In a pleasant, airy, up-hill country, it was my fortune when I was young to make the acquaintance of a certain beggar. I call him beggar, though he usually allowed his coat and his shoes (which were open-mouthed, indeed) to beg for him. He was the wreck2 of an athletic3 man, tall, gaunt, and bronzed; far gone in consumption, with that disquieting4 smile of the mortally stricken on his face; but still active afoot, still with the brisk military carriage, the ready military salute5. Three ways led through this piece of country; and as I was inconstant in my choice, I believe he must often have awaited me in vain. But often enough, he caught me; often enough, from some place of ambush6 by the roadside, he would spring suddenly forth7 in the regulation attitude, and launching at once into his inconsequential talk, fall into step with me upon my farther course. “A fine morning, sir, though perhaps a trifle inclining to rain. I hope I see you well, sir. Why, no, sir, I don’t feel as hearty8 myself as I could wish, but I am keeping about my ordinary. I am pleased to meet you on the road, sir. I assure you I quite look forward to one of our little conversations.” He loved the sound of his own voice inordinately9, and though (with something too off-hand to call servility) he would always hasten to agree with anything you said, yet he could never suffer you to say it to an end. By what transition he slid to his favourite subject I have no memory; but we had never been long together on the way before he was dealing10, in a very military manner, with the English poets. “Shelley was a fine poet, sir, though a trifle atheistical11 in his opinions. His Queen Mab, sir, is quite an atheistical work. Scott, sir, is not so poetical12 a writer. With the works of Shakespeare I am not so well acquainted, but he was a fine poet. Keats—John Keats, sir—he was a very fine poet.” With such references, such trivial criticism, such loving parade of his own knowledge, he would beguile13 the road, striding forward uphill, his staff now clapped to the ribs14 of his deep, resonant15 chest, now swinging in the air with the remembered jauntiness16 of the private soldier; and all the while his toes looking out of his boots, and his shirt looking out of his elbows, and death looking out of his smile, and his big, crazy frame shaken by accesses of cough.
He would often go the whole way home with me: often to borrow a book, and that book always a poet. Off he would march, to continue his mendicant17 rounds, with the volume slipped into the pocket of his ragged19 coat; and although he would sometimes keep it quite a while, yet it came always back again at last, not much the worse for its travels into beggardom. And in this way, doubtless, his knowledge grew and his glib20, random21 criticism took a wider range. But my library was not the first he had drawn22 upon: at our first encounter, he was already brimful of Shelley and the atheistical Queen Mab, and “Keats—John Keats, sir.” And I have often wondered how he came by these acquirements; just as I often wondered how he fell to be a beggar. He had served through the Mutiny—of which (like so many people) he could tell practically nothing beyond the names of places, and that it was “difficult work, sir,” and very hot, or that so-and-so was “a very fine commander, sir.” He was far too smart a man to have remained a private; in the nature of things, he must have won his stripes. And yet here he was without a pension. When I touched on this problem, he would content himself with diffidently offering me advice. “A man should be very careful when he is young, sir. If you’ll excuse me saying so, a spirited young gentleman like yourself, sir, should be very careful. I was perhaps a trifle inclined to atheistical opinions myself.” For (perhaps with a deeper wisdom than we are inclined in these days to admit) he plainly bracketed agnosticism with beer and skittles.
Keats—John Keats, sir—and Shelley were his favourite bards23. I cannot remember if I tried him with Rossetti; but I know his taste to a hair, and if ever I did, he must have doted on that author. What took him was a richness in the speech; he loved the exotic, the unexpected word; the moving cadence24 of a phrase; a vague sense of emotion (about nothing) in the very letters of the alphabet: the romance of language. His honest head was very nearly empty, his intellect like a child’s; and when he read his favourite authors, he can almost never have understood what he was reading. Yet the taste was not only genuine, it was exclusive; I tried in vain to offer him novels; he would none of them, he cared for nothing but romantic language that he could not understand. The case may be commoner than we suppose. I am reminded of a lad who was laid in the next cot to a friend of mine in a public hospital and who was no sooner installed than he sent out (perhaps with his last pence) for a cheap Shakespeare. My friend pricked25 up his ears; fell at once in talk with his new neighbour, and was ready, when the book arrived, to make a singular discovery. For this lover of great literature understood not one sentence out of twelve, and his favourite part was that of which he understood the least—the inimitable, mouth-filling rodomontade of the ghost in Hamlet. It was a bright day in hospital when my friend expounded26 the sense of this beloved jargon27: a task for which I am willing to believe my friend was very fit, though I can never regard it as an easy one. I know indeed a point or two, on which I would gladly question Mr. Shakespeare, that lover of big words, could he revisit the glimpses of the moon, or could I myself climb backward to the spacious28 days of Elizabeth. But in the second case, I should most likely pretermit these questionings, and take my place instead in the pit at the Blackfriars, to hear the actor in his favourite part, playing up to Mr. Burbage, and rolling out—as I seem to hear him—with a ponderous29 gusto—
“Unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d.”
