Eugene Aram — Complete

The Corporal bowed, and thrust his tongue in his cheek.

There was a pause of some moments.

“And what,” said Walter, for his spirits were raised, and he liked recurring to the quaint shrewdness of the Corporal, “and what, after all, is the great charm of the world, that you so much wish to return to it?”

“Augh!” replied the Corporal, “‘tis a pleasant thing to look about un with all one’s eyes open; rogue here, rogue there—keeps one alive;—life in Lunnon, life in a village—all the difference ‘twixt healthy walk, and a doze in arm-chair; by the faith of a man, ‘tis!”

“What! it is pleasant to have rascals about one?”

“Surely yes,” returned the Corporal drily; “what so delightful like as to feel one’s cliverness and ‘bility all set an end—bristling up like a porkypine; nothing makes a man tread so light, feel so proud, breathe so briskly, as the knowledge that he’s all his wits about him, that he’s a match for any one, that the Divil himself could not take him in. Augh! that’s what I calls the use of an immortal soul—bother!”

Walter laughed.

“And to feel one is likely to be cheated is the pleasantest way of passing one’s time in town, Bunting, eh?”

“Augh! and in cheating too!” answered the Corporal; “‘cause you sees, Sir, there be two ways o’ living; one to cheat,—one to be cheated. ‘Tis pleasant enough to be cheated for a little while, as the younkers are, and as you’ll be, your honour; but that’s a pleasure don’t last long—t’other lasts all your life; dare say your honour’s often heard rich gentlemen say to their sons, ‘you ought, for your own happiness’ sake, like, my lad, to have summut to do—ought to have some profession, be you niver so rich,’—very true, your honour, and what does that mean? why it means that ‘stead of being idle and cheated, the boy ought to be busy and cheat—augh!”

“Must a man who follows a profession, necessarily cheat, then?”

“Baugh! can your honour ask that? Does not the Lawyer cheat? and the Doctor cheat? and the Parson cheat, more than any? and that’s the reason they all takes so much int’rest in their profession—bother!”

“But the soldier? you say nothing of him.”

“Why, the soldier,” said the Corporal, with dignity, “the private soldier, poor fellow, is only cheated; but when he comes for to get for to be as high as a corp’ral, or a sargent, he comes for to get to bully others, and to cheat. Augh! then ‘tis not for the privates to cheat,—that would be ‘sumpton indeed, save us!”

“The General, then, cheats more than any, I suppose?”

“‘Course, your honour; he talks to the world ‘bout honour an’ glory, and love of his Country, and sich like—augh! that’s proper cheating!”

“You’re a bitter fellow, Mr. Bunting: and pray, what do you think of the Ladies—‘are they as bad as the men?’”

“Ladies—augh! when they’re married—yes! but of all them ere creturs, I respects the kept Ladies, the most—on the faith of a man, I do! Gad! how well they knows the world—one quite invies the she rogues; they beats the wives hollow! Augh! and your honour should see how they fawns and flatters, and butters up a man, and makes him think they loves him like winkey, all the time they ruins him. They kisses money out of the miser, and sits in their satins, while the wife, ‘drot her, sulks in a gingham. Oh, they be cliver creturs, and they’ll do what they likes with old Nick, when they gets there, for ‘tis the old gentlemen they cozens the best; and then,” continued the Corporal, waxing more and more loquacious, for his appetite in talking grew with that it fed on,—“then there be another set o’ queer folks you’ll see in Lunnon, Sir, that is, if you falls in with ‘em,—hang all together, quite in a clink. I seed lots on ‘em when lived with the Colonel—Colonel Dysart, you knows—augh?”

“And what are they?”

“Rum ones, your honour; what they calls Authors.”

“Authors! what the deuce had you or the Colonel to do with Authors?”

“Augh! then, the Colonel was a very fine gentleman, what the larned calls a my-seen-ass, wrote little songs himself, ‘crossticks, you knows, your honour: once he made a play—‘cause why, he lived with an actress!”

“A very good reason, indeed, for emulating Shakespear; and did the play succeed?”

