XXXIX

And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people’s business⁠—at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects⁠—I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half-filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the city of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher’s philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular⁠—for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily⁠—it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials, I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing⁠—what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial⁠—his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Königsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance, was the publisher’s remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. “Where is Brandt and Struensee?”153 cries the publisher; “I am sure I don’t know,” I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey’s rats. “Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or⁠—” “Have you found Brandt and Struensee?” cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. “No,” I reply, “I can hear nothing about them;” whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey’s bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher’s sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes⁠—he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. “How is this?” he exclaims; “I can scarcely believe my eyes⁠—the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record⁠—what gross, what utter negligence! Where’s the life of Farmer Patch? Where’s the trial of Yeoman Patch?”

“What a life! what a dog’s life!” I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher.

One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement⁠—the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Symms⁠—Gentleman Harry as they called him⁠—is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good-looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the city. What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry “There it comes!” and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty.

“Whose body is in that hearse?” said I to a dapper-looking individual seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession.

“The mortal relics of Lord Byron,”154 said the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his words and smirking, “the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ⸺⁠shire.”

“An illustrious poet, was he?” said I.

“Beyond all criticism,” said the dapper man; “all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model.”

I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper’s assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doted on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half-god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind.

“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper-looking man, “great poet, but unhappy.”

Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing⁠—that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy and with reason. Was he a real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I eagerly to myself; a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron’s; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and whatnot, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness⁠—witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice⁠—fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling⁠—a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don’t know; didn’t he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to⁠—to⁠—what a destiny! rank, beauty, fashion, immortality⁠—he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men⁠—I wish I could think he was unhappy.

I turned away.

“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper man, turning away too, “but unhappy⁠—fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy.”

Hurrying down the street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.

“What means the multitude yonder?” he demanded.

“They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.”

“I have seen the man,” said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, “so I can dispense with seeing the hearse⁠—I saw the living man at Venice⁠—ah, a great poet.”

[“I don’t think so,” said I.

“Hey!” said Francis Ardry.155

“A perfumed lordling.”

“Ah!”

“With a white hand loaded with gawds.”

“Ah!”

“Who wrote verses.”

“Ah!”

“Replete with malignity and sensualism.”

“Yes!”

“Not half so great a poet as Milton.”

“No?”

“Nor Butler.”

“No?”

“Nor Otway.”

“No?”

“Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally patrons and publishers, took poison at last.”

“No?” said Francis Ardry.

“Why do you keep saying ‘No’? I tell you that I am no admirer of Byron.”

“Well,” said Frank, “don’t say so to anyone else. It will be thought that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost think you are.”

“Envious of him!” said I; “how should I be envious of him? Besides, the man’s dead, and a live dog, you know⁠—”

“You do not think so,” said Frank, “and at this moment I would wager something that you would wish for nothing better than to exchange places with that lordling, as you call him, cold as he is.”

“Well, who knows?” said I. “I really think the man is overvalued. There is one thing connected with him which must ever prevent anyone of right feelings from esteeming him; I allude to his incessant abuse of his native land, a land, too, which had made him its idol.”

“Ah! you are a great patriot, I know,” said Frank. “Come, as you are fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, par excellence.”

“If you mean Eolus Jones,” said I, “you need not trouble yourself; I have seen him already.”

“I don’t mean him,” said Frank. “By the by, he came to me the other day to condole with me, as he said, on the woes of my bleeding country. Before he left me he made me bleed, for he persuaded me to lend him a guinea. No, I don’t mean him, nor anyone of his stamp; I mean an Irish patriot, one who thinks he can show his love for his country in no better way than by beating the English.”

“Beating the English?” said I; “I should like to see him.”

Whereupon taking me by the arm, Francis Ardry conducted me through various alleys, till we came to a long street which seemed to descend towards the south.

“What street is this?” said I, when we had nearly reached the bottom.

“It is no street at all,” said my friend; “at least it is not called one in this city of Cockaine; it is a lane, even that of St. Martin; and that church that you see there is devoted to him. It is one of the few fine churches in London. Malheureusement,156 as the French say, it is so choked up by buildings that it is impossible to see it at twenty yards’ distance from any side. Whenever I get into Parliament, one of my first motions shall be to remove some twenty score of the aforesaid buildings. But I think we have arrived at the house to which I wished to conduct you.”

