“And why Tom Tiddler’s ground?”
said the Traveller.
“Because he scatters halfpence to Tramps and
such-like,” returned the Landlord, “and
of course they pick ’em up. And this being
done on his own land (which it is his own land,
you observe, and were his family’s before him),
why it is but regarding the halfpence as gold and silver,
and turning the ownership of the property a bit round
your finger, and there you have the name of the children’s
game complete. And it’s appropriate too,”
said the Landlord, with his favourite action of stooping
a little, to look across the table out of window at
vacancy, under the window-blind which was half drawn
down. “Leastwise it has been so considered
by many gentlemen which have partook of chops and tea
in the present humble parlour.”
The Traveller was partaking of chops and tea in the
present humble parlour, and the Landlord’s shot
was fired obliquely at him.
“And you call him a Hermit?” said the
Traveller.
“They call him such,” returned the Landlord,
evading personal responsibility; “he is in general
so considered.”
“What is a Hermit?” asked the Traveller.
“What is it?” repeated the Landlord, drawing
his hand across his chin.
The Landlord stooped again, to get a more comprehensive
view of vacancy under the window-blind, and—with
an asphyxiated appearance on him as one unaccustomed
to definition—made no answer.
“I’ll tell you what I suppose it to be,”
said the Traveller. “An abominably dirty
thing.”
“Mr. Mopes is dirty, it cannot be denied,”
said the Landlord.
“Mr. Mopes is vain of the life he leads, some
do say,” replied the Landlord, as another concession.
“A slothful, unsavoury, nasty reversal of the
laws of human mature,” said the Traveller; “and
for the sake of god’s working world and
its wholesomeness, both moral and physical, I would
put the thing on the treadmill (if I had my way) wherever
I found it; whether on a pillar, or in a hole; whether
on Tom Tiddler’s ground, or the Pope of Rome’s
ground, or a Hindoo fakeer’s ground, or any
other ground.”
“I don’t know about putting Mr. Mopes
on the treadmill,” said the Landlord, shaking
his head very seriously. “There ain’t
a doubt but what he has got landed property.”
“How far may it be to this said Tom Tiddler’s
ground?” asked the Traveller.
“Put it at five mile,” returned the Landlord.
“Well! When I have done my breakfast,”
said the Traveller, “I’ll go there.
I came over here this morning, to find it out and
see it.”
“Many does,” observed the Landlord.
The conversation passed, in the Midsummer weather
of no remote year of grace, down among the pleasant
dales and trout-streams of a green English county.
No matter what county. Enough that you may hunt
there, shoot there, fish there, traverse long grass-grown
Roman roads there, open ancient barrows there, see
many a square mile of richly cultivated land there,
and hold Arcadian talk with a bold peasantry, their
country’s pride, who will tell you (if you want
to know) how pastoral housekeeping is done on nine
shillings a week.
