LAVENGRO.

A DREAM OR DRAMA; OR, A SCHOLAR, A GYPSY, A PRIEST.

CHAPTER XVIII.

By the month of October 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.

I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but could not see Glorious John-I called a dozen times, but never could see Glorious John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner. Glorious John is now gone to his rest, but I-what was I going to say?-the world will never forget Glorious John.

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being-to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labor. One day on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury on 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. To be brief, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

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

CHAPTER XIX.

It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned from the other side of the bridge, to her place in the booth. 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 run 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 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 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."

On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, who followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother's house, and which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her life.

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.

So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the world-if education was a benefit to some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book. from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it, and-and I felt myself getting into a maze; what is right, thought I? what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every action is bound up with necessity.

"Necessity!" I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints.

"Lord, child you are mad; that book has made you so.' "Don't abuse it," said I; "the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists."

"I wish it did not," said the old woman; "but it sha'n't long; I'll burn it, or fling it into the river-the voices of night tell me to do 80."

"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; it is a nice book-all true?"

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

"What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?"
"Yes, the language of those who bring you things."

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

"That's metaphor," said I, "English, not 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."

CHAPTER XX.

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 becoming 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 dare say 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 come to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?"

"I don't know," said the young man, thoughtfully laying down the book on the counter; "I don't know what you can do; I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job; the trade are rather precise." All at once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. "Take my advice," he said, "there is a firm established in this neighborhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will exchange with you?"

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 hat 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 tumbrels, 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.

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

"Oh, friend," said the precise-looking man, "if you come here ex pecting 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 convicted that there is a Bible."

"He seems to be insane," said the prim-looking man, "we had bet ter 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 berot a lie, and a dream."

“Come," said the lion-looking man, impatiently, "a truce with this nonsense. If the porter can not 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 convictionsheard voices, or thought she heard them-I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones."

"What has she sent to offer in exchange?" said the man without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech. "A book," said I.

"Let me see it."

"Nay, brother," said the precise man, "this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us."

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

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

"What's the matter?" repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.

"I have it not; I have lost it."

"A pretty story, truly," said the precise-looking man, "lost it!" "You had better retire," said the other.

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

"They are so you had better retire."

I moved toward the door. "Stay, young man, one word more;

there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere."

"What is that?" said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously. "The purchase of a Bible."

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

The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door: all of a sudden I started, and turning round, "Dear me," said I, "it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good.” No answer.

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

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

"No," said I "I have not;" and pulling out my hand I displaye d no less a sum than three half-crowns.

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

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

Queer customer," said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door-"don't like him."

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

CHAPTER XXI.

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

The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I recognized both individuals-the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; "I have picked noone's pocket," said he. "Rascal," said the other, "you have got my pocket-book in your bosom." "No, I have not," said the other; and struggling more violently than before, the pock‹ t-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground.

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

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

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

"Hold your tongue," said I "or I shall be angry with you. If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat me.'' "I never saw you before in all my life," said the fellow, though his countenance seemed to belie his words.

"That is not true," said I; "you are the man who attempted tocheat me of one-and-nineoence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London."

"I don't doubt it," said the other; "a confirmed thief;" and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; "I would fain see him hangedcucified. Drag him along."

"I am no constable," said I; "you have got your pocket-book,I would rather you would bid me let him go."

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

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

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

The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, the way in which he had been originally proceeding; he was silent for a few moments; at length he said, "You have really done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant's pocket-book, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance; but, young man," he exclaimed, "I think I have seen you before; I thought so at first, but where I can not exactly say where was it?" I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple-woman. "Oh," said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar in his smile, "I remember now. Do you frequently sit on London Bridge?" "Occasionally," said I; "that old woman is an old friend of mine." "Friend ?" said the stranger, "I am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I am going to 'Change; time, you know, is precious to a merchant." We were by this time close to Cheapside. "Farewell," said he, "I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again." He then shook me by the hand and went his way.

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

"What do you call bread in your language?" said I

"You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I sha'n't buy any more: it's no language of mine, dear-they call bread pannam in their language."

CHAPTER XXII.

