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James. No, sir, he,
James. Nay, who knows? he’s here and there.
James. You saw the man but yesterday : He pick'd the pebble from your horse's foot. His house was haunted by a jolly ghost That rummaged like a rat. No servant staid : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff ; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets forth, and meets a friend who hails him, “ What ! You're flitting!” “Yes, we're flitting,” says the ghost, (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,)
“ Oh well,” says he, “ you flitting with us tooJack, turn the horses' heads and home again.”
John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard.
James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once :
John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back-
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved
John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, And fear of change at home, that drove him hence.
James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing : he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world— Of those that want, and those that have : and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy . Destructive, when I had not what I would. I was at school—a college in the South : There lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fruit, His hens, his eggs; but there was law for us ; We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much content, Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud.
By night we dragg’d her to the college tower
James. Not they
John. Well—after allWhat know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows To Pity—more from ignorance than will.