CHAPTER III
[MR. WOGAN INSTRUCTS THE IGNORANT PARSON IN THE WAYS OF WOMEN]
Mr. Wogan then remained for two days closeted in his friend's lodgings, and was hard put to it to pass the time, since the Parson, who acted as secretary and right-hand man to Bishop Atterbury, was ever dancing attendance upon his lordship at Bromley or the Deanery of Westminster. Wogan smoked a deal of tobacco, and, knitting his brows, made a strenuous endeavour to peruse one of George Kelly's books--a translation of Tully's Letters. He did, indeed, read a complete page, and then being seized with a sudden vertigo, such as from his extreme youth had prevented him from a course of study, was forced to discontinue his labours. At this juncture Mrs. Barnes comforted him with a greasy pack of cards, and for the rest of that day he played games of chance for extraordinary stakes, one hand against t'other, winning and losing millions of pounds sterling in the space of a single hour. By bedtime he was sunk in a plethora of wealth and an extremity of destitution at one and the same time; and so, since he saw no way of setting the balance right, he bethought him of another plan. On the morrow he would write out a full history of his ancestors, as a memorial of their valour and a shame to the men of this age.
The Parson, when he was informed of the notable design, quoted a scrap of Latin to the effect that it would be something more than a brazen proceeding. Wogan, however, was not to be dissuaded by any tag of rhyme, and getting up before daylight, since he had but this one day for the enterprise, was at once very busy with all of Kelly's spluttering pens. He began with the founder of the family, the great Chevalier Ugus, who lived in the time of my little Octavius Cæsar, and was commissioned by that unparalleled monarch to build the town of Florence. 'Ugus,' wrote Mr. Wogan in big round painful letters with a flourish to each, and, coming to a stop, woke up George Kelly to ask him in what year of Our Lord Octavius Cæsar was born into this weary world. 'In no year of Our Lord,' grumbled George, a little churlishly to Wogan's thinking, who went back to his desk, and taking up a new pen again wrote 'Ugus.' Thereupon he fell into a great profundity of thought; so many philosophic reflections crowded into his head while he nibbled his pen, as he felt sure must visibly raise him in the estimation of his friends. So, taking his candle in one hand and his pen in the other, he came a second time to Kelly's bedside and sat him down heavily upon his legs, the better to ensure his awakening. It is to be admitted that this time the Parson sat up in his bed, and swore with all the volubility of a dragoon or even of my Lord Bishop of Rochester. But Wogan smiled amiably, knowing when he communicated his thoughts how soon those oaths would turn to cries of admiration.
'It is a very curious thing,' said Wogan, shifting himself a little so that Kelly's shins should not press so sharply, 'how the mere inking of one's fingers produces speculation. Just as great valorous deeds are the consequence of swords,' here he paused to snuff the candle with his fingers, 'so great philosophic thoughts are the consequence of pens. Put a sword in a man's hand! What does he want to do but cut his neighbour right open from the chine to the ribs? Put a pen between his fingers, on the other hand, and what does he want to do but go away by himself and write down great thoughts?'
'Then, in Heaven's name, why don't you do it?' cried George.
'Because, my friend,' replied Wogan, 'out of the great love I bear for you, I shall always, always communicate my thoughts first of all to you.' Here the Parson groaned like a man giving up the ghost, and Wogan continued:
'For instance, you have doubtless heard of my illustrious forbear the Chevalier Ugus.' At this Kelly tried to turn on his side; but he could not do so, since his legs were pinned beneath Wogan's weight. 'The Chevalier Ugus,' repeated Wogan, 'who built and beautified the city of Florence to the glory of God in the reign of the Emperor Octavius. How many of the English have loitered in the colonnades, and feasted their eyes upon the cathedral, and sauntered on the bridges of the Arno? How many of them, I say, have drawn profitable thoughts and pleasurable sensations from the edifices of my great ancestor? And yet not one of them--if poor Nicholas Wogan, his degenerate son, were to poke his nose outside of Mrs. Barnes's front door--not one of them but would truss him hands and heels and hang him up to derision upon a nasty gibbet.'
So far Wogan had flowed on when a sigh from Kelly's lips brought him to a pause. He leaned forward and held the candle so that the light fell upon Kelly's face. Kelly was sound asleep.
'To be sure,' said Wogan in a soft voice of pity, on the chance that Kelly might be counterfeiting slumber, 'my little friend's jealous of my reflective powers,' and going back to his chair wrote 'Ugus' a third time with a third pen; and then, in order to think the more clearly, laid his hand upon the table and closed his eyes.