What a pleasant chance, if we could go there in a party I and what a surprise for Mr. Burbage, when the ghost received the honours of the evening!
As for my old soldier, like Mr. Burbage and Mr. Shakespeare, he is long since dead; and now lies buried, I suppose, and nameless and quite forgotten, in some poor city graveyard30.—But not for me, you brave heart, have you been buried! For me, you are still afoot, tasting the sun and air, and striding southward. By the groves31 of Comiston and beside the Hermitage of Braid, by the Hunters’ Tryst32, and where the curlews and plovers33 cry around Fairmilehead, I see and hear you, stalwartly carrying your deadly sickness, cheerfully discoursing34 of uncomprehended poets.
II
The thought of the old soldier recalls that of another tramp, his counterpart. This was a little, lean, and fiery35 man, with the eyes of a dog and the face of a gipsy; whom I found one morning encamped with his wife and children and his grinder’s wheel, beside the burn of Kinnaird. To this beloved dell I went, at that time, daily; and daily the knife-grinder and I (for as long as his tent continued pleasantly to interrupt my little wilderness) sat on two stones, and smoked, and plucked grass, and talked to the tune1 of the brown water. His children were mere36 whelps, they fought and bit among the fern like vermin. His wife was a mere squaw; I saw her gather brush and tend the kettle, but she never ventured to address her lord while I was present. The tent was a mere gipsy hovel, like a sty for pigs. But the grinder himself had the fine self-sufficiency and grave politeness of the hunter and the savage37; he did me the honours of this dell, which had been mine but the day before, took me far into the secrets of his life, and used me (I am proud to remember) as a friend.
Like my old soldier, he was far gone in the national complaint. Unlike him, he had a vulgar taste in letters; scarce flying higher than the story papers; probably finding no difference, certainly seeking none, between Tannahill and Burns; his noblest thoughts, whether of poetry or music, adequately embodied38 in that somewhat obvious ditty,
“Will ye gang, lassie, gang
To the braes o’ Balquidder.”
—which is indeed apt to echo in the ears of Scottish children, and to him, in view of his experience, must have found a special directness of address. But if he had no fine sense of poetry in letters, he felt with a deep joy the poetry of life. You should have heard him speak of what he loved; of the tent pitched beside the talking water; of the stars overhead at night; of the blest return of morning, the peep of day over the moors39, the awaking birds among the birches; how he abhorred40 the long winter shut in cities; and with what delight, at the return of the spring, he once more pitched his camp in the living out-of-doors. But we were a pair of tramps; and to you, who are doubtless sedentary and a consistent first-class passenger in life, he would scarce have laid himself so open;—to you, he might have been content to tell his story of a ghost—that of a buccaneer with his pistols as he lived—whom he had once encountered in a seaside cave near Buckie; and that would have been enough, for that would have shown you the mettle41 of the man. Here was a piece of experience solidly and livingly built up in words, here was a story created, teres atque rotundus.
