Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices , livre ebook

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"In the autumn month of September, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven... two idle apprentices, exhausted by the long, hot summer, and the long, hot work it had brought with it, ran away from their employer."Under the pseudonyms of Francis Goodchild and Thomas Idle, Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins set off on a walking tour of the north-west of England, reporting back on their adventures for Dickens's magazine Household Words.A unique insight into the friendship of two of the towering figures of Victorian literature, and featuring a pair of chilling ghost stories from the leading exponents of the genre, The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices is a charming evocation of the adventures they experienced on their trip and the gently mocking nature of their relationship.
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Date de parution

23 janvier 2019

Nombre de lectures

0

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9780714549354

Langue

English

The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices
Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins


ALMA CLASSICS


alma classics an imprint of
alma books ltd 3 Castle Yard Richmond Surrey TW10 6TF United Kingdom www.101pages.co .uk
The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices first published in Household Words in 1857 This edition first published by Alma Classics in 2018
Cover image © nathanburtondesign.com
Edited text and notes © Alma Books Ltd
Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
isbn : 978-1-84749-774-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.


Contents
The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices
Chapter the First
Chapter the Second
Chapter the Third
Chapter the Fourth
Chapter the Fifth
Note on the Text
Notes


The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices



Chapter The First
Saturday, 3rd October 1857
I n the autumn month of September, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, wherein these presents bear date, two idle apprentices, exhausted by the long, hot summer and the long, hot work it had brought with it, ran away from their employer. They were bound to a highly meritorious lady (named Literature), of fair credit and repute, though, it must be acknowledged, not quite so highly esteemed in the City as she might be. This is the more remarkable as there is nothing against the respectable lady in that quarter, but quite the contrary, her family having rendered eminent service to many famous citizens of London. It may be sufficient to name Sir William Walworth, Lord Mayor under King Richard II, at the time of Wat Tyler’s insurrection, and Sir Richard Whittington, which latter distinguished man and magistrate was doubtless indebted to the lady’s family for the gift of his celebrated cat. * There is also strong reason to suppose that they rang the Highgate bells for him with their own hands.
The misguided young men who thus shirked their duty to the mistress from whom they had received many favours were actuated by the low idea of making a perfectly idle trip, in any direction. They had no intention of going anywhere in particular; they wanted to see nothing, they wanted to know nothing, they wanted to learn nothing, they wanted to do nothing. They wanted only to be idle. They took to themselves (after Hogarth ), the names of Mr Thomas Idle and Mr Francis Goodchild, * but there was not a moral pin to choose between them, and they were both idle in the last degree.
Between Francis and Thomas, however, there was this difference of character: Goodchild was laboriously idle, and would take upon himself any amount of pains and labour to assure himself that he was idle; in short, had no better idea of idleness than that it was useless industry. Thomas Idle, on the other hand, was an idler of the unmixed Irish or Neapolitan type – a passive idler, a born-and-bred idler, a consistent idler, who practised what he would have preached if he had not been too idle to preach; a one entire and perfect chrysolite of idleness.
The two idle apprentices found themselves, within a few hours of their escape, walking down into the North of England. That is to say, Thomas was lying in a meadow, looking at the railway trains as they passed over a distant viaduct, which was his idea of walking down into the North, while Francis was walking a mile due south against time, which was his idea of walking down into the North. In the mean time, the day waned, and the milestones remained unconquered.
“Tom,” said Goodchild, “the sun is getting low. Up, and let us go forward!”
“Nay,” quoth Thomas Idle, “I have not done with Annie Laurie yet.” * And he proceeded with that idle but popular ballad, to the effect that for the bonnie young person of that name he would “lay him doon and dee” – equivalent, in prose, to lay him down and die.
“What an ass that fellow was!” cried Goodchild, with the bitter emphasis of contempt.
“Which fellow?” asked Thomas Idle.
“The fellow in your song. Lay him doon and dee! Finely he’d show off before the girl by doing that. A sniveller! Why couldn’t he get up and punch somebody’s head!”
“Whose?” asked Thomas Idle.
