The Romany Rye

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Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defamation of
Lavengro, have been your modern Radicals, and particularly a set of
people who filled the country with noise against the King and
Queen, Wellington, and the Tories, in '32. About these people the
writer will presently have occasion to say a good deal, and also of
real Radicals. As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of
those who delight to play the sycophant to kings and queens, to
curry favour with Tories, and to bepraise Wellington, he begs leave
to state that such is not the case.

About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories, simply
that he believes them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however,
it will be necessary for him to say a good deal, of mixed import,
as he will subsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in
connection with what he has to say about pseudo-Radicals.

CHAPTER X

Pseudo-Radicals.

About Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the
present day to be infinitely overrated. But there certainly was a
time when he was shamefully underrated. Now what time was that?
Why the time of pseudo-Radicalism, par excellence, from '20 to '32.
Oh, the abuse that was heaped on Wellington by those who traded in
Radical cant--your newspaper editors and review writers! and how he
was sneered at then by your Whigs, and how faintly supported he was
by your Tories, who were half ashamed of him; for your Tories,
though capital fellows as followers, when you want nobody to back
you, are the faintest creatures in the world when you cry in your
agony, "Come and help me!" Oh, assuredly Wellington was infamously
used at that time, especially by your traders in Radicalism, who
howled at and hooted him; said he had every vice--was no general--
was beaten at Waterloo--was a poltroon--moreover a poor illiterate
creature, who could scarcely read or write; nay, a principal
Radical paper said boldly he could not read, and devised an
ingenious plan for teaching Wellington how to read. Now this was
too bad; and the writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke
up for Wellington, saying, that as for vice, he was not worse than
his neighbours; that he was brave; that he won the fight at
Waterloo, from a half-dead man, it is true, but that he did win it.
Also, that he believed he had read "Rules for the Manual and
Platoon Exercises" to some purpose; moreover, that he was sure he
could write, for that he the writer had once written to Wellington,
and had received an answer from him; nay, the writer once went so
far as to strike a blow for Wellington; for the last time he used
his fists was upon a Radical sub-editor, who was mobbing Wellington
in the street, from behind a rank of grimy fellows; but though the
writer spoke up for Wellington to a certain extent, when he was
shamefully underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was
about being hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome
sycophantic nonsense which it has been the fashion to use with
respect to Wellington these last twenty years. Now what have those
years been to England! Why the years of ultra-gentility, everybody
in England having gone gentility mad during the last twenty years,
and no people more so than your pseudo-Radicals. Wellington was
turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals got in, and then commenced
the period of ultra-gentility in England. The Whigs and Radicals
only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of the country was
in his hands, none of which they were tolerably sure he would
bestow on them; but no sooner did they get it into their own, than
they forthwith became admirers of Wellington. And why? Because he
was a duke, petted at Windsor and by foreign princes, and a very
genteel personage. Formerly many of your Whigs and Radicals had
scarcely a decent coat on their backs; but now the plunder of the
country was at their disposal, and they had as good a chance of
being genteel as any people. So they were willing to worship
Wellington because he was very genteel, and could not keep the
plunder of the country out of their hands. And Wellington has been
worshipped, and prettily so, during the last fifteen or twenty
years. He is now a noble fine-hearted creature; the greatest
general the world ever produced; the bravest of men; and--and--
mercy upon us! the greatest of military writers! Now the present
writer will not join in such sycophancy. As he was not afraid to
take the part of Wellington when he was scurvily used by all
parties, and when it was dangerous to take his part, so he is not
afraid to speak the naked truth about Wellington in these days,
when it is dangerous to say anything about him but what is
sycophantically laudatory. He said in '32, that as to vice,
Wellington was not worse than his neighbours; but he is not going
to say, in '54, that Wellington was a noble-hearted fellow; for he
believes that a more cold-hearted individual never existed. His
conduct to Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney, showed that.
He said, in '32, that he was a good general and a brave man; but he
is not going, in '54, to say that he was the best general, or the
bravest man the world ever saw. England has produced a better
general--France two or three--both countries many braver men. The
son of the Norfolk clergyman was a brave man; Marshal Ney was a
braver man. Oh, that battle of Copenhagen! Oh, that covering the
retreat of the Grand Army! And though he said in '32 that he could
write, he is not going to say in '54 that he is the best of all
military writers. On the contrary, he does not hesitate to say
that any Commentary of Julius Caesar, or any chapter in Justinus,
more especially the one about the Parthians, is worth the ten
volumes of Wellington's Despatches; though he has no doubt that, by
saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a certain
newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals imaginable--
with a slight tendency to Liberalism, it is true, but perfectly
genteel--which is nevertheless the very one which, in '32, swore
bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write, and devised an
ingenious plan for teaching him how to read.

Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if the
writer should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he would
be influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry
favour with Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of
Wellington; but the writer is not going to declaim against
Radicals, that is, real Republicans, or their principles; upon the
whole, he is something of an admirer of both. The writer has
always had as much admiration for everything that is real and
honest as he has had contempt for the opposite. Now real
Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much finer thing
than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is nevertheless far
better than Whiggism {7}--a compound of petty larceny, popular
instruction, and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real
Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, and your real
Radicals and Republicans are certainly very fine fellows, or rather
were fine fellows, for the Lord only knows where to find them at
the present day--the writer does not. If he did, he would at any
time go five miles to invite one of them to dinner, even supposing
that he had to go to a workhouse in order to find the person he
wished to invite. Amongst the real Radicals of England, those who
flourished from the year '16 to '20, there were certainly
extraordinary characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but honest
and brave--they did not make a market of the principles which they
professed, and never intended to do so; they believed in them, and
were willing to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out.
The writer wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both
of whom perished on the scaffold--their names were Thistlewood and
Ings. Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier,
and had served with distinction as an officer in the French
service; he was one of the excellent swordsmen of Europe; had
fought several duels in France, where it is no child's play to
fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword for single combat,
but in defence of the feeble and insulted--he was kind and open-
hearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand
pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared
and never returned a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, of very
low stature, but amazing strength and resolution; he was a kind
husband and father, and though a humble butcher, the name he bore
was one of the royal names of the heathen Anglo-Saxons. These two
men, along with five others, were executed, and their heads hacked
off, for levying war against George the Fourth; the whole seven
dying in a manner which extorted cheers from the populace; the most
of then uttering philosophical or patriotic sayings. Thistlewood,
who was, perhaps, the most calm and collected of all, just before
he was turned off, said, "We are now going to discover the great
secret." Ings, the moment before he was choked, was singing "Scots
wha ha' wi' Wallace bled." Now there was no humbug about those
men, nor about many more of the same time and of the same
principles. They might be deluded about Republicanism, as Algernon
Sidney was, and as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave as
either Brutus or Sidney; and as willing to die for their
principles. But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a
very different description; they jobbed and traded in
Republicanism, and either parted with it, or at the present day are
eager to part with it for a consideration. In order to get the
Whigs into power, and themselves places, they brought the country
by their inflammatory language to the verge of a revolution, and
were the cause that many perished on the scaffold; by their
incendiary harangues and newspaper articles they caused the Bristol
conflagration, for which six poor creatures were executed; they
encouraged the mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and then rushing
into garrets looked on. Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower is a
second Bastile; let it be pulled down. A mob tries to pull down
the Tower; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob; he is not
peeping from a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at Lisbon.
Thistlewood and Ings say to twenty ragged individuals, Liverpool
and Castlereagh are two satellites of despotism; it would be highly
desirable to put them out of the way. And a certain number of
ragged individuals are surprised in a stable in Cato Street, making
preparations to put Castlereagh and Liverpool out of the way, and
are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers, and are hacked at with
cutlasses by Bow Street runners; but the twain who encouraged those
ragged individuals to meet in Cato Street are not far off, they are
not on the other side of the river, in the Borough, for example, in
some garret or obscure cellar. The very first to confront the
Guards and runners are Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood whips his
long thin rapier through Smithers' lungs, and Ings makes a dash at
Fitzclarence with his butcher's knife. Oh, there was something in
those fellows! honesty and courage--but can as much be said for the
inciters of the troubles of '32? No; they egged on poor ignorant
mechanics and rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and
burning, whilst the highest pitch to which their own daring ever
mounted was to mob Wellington as he passed in the streets.

