to a tree. They then continued their progress for about an hour, and, as the shades of evening fell around them, they discovered a public-house. Augustus entered, and returned in a few minutes laden with bread and cheese, and a bottle of beer. Prison fare cures a man of daintiness, and the two fugitives dined on these homely viands with considerable complacency. They then resumed their journey, and at length, wearied with exertion, they arrived at a lonely haystack, where they resolved to repose for an hour or two.

  Chapter X

  Unlike the ribald, whose licentious jest

  Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest;

  From wealth and grandeur easy to descend,

  Thou joy’st to lose the master in the friend.

  We round thy board the cheerful menials see,

  Gay with the smile of bland equality;

  No social care the gracious lord disdains;

  Love prompts to love, and reverence reverence gains.

  Translation of Lucan to Piso, prefixed to the

  Twelfth Paper of ‘The Rambler’

  Coyly shone down the bashful stars upon our adventurers, as, after a short nap behind the haystack, they stretched themselves, and, looking at each other, burst into an involuntary and hilarious laugh at the prosperous termination of their exploit.

  Hitherto they had been too occupied, first by their flight, then by hunger, then by fatigue, for self-gratulation; now they rubbed their hands, and joked like runaway schoolboys, at their escape.

  By degrees their thoughts turned from the past to the future; and ‘Tell me, my dear fellow,’ said Augustus, ‘what you intend to do. I trust I have long ago convinced you, that it is no sin “to serve our friends” and to “be true to our party;” and therefore, I suppose, you will decide upon taking to the road!’

  ‘It is very odd,’ answered Paul, ‘that I should have any scruples left after your lectures on the subject; but I own to you frankly, that, somehow or other, I have doubts whether thieving be really the honestest profession I could follow.’

  ‘Listen to me, Paul,’ answered Augustus; and his reply is not unworthy of notice. ‘All crime and all excellence depend upon a good choice of words. I see you look puzzled; I will explain. If you take money from the public, and say you have robbed, you have indubitably committed a great crime; but if you do the same, and say you have been relieving the necessities of the poor, you have done an excellent action: if, in afterwards dividing this money with your companions, you say you have been sharing booty, you have committed an offence against the laws of your country; but if you observe that you have been sharing with your friends the gains of your industry, you have been performing one of the noblest actions of humanity. To knock a man on the head is neither virtuous nor guilty, but it depends upon the language applied to the action to make it murder or glory.* Why not say, then, that you have testified “the courage of a hero,” rather than “the atrocity of a ruffian?” This is perfectly clear, is it not?’

  ‘It seems so,’ answered Paul.

  ‘It is so self-evident, that it is the way all governments are carried on. Wherefore, my good Paul, we only do what all other legislators do. We are never rogues so long as we call ourselves honest fellows, and we never commit a crime so long as we can term it a virtue! What say you now?’

  Paul smiled, and was silent a few moments before he replied:

  ‘There is very little doubt but that you are wrong; yet if you are, so are all the rest of the world. It is of no use to be the only white sheep of the flock. Wherefore, my dear Tomlinson, I will in future be an excellent citizen, relieve the necessities of the poor, and share the gains of my industry with my friends.’

  ‘Bravo!’ cried Tomlinson. ‘And now that that is settled, the sooner you are inaugurated the better. Since the starlight has shone forth, I see that I am in a place I ought to be very well acquainted with; or, if you like to be suspicious, you may believe that I have brought you purposely in this direction; but first let me ask if you feel any great desire to pass the night by this haystack, or whether you would like a song and the punch-bowl almost as much as the open air, with the chance of being eat up in a pinch of hay by some strolling cow!’

  ‘You may conceive my choice,’ answered Paul.

  ‘Well, then, there is an excellent fellow near here, who keeps a public-house, and is a firm ally and generous patron of the lads of the cross. At certain periods they hold weekly meetings at his house: this is one of the nights. What say you? Shall I introduce you to the club?’