And to think of the old soldier, that lover of the literary bards! He had visited stranger spots than any seaside cave; encountered men more terrible than any spirit; done and dared and suffered in that incredible, unsung epic42 of the Mutiny War; played his part with the field force of Delhi, beleaguering43 and beleaguered44; shared in that enduring, savage anger and contempt of death and decency45 that, for long months together, bedevil’d and inspired the army; was hurled46 to and fro in the battle-smoke of the assault; was there, perhaps, where Nicholson fell; was there when the attacking column, with hell upon every side, found the soldier’s enemy—strong drink, and the lives of tens of thousands trembled in the scale, and the fate of the flag of England staggered. And of all this he had no more to say than “hot work, sir,” or “the army suffered a great deal, sir,” or “I believe General Wilson, sir, was not very highly thought of in the papers.” His life was naught47 to him, the vivid pages of experience quite blank: in words his pleasure lay—melodious, agitated48 words—printed words, about that which he had never seen and was connatally incapable49 of comprehending. We have here two temperaments50 face to face; both untrained, unsophisticated, surprised (we may say) in the egg; both boldly charactered:—that of the artist, the lover and artificer of words; that of the maker51, the seeër, the lover and forger52 of experience. If the one had a daughter and the other had a son, and these married, might not some illustrious writer count descent from the beggar-soldier and the needy53 knife-grinder?
III
Every one lives by selling something, whatever be his right to it. The burglar sells at the same time his own skill and courage and my silver plate (the whole at the most moderate figure) to a Jew receiver. The bandit sells the traveller an article of prime necessity: that traveller’s life. And as for the old soldier, who stands for central mark to my capricious figures of eight, he dealt in a specially54; for he was the only beggar in the world who ever gave me pleasure for my money. He had learned a school of manners in the barracks and had the sense to cling to it, accosting55 strangers with a regimental freedom, thanking patrons with a merely regimental difference, sparing you at once the tragedy of his position and the embarrassment56 of yours. There was not one hint about him of the beggar’s emphasis, the outburst of revolting gratitude57, the rant58 and cant18, the “God bless you, Kind, Kind gentleman,” which insults the smallness of your alms by disproportionate vehemence59, which is so notably60 false, which would be so unbearable61 if it were true. I am sometimes tempted62 to suppose this reading of the beggar’s part, a survival of the old days when Shakespeare was intoned upon the stage and mourners keened beside the death-bed; to think that we cannot now accept these strong emotions unless they be uttered in the just note of life; nor (save in the pulpit) endure these gross conventions. They wound us, I am tempted to say, like mockery; the high voice of keening (as it yet lingers on) strikes in the face of sorrow like a buffet63; and the rant and cant of the staled beggar stirs in us a shudder64 of disgust. But the fact disproves these amateur opinions. The beggar lives by his knowledge of the average man. He knows what he is about when he bandages his head, and hires and drugs a babe, and poisons life with Poor Mary Ann or Long, long ago; he knows what he is about when he loads the critical ear and sickens the nice conscience with intolerable thanks; they know what they are about, he and his crew, when they pervade65 the slums of cities, ghastly parodies66 of suffering, hateful parodies of gratitude. This trade can scarce be called an imposition; it has been so blown upon with exposures; it flaunts67 its fraudulence so nakedly. We pay them as we pay those who show us, in huge exaggeration, the monsters of our drinking-water; or those who daily predict the fall of Britain. We pay them for the pain they inflict68, pay them, and wince69, and hurry on. And truly there is nothing that can shake the conscience like a beggar’s thanks; and that polity in which such protestations can be purchased for a shilling, seems no scene for an honest man.
Are there, then, we may be asked, no genuine beggars? And the answer is, Not one. My old soldier was a humbug70 like the rest; his ragged boots were, in the stage phrase, properties; whole boots were given him again and again, and always gladly accepted; and the next day, there he was on the road as usual, with toes exposed. His boots were his method; they were the man’s trade; without his boots he would have starved; he did not live by charity, but by appealing to a gross taste in the public, which loves the limelight on the actor’s face, and the toes out of the beggar’s boots. There is a true poverty, which no one sees: a false and merely mimetic poverty, which usurps71 its place and dress, and lives and above all drinks, on the fruits of the usurpation72. The true poverty does not go into the streets; the banker may rest assured, he has never put a penny in its hand. The self-respecting poor beg from each other; never from the rich. To live in the frock-coated ranks of life, to hear canting scenes of gratitude rehearsed for twopence, a man might suppose that giving was a thing gone out of fashion; yet it goes forward on a scale so great as to fill me with surprise. In the houses of the working class, all day long there will be a foot upon the stair; all day long there will be a knocking at the doors; beggars come, beggars go, without stint73, hardly with intermission, from morning till night; and meanwhile, in the same city and but a few streets off, the castles of the rich stand unsummoned. Get the tale of any honest tramp, you will find it was always the poor who helped him; get the truth from any workman who has met misfortunes, it was always next door that he would go for help, or only with such exceptions as are said to prove a rule; look at the course of the mimetic beggar, it is through the poor quarters that he trails his passage, showing his bandages to every window, piercing even to the attics74 with his nasal song. Here is a remarkable75 state of things in our Christian76 commonwealths77, that the poor only should be asked to give.
IV
There is a pleasant tale of some worthless, phrasing Frenchman, who was taxed with ingratitude78: “Il faut savoir garder l’indépendance du cœur,” cried he. I own I feel with him. Gratitude without familarity, gratitude otherwise than as a nameless element in a friendship, is a thing so near to hatred79 that I do not care to split the difference. Until I find a man who is pleased to receive obligations, I shall continue to question the tact80 of those who are eager to confer them. What an art it is, to give, even to our nearest friends! and what a test of manners, to receive! How, upon either side, we smuggle81 away the obligation, blushing for each other; how bluff82 and dull we make the giver; how hasty, how falsely cheerful, the receiver! And yet an act of such difficulty and distress83 between near friends, it is supposed we can perform to a total stranger and leave the man transfixed with grateful emotions. The last thing you can do to a man is to burthen him with an obligation, and it is what we propose to begin with! But let us not be deceived: unless he is totally degraded to his trade, anger jars in his inside, and he grates his teeth at our gratuity84.
We should wipe two words from our vocabulary: gratitude and charity. In real life, help is given out of friendship, or it is not valued; it is received from the hand of friendship, or it is resented. We are all too proud to take a naked gift: we must seem to pay it, if in nothing else, then with the delights of our society. Here, then, is the pitiful fix of the rich man; here is that needle’s eye in which he stuck already in the days of Christ, and still sticks to-day, firmer, if possible, than ever: that he has the money and lacks the love which should make his money acceptable. Here and now, just as of old in Palestine, he has the rich to dinner, it is with the rich that he takes his pleasure: and when his turn comes to be charitable, he looks in vain for a recipient85. His friends are not poor, they do not want; the poor are not his friends, they will not take. To whom is he to give? Where to find—note this phase—the Deserving Poor? Charity is (what they call) centralised; offices are hired; societies founded, with secretaries paid or unpaid86: the hunt of the Deserving Poor goes merrily forward. I think it will take more than a merely human secretary to disinter that character. What! a class that is to be in want from no fault of its own, and yet greedily eager to receive from strangers; and to be quite respectable, and at the same time quite devoid87 of self-respect; and play the most delicate part of friendship, and yet never be seen; and wear the form of man, and yet fly in the face of all the laws of human nature:—and all this, in the hope of getting a belly-god Burgess through a needle’s eye! O, let him stick, by all means: and let his polity tumble in the dust; and let his epitaph and all his literature (of which my own works begin to form no inconsiderable part) be abolished even from the history of man! For a fool of this monstrosity of dulness, there can be no salvation88: and the fool who looked for the elixir89 of life was an angel of reason to the fool who looks for the Deserving Poor!
V
And yet there is one course which the unfortunate gentleman may take. He may subscribe90 to pay the taxes. There were the true charity, impartial91 and impersonal92, cumbering none with obligation, helping93 all. There were a destination for loveless gifts; there were the way to reach the pocket of the deserving poor, and yet save the time of secretaries! But, alas94! there is no colour of romance in such a course; and people nowhere demand the picturesque95 so much as in their virtues96.
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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atheistical
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| adj.无神论（者）的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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beleaguering
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| v.围攻( beleaguer的现在分词 )；困扰；骚扰 | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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forger
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| v.伪造；n.（钱、文件等的）伪造者 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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56
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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flaunts
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的第三人称单数 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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usurps
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的第三人称单数 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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commonwealths
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| n.共和国( commonwealth的名词复数 )；联邦；团体；协会 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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84
gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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