Now, these people were humbugs, which Thistlewood and Ings were
not. They raved and foamed against kings, queens, Wellington, the
aristocracy, and what not, till they had got the Whigs into power,
with whom they were in secret alliance, and with whom they
afterwards openly joined in a system of robbery and corruption,
more flagitious than the old Tory one, because there was more cant
about it; for themselves they got consulships, commissionerships,
and in some instances governments; for their sons clerkships in
public offices; and there you may see those sons with the never-
failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, the gilt chain at the
waistcoat pocket; and there you may hear and see them using the
languishing tones, and employing the airs and graces which wenches
use and employ, who, without being in the family way, wish to make
their keepers believe that they are in the family way. Assuredly
great is the cleverness of your Radicals of '32, in providing for
themselves and their families. Yet, clever as they are, there is
one thing they cannot do--they get governments for themselves,
commissionerships for their brothers, clerkships for their sons,
but there is one thing beyond their craft--they cannot get husbands
for their daughters, who, too ugly for marriage, and with their
heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed from gentility-
novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters in fusty
convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude's
"chapelle," seek for admission at the establishment of mother S---,
who, after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and
making them pluck off their eyebrows hair by hair, generally
dismisses them on the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return
to their papas to eat the bread of the country, with the
comfortable prospect of eating it still in the shape of a pension
after their sires are dead. Papa (ex uno disce omnes) living as
quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true, being now and
then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even as an
animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very slight
appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a
great admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the
Duke in particular, whose "Despatches," bound in red morocco, you
will find on his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and
extremes of every kind, with a perfect horror for revolutions and
attempts to revolutionize, exclaiming now and then, as a shriek
escapes from whipped and bleeding Hungary, a groan from gasping
Poland, and a half-stifled curse from down-trodden but scowling
Italy, "Confound the revolutionary canaille, why can't it be
quiet!" in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the
"Walpurgis Nacht." The writer is no admirer of Gothe, but the idea
of that parvenu was certainly a good one. Yes, putting one in mind
of the individual who says -

"Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm,
Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten;
Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um,
Und eben da wir's fest erhalten wollten."

We were no fools, as every one discern'd,
And stopp'd at nought our projects in fulfilling;
But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn'd,
To keep it quiet just when we were willing.

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for
Lavengro and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of
vituperating both. It is true that such hatred is by no means
surprising. There is certainly a great deal of difference between
Lavengro and their own sons; the one thinking of independence and
philology, whilst he is clinking away at kettles, and hammering
horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at public offices with
gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving themselves the
airs and graces of females of a certain description. And there
certainly is a great deal of difference between the author of
Lavengro and themselves--he retaining his principles and his brush;
they with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their
Republicanism, and their tails. Oh, the writer can well afford to
be vituperated by your pseudo-Radicals of '32!

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his
wife; but the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to
itself.

CHAPTER XI

The Old Radical.

"This very dirty man, with his very dirty face,
Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place."

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his
wife; but before he relates the manner in which they set upon him,
it will be as well to enter upon a few particulars tending to
elucidate their reasons for so doing.

The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met
at the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently
somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly
figure, a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a
large pair of spectacles. This person, who had lately come from
abroad, and had published a volume of translations, had attracted
some slight notice in the literary world, and was looked upon as a
kind of lion in a small provincial capital. After dinner he argued
a great deal, spoke vehemently against the church, and uttered the
most desperate Radicalism that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he
hoped that in a short time there would not be a king or queen in
Europe, and inveighing bitterly against the English aristocracy,
and against the Duke of Wellington in particular, whom he said, if
he himself was ever president of an English republic--an event
which he seemed to think by no means improbable--he would hang for
certain infamous acts of profligacy and bloodshed which he had
perpetrated in Spain. Being informed that the writer was something
of a philologist, to which character the individual in question
laid great pretensions, he came and sat down by him, and talked
about languages and literature. The writer, who was only a boy,
was a little frightened at first, but, not wishing to appear a
child of absolute ignorance, he summoned what little learning he
had, and began to blunder out something about the Celtic languages
and literature, and asked the Lion who he conceived Finn-Ma-Coul to
be? and whether he did not consider the "Ode to the Fox," by Red
Rhys of Eryry, to be a masterpiece of pleasantry? Receiving no
answer to these questions from the Lion, who, singular enough,
would frequently, when the writer put a question to him, look
across the table, and flatly contradict some one who was talking to
some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages and
literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny thing
that Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have married
the daughter of Prester John? {8} The Lion, after giving a side-
glance at the writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed about
to reply, but was unfortunately prevented, being seized with an
irresistible impulse to contradict a respectable doctor of
medicine, who was engaged in conversation with the master of the
house at the upper and farther end of the table, the writer being a
poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the bottom. The doctor,
who had served in the Peninsula, having observed that Ferdinand the
Seventh was not quite so bad as had been represented, the Lion
vociferated that he was ten times worse, and that he hoped to see
him and the Duke of Wellington hanged together. The doctor, who,
being a Welshman, was somewhat of a warm temper, growing rather
red, said that at any rate he had been informed that Ferdinand the
Seventh knew sometimes how to behave himself like a gentleman--this
brought on a long dispute, which terminated rather abruptly. The
Lion having observed that the doctor must not talk about Spanish
matters with one who had visited every part of Spain, the doctor
bowed, and said he was right, for that he believed no people in
general possessed such accurate information about countries as
those who had travelled them as bagmen. On the Lion asking the
doctor what he meant, the Welshman, whose under jaw began to move
violently, replied, that he meant what he said. Here the matter
ended, for the Lion, turning from him, looked at the writer. The
writer, imagining that his own conversation hitherto had been too
trivial and common-place for the Lion to consider worth his while
to take much notice of it, determined to assume a little higher
ground, and after repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling
a little Arabic, asked the Lion what he considered to be the
difference between the Hegira and the Christian era, adding, that
he thought the general computation was in error by about one year;
and being a particularly modest person, chiefly, he believes, owing
to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely blushed at
finding that the Lion returned not a word in answer. "What a
wonderful individual I am seated by," thought he, "to whom Arabic
seems a vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy
of an answer!" not reflecting that as lions come from the Sahara,
they have quite enough of Arabic at home, and that the question
about the Hegira was rather mal a propos to one used to prey on the
flesh of hadjis. "Now I only wish he would vouchsafe me a little
of his learning," thought the boy to himself, and in this wish he
was at last gratified; for the Lion, after asking him whether he
was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian languages, and being
informed that he was not, absolutely dumb-foundered him by a
display of Sclavonian erudition.

