第45章

Monsieur Dante-Condemned musket-Sporting-Sweet rivulet-The Earl's Home-The pool-The sonorous voice-What dost thou read?

-Man of peace-Zohar and Mishna-Money-changers.

So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished priest,to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive instruction.I made considerable progress in the acquisition of the two languages.I found the French by far the most difficult,chiefly on account of the accent,which my master himself possessed in no great purity,being a Norman by birth.The Italian was my favourite.

'Vous serez un jour un grand philologue,mon cher,'said the old man,on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante's Hell.

'I hope I shall be something better,'said I,'before I die,or Ishall have lived to little purpose.'

'That's true,my dear!philologist-one small poor dog.What would you wish to be?'

'Many things sooner than that;for example,I would rather be like him who wrote this book.'

'Quoi,Monsieur Dante?He was a vagabond,my dear,forced to fly from his country.No,my dear,if you would be like one poet,be like Monsieur Boileau;he is the poet.'

'I don't think so.'

'How,not think so?He wrote very respectable verses;lived and died much respected by everybody.T'other,one bad dog,forced to fly from his country-died with not enough to pay his undertaker.'

'Were you not forced to flee from your country?'

'That very true;but there is much difference between me and this Dante.He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters.I fly because benefice gone,and head going;not on account of the badness of my tongue.'

'Well,'said I,'you can return now;the Bourbons are restored.'

'I find myself very well here;not bad country.Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France;but all are dead there who knew me.

I find myself very well here.Preach in popish chapel,teach schismatic,that is Protestant,child tongues and literature.I find myself very well;and why?Because I know how to govern my tongue;never call people hard names.Ma foi,il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce sacre de Dante.'

Under this old man,who was well versed in the southern languages,besides studying French and Italian,I acquired some knowledge of Spanish.But I did not devote my time entirely to philology;I had other pursuits.I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days,nor its delights;neither was I formed by Nature to be a pallid indoor student.No,no!I was fond of other and,I say it boldly,better things than study.I had an attachment to the angle,ay,and to the gun likewise.In our house was a condemned musket,bearing somewhere on its lock,in rather antique characters,'Tower,1746';with this weapon I had already,in Ireland,performed some execution among the rooks and choughs,and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and amusement to me,in the winter season,especially on occasions of severe frost when birds abounded.Sallying forth with it at these times,far into the country,I seldom returned at night without a string of bullfinches,blackbirds,and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck.When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece,I am less surprised at the number of birds which I slaughtered than that I never blew my hands,face,and old honeycombed gun,it one and the same time,to pieces.

But the winter,alas!(I speak as a fowler)seldom lasts in England more than three or four months;so,during the rest of the year,when not occupied with my philological studies,I had to seek for other diversions.I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the angle.Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits,the rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour of carrying a noble firelock.There is a time,however,for all things;and we return to any favourite amusement with the greater zest,from being compelled to relinquish it for a season.So,if I shot birds in winter with my firelock,I caught fish in summer,or attempted so to do,with my angle.I was not quite so successful,it is true,with the latter as with the former;possibly because it afforded me less pleasure.It was,indeed,too much of a listless pastime to inspire me with any great interest.I not unfrequently fell into a doze,whilst sitting on the bank,and more than once let my rod drop from my hands into the water.

At some distance from the city,behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the south-west,is a small river,the waters of which,after many meanderings,eventually enter the principal river of the district,and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean.It is a sweet rivulet,and pleasant is it to trace its course from its spring-head,high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia,till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground;and pleasant is that valley,truly a goodly spot,but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream.Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool,and are there stilled,for a time,for the pool is deep,and they appear to have sunk to sleep.Farther on,however,you hear their voice again,where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow.On the left,the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream.On the right is a green level,a smiling meadow,grass of the richest decks the side of the slope;mighty trees also adorn it,giant elms,the nearest of which,when the sun is nigh its meridian,fling a broad shadow upon the face of the pool;through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall.