rheumatism in his right shoulder and hand and in both of his feet—rheumatism so long neglected or so imperfectly treated as to have become chronic and incurable. Having no money to set up a shop, and no friends to help him, he had betaken himself to the road to live by what he could pick up; not perhaps without reliance upon the sweet little cherub already mentioned, or on the Providence that takes account of men as well as of sparrows.
Poor Jack called upon me a few weeks ago with a basket of mushrooms that he had gathered in the fields, having a standing commission from me to give me the first offer of these dainties whenever he can find sufficient for a dish. The last time I had seen him prior to this visit, was about six weeks previously, when I had come across him in a byway, sitting by the side of a ditch, and very drunk indeed. I reminded him (perhaps unnecessarily) of the fact, but as I had bought his mushrooms at a good price, he was not offended.
"Yes," said he, "I remember; I was main drunk. I think I was never so drunk in all my life before. It was with champagne."
"Champagne?" I repeated incredulously.
"Yes, champagne; and not bad stuff neither, though it did make me uncommon ill."
Jack went on to explain that there had been a large pic-nic party upon the hill that day, at which nearly two hundred people were present, dispersed in groups under the trees. As attendance upon pic-nics is part of his regular business, he was, as he said, "to the fore" on this occasion, to take his chance either of being ruthlessly driven away, as he sometimes is for his utter incongruity with surrounding circumstances, or of being employed, as he mostly is, in some way or other, or of obtaining a share of the broken victuals and remnants of the feast. Jack had been plashing about all the morning in the little river that winds and murmurs under the hill-side, and had the large basket, which is usually slung at his back, filled with fresh forget-me-nots, which he had gathered on the banks of the stream. Young ladies—romantic little dears!—love the forget-me-not more for its name than for its beauty, and Jack's venture among the merry-makers with such an abundant supply of a flower so suggestive to love-makers proved to be a success. One young gentleman gave him a shilling for a bunch, which he forthwith presented to a young lady, and such a desire for forget-me-nots took possession of all the other ladies, young and old, that the gentlemen in attendance, as in gallantry and duty bound, made all haste to gratify their wishes. The consequence was that Jack's forget-me-nots were speedily sold at highly remunerative prices, and he found himself in possession of nearly twelve shillings. "It was the best day's work I ever did in my life," said Jack; "nor was this all. Pic-nic people, though they generally bring plenty of wine, ale, or ginger-beer with them, always manage to forget to bring water; and this party had not a drop. One of the ladies asked me if I could get some, and a gentleman sitting next to her on the grass offered to give me a bottle of champagne in exchange for six bottles of cold pump water. They had the water, and I had the wine. I had heard of champagne, but I had never tasted a drop in my life. They all laughed to see me drinking it. Let them laugh as wins, thought I, as I sat under a tree by myself, and drank out of the bottle."
"You liked it, of course?"
"Liked it! It was glorious, and did me a power of good; leastways, I think it would have done if I had stuck to the one bottle. But I amused the gentlemen, I suppose, and made fun for them, so they gave me more, and more again upon the top of that, till my head began to spin and swim, and I felt that I was going to be very unwell. How I got away I don't remember, but I was main ill, and after a while I fell asleep where you saw me. When I woke it was pitch dark, and I heard the church clock at Darkham strike three in the morning."
"Darkham," said I; "where's that? You mean Dorking."
"No," replied Jack, very dictatorially, and as if sure of his point. "Some people say Dorking, others say Darking, I say Darkham."
Jack had begun to interest me, for if I have a favourite hobby it is philology, and I had long had a suspicion that the modern name of this pretty little town was not the correct one.
"Did you ever hear any one else call it Darkham?"
"Yes, my father and my mother, and scores of people. There is Mickleham, and Effingham, and Brockham, and Bookham, and Darkham, all in a string, as I might say."
"Have you any idea what Darkham means? Bookham means the home among the beech-trees, Brockham the home by
