Cruikshank, George, 1792-1878; Illustration of books -- Great Britain -- 19th century; Watercolor painting, British
He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to
the old place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the
wane, and still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round
and round, and still lingered about the same spot. At last he got
away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.
It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the
dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down
the hill by the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the
little street, crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light
had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and
some country-labourers were drinking before it.
They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest
corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he
cast a morsel of food from time to time.
The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the
neighbouring land, and farmers; and when those topics were
exhausted, upon the age of some old man who had been buried on the
previous Sunday; the young men present considering him very old,
and the old men present declaring him to have been quite young--not
older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was--with ten or
fifteen year of life in him at least--if he had taken care; if he
had taken care.
There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The
robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his
corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by
the noisy entrance of a new comer.
This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who
travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors,
wash-balls, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap
perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he carried in a
case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various
homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he
had made his supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he
ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement.
‘And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?’ asked a grinning
countryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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