Years rolled by--the writer was a good deal about, sometimes in
London, sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad; in London he
occasionally met the man of the spectacles, who was always very
civil to him, and, indeed, cultivated his acquaintance. The writer
thought it rather odd that, after he himself had become acquainted
with the Sclavonian languages and literature, the man of the
spectacles talked little or nothing about them. In a little time,
however, the matter ceased to cause him the slightest surprise, for
he had discovered a key to the mystery. In the mean time the man
of spectacles was busy enough; he speculated in commerce, failed,
and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound; published
translations, of which the public at length became heartily tired;
having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those
translations were got up. He managed, however, to ride out many a
storm, having one trusty sheet-anchor--Radicalism. This he turned
to the best advantage--writing pamphlets and articles in reviews,
all in the Radical interest, and for which he was paid out of the
Radical fund; which articles and pamphlets, when Toryism seemed to
reel on its last legs, exhibited a slight tendency to Whiggism.
Nevertheless, his abhorrence of desertion of principle was so great
in the time of the Duke of Wellington's administration, that when
S--- left the Whigs and went over, he told the writer, who was
about that time engaged with him in a literary undertaking, that
the said S--- was a fellow with a character so infamous, that any
honest man would rather that you spit in his face than insult his
ears with the mention of the name of S---.

The literary project having come to nothing,--in which, by the bye,
the writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all the
credit, provided any credit should accrue from it,--the writer did
not see the latter for some years, during which time considerable
political changes took place; the Tories were driven from, and the
Whigs placed in, office, both events being brought about by the
Radicals coalescing with the Whigs, over whom they possessed great
influence for the services which they had rendered. When the
writer next visited his friend, he found him very much altered; his
opinions were by no means so exalted as they had been--he was not
disposed even to be rancorous against the Duke of Wellington,
saying that there were worse men than he, and giving him some
credit as a general; a hankering after gentility seeming to pervade
the whole family, father and sons, wife and daughters, all of whom
talked about genteel diversions--gentility novels, and even seemed
to look with favour on High Churchism, having in former years, to
all appearance, been bigoted Dissenters. In a little time the
writer went abroad; as, indeed, did his friend; not, however, like
the writer, at his own expense, but at that of the country--the
Whigs having given him a travelling appointment, which he held for
some years, during which he received upwards of twelve thousand
pounds of the money of the country, for services which will,
perhaps, be found inscribed on certain tablets, when another
Astolfo shall visit the moon. This appointment, however, he lost
on the Tories resuming power--when the writer found him almost as
Radical and patriotic as ever, just engaged in trying to get into
Parliament, into which he got by the assistance of his Radical
friends, who, in conjunction with the Whigs, were just getting up a
crusade against the Tories, which they intended should be a
conclusive one.

A little time after the publication of "The Bible in Spain," the
Tories being still in power, this individual, full of the most
disinterested friendship for the author, was particularly anxious
that he should be presented with an official situation, in a
certain region a great many miles off. "You are the only person
for that appointment," said he; "you understand a great deal about
the country, and are better acquainted with the two languages
spoken there than any one in England. Now I love my country, and
have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in Parliament,
and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the Ministry, I
shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be to secure
your services. It is true they are Tories, but I think that even
Tories would give up their habitual love of jobbery in a case like
yours, and for once show themselves disposed to be honest men and
gentlemen; indeed, I have no doubt they will, for having so
deservedly an infamous character, they would be glad to get
themselves a little credit, by a presentation which could not
possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism."

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