366 Village Sketches : [APRIL, 



stride, almost contradict the evidence of his sunken cheeks and deeply 

 lined forehead. The stride is awful : he hath the stalk of a ghost. His 

 whole air and demeanour savour of one that comes from under-ground. 

 His appearance is <( of the earth, earthy." His clothes, hands, and face are 

 of the colour of the mould in which he delves. The little round traps 

 which hang behind him over one shoulder, as well as the strings of dead 

 moles which embellish the other, are encrusted with dirt like a tombstone ; 

 and the staff which he plunges into the little hillocks, by which he traces 

 the course of his small quarry, returns a hollow sound, as if tapping on 

 the lid of a coffin. Images of the church-yard come, one does not know 

 how, with his presence. Indeed he does officiate as assistant to the 

 sexton in his capacity of grave-digger, chosen, as it should seem, from a 

 natural fitness a fine sense of congruity in good Joseph Reed, the func- 

 tionary in question, who felt, without knowing why, that, of all men 

 in the parish, Isaac Bint was best fitted to that solemn office. 



His remarkable gift of silence adds much to the impression produced 

 by this remarkable figure. I don't think that I ever heard him speak 

 three words in my life. An approach of that bony hand to that earthy 

 leather cap was the greatest e'ffort of courtesy that my daily salutations 

 could extort from him. For this silence, Isaac has reasons good. He hath 

 a reputation to support. His words are too precious to be wasted. Our 

 mole-catcher, ragged as he looks, is the wise man of the village, the 

 oracle of the village-inn, foresees the weather, charms away agues, tells 

 fortunes by the stars, and writes notes upon the almanack turning and 

 twisting about the predictions after a fashion so ingenious, that it's a 

 moot point which is oftenest wrong Isaac Bint, or Francis Moore. In 

 one eminent instance, our friend was, however, eminently right. He had 

 the good luck to prophesy, before sundry witnesses some of them sober 

 in the tap-room of the Bell he then sitting, pipe in mouth, on the 

 settle at the right-hand side of the fire, whilst Jacob Frost occupied the 

 left; he had the good fortune to foretel, on New Year's Day 1812, the 

 downfal of Napoleon Buonaparte a piece of soothsay ership which has 

 established his reputation, and dumbfounded all doubters and cavillers 

 ever since ; but which would certainly have been more striking if he 

 had not annually uttered the same prediction, from the same place, from 

 the time that the aforesaid Napoleon became first consul. But this small 

 circumstance is entirely overlooked by Isaac and his admirers, and they 

 believe in him, and he believes in the stars, more firmly than ever. 



Our mole-catcher is, as might be conjectured, an old bachelor. Your 

 married man hath more of this world about him is less, so to say, planet- 

 struck. A thorough old bachelor is Isaac, a contemner and maligner of 

 the sex, a complete and decided woman-hater. Female frailty is the 

 only subject on which he hath ever been known to dilate : he will not 

 even charm away their agues, or tell their fortunes, and, indeed, holds 

 them to be unworthy the notice of the stars. 



No woman contaminates his household. He lives on the edge of a 

 pretty bit of woodland scenery, called the Penge, in a snug cottage of 

 two rooms, of his own building, surrounded by a garden cribbed from 

 the waste, well fenced with quickset, and well stocked with fruit- 

 trees, herbs, and flowers. One large apple-tree extends over the roof 

 a pretty bit of colour when in blossom, contrasted with the thatch of the 

 little dwelling, and relieved by the dark wood behind. Although the 

 owner be solitary, his demesne is sufficiently populous. A long row of 

 bee-hives extends along the warmest side of the garden for Isaac's 



