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

you admitted Parkinson the poet!92 What an insult to a gentleman to be turned from the door, and a strolling vagabond to be admitted before his eyes!”

“I can’t help it,” said I; “I used my best powers of discrimination; I looked both full in the face, and the one struck me as being an honest man, whilst the other had the very look of a slave driver.”

“In the face? Bless me! But you looked at their dress, I suppose? You looked at Sir Edward’s dress?”

“No,” said I, “I merely looked at his countenance.”

“Which you thought looked like that of a slave driver. Well, he’s been in the Indies, where he made his fortune; so, perhaps, you may not be so far out. However, be more cautious in future; look less at people’s countenances and more at their⁠—I dare say you understand me: admit every decent person, and if you turn away anybody, pray let it be the poet Parkinson⁠ ⁠…”

Keeping the admonition of my principal in view, I admitted without word or comment, provided the possessors had a decent coat to their backs, all kinds of countenances⁠—honest countenances, dishonest countenances, and those which were neither. Amongst all these, some of which belonged to naval and military officers, notaries public, magistrates, bailiffs, and young ecclesiastics⁠—the latter with spotless neckcloths and close-shaven chins⁠—there were three countenances which particularly pleased me: the first being that of an ancient earl, who wore a pigtail, and the back of whose coat was white with powder; the second, that of a yeoman ninety years old and worth £90,000, who, dressed in an entire suit of whitish corduroy, sometimes slowly trotted up the court on a tall heavy steed, which seemed by no means unused to the plough. The third was that of the poet Parkinson.

I am not quite sure that I remember the business which brought this last individual so frequently to our office, for he paid us a great many visits.

I am inclined to believe, however, that he generally carried in his pocket a bundle of printed poems of his own composition, on the sale of which he principally depended for his subsistence. He was a man of a singular, though to me by no means unpleasant countenance; he wore an old hat and a snuff-coloured greatcoat, and invariably carried in his hand a stout cudgel like a man much in the habit of walking, which he probably was, from the circumstance of his being generally covered with dust in summer, and in winter splashed with mud from head to foot.

“You cannot see the principal today, Mr. Parkinson,” said I to him once, as unannounced he entered the room where I sat alone; “he is gone out and will not return for some time.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, for I want to consult him on some particular business.”

“What business is it? Perhaps I can be of service to you. Does it relate to the common law?”

“I suppose so, for I am told it is a common assault; but I had better wait till the gentleman comes home. You are rather too young; and besides I have other matters to consult him about; I have two or three papers in my pocket⁠ ⁠…”

“You cannot see him today,” said I; “but you were talking of an assault. Has anyone been beating you?”

“Not exactly; I got into a bit of a ruffle, and am threatened with an action.”

“Oh! so you have been beating somebody.”

“And if I did, how could I help it? I’ll tell you how it happened. I have a gift of making verses, as perhaps you know⁠—in fact, everybody knows. When I had sowed my little trifle of corn in the bit of ground that my father left me, having nothing better to do, I sat down and wrote a set of lines to my lord, in which I told him what a fine old gentleman he was. Then I took my stick and walked off to ⸻, where, after a little difficulty, I saw my lord, and read the verses to him which I had made, offering to print them if he thought proper. Well, he was mightily pleased with them, and said they were too good to be printed, and begged that I would do no such thing, which I promised him I would not, and left him, not before, however, he had given me a King James’ guinea, which they say is worth two of King George’s. Well, I made my bow and went to the village, and in going past the alehouse I thought I would just step in, which I did. The house was full of people, chiefly farmers, and when they saw me they asked me to sit down and take a glass with them, which I did, and being called upon for a song I sang one, and then began talking about myself and how much my lord thought of me, and I repeated the lines which I had written to him, and showed them the James’ guinea he had given me. You should have seen the faces they cast upon me at the sight of the gold; they couldn’t stand it, for it was a confirmation to their envious hearts of all I had told them. Presently one called me a boasting fool, and getting up said that my lord was a yet greater fool for listening to me, and then added that the lines I had been reading were not of my own making. ‘No, you dog,’ said he, ‘they are not of your own making; you got somebody to make them for you.’ Now, I do not mind being called a boaster, nor a dog either, but when he told me that my verses were not my own, I couldn’t contain myself, so I told him he lied, whereupon he flung a glass of liquor in my face, and I knocked him down.”

“Mr. Parkinson,” said I, “are you much in the habit of writing verses to great people?”

“Great and