“Yes, I see, Portobello.”

About twenty yards from the church, on the left-hand side of the street or lane, was a mean-looking house having something of the appearance of a fifth-rate inn. Over the door was written in large characters the name of the haven, where the bluff old Vernon achieved his celebrated victory over the whiskered Dons. Entering a passage on one side of which was a barroom, Ardry enquired of a middle-aged man who stood in it in his shirtsleeves, whether the captain was at home. Having received for an answer a surly kind of “yes,” he motioned me to follow him, and after reaching the end of the passage, which was rather dark, he began to ascend a narrow, winding stair. About halfway up he suddenly stopped, for at that moment a loud, hoarse voice from a room above commenced singing a strange kind of ditty.

“The captain is singing,” said Frank, “and, as I live, ‘Carolan’s Receipt for drinking whisky.’157 Let us wait a moment till he has done, as he would probably not like to be interrupted in his melody.”

Carolan’s Receipt

‘Whether sick or sound my receipt was the same,
To Stafford I stepp’d and better became;
A visit to Stafford’s bounteous hall
Was the best receipt of all, of all.

‘Midnight fell round us and drinking found us,
At morn again flow’d his whisky;
By his insight he knew ’twas the only way true
To keep Torlough alive and frisky.

‘Now deep healths quaffing, now screeching now laughing,
At my harp-strings tearing, and to madness nearing:
That was the life I led, and which I yet do;
For I will swear it, and to all the world declare it,
If you would fain be happy, you must aye be⁠—’

“Fou!” said Francis Ardry, suddenly pushing open the door of the room from which the voice proceeded; “That’s the word, I think, captain.”

“By my shoul, Mr. Francis Ardry, you enter with considerable abruptness, sir,” said one of two men who were seated smoking at a common deal table, in a large ruinous apartment in which we now found ourselves. “You enter with considerable abruptness sir,” he repeated; “do you know on whom you are intruding?”

“Perfectly well,” said Francis; “I am standing in the presence of Torlough O’ Donahue, formerly captain in a foreign service, and at present resident in London for the express purpose of beating all the English⁠—”

“And some of the Irish too, sir, if necessary,” said the captain with a menacing look. “I do not like to be broken in upon as if I were a nobody. However, as you are here, I suppose I must abide by it. I am not so little of a gentleman as to be deficient in the rudiments of hospitality. You may both of you sit down and make yourselves aisy.”

But this was no such easy matter, the only two chairs in the room being occupied by the captain and the other. I therefore leaned against the door, while Ardry strolled about the apartment.

The captain might be about forty. His head was immensely large, his complexion ruddy, and his features rough, coarse and strongly expressive of sullenness and ill-nature. He was about the middle height, with a frame clumsily made, but denoting considerable strength. He wore a blue coat, the lappets of which were very narrow, but so long that they nearly trailed upon the ground. Yellow leathern breeches unbuttoned at the knee, dazzling white cotton stockings and shoes with buckles, adorned his nether man.

His companion, who was apparently somewhat older than himself, was dressed in a coarse greatcoat and a glazed hat exactly resembling those worn by hackneys. He had a quiet, droll countenance, very much studded with carbuncles, and his nose, which was very long, was of so hooked a description that the point of it nearly entered his mouth.

“Who may this friend of yours be?” said the captain to Ardry, after staring at me.

“A young gentleman much addicted to philosophy, poetry and philology.”

“Is he Irish?”

“No, he is English; but I have heard him say that he has a particular veneration for Ireland.”

“He has, has he; by my shoul, then, all the better for him. If he had not⁠ ⁠… Can he fight?”

“I think I have heard him say that he can use his fists when necessary.”

“He can, can he? by my shoul, I should like to try him. But first of all I have another customer to dispose of. I have just determined to send a challenge to Bishop Sharpe whom these English call the best of their light weights.158 Perhaps he is, but if I don’t⁠—”

“The Bishop is a good man,” interrupted his companion of the greatcoat and glazed hat, in a strange croaky tone.

“Is it a good man that you are calling him?” said the captain. “Well, be it so; the more merit in my baiting him.”

“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 companion who had uttered a kind of inaudible sound⁠—“No hopes of that, did you say? Do you think that I could be bate without allowing myself to be bate? By the powers!⁠—but you are beneath my notice.”

