The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

“And, in the third place, it pays much better.”

“That, I don’t believe,” said the Tinker.

“Nevertheless,” said I, “speaking for myself, I have, in the course of my twenty-five years, earned but ten shillings, and that—but by the sale of my waistcoat.”

“Lord love me!” exclaimed the Tinker, staring.

“A man,” I pursued, “may be a far better scholar than I—may be full of the wisdom of the Ancients, and the teachings of all the great thinkers and philosophers, and yet starve to death—indeed frequently does; but who ever heard of a starving Tinker?”

“But a scholar may write great books,” said the Tinker.

“A scholar rarely writes a great book,” said I, shaking my head, “probably for the good and sufficient reason that great books never are written.”

“Young fellow,” said the Tinker, staring, “what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that truly great books only happen, and very rarely.”

“But a scholar may happen to write a great book,” said the Tinker.

“To be sure—he may; a book that nobody will risk publishing, and if so—a book that nobody will trouble to read, nowadays.”

“Why so?”

“Because this is an eminently unliterary age, incapable of thought, and therefore seeking to be amused. Whereas the writing of books was once a painful art, it has of late become a trick very easy of accomplishment, requiring no regard for probability, and little thought, so long as it is packed sufficiently full of impossible incidents through which a ridiculous heroine and a more absurd hero duly sigh their appointed way to the last chapter. Whereas books were once a power, they are, of late, degenerated into things of amusement with which to kill an idle hour, and be promptly forgotten the next.”

“Yet the great books remain,” said the Tinker.

“Yes,” said I; “but who troubles their head over Homer or Virgil these days—who cares to open Steele’s ‘Tatler,’ or Addison’s ‘Spectator,’ while there is the latest novel to be had, or ‘Bell’s Life’ to be found on any coffee-house table?”

“And why,” said the Tinker, looking at me over a piece of bacon skewered upon the point of his jack-knife, “why don’t you write a book?”

“I probably shall some day,” I answered.

“And supposing,” said the Tinker, eyeing the piece of bacon thoughtfully, “supposing nobody ever reads it?”

“The worse for them!” said I.

Thus we talked of books, and the making of books (something of which I have already set down in another place) until our meal was at an end.

“You are a rather strange young man, I think,” said the Tinker, as, having duly wiped knife, and fork, and plate upon a handful of grass, I handed them back.

“Yet you are a stranger tinker.”

“How so?”

“Why, who ever heard of a tinker who wrote verses, and worked with a copy of Epictetus at his elbow?”

“Which I don’t deny as I’m a great thinker,” nodded the Tinker; “to be sure, I think a powerful lot.”

“A dangerous habit,” said I, shaking my head, “and a most unwise one!”

“Eh?” cried the Tinker, staring.

“Your serious, thinking man,” I explained, “is seldom happy—as a rule has few friends, being generally regarded askance, and is always misunderstood by his fellows. All the world’s great thinkers, from Christ down, were generally misunderstood, looked at askance, and had very few friends.”

“But these were all great men,” said the Tinker.

“We think so now, but in their day they were very much despised, and who was more hated, by the very people He sought to aid, than Christ?”

“By the evil-doers, yes,” nodded the Tinker.

“On the contrary,” said I, “his worst enemies were men of learning, good citizens, and patterns of morality, who looked upon him as a dangerous zealot, threatening the destruction of the old order of things; hence they killed him—as an agitator. Things are much the same to-day. History tells us that Christ, or the spirit of Christ, has entered into many men who have striven to enlighten and better the conditions of their kind, and they have generally met with violent deaths, for Humanity is very gross and blind.”

The Tinker slowly wiped his clasp-knife upon the leg of his breeches, closed it, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Nevertheless,” said he at last, “I am convinced that you are a very strange young man.”

“Be that as it may,” said I, “the bacon was delicious. I have never enjoyed a meal so much—except once at an inn called ‘The Old Cock.’”

“I know it,” nodded the Tinker; “a very poor house.”

“But the ham and eggs are beyond praise,” said I; “still, my meal here under the trees with you will long remain a pleasant memory.”

“Good-by, then,” said the Tinker. “Good-by, young man, and I wish you happiness.”

“What is happiness?” said I. The Tinker removed his hat, and, having scratched his head, put it on again.

“Happiness,” said he, “happiness is the state of being content with one’s self, the world, and everything in general.”

“Then,” said I, “I fear I can never be happy.”

“And why not?”

“Because, supposing I ever became contented with the world, and everything in general, which is highly improbable, I shall never, never be contented with myself.”

CHAPTER XXIII

CONCERNING HAPPINESS, A PLOUGHMAN, AND SILVER BUTTONS

Now as I went, pondering on true happiness, and the nature of it, I beheld a man ploughing in a field hard by, and, as he ploughed, he whistled lustily. And drawing near to the field, I sat down upon a gate and watched, for there are few sights and sounds I am fonder of than the gleam of the ploughshare and the sighing whisper it makes as it turns the fragrant loam.

