Not I, I'd scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black's
the colour; I am a brother of the horse-shoe. Success to the hammer and
tongs.

_Tinker_. Well, I shouldn't have thought you had been a blacksmith by
your hands.

_Myself_. I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I
have not worked for many a day.

_Tinker_. Where did you serve first?

_Myself_. In Ireland.

_Tinker_. That's a good way off, isn't it?

_Myself_. Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of
salt water that lies behind them, there's Ireland.

_Tinker_. It's a fine thing to be a scholar.

_Myself_. Not half so fine as to be a tinker.

_Tinker_. How you talk!

_Myself_. Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one's own
master? Now a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us
suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster for example, for I suppose
you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a
schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don't; we should call
him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in
blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to
write in copy-books, "Evil communication corrupts good manners," or "You
cannot touch pitch without defilement," or to spell out of Abedariums, or
to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I
say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational
enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog's life
as that with your own--the happiest under heaven--true Eden life, as the
Germans would say,--pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-rows,
listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky
kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest
bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow--making ten holes--hey, what's
this? what's the man crying for?

Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun to sob
and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was
heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began
to roar.

_Myself_. What's the matter with you; what are you all crying about?

_Tinker_ (uncovering his face). Lord, why to hear you talk; isn't that
enough to make anybody cry--even the poor babes? Yes, you said right,
'tis life in the Garden of Eden--the tinker's; I see so now that I