  ‘I shall be very glad, if they will admit me!’ returned Paul, whom many and conflicting thoughts rendered laconic.

  ‘Oh! no fear of that, under my auspices. To tell you the truth, though we are a tolerant sect, we welcome every new proselyte with enthusiasm. But are you tired?’

  ‘A little; the house is not far, you say?’

  ‘About a mile off,’ answered Tomlinson. ‘Lean on me.’

  Our wanderers now leaving the haystack, struck across part of Finchley Common; for the abode of the worthy publican was felicitously situated, and the scene in which his guests celebrated their festivities was close by that on which they often performed their exploits.

  As they proceeded, Paul questioned his friend touching the name and character of ‘mine host;’ and the all-knowing Augustus Tomlinson answered him, Quaker-like, by a question, –

  ‘Have you never heard of Gentleman George?’

  ‘What! The noted head of a flash public-house in the country? To be sure I have, often; my poor nurse, Dame Lobkins, used to say he was the best-spoken man in the trade!’

  ‘Ay, so he is still. In his youth, George was a very handsome fellow, but a little too fond of his lass and his bottle to please his father, a very staid old gentleman, who walked about on Sundays in a bob-wig and a gold-headed cane, and was a much better farmer on week-days than he was head of a public-house. George used to be a remarkably smart-dressed fellow, and so he is to this day. He has a great deal of wit, is a very good whist-player, has a capital cellar, and is so fond of seeing his friends drunk, that he bought some time ago a large pewter measure in which six men can stand upright. The girls, or rather the old women, to which last he used to be much more civil of the two, always liked him; they say, nothing is so fine as his fine speeches, and they give him the title of “Gentleman George.” He is a nice, kind-hearted man in many things. Pray Heaven we shall have no cause to miss him when he departs. But, to tell you the truth, he takes more than his share of our common purse.’

  ‘What, is he avaricious?’

  ‘Quite the reverse; but he’s so cursedly fond of building, he invests all his money (and wants us to invest all ours) in houses; and there’s one confounded dog of a bricklayer, who runs him up terrible b
ills, – a fellow called “Cunning Nat,” who is equally adroit in spoiling ground and improving ground rent.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ah! thereby hangs a tale. But we are near the place now; you will see a curious set.’

  As Tomlinson said this, the pair approached a house standing alone, and seemingly without any other abode in the vicinity. It was of curious and grotesque shape, painted white, with a Gothic chimney, a Chinese sign-post (on which was depicted a gentleman fishing, with the words ‘The Jolly Angler’ written beneath), and a porch that would have been Grecian, if it had not been Dutch. It stood in a little field, with a hedge behind it, and the common in front! Augustus stopped at the door, and while he paused, bursts of laughter rang cheerily within.

  ‘Ah, the merry boys!’ he muttered: ‘I long to be with them!’ And then with his clenched fist he knocked four times on the door. There was a sudden silence which lasted about a minute, and was broken by a voice within, asking who was there. Tomlinson answered by some cabalistic word; the door was opened, and a little boy presented himself.

  ‘Well, my lad,’ said Augustus, ‘and how is your master? – Stout and hearty, if I may judge by his voice.’

  ‘Ay, Master Tommy, ay, he’s boosing away at a fine rate in the back-parlour, with Mr Pepper and Fighting Attie, and half-a-score more of them. He’ll be woundy glad to see you, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Show this gentleman into the bar,’ rejoined Augustus, ‘while I go and pay my respects to honest Geordie!’

  The boy made a sort of a bow, and leading our hero into the bar, consigned him to the care of Sal, a buxom barmaid, who reflected credit on the taste of the landlord, and who received Paul with marked distinction and a gill of brandy.

  Paul had not long to play the amiable, before Tomlinson rejoined him with the information that Gentleman George would be most happy to see him in the back-parlour, and that he would there find an old friend in the person of Mr Pepper.

