Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her gown before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health.

In about five minutes none of the family looked half so disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse.

Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim: “The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it.” Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance⁠—given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware⁠—but they wanted not water; what should I have given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What should I have given them? Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money? Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale⁠—I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea⁠—and that a foolish one⁠—a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required⁠—country? There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug.

“Well,” said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, “I little thought when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade.”

Myself.⁠—Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much difference, ’tis true, between a tinker and a smith.

Tinker.⁠—You are a whitesmith, then?

Myself.⁠—Not I, I’d scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black’s the colour; I am a brother of the horseshoe. Success to the hammer and tongs.

Tinker.⁠—Well, I shouldn’t have thought you were a blacksmith by your hands.

Myself.⁠—I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I have not worked for many a day.

Tinker.⁠—Where did you serve first?

Myself.⁠—In Ireland.

Tinker.⁠—That’s a good way off, isn’t it?

Myself.⁠—Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of salt water that lies behind them, there’s Ireland.

Tinker.⁠—It’s a fine thing to be a scholar.

Myself.⁠—Not half so fine as to be a tinker.

Tinker.⁠—How you talk!

Myself.⁠—Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one’s own master? Now, a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster, for example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don’t; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copybooks, “Evil communication corrupts good manners,” or “You cannot touch pitch without defilement,” or to spell out of Abedariums,186 or to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog’s life as that with your own⁠—the happiest under heaven⁠—true Eden life, as the Germans would say⁠—pitching your tent under the pleasant hedgerow, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow⁠—making ten holes⁠—hey, what’s this? what’s the man crying for?

Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar.

Myself.⁠—What’s the matter with you; what are you all crying about?

Tinker (uncovering his face).⁠—Lord, why to hear you talk; isn’t that enough to make anybody cry⁠—even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, ’tis life in the garden of Eden⁠—the tinker’s; I see so now that I’m about to give it up.

Myself.⁠—Give it up! you must not think of such a thing.

Tinker.⁠—No, I can’t bear to think of it, and yet I must; what’s to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads.

Myself.⁠—Who has driven you off the roads?

Tinker.⁠—Who! the Flaming Tinman.187

Myself.⁠—Who is he?

Tinker.⁠—The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he wouldn’t have served me as he has done⁠—I’ll tell you all about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and my mother too; and I worked with