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Updated: June 8, 2025
Independent America is still the cross of my existence; I cannot think of Farmer George without abhorrence; and I never feel more warmly to my own land than when I see the Stars and Stripes, and remember what our empire might have been. The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a curious mixture.
Hawker's party in the river boat, had been intrusted with the duty of making the arrangements, and recognizing Captain Ducie, to their mutual surprise, while engaged in this employment, and ascertaining his destination, the latter was very cordially received into the "exclusive extra." Mr. Effingham welcomed all his guests with the hospitality and kindness for which he was distinguished.
"That's me, dear," replied the other; "you're welcome, my love, welcome to the cold stones, and wet streets, and to hunger and drunkenness, and evil words, and the abomination of desolation. That's what we all come to, my dear. Is that his child?" "Whose?" said Mary. "This is George Hawker's child." "Hush, my dear!" said the other; "we never mention his name in our society, you know.
The tinsmith brings out his steps, and, mounting them, stealthily removes the saucepans and pepper-pots that dangle on a wire above his sign-board. Pulling to his door he shuts out the foggy light that showed in his solder-strewn workshop. The square is deserted again. A bundle of sloppy parsley slips from the hawker's cart and topples over the wheel in driblets.
Yet both in their different ways lived near to the spirit that is typified by the Grail; but the one abode in solitude on his wild Cornish cliffs and the other lived in the blaze of popular fame, visited and loved by the greatest in the land. Who shall say that Hawker's life, after all, was not the nearest to his best ideals?
"No, no, no! A hawker's opportuneness; that describes it. These fellows would make death itself a vulgarity." "You've no faith in their " "Not a tittle. Heaven forfend! A sheet and a turnip are poetry to their manifestations. It's as crude and sour soil for us to work on as any I know. We'll cart it wholesale." "I take you excuse my saying so for a supremely sceptical man." "As to what?"
And then he struck me dumb by telling me of all that had happened latterly: of George Hawker's reappearance, of his identity with the great bushranger, and, lastly, of his second appearance not two months before. "I tell you this in strict confidence, Hamlyn, as one of my oldest and best friends. I know how deeply your happiness is affected by all this."
There was a number in the hawker's collection called "Conscrits Français," which may rank among the most dissuasive war-lyrics on record. It would not be possible to fight at all in such a spirit. The bravest conscript would turn pale if such a ditty were struck up beside him on the morning of battle; and whole regiments would pile their arms to its tune.
"Landscapes be blowed! Put any of his work alongside of Billie Hawker's and see how it looks." "Oh, well, Billie Hawker's," said Florinda. "Oh, well." At the mention of Hawker's name they had all turned to scan her face. "He wrote that he was coming home this week," said Pennoyer. "Did he?" asked Florinda indifferently. "Yes. Aren't you glad?" They were still watching her face.
He had various visitors after his arrival the first being his Rector, who came on his way back from church to give his congratulations, mention the number of convalescents who had there appeared, and speak of the wedding he had celebrated that morning, that of Fanny Reynolds and her Drake, who were going forth the next day to try whether they could accomplish a hawker's career free from what the man, at least, had only of late learnt to be sins.
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