bought a good allowance for a shilling, and after sticking out for a greater proportion of mustard than the woman said we were entitled to, and some salt, we wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and continued our course, till we arrived at a baker’s, where we purchased our bread; and then taking up a position on a bench outside a public-house, called for a pot of beer, and putting our provisions down before us, made a hearty, and, what made us more enjoy it, an independent meal. Having finished our pork and our porter, and refreshed ourselves, we again started and walked till it was quite dark, when we felt so tired that we agreed to sit down on our bundles and wait for the first waggon which passed. We soon heard the jingling of bells, and shortly afterwards its enormous towering bulk appeared between us and the sky. We went up to the waggoner, who was mounted on a little pony, and asked him if he could give two poor lads a lift, and how much he would charge us for the ride.
“How much can ye afford to give, measters? for there be others as poor as ye.” We replied that we could give a shilling. “Well, then, get up in God’s name, and ride as long as you will. Get in behind.”
“Are there many people in there already?” said I as I climbed up, and Timothy handed me the bundles.
“Noa,” replied the waggoner, “there be nobody but a mighty clever ’poticary or doctor, I can’t tell which; but he wears an uncommon queer hat, and he talk all sort of doctor stuff—and there be his odd man and his odd boy; that be all, and there be plenty of room, and plenty o’ clean stra’.”
After this intimation we climbed up, and gained a situation in the rear of the waggon under the cloth. As the waggoner said, there was plenty of room, and we nestled into the straw without coming into contact with the other travellers. Not feeling any inclination to sleep, Timothy and I entered into conversation, sotto voce, and had continued for more than half an hour, supposing by their silence, that the other occupants of the waggon were asleep, when we were interrupted by a voice clear and sonorous as a bell.
“It would appear that you are wanderers, young men, and journey you know not whither. Birds seek their nests when the night falls—beasts hasten to their lairs—man bolts his door. ‘Propria quae maribus,’ as Herodotus hath it; which, when translated, means, that ‘such is the nature of mankind.’ ‘Tribuuntur mascula dicas,’ ‘Tell me your troubles,’ as Homer says.”
I was very much surprised at this address—my knowledge of the language told me immediately that the quotations were out of the Latin grammar, and that all his learning was pretence; still there was a novelty of style which amused me, and at the same time gave me an idea that the speaker was an uncommon personage. I gave Timothy a nudge, and then replied—
“You have guessed right, most learned sir; we are, as you say, wanderers seeking our fortunes, and trust yet to find them—still we have a weary journey before us. ‘Haustus horâ somni sumendum,’ as Aristotle hath it; which I need not translate to so learned a person as yourself.”
“Nay, indeed, there is no occasion; yet am I pleased to meet with one who hath scholarship,” replied the other. “Have you also a knowledge of the Greek?”
“No, I pretend not to Greek.”
“It is a pity that thou hast it not, for thou wouldst delight to commune with the ancients. Aesculapius hath these words—‘Asholder—offmotton accapon—pasti—venison,’—which I will translate for thee—‘We often find what we seek when we least expect it.’ May it be so with you, my friend. Where have you been educated? and what has been your profession?”
I thought I risked little in telling, so I replied, that I had been brought up as a surgeon and apothecary, and had been educated at a foundation school.
“’Tis well,” replied he; “you have then commenced your studies in my glorious profession; still, have you much to learn; years of toil, under a great master, can only enable you to benefit mankind as I have done, and years of hardship and of danger must be added thereunto, to afford you the means. There are many hidden secrets. ‘Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Virorum,’—many parts of the globe to traverse, ‘Ut Cato, Virgilius, fluviorum, ut Tibris, Orontes.’ All these have I visited, and many more. Even now do I journey to obtain more of my invaluable medicine, gathered on the highest Andes, when the moon is in her perigee. There I shall remain for months among the clouds, looking down upon the great plain of Mexico, which shall appear no larger than the head of a pin, where the voice of man is heard not. ‘Vocito, vocitas, vocitavi,’ bending for months towards the earth. ‘As in presenti,’ suffering with the cold—‘frico quod fricui dat,’ as Eusebius hath it. Soon shall I be borne away by the howling winds towards the New World, where I can obtain more of the wonderful medicine, which I may say never yet hath failed me, and which nothing but love towards my race induces me to gather at such pains and risk.”
“Indeed, sir,” replied I, amused with his imposition, “I should like to accompany you—for, as Josephus says most truly, ‘Capiat pilulae duae post prandium.’ Travel is, indeed, a most delightful occupation, and I would like to run over the whole world.”
“And I would like to follow you,” interrupted Timothy. “I suspect we have commenced our grand tour already—three miles behind a hackney-coach—ten on foot, and about two, I should think, in this waggon. But as Cophagus says, ‘Cochlearija crash many summendush,’ which means, ‘There are ups and downs in this world.’”
“Hah!” exclaimed our companion. “He, also, has the rudiments.”
“Nay, I hope I’ve done with the Rudimans,” replied Timothy.
“Is he your follower?” inquired the man.
“That very much depends upon who walks first,” replied Timothy, “but whether or no—we hunt in couples.”
“I understand—you are companions. ‘Concordat cum nominativo numero et persona.’ Tell me, can you roll pills, can you use the pestle and the mortar, handle the scapula, and mix ingredients?”
I replied, that of course I knew my profession.
“Well, then, as we have still some hours of night, let us now obtain some rest. In the morning, when the sun hath introduced us to each other, I may then judge from your countenances whether it is likely that we may be better acquainted. Night is the time for repose, as Quintus Curtius says, ‘Custos, bos, fur atque sacerdos.’ Sleep was made for all—my friends, good night.”
Part 1—Chapter IX
In which the Adventures in the Waggon are continued, and we become more puzzled with our new Companions—We leave off talking Latin, and enter into an engagement.
Timothy and I took his advice, and were soon fast asleep.
I was awakened the next morning by feeling a hand in my trowser’s pocket. I seized it, and held it fast.
“Now just let go my hand, will you?” cried a lachrymal voice.
I jumped up—it was broad daylight, and looked at the human frame to which the hand was an appendix. It was a very spare, awkwardly-built form of a young man, apparently about twenty years old, but without the least sign of manhood on his chin. His face was cadaverous, with large goggling eyes, high cheek bones, hair long and ragged, reminding me of a rat’s nest, thin lips, and ears large almost as an elephant’s. A more woe-begone wretch in appearance I never beheld, and I continued to look at him with surprise. He repeated his words with an idiotical expression, “Just let go my hand, can’t you?”