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

After the lapse of a.tew days I called at the house which he had indicated. It was situated in a dark and narrow street, in the heart of the city, at no great distance from the Bank. I entered a counting-room, in which a solitary clerk, with a foreign look, was writing. The stranger was not at home; returning the next day, however, I met him at the door as he was about to enter; he shook me warmly by the hand. "I am glad to see you," said he; "follow me, I was just thinking of you." He led me through the counting room, to an apartment up a flight of stairs; before ascending, however, he looked into the book in which the foreign-visaged clerk was writing, and, seemingly not satisfied with the manner in which he was executing his task, he gave him two or three cuffs, telling him at the same time that he deserved crucifixion.

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

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

"So," said I, after a pause, looking at my companion, "you are an Armenian?"

"Yes," said he; "an Armenian born in London, but not less an ArInenian on that account. My father was a native of Ispahan, one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world. In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with considerable success. Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his property behind. Traveling in the direction of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and eventually died, leaving behind him a large prop

menian English woman, who did not survive my birth more than three months."

The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most matters, from buying silks of Lascars to speculating in the funds, and that he had considerably increased the property which his father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonderfully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a person respectability and consideration in the world; to which assertion I made no answer, being not exactly prepared to contradict it.

"Zhats!" said the stranger, starting up. "By the Patriarch and the Three Holy Churches, this is wonderful! How came you to know aught of Armenian ?"

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

"Learning without money is anything but desirable," said the Armenian, "as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends; I confess to you that your understanding something of my language weighs more with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocket-book the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see hanged if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that pocketbook papers and documents of conside able value. Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm toward you, for I am proud of my language-as I indeed well may be-what a language, noble and en

ergetic! quite original, differing from all others both in words and structure."

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

"For example?" said the Armenian.
"For example?" said I; "the English."

"The English," said the Armenian; "show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian."

"You walk on London Bridge," said I. "Yes," said the Armenian.

"I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning." "True," said the Armenian.

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

"What was it?" said the Armenian. "What was it?-you do not mean the tide?"

"Do I not?" said I.

"Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?"

"Much," said I; "what is the tide?"

"The ebb and flow of the sea," said the Armenian. "The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?"

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

I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to his race or language. "An inconsiderable people," said I, "shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over the formation of the languages of the world. I am not much indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts; whereas to the language of Mr. Petulengro"

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

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

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

I shook my head.

"Keep books?”

thanks I had received; "and who knows." said I, "but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences."

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

"In many points I have no doubt I should," I replied; "but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?"

"He is a Moldave," said the Armenian; "the dog (and here his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually making mistakes."

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

CHAPTER XXIII.

Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the great city. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked forward and feared; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop; but the remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my translation of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk; placing myself in a position which exposed me to such treatment, would indeed be plunging into the fire after escaping from the frying pan. The publisher, insolent and overbearing as he was, whatever he might have wished or thought, had never lifted his hand against me, or told me that I merited crucifixion.

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

I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited

The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. "The books in these cases," said he, "contain the masterpieces of Haik learning."

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

"You have never read Z-?"

"No," said I, "I have never read Z-."

"I have a plan," said the Armenian; "I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z- in an English dress; you shall translate Z-. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z-. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers-his philosophy"I will have nothing to do with him," said I. "Wherefore?" said the Armenian.

"There is an old proverb," said I. " "that a burnt child avoids the fire.' I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;" and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry

both considerable fame and profit; not, perhaps a world-embracing fame such as Byron's; but a fame not to be sneered at, which' would last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from breaking;-profit not equal to that which Scott had made by his wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and enable me to achieve some other literary enterprise. I read and reread my ballads and the more I read them the more I was convinced that the public, in the event of their being published, would freely purchase, and hail them wit the merited applause. Were not the deeds and adventures wonderful and heart-stirring, from which it is true I could claim no merit, being but the translator; but had I not rendered them into English, with all their original fire? Yes, I was confident I had; and I had no doubt that the public would say so. And then, with respect to Ab Gwilym, had I not done as much justice to him as to the Danish ballads; not only rendering faithfully his thoughts, imagery, and phraseology, but even preserving in my translation the alliterative euphony which constitutes one of the most remarkable features of Welsh prosody? Yes, I had accomplished all this; and I doubted not that the public would receive my translations from Ab Gwilym with quite as much eagerness as my version of the Danish ballads. But I found the publishers as untractable as ever, and to this day the public has never had an oppor