Lavengro, George Borrow [i love reading books txt] 📗

thou of them?⁠—but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ⸻. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family.” “Who was he?” said I. “John Bunyan,” replied Peter, reverently, “and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile.” “No,” said I, “I will not go and hear.” “Wherefore?” said Peter. “I belong to the church,” said I, “and not to the congregations.” “Oh! the pride of that church,” said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, “exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members.” “Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,” said Peter, again addressing me; “there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill.” “No,” said I, “I do not mean to go to church.” “May I ask thee wherefore?” said Peter. “Because,” said I, “I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and the tinkling of the waters.”

“Then thou intendest to remain here?” said Peter, looking fixedly at me. “If I do not intrude,” said I; “but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody⁠—perhaps you wish me to go?” “On the contrary,” said Peter, “I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question: Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?” “No,” said I; “had I known there had been poison in the cake, I certainly should not have taken it.” “And who gave it thee?” said Peter. “An enemy of mine,” I replied. “Who is thy enemy?” “An Egyptian sorceress and poisonmonger.” “Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee⁠—of what did she complain?” “That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.” “I do not understand thee⁠—is she young?” “About sixty-five.”

Here Winifred interposed. “Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man,” said she; “I trust thou dost bear no malice against her.” “No,” said I, “I bear no malice against her.” “Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?” “By no means,” said I; “I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject.” “In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?” “Both now and forever,” said I. “Truly,” said Winifred, “the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much: I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us.” “My exhortation!” said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; “thou forgettest what I am⁠—I⁠—I⁠—but I am forgetting myself; the Lord’s will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting.”

Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday’s best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet, sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding, that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me.

And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D⁠⸺, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England’s grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady’s sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother⁠—a quiet, sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honeybee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.

And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then;