“Well, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on me, “though you have cheek enough to deny your own country, I trust you have not enough to deny the merit of the elegy. What do you think of the elegy, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff,” said I.

“Hear him!” said the captain looking about him. “But he has been bought, paid money, to deny his own country and all that belongs to it. Well, sir, what do you think of Carolan, Carolan the Great? What do you think of his Receipt, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff, too.”

“Very well, sir, very well; but I hope to make you give me a receipt for all this before you leave. One word more. I suppose you’ll next deny that we have any poetry or music at all.”

“Far be it from me to say any such thing. There is one song connected with Ireland which I have always thought very fine, and likewise the music that accompanies it.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir; there is one piece of Irish poetry and music which meets your approbation! Pray name the piece, sir.”

“ ‘Croppies Lie Down!’ ”

The captain sprang to his feet like one electrified.

“What, sir?” said he.

“ ‘Croppies Lie Down!’ ”

The captain dashed his pipe to shivers against the table; then tucking up the sleeves of his coat, he advanced to within a yard of me, and pushing forward his head somewhat in the manner of a bulldog when about to make a spring, he said in a tone of suppressed fury: “I think I have heard of that song before, sir; but nobody ever yet cared to sing it to me. I should admire to hear from your lips what it is. Perhaps you will sing me a line or two.”

“With great pleasure,” said I:⁠—

“There are many brave rivers run into the sea,
But the best of them all is Boyne water for me;
There Croppies were vanquished and terrified fled,
With Jamie the runagate king at their head.
When crossing the ford
In the name of the Lord,
The conqueror brandished his conquering sword;
Then down, down, Croppies lie down!’

“By the powers! a very pretty song, and much obliged am I to ye for singing it, more especially as it gives me an opportunity of breaking your head, you long-limbed descendant of a Boyne trooper. You must deny your country, must ye? ye dingy renegade!⁠—the black North, but old Ireland still. But here’s Connemara for ye⁠—take this⁠—and this⁠—Och, murther!⁠—What have we got here⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Who and what is this O’Donahue?” said I to Frank Ardry after we had descended into the street.

“An ill-tempered Irishman,” said Frank, “the most disagreeable animal alive, once a rare bird on the earth. His father, after having taught him some Irish and less Latin, together with an immoderate hatred of the English, sent him abroad at the age of sixteen to serve the French. In that service he continued until the time of the general peace, when he quitted it for the Austrian. I first became acquainted with him at Vienna, where he bore the rank of captain, but had the character of a notorious gambler. It was owing, I believe, to his gambling practices that he was eventually obliged to leave the Austrian service. He has been in London about six months, where he supports himself as best he can, chiefly, I believe, by means of the gaming-table. His malignity against England has of late amounted almost to insanity, and has been much increased by the perusal of Irish newspapers which abound with invective against England and hyperbolical glorification of Ireland and the Irish. The result is that he has come to the conclusion that the best way for him to take revenge for the injuries of Ireland and to prove the immense superiority of the Irish over the English will be to break the head of Bishop Sharpe in the ring.”

“Well,” said I, “I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there be, should not be settled in the ring.”

“Nor I either,” said Frank, “and I could wish my countrymen to choose none other than O’Donahue. With respect to England and Bishop Sharpe⁠ ⁠…”

At that moment a voice sounded close by me: “Coach, your honour, coach? Will carry you anywhere you like.” I stopped, and lo the man of the greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side.

“What do you want?” said I. “Have you brought me any message from your master?”

“Master? What master? Oh! you mean the captain. I left him rubbing his head. No, I don’t think you will hear anything from him in a hurry; he has had enough of you. All I wish to know is whether you wish to ride.”

“I thought you were the captain’s servant.”

“Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about the Park, but he’s no master of mine⁠—he doesn’t pay me. Who cares? I don’t serve him for money. I like to hear his talk about Bishop Sharpe and beating the English⁠—Lord help him! Now, where do you wish to go? Any coach you like⁠—any coachman⁠—and nothing to pay.”

“Why do you wish me to ride?” said I.

“Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain. I think what he got will satisfy him for a time. No more talk about Bishop Sharpe for a week at least. Come, come along, both of you. The stand is close by, and I’ll drive you myself.”

“Will you ride?” said I to Francis Ardry.

“No,” said Frank.

“Then come alone. Where shall I drive you?”

“To London Bridge.”]