“A truly noble occupation!” said I to myself, “dignified by the ages—ay—old, well nigh, as the green earth itself; no man need be ashamed to guide a plough.”

And indeed a fine sight it made, the straining horses, the stalwart figure of the Ploughman, with the blue sky, the long, brown furrows, and, away and beyond, the tender green of leaves; while the jingle of the harness, the clear, merry, whistled notes, and the song of a skylark, high above our heads, all blended into a chorus it was good to hear.

As he came up to where I sat upon the gate, the Ploughman stopped, and, wiping the glistening moisture from his brow, nodded good-humoredly.

“A fine morning!” said I.

“So it be, sir, now you come to mention it, it do be a fine day surely.”

“You, at least seem happy,” said I.

“Happy?” he exclaimed, staring.

“Yes,” said I.

“Well, I bean’t.”

“And why not?” The Ploughman scratched his ear, and carried his glance from my face up to the sky, and down again.

“I dunno,” he answered, “but I bean’t.”

“Yet you whistle gayly enough.”

“Why, a man must do summat.”

“Then, you seem strong and healthy.”

“Yes, I do be fine an’ hearty.”

“And sleep well?”

“Like a blessed log.”

“And eat well?”

“Eat!” he exclaimed, with a mighty laugh. “Lord! I should think so—why, I’m always eatin’ or thinkin’ of it. Oh, I’m a fine eater, I am—an’ I bean’t no chicken at drinkin’, neither.”

“Then you ought to be happy.”

“Ah!—but I bean’t!” he repeated, shaking his head.

“Have you any troubles?”

“None as I can think on.”

“You earn good money every week?”

“Ten shillin’.”

“You are not married?”

“Not me.”

“Then,” said I, “you must be happy.” The Ploughman pulled at his ear again, looked slowly all round the field, and, finally, shook his head.

“Well,” said he, “I bean’t.”

“But why not?” His eye roved slowly up from my boots to the buttons on my coat.

“Them be fine buttons!” said he.

“Do you think so?”

“Look like silver!”

“They are silver,” said I.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, “you wouldn’t part wi’ they buttons, I suppose?”

“That depends!”

“On what?”

“On how much you would give for them.” The Ploughman thrust a hand into a deep pocket, and brought up five shillings.

“I were a-goin’ to buy a pair o’ boots, on my way ‘ome,” he explained, “but I’d rayther ‘ave they buttons, if five shillin’ ‘ll buy ‘em.”

“The boots would be more serviceable,” said I.

“Maybe, sir, but then, everybody wears boots, but there bean’t many as can show buttons the like o’ them—so if you’re willin’—”

“Lend me your knife,” said I. And, forthwith, I sawed off the eight silver buttons and dropped them into his palm, whereupon he handed me the money with great alacrity.

“And now,” said I, “tell me why you are not happy.”

“Well,” returned the Ploughman, back at his ear again, “ye see it bein’ as you ask so sudden-like, I can’t ‘zack’ly say, but if you was to pass by in a day or two, why, maybe I could tell ye.”

So, pocketing the buttons, he whooped cheerily to his horses, and plodded off, whistling more merrily than ever.

CHAPTER XXIV

WHICH INTRODUCES THE READER TO THE ANCIENT

The sun was high when I came to a place where the ways divided, and, while I stood hesitating which road to take, I heard the cool plash and murmur of a brook at no great distance. Wherefore, being hot and thirsty, I scrambled through the hedge, and, coming to the brook, threw myself face down beside it, and, catching up the sweet pure water in my hands, drank my fill; which done, I bathed my feet, and hands, and face, and became much heartened and refreshed thereby. Now because I have ever loved the noise of running waters, in a little while, I rose and walked on beside the stream, listening to its blithesome melody. So, by devious ways, for the brook wound prodigiously, I came at length to a sudden declivity down which the water plunged in a miniature cascade, sparkling in the sun, and gleaming with a thousand rainbow hues. On I went, climbing down as best I might, until I found myself in a sort of green basin, very cool after the heat and glare of the roads, for the high, tree-clad sides afforded much shade. On I went, past fragrant thickets and bending willows, with soft lush grass underfoot and leafy arches overhead, and the brook singing and chattering at my side; albeit a brook of changeful mood, now laughing and dimpling in some fugitive ray of sunshine, now sighing and whispering in the shadows, but ever moving upon its appointed way, and never quite silent. So I walked on beside the brook, watching the fish that showed like darting shadows on the bottom, until, chancing to raise my eyes, I stopped. And there, screened by leaves, shut in among the green, stood a small cottage, or hut. My second glance showed it to be tenantless, for the thatch was partly gone, the windows were broken, and the door had long since fallen from its hinges. Yet, despite its forlornness and desolation, despite the dilapidation of broken door and fallen chimney, there was something in the air of the place that drew me strangely. It was somewhat roughly put together, but still very strong, and seemed, save for the roof, weatherfast.

“A man might do worse than live here,” thought I, “with the birds for neighbors, and the brook to sing him to sleep at night. Indeed, a man