“Anybody’s. Everybody’s would be better than nobody’s! If I fell into that state of mind about a girl, do you think I’d lay me doon and dee? No, sir,” proceeded Goodchild, with a disparaging assumption of the Scottish accent, “I’d get me oop and peetch into somebody. Wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t have anything to do with her,” yawned Thomas Idle. “Why should I take the trouble?”
“It’s no trouble, Tom, to fall in love,” said Goodchild, shaking his head.
“It’s trouble enough to fall out of it once you’re in it,” retorted Tom. “So I keep out of it altogether. It would be better for you if you did the same.”
Mr Goodchild, who is always in love with somebody, and not infrequently with several objects at once, made no reply. He heaved a sigh of the kind which is termed by the lower orders “a bellowser”, and then, heaving Mr Idle on his feet (who was not half so heavy as the sigh), urged him northward.
These two had sent their personal baggage on by train, only retaining each a knapsack. Idle now applied himself to constantly regretting the train, to tracking it through the intricacies of Bradshaw’s Guide , and finding out where it was now – and where now – and where now – and to asking what was the use of walking when you could ride at such a pace as that. Was it to see the country? If that was the object, look at it out of carriage windows. There was a great deal more of it to be seen there than here. Besides, who wanted to see the country? Nobody. And, again, whoever did walk? Nobody. Fellows set off to walk, but they never did it. They came back and said they did, but they didn’t. Then why should he walk? He wouldn’t walk. He swore it by this milestone!
It was the fifth from London, so far had they penetrated into the North. Submitting to the powerful chain of argument, Goodchild proposed a return to the metropolis and a falling back upon Euston Square Terminus. Thomas assented with alacrity, and so they walked down into the North by the next morning’s express, and carried their knapsacks in the luggage van.
It was like all other expresses, as every express is and must be. It bore through the harvested country, a smell like a large washing day, and a sharp issue of steam as from a huge brazen tea urn. The greatest power in nature and art combined, it yet glided over dangerous heights in the sight of people looking up from fields and roads, as smoothly and unreally as a light miniature plaything. Now, the engine shrieked in hysterics of such intensity that it seemed desirable that the men who had her in charge should hold her feet, slap her hands and bring her to; now, burrowed into tunnels with a stubborn and undemonstrative energy so confusing that the train seemed to be flying back into leagues of darkness. Here were station after station, swallowed up by the express without stopping; here, stations where it fired itself in like a volley of cannon balls, swooped away four country people with nosegays and three men of business with portmanteaus and fired itself off again, bang, bang, bang! At long intervals were uncomfortable refreshment rooms, made more uncomfortable by the scorn of Beauty towards Beast, the public (but to whom she never relented, as Beauty did in the story towards the other Beast), and where sensitive stomachs were fed, with a contemptuous sharpness occasioning indigestion. Here, again, were stations with nothing going but a bell, and wonderful wooden razors set aloft on great posts, shaving the air. In these fields, the horses, sheep and cattle were well used to the thundering meteor, and didn’t mind; in those, they were all set scampering together, and a herd of pigs scoured after them. The pastoral country darkened, became coaly, became smoky, became infernal, got better, got worse, improved again, grew rugged, turned romantic, was a wood, a stream, a chain of hills, a gorge, a moor, a cathedral town, a fortified place, a waste. Now, miserable black dwellings, a black canal and sick black towers of chimneys; now, a trim garden where the flowers were bright and fair; now, a wilderness of hideous altars all ablaze; now, the water meadows with their fairy rings; now, the mangy patch of unlet building ground outside the stagnant town, with the larger ring where the circus was last week. The temperature changed, the dialect changed, the people changed, faces got sharper, manner got shorter, eyes got shrewder and harder, yet all so quickly that the spruce guard in the London uniform and silver lace had not yet rumpled his shirt collar, delivered half the dispatches in his shining little pouch or read his newspaper.
Carlisle! Idle and Goodchild had got to Carlisle. It looked congenially and delightfully idle. Something in the way of public amusement had happened last month, and something else was going to happen before Christmas. And, in the mean time, there was a lecture on India for those who liked it – which Idle and Goodchild did not. Likewise, by those who liked them, there were impressions to be bought of all the vapid prints, going and gone, and of nearly all the vapid books. For those who wanted to put anything in missionary boxes, here were the boxes. For those who wanted the Reverend Mr Podgers (artist’s proofs, thirty shillings), here was Mr Podgers to any amount. Not less gracious an

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