“He would have given us warning,” said the smith. “I saw him look back more than once to see if we were off—'tis a very devil for mischief, yet not an ill-natured devil either. It were long to tell your honour how I became first acquainted with him, and how many tricks he played me. Many a good turn he did me too, especially in bringing me customers; for his great delight was to see them sit shivering behind the bushes when they heard the click of my hammer. I think Dame Nature, when she lodged a double quantity of brains in that misshapen head of his, gave him the power of enjoying other people's distresses, as she gave them the pleasure of laughing at his ugliness.”
“It may be so,” said Tressilian; “those who find themselves severed from society by peculiarities of form, if they do not hate the common bulk of mankind, are at least not altogether indisposed to enjoy their mishaps and calamities.”
“But Flibbertigibbet,” answered Wayland, “hath that about him which may redeem his turn for mischievous frolic; for he is as faithful when attached as he is tricky and malignant to strangers, and, as I said before, I have cause to say so.”
Tressilian pursued the conversation no further, and they continued their journey towards Devonshire without further adventure, until they alighted at an inn in the town of Marlborough, since celebrated for having given title to the greatest general (excepting one) whom Britain ever produced. Here the travellers received, in the same breath, an example of the truth of two old proverbs—namely, that ILL NEWS FLY FAST, and that LISTENERS SELDOM HEAR A GOOD TALE OF THEMSELVES.
The inn-yard was in a sort of combustion when they alighted; insomuch, that they could scarce get man or boy to take care of their horses, so full were the whole household of some news which flew from tongue to tongue, the import of which they were for some time unable to discover. At length, indeed, they found it respected matters which touched them nearly.
“What is the matter, say you, master?” answered, at length, the head hostler, in reply to Tressilian's repeated questions.—“Why, truly, I scarce know myself. But here was a rider but now, who says that the devil hath flown away with him they called Wayland Smith, that won'd about three miles from the Whitehorse of Berkshire, this very blessed morning, in a flash of fire and a pillar of smoke, and rooted up the place he dwelt in, near that old cockpit of upright stones, as cleanly as if it had all been delved up for a cropping.”
“Why, then,” said an old farmer, “the more is the pity; for that Wayland Smith (whether he was the devil's crony or no I skill not) had a good notion of horses' diseases, and it's to be thought the bots will spread in the country far and near, an Satan has not gien un time to leave his secret behind un.”
“You may say that, Gaffer Grimesby,” said the hostler in return; “I have carried a horse to Wayland Smith myself, for he passed all farriers in this country.”
“Did you see him?” said Dame Alison Crane, mistress of the inn bearing that sign, and deigning to term HUSBAND the owner thereof, a mean-looking hop-o'-my-thumb sort of person, whose halting gait, and long neck, and meddling, henpecked insignificance are supposed to have given origin to the celebrated old English tune of “My Dame hath a lame tame Crane.”
On this occasion he chirped out a repetition of his wife's question, “Didst see the devil, Jack Hostler, I say?”