“Fancy it did, your honour; for the Colonel was a dab with the scissors.”

“Scissors! the pen, you mean?”

“No! that’s what the dirty Authors make plays with; a Lord and a Colonel, my-seen-asses, always takes the scissors.”

“How?”

“Why the Colonel’s Lady—had lots of plays—and she marked a scene here—a jest there—a line in one place—a sentiment in t’ other—and the Colonel sate by with a great paper book—cut ‘em out, pasted them in book. Augh! but the Colonel pleased the town mightily.”

“Well, so he saw a great many authors; and did not they please you?”

“Why they be so damned quarrelsome,” said the Corporal, “wringle, wrangle, wrongle, snap, growl, scratch; that’s not what a man of the world does; man of the world niver quarrels; then, too, these creturs always fancy you forgets that their father was a clargyman; they always thinks more of their family, like, than their writings; and if they does not get money when they wants it, they bristles up and cries, ‘not treated like a gentleman, by God!’ Yet, after all, they’ve a deal of kindness in ‘em, if you knows how to manage ‘em—augh! but, cat-kindness, paw today, claw to-morrow. And then they always marries young, the poor things, and have a power of children, and live on the fame and forten they are to get one of these days; for, my eye! they be the most sanguinest folks alive!”

“Why, Bunting, what an observer you have been! who could ever have imagined that you had made yourself master of so many varieties in men!”

“Augh! your honour, I had nothing to do when I was the Colonel’s valley, but to take notes to ladies and make use of my eyes. Always a ‘flective man.”

“It is odd that, with all your abilities, you did not provide better for yourself.”

“‘Twas not my fault,” said the Corporal, quickly; “but somehow, do what will—‘tis not always the cliverest as foresees the best. But I be young yet, your honour!”

Walter stared at the Corporal and laughed outright: the Corporal was exceedingly piqued.

“Augh! mayhap you thinks, Sir, that ‘cause not so young as you, not young at all; but, what’s forty, or fifty, or fifty-five, in public life? never hear much of men afore then. ‘Tis the autumn that reaps, spring sows, augh!—bother!”

“Very true and very poetical. I see you did not live among authors for nothing.”

“I knows summut of language, your honour,” quoth the Corporal pedantically.

“It is evident.”

“For, to be a man of the world, Sir, must know all the ins and outs of speechifying; ‘tis words, Sir, that makes another man’s mare go your road. Augh! that must have been a cliver man as invented language; wonders who ‘twas—mayhap Moses, your honour?”

“Never mind who it was,” said Walter gravely; “use the gift discreetly.”

“Umph!” said the Corporal—“yes, your honour,” renewed he after a pause. “It be a marvel to think on how much a man does in the way of cheating, as has the gift of the gab. Wants a Missis, talks her over—wants your purse, talks you out on it—wants a place, talks himself into it.—What makes the Parson? words!—the lawyer? words—the Parliament-man? words!—words can ruin a country, in the Big House—words save souls, in the Pulpits—words make even them ere authors, poor creturs, in every man’s mouth.—Augh! Sir, take note of the words, and the things will take care of themselves—bother!”

“Your reflections amaze me, Bunting,” said Walter smiling; “but the night begins to close in; I trust we shall not meet with any misadventure.”

“‘Tis an ugsome bit of road!” said the Corporal, looking round him.

“The pistols?”

“Primed and loaded, your honour.”

“After all, Bunting, a little skirmish would be no bad sport—eh?—especially to an old soldier like you.”

“Augh, baugh! ‘tis no pleasant work, fighting, without pay, at least; ‘tis not like love and eating, your honour, the better for being, what they calls, ‘gratis!’”

“Yet I have heard you talk of the pleasure of fighting; not for pay, Bunting, but for your King and Country!”

“Augh! and that’s when I wanted to cheat the poor creturs at Grassdale, your honour; don’t take the liberty to talk stuff to my master!”

They continued thus to beguile the way, till Walter again sank into a reverie, while the Corporal, who began more and more to dislike the aspect of the ground they had entered on, still rode by his side.