  ‘What! Is he here?’ cried Paul. ‘The sorry knave! To let me be caged in his stead!’

  ‘Gently, gently, no misapplication of terms,’ said Augustus; ‘that was not knavery, that was prudence, the greatest of all virtues and the rarest. But come along, and Pepper shall explain tomorrow.’

  Threading a gallery or passage, Augustus preceded our hero, opened a door, and introduced him into a long low apartment, where sat, round a table spread with pipes and liquor, some ten or a dozen men, while at the top of the table, in an arm-chair, presided Gentleman George. That dignitary was a portly and comely gentleman, with a knowing look, and a Welsh wig, worn, as the Morning Chronicle says of his Majesty’s hat, ‘in a dégagé manner, on one side.’ Being afflicted with the gout, his left foot reclined on a stool; and the attitude developed, despite of a lamb’s-wool stocking, the remains of an exceedingly good leg.

  As Gentleman George was a person of majestic dignity among the Knights of the Cross, we trust we shall not be thought irreverent in applying a few of the words by which the foresaid Morning Chronicle depicted his Majesty, on the day he laid the first stone of his father’s monument, to the description of Gentleman George.

  ‘He had on a handsome blue coat, and a white waistcoat;’ moreover, ‘he laughed most good-humouredly,’ as, turning to Augustus Tomlinson, he saluted him with –

  ‘So, this is the youngster you present to us? – Welcome to the Jolly Angler! Give us thy hand, young sir; – I shall be happy to blow a cloud with thee.’

  ‘With all due submission,’ said Mr Tomlinson, ‘I think it may first be as well to introduce my pupil and friend to his future companions.’

  ‘You speak like a leary cove,’ cried Gentleman George, still squeezing our hero’s hand; and, turning round in his elbow-chair, he pointed to each member, as he severally introduced his guests to Paul:

  ‘Here,’ said he, – ‘here’s a fine chap at my right hand’ – the person thus designated was a thin military-looking figure, in a shabby riding frock, and with a commanding, bold, aquiline countenance, a little the worse for wear – ‘here’s a fine chap for you; Fighting Attie we calls him: he’s a devil on the road. “Halt – deliver – must and shall – can’t and shan’t – do as I bid you, or go to the devil,” – that’s all Fighting Attie’s palaver; and, ’sdeath, it has a wonderful way of coming to the point! A famous cull is my friend Attie – an old soldier – has seen the world, and knows what is what; has lots of gumption, and devil a bit of blarney. Howsomever, the highflyers doesn’t like him; and when he takes people’s money, he need not be quite so cross about it! – Attie, let me introduce a new pal to you.’ Paul made his bow.

  ‘Stand at ease, man!’ quoth the veteran, without taking the pipe from his mouth.

  Gentleman George then continued; and, after pointing out four or five of the company (among whom our hero discovered, to his surprise, his old friends, Mr Eustace Fitzherbert and Mr William Howard Russell), came, at length, to one with a very red face, and a lusty frame of body. ‘That gentleman,’ said he, ‘is Scarlet Jem; a dangerous fellow for a press, though he says he likes robbing alone now, for a general press is not half such a good thing as it used to be formerly. You have no idea what a hand at disguising himself Scarlet Jem is. He has an old wig which he generally does business in; and you would not go for to know him again, when he conceals himself under the wig. Oh, he’s a precious rogue, is Scarlet Jem! – As for the cove on t’other side,’ continued the host of the Jolly Angler, pointing to Long Ned, ‘all I can say of him, good, bad, or indifferent, is, that he has an unkimmon fine head of hair: and now, youngster, as you knows him, s’pose you goes and sits by him, and he’ll introduce you to the rest; for, split my wig!’ – Gentleman George was a bit of a swearer – ‘if I ben’t tired, and so here’s to your health; and if so be as your name’s Paul, may you alway rob Peter* in order to pay Paul!’

