Egremont read the titles of works
which he only knew by fame, but which treated of the loftiest
and most subtle questions of social and political philosophy.
As he was throwing his eye over them, his companion said, "Ah!
I see you think me as great a scholar as I am a gardener: but
with as little justice; these hooks are not mine."
"To whomsoever they belong," said Egremont, "if we are to
judge from his collection, he has a tolerably strong head."
"Ay, ay," said Gerard, "the world will hear of him yet, though
he was only a workman, and the son of a workman. He has not
been at your schools and your colleges, but he can write his
mother tongue, as Shakespeare and Cobbett wrote it; and you
must do that, if you wish to influence the people."
"And might I ask his name," said Egremont.
"Stephen Morley, my friend."
"The person I saw with you at Marney Abbey?"
"The same."
"And he lives with you?"
"Why, we kept house together, if you could call it so.
Stephen does not give much trouble in that way. He only
drinks water and only eats herbs and fruits. He is the
gardener," added Gerard, smiling. "I don't know how we shall
fare when he leaves me."
"And is he going to leave you?"
"Why in a manner he has gone.
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