Mason
was not there when they met,— or, not in the usual Way. I later heard from them how they remember'd meeting. I tried to record, in what I then projected as a sort of Spiritual Day-Book, what I could remember of what they said,— tho' 'twas too often abridg'd by the Day's Fatigue.
("Writing in your sleep, too!" cry the Twins.)
0 children, I even dream'd in those Days,— but only long after the waking Traverse was done.
Howsobeit,— scarcely have they met, in the Saloon of Mason's Inn at Portsmouth, than Mason finds himself coming the Old London Hand, before Dixon's clear Stupefaction with the Town.
"Eeh! Fellow was spitting at my Shoes...? Another pushing folk one by one into the Gutters, some of them quite dangerous to look ah'...? How can Yese dwell than' closely together, Day upon Day, without all growing Murderous?"
"Oh, one may, if one wishes, find insult at ev'ry step,— from insolent Stares to mortal Assault, an Orgy of Insult uninterrupted,— yet how does one proceed to call out each offender in turn, or choose among 'em, and in obedience to what code? So, one soon understands it, as yet another Term in the Contract between the City and oneself,— a function of simple Density, ensuring that there never be time enough to acknowledge, let alone to resent, such a mad Variety of offer'd Offense.”
3
"Just so,— why, back in Bishop, it might take half the night to find an excuse to clash someone i' the Face, whilst in London, Eeh! 'tis the Paradise of the Quarrelsome, for fair."
"You'd appreciate Wapping High Street, then,— and, and Tyburn, of course! put that on your list."
"Alluring out there, is it?"
Mason explains, though without his precise reason for it, that, for the past Year or more, it has been his practice to attend the Friday Hangings at that melancholy place, where he is soon chatting up Hangmen and their 'Prentices, whilst standing them pints at their Local, The Bridport Dagger, acquiring thus a certain grisly intimacy with the Art. Mason has been shov'd about and borne along in riots of sailors attempting to wrest from bands of Medical Students the bodies of Shipmates come to grief ashore, too far from the safety of the Sea,— and he's had his Purse, as his Person, assaulted by Agents public and private,— yet, "There's nothing like it, it's London at its purest," he cries. "You must come out there with me, soon as we may."
Taking it for the joke it must surely be, Dixon laughs, "Ha, ha, ha! Oh, thah's a bonny one, all right. Eeh."
Mason shrugging, palms up, "I'm serious. Worse than that, I'm sober. A man's first time in town, he simply can't miss a hanging. Come, Sir,— what's the first thing they'll ask when you get back to County Durham? Eh? 'Did ye see them rahde the Eeahr at Taahburn?''
Is it too many nights alone on top of that fam'd Hill in Greenwich? can this man, living in one of the great Cities of Christendom, not know how to behave around people?— Dixon decides to register only annoyance. "Nooah, the first thing they'll ask is, 'Did thoo understand 'em the weeay theey talk, down theere... ?''
"Oh, damme, I say, I didn't mean,—
So Dixon for the second time in two minutes finds himself laughing without the Motrix of honest Mirth,— this time, a Mr. Mason-how-you-do-go-on laugh, sidewise and forbearing, the laugh of a hired Foil. Feeling it his Duty to set them at Ease, Dixon begins, "Well. There's this Jesuit, this Corsican, and this Chinaman, and they're all riding in a greeat Cooach, going up to Bath...? and the fourth Passenger is a very proper Englishwoman, who keeps giving them these scandaliz'd Glances...? Finally, able to bear it no longer, the Corsican, being the most hot-headed of the three, bursts out, and here I hope You will excuse my Corsican Accent, he says, ' 'Ey! Lady! Whatta Ye lookin' ah'?' And she says,—
Mason has been edging away. "Are you crazy?" he whispers, "- - People are staring. Sailors are staring."
"Eeh!" Dixon's nose
was not there when they met,— or, not in the usual Way. I later heard from them how they remember'd meeting. I tried to record, in what I then projected as a sort of Spiritual Day-Book, what I could remember of what they said,— tho' 'twas too often abridg'd by the Day's Fatigue.
("Writing in your sleep, too!" cry the Twins.)
0 children, I even dream'd in those Days,— but only long after the waking Traverse was done.
Howsobeit,— scarcely have they met, in the Saloon of Mason's Inn at Portsmouth, than Mason finds himself coming the Old London Hand, before Dixon's clear Stupefaction with the Town.
"Eeh! Fellow was spitting at my Shoes...? Another pushing folk one by one into the Gutters, some of them quite dangerous to look ah'...? How can Yese dwell than' closely together, Day upon Day, without all growing Murderous?"
"Oh, one may, if one wishes, find insult at ev'ry step,— from insolent Stares to mortal Assault, an Orgy of Insult uninterrupted,— yet how does one proceed to call out each offender in turn, or choose among 'em, and in obedience to what code? So, one soon understands it, as yet another Term in the Contract between the City and oneself,— a function of simple Density, ensuring that there never be time enough to acknowledge, let alone to resent, such a mad Variety of offer'd Offense.”
3
"Just so,— why, back in Bishop, it might take half the night to find an excuse to clash someone i' the Face, whilst in London, Eeh! 'tis the Paradise of the Quarrelsome, for fair."
"You'd appreciate Wapping High Street, then,— and, and Tyburn, of course! put that on your list."
"Alluring out there, is it?"
Mason explains, though without his precise reason for it, that, for the past Year or more, it has been his practice to attend the Friday Hangings at that melancholy place, where he is soon chatting up Hangmen and their 'Prentices, whilst standing them pints at their Local, The Bridport Dagger, acquiring thus a certain grisly intimacy with the Art. Mason has been shov'd about and borne along in riots of sailors attempting to wrest from bands of Medical Students the bodies of Shipmates come to grief ashore, too far from the safety of the Sea,— and he's had his Purse, as his Person, assaulted by Agents public and private,— yet, "There's nothing like it, it's London at its purest," he cries. "You must come out there with me, soon as we may."
Taking it for the joke it must surely be, Dixon laughs, "Ha, ha, ha! Oh, thah's a bonny one, all right. Eeh."
Mason shrugging, palms up, "I'm serious. Worse than that, I'm sober. A man's first time in town, he simply can't miss a hanging. Come, Sir,— what's the first thing they'll ask when you get back to County Durham? Eh? 'Did ye see them rahde the Eeahr at Taahburn?''
Is it too many nights alone on top of that fam'd Hill in Greenwich? can this man, living in one of the great Cities of Christendom, not know how to behave around people?— Dixon decides to register only annoyance. "Nooah, the first thing they'll ask is, 'Did thoo understand 'em the weeay theey talk, down theere... ?''
"Oh, damme, I say, I didn't mean,—
So Dixon for the second time in two minutes finds himself laughing without the Motrix of honest Mirth,— this time, a Mr. Mason-how-you-do-go-on laugh, sidewise and forbearing, the laugh of a hired Foil. Feeling it his Duty to set them at Ease, Dixon begins, "Well. There's this Jesuit, this Corsican, and this Chinaman, and they're all riding in a greeat Cooach, going up to Bath...? and the fourth Passenger is a very proper Englishwoman, who keeps giving them these scandaliz'd Glances...? Finally, able to bear it no longer, the Corsican, being the most hot-headed of the three, bursts out, and here I hope You will excuse my Corsican Accent, he says, ' 'Ey! Lady! Whatta Ye lookin' ah'?' And she says,—
Mason has been edging away. "Are you crazy?" he whispers, "- - People are staring. Sailors are staring."
"Eeh!" Dixon's nose
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