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

“Who?” said the man in a surly tone, stopping short.

“Cromwell,” said I; “did you never hear of Oliver Cromwell?”

“Oh, Oliver,” said the drayman, and a fine burst of intelligence lighted up his broad English countenance. “To be sure I have; yes, and read of him too. A fine fellow was Oliver, master, and the poor man’s friend. Whether that’s his figure, though, I can’t say. I hopes it be.” Then touching his hat to me, he followed his gigantic team, turning his head to look at the statue as he walked along.

That man had he lived in Oliver’s time would have made a capital ironside, especially if mounted on one of those dray horses of his. I remained looking at the statue some time longer. Turning round, I perceived that I was close by a bookseller’s shop,135 into which, after deliberating a moment, I entered. An elderly, good-tempered looking man was standing behind the counter.

“Have you the Dairyman’s Daughter?” I demanded.

“Just one copy, young gentleman,” said the bookseller, rubbing his hands; “you are just in time, if you want one; all the rest are sold.”

“What kind of character does it bear?”

“Excellent character, young gentleman; great demand for it; held in much esteem, especially by the Evangelical party.”

“Who are the Evangelical party?”

“Excellent people, young gentleman, and excellent customers of mine,” rubbing his hands; “but setting that aside,” he continued gravely, “religious, good men.”

“Not a set of canting scoundrels?”

The bookseller had placed a small book upon the counter; but he now suddenly snatched it up and returned it to the shelf; then looking at me full in the face, he said, quietly: “Young gentleman, I do not wish to be uncivil, but you had better leave the shop.”

“I beg your pardon if I have offended you, but I was merely repeating what I had heard.”

“Whoever told you so must be either a bad, or a very ignorant, man.”

“I wish for the book.”

“You shall not have it at any price.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons,” said the bookseller.

“Will you have the kindness,” said I, “to tell me whose statue it is which stands there on horseback?”

“Charles the First.”

“And where is Cromwell’s?”

“You may walk far enough about London, or, indeed, about England, before you will find a statue of Cromwell, young gentleman.”

“Well, I could not help thinking that was his.”

“How came you to think so?”

“I thought it would be just the place for a statue to the most illustrious Englishman. It is where I would place one were I prime minister.”

“Well, I do think that Charles would look better a little farther down, opposite to Whitehall, for example,” said the bookseller, rubbing his hands. “Do you really wish to have the book?”

“Very much.”

“Well, here it is; no price, young gentleman; no price⁠—can’t break my word⁠—give the money, if you like, to the beggars in the street. Cromwell is the first Englishman who endeavoured to put all sects on an equality. Wouldn’t do, though⁠—world too fond of humbug⁠—still is. However, good day, young gentleman, and when you are prime minister, do not forget the two statues.”]

I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere⁠—the people, their language, the horses, the tout ensemble⁠—even the stones of London are different from others⁠—at least it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. “A regular Arabian nights’ entertainment!” said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with lustres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors.

But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o’clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands. Without a moment’s hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. “Bring me some claret,” said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses; placing the latter on the table, he produced a corkscrew, drew the cork in a twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I don’t know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I’ll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from; and, filling one of the glasses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second mouthful I disposed