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

while I am by. Come, don’t look fierce. You won’t fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance⁠—I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?”

“Oh dear me, yes,” said I, getting up and stepping forward. “I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope⁠—the enemy of all peace and quiet. To refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope⁠—so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well.”

“An Orangeman,” said the man in black.

“Not a Platitude,” said I.

The man in black gave a slight start.

“Amongst that family,” said I, “no doubt something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great.”

The man in black sat quite still.

“Especially amongst those who have wives,” I added.

The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water.

“However,” said I, “we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution.”

The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, let the spoon fall.

“But what has this to do with the main question?” said I: “I am waiting here to fight against the Pope.”

“Come, Hunter,” said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “get up, and fight for the Pope.”

“I don’t care for the young fellow,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.

“I know you don’t,” said the other, “so get up, and serve him out.”

“I could serve out three like him,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat.

“So much the better for you,” said the other, “the present work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at once.”

The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir.

“Who shows the white feather now?” said the simple-looking man.

“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.

“Who told you to interfere?” said the radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; “say another word, and I’ll ⸻. And you!” said he, addressing himself to the man in black, “a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I’ll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it.”

“Then you won’t fight?” said I.

“Not for the Pope,” said the radical; “I’ll see the Pope ⸻.”

“Dear me!” said I, “not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I’ll give you another chance⁠—you were abusing the Church of England just now. I’ll fight for it⁠—will you fight against it?”

“Come, Hunter,” said the other, “get up, and fight against the Church of England.”

“I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,” said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the church belongs to this fellow in black; so let him carry it on. However,” he continued suddenly, “I won’t slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn’t fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.”

Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. “There shall be no fighting here,” said he, “no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool,” said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, “do you know whom you are going to tackle with? this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers’ Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar’n’t it all true, young man? Ar’n’t you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers’ Dingle?” “I never beat Flaming Bosville,” said I, “he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn’t be here at the present moment.” “Here! here!” said the landlord, “now that’s just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton, in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground,