Author: Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Release Date: February 2005 [EBook #7590] [Yes,
we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This
file was first posted on January 1, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** Start of the project gutenberg
EBOOK the Caxtons, by Lytton, part
5 ***
This eBook was produced by Pat Castevens
and David Widger widger@cecomet.net
In setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose
heart I had won by an extra sixpence for calling me
betimes, good-naturedly informed me that I might save
a mile of the journey, and have a very pleasant walk
into the bargain, if I took the footpath through a
gentleman’s park, the lodge of which I should
see about seven miles from the town.
“And the grounds are showed too,” said
the Boots, “if so be you has a mind to stay
and see ’em. But don’t you go to
the gardener,—he’ll want half a crown;
there’s an old ’Oman at the lodge who will
show you all that’s worth seeing—the
walks and the big cascade—for a tizzy.
You may make use of my name,” he added proudly,—“Bob,
boots at the ‘Lion.’ She be a haunt
o’ mine, and she minds them that come from me
perticklerly.”
Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated
these counsels, I thanked my shock-headed friend,
and asked carelessly to whom the park belonged.
“To Muster Trevanion, the great parliament man,”
answered the Boots. “You has heard o’
him, I guess, sir?”
I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more
to find how very little there was in it.
“They takes in the ‘Moderate Man’s
Journal’ at the ‘Lamb:’ and
they say in the tap there that he’s one of the
cleverest chaps in the House o’ Commons,”
continued the Boots, in a confidential whisper.
“But we takes in the ‘People’s
Thunderbolt’ at the ‘Lion,’ and we
knows better this Muster Trevanion: he is but
a trimmer,—milk and water,—no
horator,— not the right sort; you understand?”
Perfectly satisfied that I understood nothing about
it, I smiled, and said, “Oh, yes!” and
slipping on my knapsack, commenced my adventures,
the Boots bawling after me, “Mind, sir, you
tells haunt I sent you!”
The town was only languidly putting forth symptoms
of returning life as I strode through the streets;
a pale, sickly, unwholesome look on the face of the
slothful Phoebus had succeeded the feverish hectic
of the past night; the artisans whom I met glided
by me haggard and dejected; a few early shops were
alone open; one or two drunken men, emerging from
the lanes, sallied homeward with broken pipes in their
mouths; bills, with large capitals, calling attention
