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

“That’s true; but you have not beat him yet,” said his companion.

“Not bate him yet? Is not there the paper that I am going to write the challenge on? and is not there the pen and the ink that I am going to write it with? and is not there yourself, John Turner, my hired servant, that’s bound to take him the challenge when ’tis written?”

“That’s true; here we are all four⁠—pen, ink, paper, and John Turner; but there’s something else wanted to beat Bishop Sharpe.”

“What else is wanted?” shouted the captain.

“Why, to be a better man than he.”

“And ain’t I that man?”

“Why, that remains to be seen.”

“Ain’t I an Irishman?”

“Yes, I believe you to be an Irishman. No one, to hear you talk, but would think you that, or a Frenchman. I was in conversation with one of that kind the other day. Hearing him talk rather broken, I asked him what countryman he was. ‘What countryman are you?’ said I.⁠—‘I?’ said he, ‘I am one Frenchman,’ and then he looked at me as if I should sink into the earth under his feet.⁠—‘You are not the better for that,’ said I; ‘you are not the better for being a Frenchman, I suppose,’ said I.⁠—‘How?’ said he; ‘I am of the great nation which has won all the battles in the world.’⁠—‘All the battles in the world?’ said I. ‘Did you ever hear of the battle of Waterloo?’ said I. You should have seen how blue he looked. ‘Ah! you can’t get over that,’ said I; ‘you can’t get over the battle of Waterloo,’ said I.”

“Is it the battle of Waterloo you are speaking of, you spalpeen? And to one who was there, an Irish cavalier, fighting in the ranks of the brave French! By the powers! if the sacrifice would not be too great, I would break this pipe in your face.”

“Why, as to that, two can play at that,” said he of the glazed hat, smoking on very composedly. “I remember I once said so to young Cope⁠—you have heard of young Cope. I was vally to young Cope and servant of all work twenty year ago at Brighton. So one morning after I had carried up his boots, he rings the bell as if in a great fury. ‘Do you call these boots clean?’ said young Cope, as soon as I showed myself at the door. ‘Do you call these clean?’ said he, flinging one boot at my head, and then the other. ‘Two can play at that game,’ said I, catching the second boot in my hand, ‘two can play at that game,’ said I, aiming it at young Cope’s head⁠—not that I meant to fling it at young Cope’s head, for young Cope was a gentleman; yes, a gentleman, captain, though not Irish, for he paid me my wages.”

These last words seemed to have a rather quieting effect upon the captain, who at the commencement of the speech had grasped his pipe somewhat below the bowl and appeared by his glance to be meditating a lunge at the eye of his eccentric servant, who continued smoking and talking with great composure. Suddenly replacing the end of his pipe in his mouth, the man turned to me, and in a tone of great hauteur said:⁠—

“So, sir, I am told by your friend there, that you are fond of the humanities.”

“Yes,” said I, “I am very fond of humanity, and was always a great admirer of the lines of Gay:⁠—

‘Cowards are cruel, but the brave
Love mercy and delight to save.’ ”

“By my shoul, sir, it’s an ignorant beast I’m thinking ye. It was not humanity I was speaking of, but the humanities, which have nothing at all to do with it.” Then turning to Frank, he demanded, “Was it not yourself, Mr. Francis Ardry, that told me, when you took the liberty of introducing this person to me, that he was addicted to philosophy, prosody, and whatnot?”

“To be sure I did,” said Frank.

“Well, sir, and are not those the humanities, or are you as ignorant as your friend here?”

“You pretend to be a humanist, sir,” said he to me, “but I will take the liberty of showing your utter ignorance. Now, sir, do you venture to say that you can answer a question connected with the Irish humanities?”

“I must hear it first,” said I.

“You must hear it, must ye? Then you shall hear it to your confusion. A pretty humanist I will show you to be; open your ears, sir!”⁠—

‘Triuir ata sé air mo bhás.’159

“Now, sir, what does the poet mean by saying that there are three looking after his death? Whom does he allude to, sir? hey?”

“The devil, the worms, and his children,” said I, “who are looking after three things which they can’t hope to get before he is dead⁠—the children his property, the worms his body, and the devil his soul, as the man says a little farther on.”

The captain looked at me malignantly.

“Now, sir, are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“Wherefore?” said I. “Have I not given the meaning of the poem?”

“You have expounded the elegy, sir, fairly enough; I find no fault with your interpretation. What I mean is this: Are you not ashamed to be denying your country?”

“I never denied my country; I did not even mention it. My friend there told you I was an Englishman, and he spoke the truth.”

“Sorrow befall you for saying so,” said the captain. “But I see how it is, you have been bought; yes, sir, paid money, to deny your country; but such has ever been the policy of the English; they can’t bate us, so they buy us. Now here’s myself. No sooner have I sent this challenge to Bishop Sharpe by the hands of my hired servant, than I expect to have a hundred offers to let myself be beat. What is that you say, sir?” said he, addressing his