  This witticism of mine host’s being exceedingly well received, Paul went, amidst the general laughter, to take possession of the vacant seat beside Long Ned. That tall gentleman, who had hitherto been cloud-compelling (as Homer calls Jupiter) in profound silence, now turned to Paul with the warmest cordiality, declared himself over-joyed to meet his old friend once more, and congratulated him alike on his escape from Bridewell, and his admission to the councils of Gentleman George. But Paul, mindful of that exertion of ‘prudence’ on the part of Mr Pepper, by which he had been left to his fate and the mercy of Justice Burnflat, received his advances very sullenly. This coolness so incensed Ned, who was naturally choleric, that he turned his back on our hero, and being of an aristocratic spirit, muttered something about ‘upstart, and vulgar clyfakers being admitted to the company of swell tobymen.’ This murmur called all Paul’s blood into his cheek; for though he had been punished as a clyfaker,* nobody knew better than Long Ned whether or not he was innocent; and a reproach from him came therefore with double injustice and severity. In his wrath, he seized Mr Pepper by the ear, and, telling him he was a shabby scoundrel, challenged him to fight.

  So pleasing an invitation not being announced sotto voce, but in a tone suited to the importance of the proposition, every one around heard it; and before Long Ned could answer, the full voice of Gentleman George thundered forth –

  ‘Keep the peace there, you youngster! What! Are you just admitted into our merry-makings, and must you be wrangling already? Harkye, gemmen, I have been plagued enough with your quarrels before now, and the first cove as breaks the present quiet of the Jolly Angler, shall be turned out neck and crop – shan’t he, Attie?’

  ‘Right about, march,’ said the hero.

  ‘Ay, that’s the word, Attie,’ said Gentleman George. ‘And now, Mr Pepper, if there be any ill blood ’twixt you and the lad there, wash it away in a bumper of bingo, and let’s hear no more whatsomever about it.’

  ‘I’m willing,’ cried Long Ned, with the deferential air of a courtier, and holding out his hand to Paul. Our hero, being somewhat abashed by the novelty of his situation and
the rebuke of Gentleman George, accepted, though with some reluctance, the proferred courtesy.

  Order being thus restored, the conversation of the convivialists began to assume a most fascinating bias. They talked with infinite goût of the sums they had levied on the public, and the peculations they had committed for what one called the ‘good of the community,’ and another, the ‘established order,’ – meaning themselves. It was easy to see in what school the discerning Augustus Tomlinson had learned the value of words.

  There was something edifying in hearing the rascals! So nice was their language, and so honest their enthusiasm for their own interests, you might have imagined you were listening to a coterie of cabinet ministers conferring on taxes, or debating on perquisites.

  ‘Long may the Commons flourish!’ cried punning Georgie, filling his glass; ‘it is by the commons we’re fed, and may they never know cultiwation!’

  ‘Three times three!’ shouted Long Ned: and the toast was drunk as Mr Pepper proposed.

  ‘A little moderate cultivation of the commons, to speak frankly,’ said Augustus Tomlinson modestly, ‘might not be amiss; for it would decoy people into the belief that they might travel safely; and, after all, a hedge or a barley-field is as good for us as a barren heath, where we have no shelter if once pursued!’

  ‘You talks nonsense, you spooney!’ cried a robber of note, called Bagshot; who, being aged, and having been a lawyer’s footboy, was sometimes denominated ‘Old Bags.’ ‘You talks nonsense; these innowating ploughs are the ruin of us. Every blade of corn in a common is an encroachment on the constitution and rights of the gemmen highwaymen. I’m old, and mayn’t live to see these things; but, mark my words, a time will come when a man may go from Lunnun to Johnny Groat’s without losing a penny by one of us; when Hounslow will be safe, and Finchley secure. My eyes, what a sad thing for us that’ll be!’

  The venerable old man became suddenly silent, and the tears started to his eyes. Gentleman George had a great horror of blue devils, and particularly disliked all disagreeable subjects.