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- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.590Z
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- 789
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- which had arrested the stranger’s attention. Well knowing that his
peculiar dress exposed him to peril, he hurried on faster to escape the
village; resolving at the first opportunity to change his garments. Ere
long, in a secluded place about a mile from the village, he saw an old
ditcher tottering beneath the weight of a pick-axe, hoe and shovel,
going to his work; the very picture of poverty, toil and distress. His
clothes were tatters.
Making up to this old man, Israel, after a word or two of salutation,
offered to change clothes with him. As his own clothes were prince-like
compared to the ditchers, Israel thought that however much his
proposition might excite the suspicion of the ditcher, yet
self-interest would prevent his communicating the suspicions. To be
brief, the two went behind a hedge, and presently Israel emerged,
presenting the most forlorn appearance conceivable; while the old
ditcher hobbled off in an opposite direction, correspondingly improved
in his aspect; though it was rather ludicrous than otherwise, owing to
the immense bagginess of the sailor-trowsers flapping about his lean
shanks, to say nothing of the spare voluminousness of the pea-jacket.
But Israel—how deplorable, how dismal his plight! Little did he ween
that these wretched rags he now wore, were but suitable to that long
career of destitution before him: one brief career of adventurous
wanderings; and then, forty torpid years of pauperism. The coat was all
patches. And no two patches were alike, and no one patch was the color
of the original cloth. The stringless breeches gaped wide open at the
knee; the long woollen stockings looked as if they had been set up at
some time for a target. Israel looked suddenly metamorphosed from youth
to old age; just like an old man of eighty he looked. But, indeed,
dull, dreary adversity was now in store for him; and adversity, come it
at eighteen or eighty, is the true old age of man. The dress befitted
the fate.
From the friendly old ditcher, Israel learned the exact course he must
steer for London; distant now between seventy and eighty miles. He was
also apprised by his venerable friend, that the country was filled with
soldiers on the constant look-out for deserters whether from the navy
or army, for the capture of whom a stipulated reward was given, just as
in Massachusetts at that time for prowling bears.
Having solemnly enjoined his old friend not to give any information,
should any one he meet inquire for such a person as Israel, our
adventurer walked briskly on, less heavy of heart, now that he felt
comparatively safe in disguise.
Thirty miles were travelled that day. At night Israel stole into a
barn, in hopes of finding straw or hay for a bed. But it was spring;
all the hay and straw were gone. So after groping about in the dark, he
was fain to content himself with an undressed sheep-skin. Cold, hungry,
foot-sore, weary, and impatient for the morning dawn, Israel drearily
dozed out the night.
By the first peep of day coming through the chinks of the barn, he was
up and abroad. Ere long finding himself in the suburbs of a
considerable village, the better to guard against detection he supplied
himself with a rude crutch, and feigning himself a cripple, hobbled
straight through the town, followed by a perverse-minded cur, which
kept up a continual, spiteful, suspicious bark. Israel longed to have
one good rap at him with his crutch, but thought it would hardly look
in character for a poor old cripple to be vindictive.
A few miles further, and he came to a second village. While hobbling
through its main street, as through the former one, he was suddenly
stopped by a genuine cripple, all in tatters, too, who, with a
sympathetic air, inquired after the cause of his lameness.
“White swelling,” says Israel.
- title
- Chunk 7