The Broad Highway | Page 2

Because I know nothing about love."
"That's a pity," said the Tinker.
"Under the circumstances, it is," said I.
"Not a doubt of it," said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the

frying-pan with a handful of grass, "though to be sure you might learn;
you're young enough."
"Yes, I might learn," said I; "who knows?"
"Ah! who knows?" said the Tinker. And after he had cleansed the pan
to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and
brow of heavy portent. "Young fellow," said he, "no man can write a
good nov-el without he knows summat about love, it aren't to be
expected--so the sooner you do learn, the better."
"Hum!" said I.
"And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a book
nowadays, and wot's more they will have it."
"They?" said I.
"The folk as will read your book--after it is written."
"Ah! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback; "I had forgotten them."
"Forgotten them?" repeated the Tinker, staring.
"Forgotten that people might went to read it--after it is written."
"But," said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books are written for
people to read, aren't they?"
"Not always," said I.
Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.
"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which have
lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the pure
love of writing them."
"Oh!" said the Tinker.

"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea of the
eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at
them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by
passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular
prejudice."
"Ah?" said the Tinker.
"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so
soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold
their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things)
straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the
mire."
"Poor cove!" said the Tinker. "Young man, you smile, I think?"
"No," said I.
"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us--how then?"
"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."
"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his
eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"
Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient
reason that I found nothing to say.
"Lord love you!" said he at last, seeing me thus "hipped"--"don't be
downhearted--don't be dashed afore you begin; we can't all be
gen'uses--it aren't to be expected, but some on us is a good deal better
than most and that's something arter all. As for your book, wot you
have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then with plenty of love
and you can't go far wrong!"
Now whether the Tinker's theory for the writing of a good novel be
right or wrong, I will not presume to say. But in this book that lies
before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of country things and

ways and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was a
something hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood; and, because I
came, in the end, to love very greatly, so shall you read of love.
Wherefore, then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have
turned the last page and closed this book, you shall do so with a sigh.
P. V.
LONDON.

BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLE'S LAST WILL AND
TESTAMENT
"'And to my nephew, Maurice Vibart, I bequeath the sum of twenty
thousand pounds in the fervent hope that it may help him to the devil
within the year, or as soon after as may be.'"
Here Mr. Grainger paused in his reading to glance up over the rim of
his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay back in his chair and laughed
loudly. "Gad!" he exclaimed, still chuckling, "I'd give a hundred
pounds if he could have been present to hear that," and the baronet
went off into another roar of merriment.
Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dignified and solemn, coughed a short,
dry cough behind his hand.
"Help him to the devil within the year," repeated Sir Richard, still
chuckling.
"Pray proceed, sir," said I, motioning towards the will.... But instead of
complying, Mr. Grainger laid down the parchment, and removing his
spectacles, began to polish them with a large silk handkerchief.

"You are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice
Vibart?" he inquired.
"I have never seen him," said I; "all my life has been